Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

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Strigoi Grey
Padawan Learner
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Location: Romania

Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Buried Again, Chapter 5

***

"Are you sure?" I asked, looking at my phone rather than Rivka, and felt the air in the sparring room shift as she nodded. Usually, there were a couple ghosts smacking each other around or watching others do it. I wondered if she'd asked for it to be cleared, or if she'd even needed to.

"Gaol John gave you the thumbs up." And his word that he'd always be watching me. That definitely wouldn't give me performance anxiety worse than my already sky-high usual. "And you should take a break from looking through the Fae's pasts, anyway. Undead might be incapable of getting bored, but you said you didn't feel like you were improving."

"Sorry." I sighed at the ghoul's tight-lipped expression. I could tell she wanted me to improve my skill with Mimir's perception, as did Aya Reem, but I guess my heart just wasn't in it(because it was in my chest, the pesky bitch. It always got back there, no matter how much I shapeshifted, got hurt and healed). That only made sense, though: don't be fooled by my strigoi tricks, disappointing women is my real power. Mia just hadn't gotten the memo so far.

Rivka blew a raspberry. "I don't need excuses, David. We-everyone in this mess; we're in this together-know this is for both your good and that of the organisation. Shit, the world." The ghoul gave me a smile that was probably meant to be encouraging. I was sure it had encouraged many surfers to return to the shore and stay there forever. "And you care too much about that not to do your best. So, it's not for lack of trying. You'll get better."

"I think I'm being gimped by my mindset...please don't agree so fast." I deadpanned at her rapid nodding. "I mean that I've mostly been treating it as an upgrade to my sight, when it's actually much more." I rubbed my eyes, and my fingers tingled faintly at the divine power contained within. Usually, my sense of touch was so stunted that I felt like I was wearing iron gauntlets. But I'd learned to work my way around that, out of necessity.

Now you know why undead were so damn morose when they weren't edgy. Not being able to feel anything except pain(insert whiny teen music), not being able to taste anything...and that was just for those with bodies, like me. Most ghosts had it far worse, which meant the few who didn't start out crazy quickly got there, out of sensory deprivation if the baggage that kept them on Earth wasn't enough.

"There were times when other people activated my sight. Reem did it once, as a perception exercise." And, probably, to show me how easily she could crush the rest of the Corpse Corps together, if needed. At least, the members I knew of. Another memory, of Vyrt, flashed through my mind, bringing a frown to my face. The nephilim had been devastated to hear of the Fairie expedition fiasco, according to the External Affairs agents that dealt with New Camelot. Still...something didn't feel right. "And not only did my reflexes improve, so did my hearing. I mean, my arcane sense too, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to hear stuff in space...not a long story. I'll tell you another time." I promised Rivka, seeing her questioning expression. "I think it enhances all my senses, or would, if I knew how to fully use it. But it's not like I got the godsight for morons training manual." I had refused Odin's invitation to Asgard, the short visit to apologise to his family notwithstanding.

"Maybe you should dig up those marriage offers. Was there a knowledge goddess among them?"

I winced. "I...don't remember. Most of them were from death goddesses, or gods who thought I also swing that way." Well, that wasn't fully true. Such a 'marriage' wouldn't demand attraction, let alone sex, just living together, and serving a pantheon's interests. But they'd all been off-putting. "I stopped at the Izanami one." That had probably been more of a threat than an offer. The fact it had been unsigned hadn't encouraged me.

Rivka worried at her lower lip with her fangs, ripping out a small chunk she then swallowed faster than I could see. "Maybe go to Reem and ask her to arrange a meeting with Thoth? He could tutor you..."

Thoth was...not dickish at all, by divine standards, from what I knew. I'd never met him. And he did like teaching others, even though I doubted he'd be fully open with me, what with the rivalry between Egypt's gods and all servants of Abraham's God, but that would be harmless compared to what other deities would put me through if they could.

"Maybe I will. And maybe it will work. But now..." I opened the ARChive, and entered the Crypt forum, then the general discussion thread. Skimming through it, I saw dozens of pages had been added very quickly since the beginning of the Headhunt, and hundreds more since its end and the following events. "Are they...is it safe to talk like this?" I asked Rivka, nervous at the prospect of more people getting into trouble because of the bad luck that seemed to follow me.

"It's as safe as we're willing to believe anything is. Switches to aetheric waves once you get out of satellite range, so you could theoretically call anyone anywhere in the multiverse, provided you have the right number. Don't. At least, not without checking with me and Reem first."

I nodded, then, hesitantly, began to type. My rank, name, species and country appeared over my post.

[Agent David Silva, strigoi, posting from Omu base, Romania]
Hello, everyone. Just got this and wanted to try it out. Sorry for whatever grief I've caused you, intentionally or not.


Immediately, the few hundred agents sleepily checking out the thread multiplied, becoming thousands, then tens of thousands, until a fraction of the Crypt division was online to see me.

[Senior agent Liu Zhi, jiangshi, posting from the Great Wall, China]
Greetings, Silva. We have been expecting you. Please do not overly trouble yourself over your misdeeds, real or imagined. We'll do it for you.
P.S: Do not fall apart again. We cannot rebuild you. We don't have the technology.


[Agent Byron Samedi, lich, posting from Tortuga base, Haiti]
Guess you can say you're in now, huh? Speaking about that, I've heard about your problems with your honey. You know, I have these real pretty corpses just standing around. I can loan them when I'm not using them, provided it happens at the same time your zmeu is putting horns on ya. Keeping her around the house when she's bored of you gotta calm you down, eh?

"Is this guy for real? Byron Samedi?" I muttered.

"He's half British." Rivka explained.

"And fully tasteless...Jesus." I said to myself, about to reply, but other agents were faster. Damn, really kept you guys waiting, didn't I?

[Agent Harshed, vetala, posting from Bengaluru base, India]
Who gives a damn about the strigoi's issues? Keep blowing yourself, 'Samedi'. Silva, stop being so sentimental. It's disgraceful. You should rather be more concerned with the religious war that's bound to erupt around you.

[Senior agent Frida, draugr, posting from Akershus base, Norway]
I will take over that, if you don't mind.


Hmph, was all Harshed replied. Not really a bringer of joy, are you? Bet your parents are either precogs who love irony, or disappointed.

David, Frida continued, We do not blame you for what Chernobog made you do. There are some discussions about whether you're cursed or not, but none of my agents feel anything for you but pity. Wow. My self-esteem was going to fly off and escape if she kept at it. That being said...Thor's death has not been made public knowledge yet. We think Odin is blunting all attempts at scrying, which continued, despite the thunder god still answering prayers. We think he has moved to a new state of existence, without everything ending in Ragnarok. But people will be mad once they find out, which will happen. Some might come after you, either because they believe you guilty, or see you as tainted by Chernobog.

[Senior agent Diego Cortez, vampire, posting from Malaga base, Spain]
And let us not forget the other dead god you got mixed up with...oh, hello David! I didn't see you were still online, I'm typing as I remember. Anyhow...you do realise everyone who either worshipped or hated Mimir will want to harvest or strike at him through you, yes?

I was just talking about not saying things like this..., Zhi wrote, but Diego went on.

David! You should not worry about things you can't control and which, in fact, control you. Trust me, I'm speaking from experience. Speaking of that, my wife says hi to you two. She thinks you're so cute!
Edit: You and Mia, to clarify. Not you and Rivka. She thinks she's cute too, just not together with you. Not that you ruin the image, you just don't fit.
Edit 2: Hi Rivka! Clio thinks we should all eat out again when we have time, he added before I could ask how the hell he knew Rivka was next to me.


"Don't question things like that." The ghoul in question smiled, taking out her own phone and beginning to type. "Diego is...he's like the ocean. Might appear big and empty, but he has hidden depths."

Well-hidden...

Thanks for the encouraging words, everyone, I finally typed when I got a word in edgewise. Does anyone know if Head Reem is online right now? There is something I need to talk to her about.

[Agent Skye, sluagh, posting from Glencoe base, Scotland]
Would it happen to be related to what we were discussing :)?

I was deeply unsettled by the fact a spirit who specialised in dropping people to death used symbol talk, or whatever it was called. I think it would be better to talk to her in private. It's just that I don't know if she's busy right now, or I'd fly to Giza.

The Heads are always busy, Silva. They keep the body moving, Skye replied. Also, since when do you get to go to headquarters on a whim? There something you hiding from us?
Edit: Also also, there are no such things as private messages in the ARChive. Intimacy here is like in the army: imaginary. Come to think of it, so is dignity...in both cases.

And, riding the wave of that cheerful note, the last person I wanted to hear from chimed in.

[Senior agent Loric Szabo, strigoi, posting from Szechenyi Hill base, Hungary]
Brother! Once you are done with your latest existential crisis, be sure to check out the relaxation thread! I'm posting my art as I make it!

***
"Aww..." Diego whined, leaning back in his chair. "Loric scared him off."

Sighing, the vampire looked around the room with too many corners and not enough curves. The architecture of Malaga base was enough to rob baseline humans of their senses and sanity alike-a holdover from its previous occupants and decorators. And that was without taking into account the spots where pentagrams had been ripped out of spacetime, which were far, far more dangerous to perceive. Diego had seen several gophers unmade in the present, past and every possible future just by brushing against one.

They were all, of course, harmless to him, or he wouldn't have been sitting on one. His guests were similarly resilient. Talking about Crypt business with Goetia agents would have went against protocol, but it wasn't like they'd been posting anything classified in the thread. They'd just been stabbing the piss, as the youths said. Nothing that wasn't already known through ARC.

"Oh, well." Miguel shrugged, his usual suit and shirt unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around his collar."At least he'll be too busy being disgusted at Loric to be disgusted at himself...? Damn, I'm bad at encouragement."

"I think those two are developing a dynamic." Sklaresia said, kicking her legs as she sat in her husband's lap, leaning an elbow on the table between them and the vampire. "It could be worse. They could have killed each other by now. Several times."

"Tch." Diego pouted. "He didn't even reply to me! I know for a fact he's not busy looking Loric's art, I checked that thread. So what-"

"Diego." The demon said softly, closing her horizontal eyes as the central, vertical one opened. Usually blazing with black fire, it was now like a pool of ink, though nothing was reflected in it. "He's grieving."

"I know." The vampire said, leaning forward to slump on the table. "But he must pick himself up. I know he will."

"He's not just grieving for his own losses, Diego." Miguel said, running a hand through his wife's hair. "He feels he should be the only one suffering, not the world at large. Emil told me on the way to Salem headquarters, after he was done interrogating David. He...he might do something stupid, either to redeem himself or end his pain. I...I wish I could help him..." The mage said, remembering Mia's haunted look as they departed R'lyeh's former location. David had been even more hurt than she had been upon receiving the news. He was a good man.

But good men...

***
Seville, Spain, 2031

"It's not working." Miguel sighed, leaning his head back in his wife's lap, rubbing his forehead in frustration with one hand. "David's fortunes can't change, obviously-he's a strigoi, and my magic isn't holy. But everything even slightly related to him is fixed in place. I can't make things better, dammit."

"It means they can't get worse either, love. Right?"

"They aren't, at the moment." He said. "The flow of fate is as stable as it ever is." He snorted. "I wanted to make sure there were few fights between him and his girlfriend in the future, you know? They deserve it."

"They are certainly endearing." Sklaresia agreed with a small smile. "Especially the zmeu. For all her feistiness, she was adorably shy when she kept sneaking glances at us back then."

"Probably thought we couldn't tell." Miguel said, unwilling to admit he'd completely missed it. Any sensation of flattery was buried under irritation at anyone else being attracted to his demon. It was stupid and hypocritical, he knew, but human. As long as they could worry over such small things...

"Mhm. Maybe we should invite her over when they're separate. Spice things up."

"Klare!"

"I'm teasing." She drew his head back into her lap, leaning against the headboard.

They sat in silence that, for the first time in years, was far from comfortable, for minutes. It was Miguel who broke it.

This was as good a moment as any. And...he still had his doubts. And fears.

"Sklaresia?"

"Oh, you're full naming me. What do you imagine you've done wrong this time?" She put two hands on her hips in exaggerated irritation, making him smile.

"Talking about relationships..."

"You're not really taking the threesome joke seriously, are you?"

"Of course not, sweetheart. I know I'm only yours." Perfect setup, if unintentional. "Klare...Am I your slave?"

Silence, again. One of her hands descended to caress his cheek. "You would have made me yours, if you won our contest."

She had long since forgiven him for that, if she'd ever been mad to start with, but...it still made him feel like the worthless bastard Klare didn't seem to see he was, for some reason.

"Forgive me." He told her for the thousandth time. "Not that I deserve to ask this, but I  am sorry. I was looking for power, and a being most people saw as evil wouldn't have been missed." The mage chuckled drily. "Come to think of it, I was pretty specieist back then, too."

"That was only half the reason. You saw a hurt woman, and wanted never to, again. Even if you thought I could only be safe under your control."

Miguel nodded, grimacing. "I know I have free will-as much as anyone does-but...if you gave me an order, I wouldn't be able to disobey, would I?"

"No." Her blunt response made his heart sink, but relieved him, at the same time. "But I would sooner rip out my heart than make you do something you don't want to, my mage." Klare closed her central eye, taking a deep breath that destroyed any chance he had of concentrating. "I will change the contract, if you want me to. Just tell me what new terms you want."

This was probably a bad time to mention his tinkering with it. Not that he wanted to get rid of Klare-the thought hurt more than being controlled-,it was just in his nature to push him luck. And, though it had always failed, it had helped improve his probability magic.

"Communication is always important in relationships. We'll have to make sure we both agree first, though." The demon smiled down at him. "Your experiments are funny, Miguel, but remember we're married. Talk to me before trying something that could affect both of us, alright? The worst I could do is say no."

And there she went, forgiving him again. He-

"Will you two stop being so wholesome? It's disgusting." One of the shadows on the wall murmured, moving between two dart boards as it elongated.

"Intimacy." Miguel griped. "Ever heard of it?" He really didn't want Emil's partner, hostage,  whatever, seeing them naked.

"Embodiment of darkness, ever heard of me? I,"
Nacht pointed a knifelike finger at Miguel as the mage pulled the covers over himself. "Am  always inside you. All the places in your body light does not reach are me, as is every dark thought you have ever had. I know you better than the demon, fool. And you." It pointed at Sklaresia. "When will you stop doing this and start acting like a real demon?"

"Don't hold your breath." Klare smirked. "Why are you manifesting like this?"

"Indulging Hex, who's humouring Shiftskin. He was so worried as we left Australia, he asked me to check on everyone I could."


Hex, worried? About people?

"Don't be daft."
Nacht said, reading his thoughts. "He knows that the worse ARC does, the fewer chances to experience new things he'll have. He has too many enemies to switch organisations or live entirely as a civilian. Anyway...you two are clean. Disturbingly so, considering what you are, which Hex is relieved to hear. Now, if you'll excuse me...he and my primary manifestation have sone business to attend to."

Miguel rubbed his face, groaning, as the shadow became normal once more. He hadn't been cockblocked like this since his days of selling luck. Ugh...no wonder Hex rarely tried to help like this, he was more awkward than a colt on rollerskates.

"Sorry, darling." He told Sklaresia. "I should've told it to piss off."

"It wouldn't have worked." She shook her head, smiling thinly. "I think Emil cares more than he shows, or knows. But you couldn't have done anything."

"Maybe." He replied grudgingly. "Um...before Nacht-"

" Do you want a new contract?" Sklaresia asked. "I can remove the obedience clause, if it worries you."

"Maybe replace it with sharing emotions-and thoughts, when close enough?" He suggested. "It would be romantic."

"Yes..." She smiled, tossing the covers aside. "I would love that. But first..."

First, they had to seal the deal.

Funny. It almost always ended like this, with the overconfident mage kneeling before the demon, but Miguel found he did not begrudge his wife her victory at all. For she was a graceful winner, and merciful.

***
Son of the Sun, deep space, 2031

"Complaining will not change reality." Hex said through their bond as he walked the gigantic spaceship's halls, unseen by mundane, psychic, mage and sensor alike. His bad luck aura, which seemed to have improved since his death at Chernobog's habds and subsequent recreation by Nacht, made octillions of minds and artificial intelligences cloud over and become sluggish whenever they came close to perceiving him.

"You have no idea how appalling your colleagues are, Emil." Nacht had lately been using his first name more often than it had in over seven decades. Come to think of it...his existence might have been necessary for it to remain coherent, but his mind wasn't. So, why had it recreated him with the ability to think at all, let alone the same mindset-which, he knew, it found stifling and boring?

"That is for me to know, and for you to agonise over~'

"You are not interesting enough to think about in my spare time."

"So harsh! Come now, Emil...do you really think I'd take the easy route and remake you as a puppet? Where would the fun in breaking that stony mind of yours be, then?"

Hex had no reply. Instead, he continued walking towards his destination. The door, a hundred thousand kilometres wide, twenty thousand thick and denser than neutronium, was shaped as a stylised sun, with rays that danced and changed colour, directed by unseen machines.

He did not care for the artifice, for all that, he supposed, most people would have found it beautiful, or at least impressive. Instead, he raised his left hand-Hex was right-handed, but magic always flowed better on the sinister path-and let loose a burst of mana, blasting the door to smitheerens. The Son of the Sun shook for dozens of light years as pieces of the door, fast and light and bigger than his body, flew around him, having the misfortune of smashing into each other, or the worshippers of Solarex who arrived to see what the commotion was about.

None of them could perceive Hex and Nacht, nor could the Solarian who arrived as fast as the flash of light that announced her presence. A shining white figure, with sun rays rising from her head like a crown, the Solarian cast her senses through the immense hallway, but perceived nothing except for the minds and souls of her father's worshippers, and the heat their bodies radiated.

The Solarian grunted in annoyance when a hundred-trillion ton chunk of the door smashed into her at lightspeed, shattering over her shining body. She strode forward, brushing against Hex without knowing.

"That is quite enough." A smooth, deep voice filled the corridor. "Come here, Nacht. Bring your pet too."

Hex entered one of Solarex's many thronerooms, taking in the baffled expressions of King Sun's courtiers. Their god was talking to himself, as far as they could see.

"Zivhaya..." Solarex breathed, looking in disappointment at his daughter. "So bright, yet so dull. No, no, no. This will not do."

There were eighty billion kilometres between King Sun and his daughter. Solarex rose from his golden throne, ripped her in twitching halves, and returned to his seat before she had realised he was moving. Hex tracked his movement dispassionately, feeling the galaxy-ending power that always burned inside Solarex's primary manifestation, even when he wasn't drawing on the aether, or the stars of other realities.

"Children are so boring, sometimes." Solarex mused, propping his chin in one hand. He had done away with the beard for today, and a crownlike construct of light surrounded his head, but the body that was his primary manifestation looked the same as always: two metres eighty, statuesque, perfectly-contoured muscles under golden, blindingly-bright skin. "I do not recommend having them."

"Then maybe you will stop using everyone you can get your hands on as breeding sows." Hex suggested. He did not need the advice. He already lacked interest in breeding. Solarex, like most hypocrites, was opinionated and completely uninterested in following his own advice, though, so he laughed.

"Do not be absurd! What else could I do, when I am not practicing my art or destroying my foes? Food and drink and love...you humans have the right ideas, though you worship the wrong gods."

"I worship nothing." Hex said. The jab had annoyed him more than it should have. Generalising had never sat well with him, especially since such opinions were almost always based on incomplete or even incorrect information. "And the gods others worship are 'wrong' because they are not you, I assume?"

"Of course!" Solarex spread his arms, grinning like a teacher pleased with a slow student's surprisingly good answer. "Who else pulled themselves up to godhood by their bootstraps? Why, before I made my name, I was simply another manifested idea, like your dark master." King Sun tilted his head to one side, grin thinning, becoming sly. "I know why you are here."

Hex doubted that. Solarex could not read his mind, and Nacht had hid their intentions from its counterpart's senses during the journey.

"Then, there is no need for me to speak." Hex said smoothly. They were here to dissuade Solarex from coming to Earth-the Watcher Over Horror's presumption in calling on alien beings to defend Earth without the consent of its inhabitants had been dangerous, though the Tartarus Engine seemed to have expressed their collective displeasure. The Watcher had not apologised, of course, for such things were as alien to them as emotions were to Hex. Then, it had drawn Atlantis' ruin into a pocket reality it had created just for that purpose, rather than let them remain underwater and fight alongside Earth's defenders.

Why? The Watcher was not a coward, and always chose the path of least effort. It certainly could not have been the danger. The invaders that had attacked Earth would have been a joke to the Watcher at their baseline. Had there been something that could have broken the seal over the Horror?

Thoughts for another day.

"Oh, I don't know. Your voice is like your body: I want to have both~" Solarex winked, ignoring Nacht's growl just as he ignored the bladed tendril it struck at him with. The appendage bounced off his golden skin, a fraction of the power bisecting the Son of the Sun and sending the halves flying. Reality was unmade by the shockwave, revealing the aether's colourless, raw mana, and Solarex sighed. Spinning a finger in a counter-clockwise motion, he sealed the tear in reality, remaking his son's body and resurrecting the septillions that had died for Nacht's aggravation.

"Was that really necessary?" He asked the dark being mildly. "Yes, I know. But why should I reveal the secrets of the gods for nothing in return?"

Hex's face had been horrible at expressing anything, including surprise, long before he had bonded with Nacht, stitching his mouth and eyes shut. He was not always grateful for that, but...yes. Playing along with Solarex, then presenting their actual intentions, could prove interesting. "Surely you do not think anything you reveal could be used to threaten you?"

"I am not a fool." Solarex slouched in his throne, arms crossed behind his head. "Haven't you wondered why the Black God can permanently harm those weak to holy power? He is worshipped, yes, but as a bringer of misfortune and destruction. So is the Devil. So is Apophis." He raised a finger. "But you do not see them doing what he can, do you?"

That..."We are looking into it. But we need peace, and time, to research. Your presence on our world would be disruptive."

"Hmph..." Solarex pouted, then his smile returned, eyes gleaming. "I already gave you a hint, and now you ask for more? Tsk, tsk. Not to mention the way you blundered your way through my son...I think it is my turn now."

Before Hex could reply, he felt his stitches fall away, Nacht slipping into the joints, turning his eyes and mouth into jagged slices of darkness.

"If you insist~"

King Sun smirked. Humbling the embodiment of darkness and its slave, for both payment and pleasure? Yes...he could get used to this.

***
Ischyros clapped a merry rhythm on its belly as it flew, crossing trillions of light years every second. It was a leisurely pace for it, but the universe beyond humanity's knowledge was something that had to be taken slow to be appreciated...even if it was mostly empty.

The minotaur-a friend who could recover from anything! Who could choose how powerful he was, like Ischyros!-had convinced it that waiting on Earth to beat off invaders would have been a waste of its talents, and boring besides. He had even pointed out new friends to fight with, even if playing with Ischyros had left them incapable of moving. Or anything else.

Alas, most beings had that problem. Ischyros was happy to bring some colour into their sad lives.

Still, things seemed to have quieted down, as they always, inevitably, did. Existence was more like a cycle than anything, or perhaps a seesaw. It had heard about that human invention, and had been eager to try one, before the minotaur had talked it into going out into the multiverse.

Ah, well, it'd always get another chance.

But now, Ischyros had nothing to do except find another fight. That had always been its greatest desire, for as long as it could remember. Multiverses might come and go, existence might change, but Ischyros' metaphorical heart always sang for battle.

There were smaller pleasures, of course. Like seesaws! Oh, Ischyros dearly hoped it would get to try one soon. They went up-down, up-down, up-down...

Maybe it should change course and go to Earth?

As it considered its options, something thrice its size, but a minuscule fraction of its speed-only four hundred eighty times lightspeed-smashed into it. The rocky planet it had been flying over split for thousands of kilometres as Ischyros smashed through it.

Ah, a new friend! One with a love for surprise tackles! Even if they were slow...

Giggling, Ischyros lowered its speed to match the stranger's, and took in their appearance.

The Honoured Kratocrats-Vyzhaldi, after their homeworld, though they rarely went by that-were bipedal, beetle-like humanoids, standing five metres forty tall and almost as wide. The colour of their exoskeletons, save for the yellow-white ones that hatched from eggs, depended on the manner their progenitor was wounded.

As such, most were red, like the thick, saplike substance that oozed from Vyzhaldi wounds, with crimson eyes set in a pinkish face. Orange for energy weapons, green for acids, purple for toxins...

This one was red, and alone. A rare thing, for a Kratocrat: Vyzhaldi were rarely hurt only once in a battle, and the ones that grew from the severed chunks almost always stuck together. The bonds between Woundkin were as strong as the one between Broodkin, if not stronger.

"Hello, friend!" Ischyros waved, the Kratocrat clicking his mandibles in annoyance. "Do you want to fi-"

"No!"

Well, that was even stranger! And rude. Had the Vyzhaldi changed so much in a few paltry billion years? "I am sorry. Then why did you stop Ischyros?"

The Vyzhaldi beat his wings in agitation at the mention of its name. Perhaps he had an ugly one and was too shy to share it?

"You flew into me, you moron! You were moving too fast for me to dodge!"

And with that, the Kratocrat flew away, into deep space.

Oh, void...maybe it really should go to Earth. Everything pointed to the wider universe being boring today.

Returning to its speed before the meeting with the strange Kratocrat, Ischyros spun in place, and began flying to-

More people bumping into it! Perhaps these friends weren't in such a hurry?

"Earthlings!" Ischyros said excitedly as it took them in. The welcoming commitee? "I was just thinking of visiting. Thank you, but I know the way!" It said, pointing at the top of its torso for emphasis.

Yua took off her thick, circular shades to give Wukong a golden-eyed, amused look. "Told you it hasn't changed." The kitsune said smugly, before floating closer to the six-armed being. In her human form, the Heaven-Spurning Elder barely came up to its chest, but showed no nervousness. After all, they were equally strong and fast at their baseline. And, for all that Ischyros' could enhance its power at a whim and with no discernible limit, Yua had some tricks of her own.

"Actually," She turned to the alien. "We are afraid Earth cannot receive visitors at the moment. But, to thank you for your help," And keep the overgrown, overpowered child busy. Gods, she swore it was worse than her Ritsu. Why did cute dumbasses have to be so hard to manage? "We came to spar with you!"

"Indeed." Wukong said, grinning despite himself when Ischyros began hopping up and down, clapping its hands, gut jiggling. "We heard you haven't pushed yourself in a while."

"It's true!" Ischyros could have nodded, it was so excited. "Ischyros went to Earth once. The young Watcher was new at the time, and Ischyros wanted to fight them as congratulations for their new position. It tried to enter Atlantis," The alien went on, like it didn't sound utterly insane. "But the Watcher wouldn't let it! You see, they thought Ischyros wanted to fight the Horror alongside them. No! Ischyros wanted to fight  both!"

Wha- "Um." Yua began with an unsure grin. "The thing that ate the multiverse?"

"Yes! Something even the Remaker cannot destroy, and its guardian, whose power grows and changes in whatever manner is needed to fulfill their duty? Oh, Ischyros' blood would boil if it had any!"

The alien clenched its fists, battle-lust radiating from it. Across the universe, a quadrillion quadrillion beings felt the pressure, and all but a fraction fainted. On Earth, supernaturals felt their hackles rise as an unimaginable force battered at their senses.

Yua, who was close to the epicentre, wiped away golden blood with one hand, before rubbing her nose. Ah, shit...the dummy had made her stain her turtleneck. It was dark pink, too, ugh! The color clashed more than her foot would against its fat ass. To her right, she saw Wukong hold his head in hands that came away bloody, then blink rapidly.

Right. They'd been asked to kick its ass, anyway. Or, at least, get theirs kicked enough to be funny.

Gesturing like he was parting a curtain, Wukong split reality, revealing the aether. Then, he dashed towards the alien, which let itself be sent through the portal by the Buddha's palm strike.

Shrugging, Yua let her human form slip away, then bounded after them on all fours.

***
Mother Wound's Scorn flew past stars that burned like the anger that was the core of his existence in a way his heart had never been.

Encountering that impervious old monster had shaken his composure, and the creature's legendary status did not make it forgivable. He had to be indomitable. He  had to be. Because, if he wasn't...if his Kin were right...

Scorn growled, mandibles clenched. They weren't. If they had been, he'd had been killed shortly after coalescing from the life fluid that oozed eternally from the Mother's chest. As soon as they had determined he lacked his kind's ability to grow in power during battle...like the other failures.

Scorn hadn't been burned or turned into slurry for leisure eating or construction, though. The Honoured Kratocracy-honoured by the fact they were strong-had no place for weakness, whatever form it took, let alone deviance.

Instead, Mother Wound, silent as she had been for the last billion greater cycles, had signalled for him to be spared, and allowed to leave and live in shame. Could a stunted exile survive and thrive in the greater universe?

Scorn was not always hunted by his haughty Woundkin, or the Broodkin who wanted to kill him out of pity. But he could never be at ease, either.

He had to-had to-find something, anything, he could use to prove his worth.

Perhaps he would even learn whom he wanted to prove himself to.

***
As Adam walked the void, away from the vexing, faceless creature and the bizarre child that tagged along it, he knew he was not alone.

An atom, a single one, had preserved enough of that planet-spanning organism's sentience to recognise him as its destroyer.

Why had it followed him, clinging to his skin like a tick?

"Are you lonely, I wonder? Scared?" He asked, voice filling the void of space despite physics. Could it even hear him, let alone understand, if it did? "Do you want revenge on me? To absorb me, grow stronger? Feel whole?"

All things familiar to him. Perhaps it would not make a poor companion, even if it eventually did try to kill him-

Adam's journey and train of though alike were cut short as a ridged fist smashed into his right temple, sending him flying through an ice giant, leaving a hole several times larger than his homeworld.

His beetle-like assailant was twice his height and almost as broad, covered in a smooth, navy-blue exoskeleton. He was absurdly reminded of a constable, and the being's posture and voice only added to the impression.

"Attention, stranger: you have entered the territory of the Honoured Kratocracy without authorisation, despite all demands to halt, identify yourself, and state your purpose. You..."

Demands? Adam frowned. He had never done well with demands, especially when people made none, then acted offended when he did not react.

"Do you have no communication device? Then what is a primitive like you doing here!?"

Drawing upon the power of the star he had consumed, Adam floated closer to the alien, punching a hole large enough to lean through in its chest.

The Vyzhaldi healed instantly, clicking her mandibles in satisfaction. Every fleck of life fluid and flesh that floated around her healed chest grew into an identical, if red-shelled copy of herself. Dozens of the Woundkin clenched fists or crossed their four arms. The instincts carved into the bedrock of their very being told them they were standing next to their progenitor and her enemy.

Ignoring the Woundkin, Adam punched again, just as hard. His broken hand bounced off the Kratocrat's chest, not even leaving a dent. Her return blow turned his torso to monochrome mist, and he healed fast enough to see a thick leg rise to do the same to his lower half.

The instant the foot connected, Adam absorbed the kinetic energy into himself. Every following blow gave him more and more power, as, frustrated, the Kratocrat grew stronger and faster every moment. Soon, her Woundspawn joined her, raining fruitless blows upon his pale grey skin.

Closing his eyes, Adam drew the absorbed energy out, releasing it as a spherical pulse. The Vyzhaldi were vapourised too fast to feel anything, leaving him alone in space.

Now...to learn more about this 'Kratocracy'. The name suggested rule by strength, which suggested stupidity, a hypothesis the border guard's attitude had done nothing to disprove.

***

Ischyros flew through one uninhabited universe after another, quadrillions of galaxies obliterated by its passage as realities were reduced to nothing. Wukong quickly followed, spinning his staff in a mirror of his clones' movements.

They were all as strong as him, and utterly unable to harm the alien. Their powers likewise fell flat against it: it had no fate or soul, nor could it be given one; whatever matter made up its body could not be changed; it could not be trapped in pocket realms or timeloops, frozen in time, or erased from existence.

Still, it found his efforts-all ten billion of him-funny.

Good, Sun thought with a fierce grin. He was always pleased to entertain.

"Monkey!" Yua called out, appearing next to him. "Stand back! I want to try a trick!"

Wukong posessed several forms of immortality and ways to heal himself alike. He, however, also possesed common sense.

Somersaulting a dozen universes away, he watched as the Heaven-Spurning Elder copied his power, then cloned himself. A Yua for every star, who then copied the alien's impervious body, and began increasing their strength.

"Ooh! Ischyros has always wanted to fight itself!"

***
"You are pathetic, you know?" Nacht said softly as Solarex rose off Hex and it exited his joints.

Solarex tittered. "Do not pretend you are not impressed."

"Oh, I am-that you can lie to yourself like this." It smiled at him. "The embodiment of light and good: kindness, generosity, courage...and yet, you act the opposite."

"I have been nothing but bright and kind my entire life." Solarex said, sitting back on his throne. Scattered around the throneroom, his worshippers began to abase themselves, praising their god's prowess, jeering at Hex and Nacht for their lack of gratitude.

"I suppose one could see it that way, if they ripped their eyes and brain out." Nacht said. "It will not work, you know? This is like me, being altruistic. It goes against the nature of your being. No matter how twisted you become, you will never fill that void, except by being true to yourself."

"And why should I act as creation's civil servant, championing values derided as childish?" King Sun asked, feigning disinterest.

"Do you want to be destroyed? Rendered impotent? You will be, if you keep at it."

"Rich, coming from a being that can't exist without an anchor that barely even cares about it."

Nacht laughed, and every worshipper of Solarex fell to the floor across the Son of the Sun, hearts stopping in fear, or bursting from rage. Others, disgusted at themselves, clawed and tore at their bodies, ripping themselves apart. Some simply went mad, laughing at nothing as they swayed in place, before the darkness in the bodies swelled, dark tendrils and blades splitting them like rotten fruits. The Solarians struck at the lesser manifestations of Nacht, flares of power dwarfing a hypernova's filling light years of space, melting impossibly tough material.

And achieving nothing. Nacht's attention briefly moved to them, and their minds, which had weathered the wave of negativity with no issue, shattered like brittle ice, as demigods that had never known unease fell to their knees, screaming until their throats burst. Nacht then impaled their shining bodies on spearlike appendages, before drawing them into itself.

"Taunting Nacht will not improve your standing with Earth." Hex said. His outfit, removed for the negotiations, returned around him, summoned with a thought. "Stop, Nacht."

With a look of supreme disdain, Solarex pursed his lips, putting the minds and bodies of his worshippers back together. Exact copies of the Solarians burst into existence as the damage to the Son of the Sun was restored.

"Do not damage my things." King Sun said in a voice quivering with rage. "They might be as worthless as you are, but they are mine."
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Strigoi Grey
Padawan Learner
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Buried Again, Chapter 6

***

"No guards." Aya Reem said. She'd stopped using illusions to look like she had eyes around me, which I suppose was a sign of trust. Or maybe she just didn't see(get it?) the point when I knew the truth. Either way, the unwavering, white light in her sockets was unnerving, and not just because it was divine in nature. The light somehow seemed to follow me as I leaned forward to put my elbows on her desk, despite being featureless.

"Or, rather, 'no guards'." The mummy continued. "Nothing visible, no people following you around from a short distance."

"Couldn't they disguise themselves?" Not that I was terribly happy at the idea of being surrounded by bodyguards, but it was only fair to explore every option. And, fuck me, but with how helpless I'd been feeling recently, the thought of competent people willing and able to protect me was actually comforting, for all that it made me feel weak.

"They could." Aya said, clasping her hands rather than steepling her fingers. Decades of agents like me had made her wise up to anything that could be interpreted as a pyramid joke. "But if said disguises were perceived-not even seen through-it would just encourage more people to come after you."

I slumped in my chair at her words. I didn't want to be hunted, but I wanted people to die for me even less.

"David." I raised my gaze to meet her burning one. "I used you as a pawn once, and the only reason said gambit didn't fail utterly was because of Chernobog's spite. If it is within my power," She seemed to grow both frailer and stronger with every word, like the power surging inside her was consuming her body as it became more apparent. "I will not let you be harmed again."

"Unless it is necessary." I said softly.

Aya smiled humourlessly. "We would all throw ourselves on our swords if it was necessary, David. You think we could do more to help, but don't want to? I cannot speak for everyone in ARC, but at least in my case, it's the other way around. We all have our chains, even if some look like crowns. Take Fixer, for instance. One of the weakest and most powerful beings we know of, able to do practically anything, unable to put out a forest fire without another starting in response."

"Alright." I said. "If I was afraid of sacrifice, I'd have never entered ARC." Now seemed as good a moment as any for the other suggestion. "I do not want to be presumptuous-or make you act presumptuously, or blasphemously-, but...do you think you could ask Thoth to...tutor me? I still have a long way to go when it comes to using Mimir's perception, and-"

"Why haven't you prayed to Yahweh for guidance, whether direct or through an angel?" Aya tilted her head at my surprised look, seeming slightly amused. "I know Gabriel of the Cardinal Archangels is both usually free, and specialised in things like this."

"I..." No point beating around the bush. We were talking about things that could affect everyone and everything. "I was spared after my undeath. I wasn't punished for what I am since then, and...I was even brought back. I didn't want to act..."

"Presumptuously?"

"Yes. I've already been given more than most." Another chance at unlife, at lessening the burdens of others. Friends. A father. And love.

"I can and will ask. Thoth is usually leery around 'foreign students', but a chance to meet the eyes of a rival and friend, even if someone else bears them, might move him." Aya crossed her arms. "Now, it is my turn to ask you something."

Oh, and just when I'd started feeling halfway relieved. I'd have even taken Odin's offer at this point, for all I was scared of Thor's brood shanking me and whatever bullshit Loki pretended not to have cooked up for me. "Not order?"

"You don't have to be involved, though it does concern you." Reassuring and straightforward, that's how we did things in ARC, folks. "The last time my peers and I spoke about you, you were...in no shape to do anything, David. Would you like to join me now?"

"What would we speak about?"

"Mostly about what the two of us already have. Just expect more opinions, threats, and fights. Some might even be metaphorical."

"Fights...?"

"You'll only get caught in those if you're bad at dodging. Don't worry." Aya stood up. "Are you coming?" I nodded, and she gestured for me to go outside. "I have a few things to wrap up, then I'll join you."

***
Quite attached to our adoptive children, aren't we?

I couldn't fail them more than I did mine if I tried,
Aya thought back in reply.

Oh, I don't know...your ability to blunder has never failed to impress. It's almost like it grew when your bloodlust faded!

During the Crusades, which she'd began as a stupid girl, barely a few centuries dead and entombed, and finished with a taste of bitter ashes she had never managed to get rid of. Family feuds were always ugly. Identity crises made them worse, especially when both sides thought the other consisted of impostors.

Perhaps it did. A pause. You understand the assignment.

Request, came the correction. Yes, yes. Nothing visible, no people following him at a short distance. I have never had a problem with that.

One more problem would have been too much. I am still surprised you accepted. Do not mistake that for lack of gratitude, please.

Of course not. Would you stand by and let an alien, literal and metaphorical, stomp through creation as it 'ordered' it? Shared goals only go so far, when purpose and intent differ so much. Imagine needing a reason to drown everything in chaos. No...David Silva will survive. His form and name and mind might not, but he will.

***
Drake headquarters, Beijing, China, 2031

"You seem stressed, Lung."

Ying couldn't stop the growl from escaping his throat as his fangs clenched around his pipe. No 'sir', or 'boss', or 'Ying'.

Because the boy wasn't trying to be respectful, or friendly. He was emphasising the name China gave to his kind, both through words and-as he leaned against the tapestry depicting the country's formation and history-through actions.

A blunt visual cue. But then, Hiro had always taken after his mother. Was this going to be another rant about 'abandonment'?

"Whatever gave you that impression?" He asked, knowing Hiro could see his eyes through his sunglasses-narrowed in seeming amusement, not warning.

Hiro, in dragon form, gestured smugly at the suited man standing awkardly to the side of Ying's desk. He had just been kneeling when the Drake Head's seventeen thousandth son had entered, and now didn't know what to do, dark eyes darting between Ying and Hiro under a mop of equally dark hair.

Ying sighed. Wang had always been a gentle man, built for helping, not confrontations, let alone confrontations between dragons. It was what had drawn the Ying to him, prompting a rare addition to his harem, as opposed to a one-night stand.

Surreptitiously patting his thirty-fourth husband's hand to get his attention, Ying mouthed 'go', causing Wang to nod in relief, before bowing to him and almost exiting, then remembering Hiro, and shakily bowing to him as well.

After watching him leave-damn, that suit was fitted well-, Ying turned to Hiro, removing his shades to show his scornful glare. "Proud of yourself now?"

"Maybe." Hiro smiled. "Did you send my mother away just as gently?"

"No, you moron." Ying had never been able to stand scammers. Paying before sex, then being masked for more because 'it felt horrible'? Even whores got too big for their britches sometimes, he swore. "You know that. Didn't you see the marks on her face, or were you too dazed when she shat you out on your head?"

"Yeah, I did. Big rings. Who'd you get them from? Other  secretaries?"

"If you think he's here because of nepotism, you-"

"I'm apalled you'd do it here and now." The younger dragon bared his fangs, whiskers twitching. "Who gives a flying shit about dignity and protocol as long as the Head gets his head-"

The halves of Hiro's skull fused back together in an instant, and he scoffed. His father, still in human form, had seemed not to have moved from his desk, but his silvery blood-covered hand spoke another story. "Watch it."

"Thanks for proving my point." Hiro said drily. "You-"

"No, you listen to me. You've reached your sixteenth millennium and think you understand life?" Ying shifted into dragon form, ignoring the 'and here he goes on about age' Hiro muttered under his breath. "I have saved this world more times than most of its inhabitants know, since before it was inhabited. You have no idea what Earth could have become, if the things in the hungry dark had managed to defile that womb of primal potential."

"Ahhhh!" Hiro nodded in mock-realisation. "I get it. Good deeds erase the bad ones, right? They even out?"

"As long as the latter are 'bad' and not vile? Yes." Ying said bluntly. "I've seen people infinitely less worthy than my peers and I, with infinitely worse vices. I think such things would be forgiven, if anyone cared about them."

"If anyone knew."

Ying snorted, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Everyone who needs to know, does."

"Most of the population doesn't even know the Heads' names." Hiro protested. He knew about the importance of security, so Ying figured he was just being contrarian for the sake of it, as always.

"No need to repeat my words back at me. Now." His eyes glowed. "Does your presence here have a purpose, beyond irritating me and scaring another of your step-parents?"

Hiro swallowed a comment at the end, by the way his throat bulged. "The Mandate of Heaven."

"Yes? Charming excuse for uprisings. What of it?"

"We have been failing rather badly lately. A sign?"

Ying threw his head back, roaring. "Don't be absurd, boy! These are failures? Signs? Let me tell you a secret." He leaned forward. "When I saw this galaxy appear...gods, I was young, back then. I suppose that excuses some of the excitement, especially after two billion years of nothing but empty cosmic soup."

Hiro said nothing. Interrupting his father's nostalgic stories only made them take longer.

"When I saw it form, many people were concerned that the universe's stars were placed in such faraway formations, rather than a single giant galaxy." Ying took a long drag from his pipe, then blew out a ring in the shape of a dunce cap. "Worst part about such idiots? They often have the power to make their ideas reality. Now...daddy has reassured you. Nothing bad will happen, and if it does, we'll fix it. Now, off you go. Shoo." He waved his son away, blowing him a sarcastic kiss.

"There is something else." Hiro said through gritted fangs. "And, if you could not be a dick about it..."

"Listen to your advice first. I've seen you around others, so cheerful, so helpful. I know you're too poor a liar for that to be an act. Why am I different?"

....He really had to ask, did he? "Have you read the stars lately?"

"Always. Why?"

"Then why are you not doing anything about Silva's situation?" He snapped, frustrated. "You know-"

"I know that, if he wasn't chained like this, he would, at one point, end up in a situation where he can do nothing but watch, gnashing his teeth and wailing. Sometimes...you must accept that you can't help." Ying shook his head, eyes going distant for a moment. Though, the fact the Black God hadn't simply killed him was baffling. A boon in disguise, but... "And we have done everything we can, anyway."

"His mate disagrees."

"Bah! She hasn't even heard my reasoning, I'm sure."

"And the worse she feels, the worse he does, and so on. How long until something breaks, besides his chains?"

Hmph. That could be...problematic. "It won't come to that."

"Well. I'm sure you'll be able to explain that to her better than me." Hiro said, rising to hover half a metre above the floor.

"There's nothing I can't do better than you." Ying took a swig from his tea gourd. It tasted like burning sewage, and stuck to his mouth and throat in a similar manner, but it focused the mind, if only by being so foul, one would rather concentrate on anything else.

Hiro rolled his eyes. "You'll just have to prove it when she gets here."

"Of course." Ying coiled up on his desk, head in one claw. "Do you have a single damned cheerful thing to say?"

"Maybe. A question first?"

"Fair trade."

"How did you harm me? Dragons like us are impervious to anything earthly, and a celestial being like you would heal me with a touch, not..."

Hiro trailed off as his father smirked, raising and flexing his free claw, over which appeared a gauntlet of dark bronze.

"Straight from Yanwang's armoury. He hopes helping us on Earth will result in fewer morons stinking up Diyu."

"What, he hates sinners now?" Hiro asked, eyebrows scrunching as he rubbed the place where the hidden, Hell-forged gauntlet had split his head.

"Just stupid ones." Ying replied and, as if a curtain had slid back in place, the gauntlet disappeared. "Your turn."

"Mhm. Something cheerful...well, there's this French dragon checking out the country, and she says our females would be beautiful, but for the whiskers. Not her type. Says they look male."

"I swear, just because both their males and females are hatchling-faced..." Ying tapped his pipe on the edge of his desk. "Tell her to stop being so difficult. Facial hair has nothing to do with gender! All of us have moustaches. Why, my mother's is bigger than mine."

"Huh." Hiro frowned. "Really? I've never met her."

"Oh, yes..." Ying bent to rummage through his desk, before pulling out a life-sized oil painting of him and his jade, respectively pearl-coloured parents. "See?"

"I can't really tell from the picture..."

"Come closer." Ying tilted it so his mother's face was next to his. "They don't compare."

***
The seven thousand kilometres to Beijing took about four seconds of flight. Mia knew she was getting faster, closer to David's level, but not there, not yet.

Touching down in front of the Drake headquarters' front entrance, which was shaped out of gold, jade and pearl to resemble a dragon's yawning maw, Mia nodded at the dragons on guard duty. One of them, a dark purple male with a bronze moustache, nodded back. The other, an ice-blue female, just jerked her head at the bowl between them.

Trying not to grimace, Mia approached it, then downed the tea as quickly as possible. The now-familiar taste of smoky sewer hit her like a slimy meteor, though she swayed less than last time as the entrance's 'jaws' parted and she walked through.

They closed behind her with a boom like thunder, to announce that another one had entered. With her addled senses-the tea simply disgusted agents, but infiltrators would get burned from the inside out if they even sipped it-, it was worse than merely overdramatic.

Fuck, she really hoped Ying wasn't on a power trip today...HQ's halls could bend and stretch away into infinity if he didn't want you to reach his office.

Luckily, he did. After nearly seven seconds of sprinting, during which she could have circled most planets, Mia came to a stop before a set of crimson, gilded double doors. Ying seemed to be talking to someone.

"Why, my mother's is bigger than mine."

"Huh." The other voice sounded like...Hiro's? She thought? "Really? I've never met her."

"Oh, yes..." A pause. "See?"

"I can't really tell from the picture..."

"Come closer." Another, shorter pause. "They don't compare."

Stupid tea...what had they even put in it this time?

***
"Sir." Mia said, entering without knocking. The doors were unlocked, which meant Ying wanted to see her. She'd blame anything on her tea haze. "Thank you for seeing me so fast. I...this is unrelated to my duties, so I know I shouldn't-"

"Nonsense!" Ying beamed at her, then turned to frown at Hiro. "Out."

The other dragon shrugged, mouthing 'good luck' as he floated past her, the doors closing after him with no prompting.

"I am a keeper of this world's order, zmeu." Ying said, smile becoming smaller, softer. "I am used to sensing disturbances. So, yes, I know why you are here."

Mia crossed her arms-clasping her hands would have made her look weak, like she was pleading-, making no attempt to sit down. "Hiro told me..." Ying nodded knowingly, and she sighed. "Is there truly nothing more we can try? Maybe the Fixer-"

"My heart goes out to you, hatchling." Ying said in a tone he either imagined wasn't patronising as fuck, or knew it was and didn't give a shit. "In fact," He began digging for something inside his desk. "I have something that can help you two."

The dragon held up something small and oval between two fingers. It changed colours every moment. "Happy pills! You take one, allow it to work, and you'll only think about pleasant things." He gave her a sly look. "Maybe even Silva, when he's not there."

"I already have my imagination for that, sir." And her fingers, among other things. "But thank you for the offer."

"Aahh...you children. Kicking away every last bit of harmless fun." His disappointed expression was quickly replaced by a serious one. "In this case, I have nothing else to offer you, Mia. Besides advice to stay patient."

"Thank you." She repeated, like a broken record. Except she wasn't right once a week, let alone a day. Hadn't been for some time. "I...am not just concerned about him, sir."

"I thought this was a personal issue?" Ying asked, spinning the pill on a fingertip.

"It is." No point in lying, especially after admitting it. "But David is a good agent. He can do more than act as a goddamn telescope-" Flames flicked out of her mouth with every word, so shut it, fangs grinding against each other. "Apologies."

"I agree." Ying said, hopping off his desk and onto the marble post located next to his chair, to accommodate his true form, wrapping around it. "He  can do more than act as a telescope. In fact, I highly suspect he is improving as we speak." Had that been a brief, encouraging smile? "And you know what would help him improve even more? Having you close, so he can know you are safe and calm. Your peace of mind might save his."

Mia smiled at the dragon, the tea haze finally, fully gone. "Thank you again, sir. I'll keep it in mind."

"Yes, yes..." Ying's gaze moved from her to the pill. "Are you sure you don't want some?"

"Yes, quite sure."

"What about Silva? They're divine, they'd work."

"David dislikes lying to himself, sir." Mia said. "Almost as much as having his mind meddled with."

"Tch..." Ying smirked. "You just want to make him happy all by yourself, girl-don't think you're fooling me. What, does Silva get jealous of your toys? Or devices, for that matter?"

Ugh. Seriously? Fucking condescending nope rope...

Before Mia could reply, the phone on Ying's desk pinged, the dragon reaching for it with a lazy-looking move she could only barely perceive.

"Speak of the devil...your lover's having a date with me first, Mia.  And all the other Heads." Ying looked up from the phone, with an apologetic expression so fake she wanted to slap his face off. "No hard feelings?"

"Depends." She said, knowing she was pushing her luck. "Can I come along?"

"So sorry, Mia. Security...you know how it is."

***
Catalhoyuk, Turkey, 2031

"Collapse through religious war is a likely possibility." Gerald Reyes said as he walked old streets rendered new and clean once more by his companion's power. He doubted the city had ever been so clean, but...the being striding alongside him had a soft spot for old settlements. They were the most likely locations for an appearance, which almost always resulted in a temporary renovation.

The other, older man, nodded, long, white plaits swaying in the dry wind. His bald pate did not reflect sunlight, for that would have taken corporeality.

"The extent depends on the cause." Gerald continued, with the air of someone telling a dear grandparent about their looming, inescapable death. Before the Shattering, the analogy would have probably included cancer or the like. "Most of our projections consist of David Silva being torn apart by a throng of zealots. Angry, hateful, vengeful, jealous, afraid...these change. But it happens, whether he fights back or not."

"We will always go far for our gods, whether in their name, or while using it." His companion agreed, her girlish voice at odds with the weight of her words, as she skipped over a crack in the road, pigtails bouncing.

The changes were fading. Something...was deteriorating. He dearly hoped it was just the being's mood.

"Yes. What gods they worship change, too, but...again, the results are the same. Then there are the monsters angry over 'kill-stealing'." Gerald rolled his eyes, taking off his glasses and beginning to polish them. A nervous tic that came with the nostalgic affectation-his senses had grown sharper than any human's since he'd started tapping mana in his twenties, to the point he now did it passively. He could have probably done it in his sleep, if he still did that. "And, of course, the Black God, and his cults. Whether starting or inciting carnage, they appear very often, too."

"You make them and the others sound mutually-exclusive, our boy." The being's dusky features twisted into a broad, open-mouthed grin as he ran a hand through his dreadlocked hair. "You know what assumptions make of us."

"We have not discounted that possibility." Gerald said, perhaps a tad waspish from the implied criticism. "In fact, a combination of the three scenarios is not out of the question."

His companion hummed approvingly, gracefully jumping over the remains of a fallen house. Her pale body was flawless, though Gerald's eyes did not linger on it. It would have been like someone staring at his glasses.

"The less likely scenarios...are also worse. We are talking about singularities, magical, technological, or both, resulting in wars that see this world's people devouring it to slaughter each other. Or drowning in their own magic, unable to bear it. The appearance of uncontrollable psychic powers or mutations. The world as we know it destroyed or twisted beyond recognition by a disaster or monster incomprehensible to us."

His companion sighed, his long, white beard almost brushing the cracked ground as he walked under a broken pillar, his waxy-skinned, stooped body meaning there was no need to crouch. "Dire ends, indeed. But we already know about these, for they were predicted by humans, therefore by us. So. Why come here, to tell us in person?"

"Oh, you know. It's my love of redundancy at work. I'm a bureaucrat at heart. As for why here? You've always liked old cities."

"Gerald." The being said in a tired voice, running a hand through her grey-streaked red hair.

"You already know my answer, so why ask?" He shot back.

"Because we loathe seeing humanity scared." The being said, looking up at him with an infant's deep, wide eyes. "We thought to reassure you, and talking is familiar to you. We will not lose to these, or whatever else we foresee in the future."

Gerald pursed his lips, looking up at his friend's weathered, leathery face, as the being put a hand on his shoulder.

"We have survived worse when we were weaker, and we are not just talking about the Atlanteans. The Ice Ages, the plagues your ancestors had no names for, the genetic bottlenecks that followed them...we have magic now, and technology they could not have distinguished from it. Powers. Allies. We will succeed. And if not..." The flayed warrior smiled a death's head grin as he squeezed Gerald's shoulder. "We will drag whatever kills us down into oblivion with us. All of mankind's deeds are carved into our core, whatever paths our children have walked, and how much of their beings and bodies are ours. They know not what they play with."

Gerald nodded, trying to keep a straight face. It did not help. He did not tremble, or sweat, but a few small tears still fell from his eyes. "I am sorry." He whispered raggedly. "We should not have let things fall apart to this point. I...I do not want us to be the last generation you know."

"You won't be." The being muttered, wrapping brawny, ruddy arms around him as she laid her head on his chest. "You are one of our greatest champions past, present and future, Gerald. You are the Lawmaker. Do not forget that."

He hugged him back, wishing the tears would stop. "What shall I call you today?"

"Logos." The being answered, and the universe trembled in confirmation, as a new name was added to the tally. Then, she smiled, pulling back from Gerald, favouring him with a teenager's impish, gap-toothed grin. "But enough of this old one's ramblings. You are soon going to be called upon, Gerald."

The Camelot Head's phone buzzed just then, and he took it out to see his peers had agreed to his meeting proposal.

Then, he looked at the ruins of Catalhoyuk. He had arrived at dawn, spending several hours speaking with Logos about the accomplishments of mankind and those adjacent to it, for such things delighted the being, like a parent hearing both themselves and their children praised at the same time. Then, he had begun to talk about the possible futures, and Logos' mood had soured, for every blow to humanity left a scar on its shape.

It was night now. A fire burned where Logos' incarnation had disappeared, logs blackening and burning as smoke rose from the coal in the furnace, electricity crackling as the fusion engine hummed.

And, beyond the fire's light, he saw the things in the darkness, as hungry and mocking as they were bloated and wary. They had always been there, Gerald knew. Unless humanity changed, they would always be.

And now, it was his turn to walk away from the fire, and stand between it and the shadows.
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Buried Again, Chapter 7

***
I didn't need to fly, run or even walk to get to where the Heads' meeting was held. In fact, I didn't have to move at all: Aya carried me, moving far too fast for me to react. Just to be sure I couldn't perceive, let alone remember the path, she also dampened my senses, mundane and arcane alike.

After what felt like an instant of sensory deprivation, uncomfortably reminding me of the world fading away as my noose tightened around my neck, all those years ago, I found myself in what could have been any conference room anywhere in the world: cheap plastic chairs and table, no windows, and beige, beige, beige, everywhere. The forest I summoned wherever I went was the only splash of colour in the room.

The other Heads were already gathered, making Aya the last to arrive. With a nod to her peers, she took a seat between Shiftskin and Gilles. Whether because she was liked by both or to stop them if they started to fight, I didn't know.

Neither smiled at her, or reacted at all. That's when I knew shit had hit the fan.

The table was a semicircle, so that no one could seat at the head and everyone could look at me as I took my seat.

"Thank you for agreeing to come, Silva." Gerald Reyes said, looking like everyone's favourite headmaster grandpa. "We would rather not take decisions involving you in your absence, after what happened last time."

"Let's cut to the point." Gilles said, the feathers on his head bristling fiercely, piercing yellow eyes staring at me unblinkingly. "Do you want to live, Silva?"

That caught me off-guard, though I was more conposed than I would've been before that trip to Fairie. "I wouldn't have come back otherwise sir. Also, ARC cannot execute its personnel outside extreme circumstances. We just hand them to their countries."

Were they testing me? Seeing if I was too sorry for myself to remember protocol, or care about it if I did? Well, I wasn't. For some reason, I wanted to prove them wrong. Show I still had my wits about me, even now.

"Do not take this as a threat." Elsbeth Crane said, hands together on the table in front of her. "But these circumstances are hardly usual."

"If you want to die but don't trust Romania, Aya can end things right here." Amara Al-Hazred added, the shadows of her hood impossibly hiding her face from my dead eyes.

I looked from her to Aya, seeing nothing but determination, resignation, and quiet pleading to think if what I wanted was the right choice.

"I don't want to die." I answered Gilles. "Even if I did, I haven't said goodbye to those who would deserve to know about it. All of us have made mistakes we'd rather not repeat."

Gilles stared at me for a few moments, saying nithing, before nodding slowly. "I can respect that." He said eventually. "But you are still a security risk, Silva. Not for reasons you can control. Rather the opposite."

"My strigoi side is not uncontrollable. I've never lost myself to my instincts."

"Yes, and that is admirable-"

"Certainly a breath of fresh air compared to Loric Szabo." Alemoa Elga told him, flashing me a brief, reassuring smile. The ghost lacked the paleness common to her kind, as well as the transparent body. To a human, she might have even seemed alive.

But I knew better. Even from a paltry ten metres away, I couldn't hear the heartbeat or smell the blood in her veins, nor the sweat that was always present on humans, because there was nothing to sense.

And that was not to mention the arcane power she radiated. It felt like I was looking at a much smaller, female Lucas.

"We might even make you the Corpse Corps' public face, David." The ghost joked.

"Thanks for the offer, ma'am." Bleh. Hope I didn't look or sound as constipated as I felt. The fact that I was a bad liar didn't help with my reaction at the suggestion. "But I have stage fright."

Or rather, I got extremely anxious around people who weren't evil or something for me to kill. Throw me at any monster and I wouldn't even blink, but people with opinions, in a non-violent environment? I clammed up.

My days as a teacher hadn't made me better at it. Just better at faking it, though not until I made it, unlike all the cool people with impostor syndrome. I'd never be Ciaphas Cain. I was more like Jurgen somehow getting turned into one of the books' main character, without Cain around to help him.

Still smelled better than him, though. Low bar, but...

"Don't drag this out, Silva." Gaol John grunted, sounding bored, though his face-at the moment, he looked like a dark-skinned, rough-looking motherfucker missing his nose and lips-was expressionless. "And you stop encouraging him, Elga."

"Thanks, Johnny." Gilles said. Then, to me, "I was boutta say that, while controlling your instincts so far is admirable, there's still a risk we can't overlook."

Oh, fuck off, you overgrown turkey. "I bet you tell all your recruits that, sir. Talking about them, know what's the difference between us? They don't get called out for having the same problems I do,  and a night a month most of them go insane."

"The difference," Gilles said in a voice almost as cold as his eyes. "Is that weres can't be possessed, Silva."

...Fuck. "I-"

"Maybe make sure why you're here before you start talking shit about my agents, eh? Not that lots of people don't, but I've had to kill a fifth as many as I've sent to their countries for execution over the decades. I get a tad miffed, you understand." Beak quirking in something approaching an ironic smile, he turned to look down at Aya. "Why didn't you tell him? This ain't the time for preserving suspense, y'know."

"I presumed the two possessions weren't the only problems we would want to discuss." The mummy said in a small, flat voice, expression blank.

"Aw, c'mon, Aya..." The weregryph shook his head, then huffed. "Let's not presume anymore, alright?" He looked back at me. "Silva, we can't blame you for being possessed by a deity. The problem is that Chernobog seems to want to fuck you, in particular, over. Until we find a way to truly, permanently kill him, you're in danger. Are you patient enough to live like this until then? There's a way out..."

"I want to live."

Gilles shrugged. "Then, let's hope we can protect you until we finally ice the fucker, eh?"

"Chernobog isn't working alone." I said, glad we were getting close to what I wanted to discuss. "I don't know...that is, I'm not sure who his associates are, but I have some ideas."

"Nyarlathotep." Shiftskin said. "The tentacles that immobilized us in Fairie match Fixer's description, as well as the bodies of several avatars."

"That wasn't the first time he intervened." Aya nodded at the wendigo. "He came to the pantheons' summit in disguise, and we'd have missed him, if not for the Dagda."

What the fucking hell!? "So he has a stake in this. Do we know why, besides fucking with existence in general?"

"Chernobog is an useful proxy, especially if he believes himself an equal or ally." Amara took off her hood, revealing an olive-skinned, middle-aged woman with dark eyes that appeared bottomless. Light was drawn into then, as if they were black holes, distorting her features. "The Crawling Chaos cannot meddle with dimensioned existence without being opposed at every step. Nodens, the Fixer...he has too many equals and enemies, or, at least, beings who do not want to share their toys." Amara smiled humourlessly.

"So, Nyarlathotep wants to find a way around his restrictions, without doing anything himself, because he's...lazy? He doesn't want to dirty his hands?" Crane suggested.

"Or maybe he just finds Chernobog running errands for him funny. I know I would." Ying snorted a small puff of ivory flame while scratching his belly, making a sound like coins clinking.

"But why would the Black God agree to this? He's an insufferably arrogant bastard." The demigoddess replied.

"Aye, but arrogance only lasts so long when you're shit out of luck." Ying replied. "Remember when Nacht killed him? I'm not using air quotes, because it did happen. Nacht swore up and down he was dead. So did Hex. Everything I checked pointed out to the fact that the Black God was gone. I checked with the Jade Emperor, alongside Wukong and several other Buddhas."

"We all investigated, Ying." Elga said placatingly, putting a hand on his left arm. "We were all wrong."

"I'm not apologising." The dragon said. "I'm saying we should have never stopped."

"Chernobog was torn apart by an army of copies of his equal and opposite." Crane pulled her hand back, then crossed her arms. "Hex and Nacht said the remains of his corpus were inert, before-"

"Before they disappeared." Ying said, then tapped the said of his head.

"Gods often disappear when slain." Crane frowned. "You can be sure I'd have personally checked them if I'd gotten there before it."

"I thought we were done apologising?"

"Better than passing the blame..." Sam muttered, glaring at Gilles.

"Enough." Gerald said softly, tapping the table with one hand. "Let's focus, everyone. Ying, you were saying something about Chernobog being out of luck?"

"Whether the Black God allied with the Crawling Chaos before or after his death, it doesn't matter. Unless we find out someone else is involved, I think we can assume Nyarlathotep resurrected him, yes?"

Nods and murmurs of agreement across the table.

"Well." Ying pulled his pipe out of nowhere, snapping his fingers and lighting it. "Do you really see Nyarlathotep doing anything for free? Or in a way that won't amuse him? Even if he isn't puppeteering Chernobog, who's to say he didn't bind him somehow, or set up conditions he has to obey, or he'll keel over?"

"You think that's why they are working together?" Leon said, sounding like he feared something much worse.

"Yeah." Ying replied in a similar voice. "Because the thought of those two making common cause without being forced to makes my insides crawl."

I was about as eager to break the grim silence of the room as the Heads were, but someone had to. "I'm repeating myself after the Headhunt, but Chernobog all but said he tricked the Dagda into killing Nidhogg and starting this whole mess. I still think those 'hurt women' the Dagda found were Chernobog in disguise, or Nyarlathotep, or one of their allies, if there are more. That, or their creations."

"We are yet to discover anything more about said women." Gerald said. "But I agree with you. They were obviously impostors, whatever their nature."

"The Dagda's own theories are much the same as yours." Aya told me. Then, to the Heads, "However, that will have to wait. We can't cancel the investigation, but it won't be our main focus. As grim as Ying's hypothesis is, we can't discount the possibility of the Crawling Chaos allying with the Black God, and possibly others, simply because they crave destruction. We can't discount the possibility of similar deities allying not with them, but with each other-or, at least, not hindering each other-due to similar reasons."

"Seconded." Sam said. "I'd have to turn into an ostrich to stick my head into the sand that far."

"Lapdog." Leon said, with no heat.

"And proud of it. You're just scared the big, bad gods are paling around, Gilles."

"I ain't deluding myself, Shifty. There's no reason not to assume the worst when you're invulnerable  and working in ARC." The weregryph's bravado filled his voice, but not his eyes. I knew, as everyone else in the room did, that, just because you couldn't feel pain or be damaged, it didn't mean you couldn't be hurt.

"More things to look into." Gerald said. "Seems you will continue working, Silva. Anything else, or do you want to return to Omu base now?"

"No retirement offers?" I asked, only half-jokingly.

"Too dangerous, both for you and the world at large. Leaving aside the fact everyone and everything would see you dragging Broceliande around, Chernobog would be possessing you again the moment he felt he could get away with it. And this time, he might never let go." Gerald gave me an owlish look. "And let us be honest, Silva. You would be itching to help out in any way you could. Even if you didn't go vigilante, your conscience would be urging you to return the moment you felt you were needed."

"I could enter the Supernatural Service."

"You could." Gerald said, sounding as convinced I'd do it as I did saying it. "I wonder, what party would like to take you first? I'm sure your chains wouldn't draw the attention of other national agencies. We haven't had a tugging match like that in a few decades." The mage held up a hand, flicking his wrist like he was dismissing an annoying fly. "No, Silva. People like us don't 'retire'."

"So, I am, more or less, being ordered to stay."

"Didn't you say you wanted to live?" Gerald raised a bushy eyebrow. "I suppose we could always send someone to subtly shadow you. John loves using multiple selves for multitasking," The IA head smiled so widely I was sure he was about to start nibbling on his own ears(made even more impressive by his lipless mouth). "Or, we could ask Nacht, whom we are waiting for. It could manifest right now, but Hex and it are on a mission, and we would rather talk to both at the same time."

Alright, Nacht automatically violated my and almost everyone else's personal space due to its very nature, but I didn't want it to take extra interest in me.

"If you keep talking, you will get another playdate with Herr Personality and the second reason he doesn't do PR." Sam suggested, apparently trying to beat John at psychotic grinning.

Tempting, tempting..."I think I'll go back to Omu base if there's nothing else, thank you."

***
Fairie, 2031

It was like trying to hold a beast's mouth closed and open at the same time, with one hand, while trying to wrestle it without moving. It was like trying to hold on to the edge of a pit by just his fingernails, while also trying to climb out of it.

Contradictions, one after another. Such was his people's reward for allowing the Black God within their home.

Oberon had never trusted Chernobog. The suggestion alone would have shocked any madman back to sanity. But playing gods against each other they way they did with everyone else(not that they were different when it came to their kindred) could yield results as miraculous as any dangerous gamble.

As disastrous, too.

Oberon's face was a mask of calm and concentration under his helmet, but none of his subjects could have missed the tension in him. His body was like a coiled spring, but paled in comparison with his mind.

The Blackness Chernobog had planted before his departure to parts unknown had devoured Oberon's palace, then the capital. He and his remaining troops had managed to evacuate most of the citizens who'd been too slow. As for the rest...the blackness could not destroy them, for it had no iron. It could not erase their selves or timeline, however much it tried. It could, however, keep their bodies in a constant loop of pained regeneration, and Oberon was loath to imagine their thoughts, and not just because it would ruin his concentration.

His Titania, bless her heart, had rallied their people around her, even as they travelled further and further from the heart of Fairie. Titles like 'Nomad Queen' had started being bandied around, though not in mockery. No one was that foolish, that sure they had nothing to lose, yet.

Oberon took another step back, cursing. The more power he drew from the aether to contain the Blackness, the bigger, fiercer and faster it grew, as if to spite him. Drawing less power did not help, for it still grew. He had almost been trapped inside the Blackness after trying that.

Something small and light as an agate-stone alighted on his left pauldron. She would often do that, when Puck stood at his right.

"They do not want me anymore, King Seelie." Mab said, her pale lips scarcely moving. "The humans' sleep was dreamless when I was away, but now, they no longer want me acting as the midwife of their minds. They prefer to let their dreams come by chance, and have put up protections around their beds and minds, to keep me out."

That she could most likely break through said protections went unspoken. But raping the humans' minds was unlikely to endear the Seelie to them again. And, much as he hated to admit it, they were too powerful to ignore anymore, and only growing stronger.

"Call the Dukes." Oberon said, grabbing a tendril of Blackness as it lashed at his faceplate and pushing it back down. "And reach out to the humans' realmsmoot."

"The Global Gathering?"

"As you say." Oberon closed his eyes, feeling his realm flow through him. Infinite as it might have been, he knew, in his heart, that the Blackness could and would devour it in no time, if he failed to stop it. But the humans had many warriors with noteworthy abilities, and many more allied to their kind.

Mayhaps even that god-eyed strigoi. Attempting to kill him had been an overly-emotional reaction, but one he could hardly be blamed for. The humans did worse for far more foolish reasons, all the time. Besides, he would punish both him and the Black God if he could.

But first, perhaps David Silva could help stop the disaster he had brought to Fairie by bearing the Black God inside himself.
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Buried Again, Chapter 8, Part 1

***

"Oberon wants to see you."

"Feeling's decidedly not mutual." I told Rivka even before looking at her. "For all that I want to make amends."

"Part of that is talking with Oberon and maybe his court, David. Actually, most of it is that. Most of the other Fae are too shy to get another iron suppository, and I doubt you'd like to meet those who aren't."

I blew out a breath. Why was I hesitant? Because Oberon had blamed me for killing so many Fae? I did, too, to an extent, though we both knew Chernobog was truly responsible. I don't know. Maybe we were both stupid. No, scratch that. Maybe Oberon was stupid too.

"No one told me this at the Heads' meeting."

"It came up later." She crossed her arms, looking uncomfortable. Her expression was serene, but the way her clawed fingers dug into her sleeves told a different story.

"Did Reem tell you?" I changed tack at the blank stare, knowing I wasn't getting anywhere. "Did he at least say where it would take place? Like, should I expect to be condemned on international TV or something?"

"ARC wouldn't expose you like that." Rivka's voice made me wonder who she was trying to reassure. "Do you want me to come with you? I'll choose a substitute."

"Did he say where he wants to meet?" I repeated. Honestly, it was sweet that she was so worried about my peace of mind-women like her and Bianca were the sisters I never had-but now was not the time for pussyfooting. Or maybe the location was just so bad she'd rather drag her feet on telling me about it? Was that why she wanted to accompany me?"

"In Fairie. Apparently, there's a problem he's trying and slowly failing to solve, and he wants your expertise." Rivka smirked, batting her eyes at me. "If it helps, you were his first option. He's only just started looking for alternatives."

"Problem, huh? I understand if he can't get it up at his age, but asking other people to take care of his wife? I don't exactly wanna pay locomotive to the train, either..."

Rivka slapped both hands over her face, grinding their heels into her eyes. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that...thanks for the mental image, David. Now I'm going to start having nightmares. Daymares. I wouldn't have been able to sleep after this if I were still human, anyway."

"Happy to help expand your imagination, boss."

"Ugh. Don't make jokes like this around Oberon, you hear?"

"What, you're not going to come with me anymore?" I asked innocently.

"Watch it." Rivka pointed a finger at me, eyes narrowed. "I know where you live and have your girlfriend on speed dial."

I held up my hands. "Against such threats, what can a man do but surrender?"

***
Rivka shook her head with a smile as she watched David go. He could still joke, thank God. He was getting better.

The ghoul sank into her chair with a sigh, boots crossed on her desk. She hated having to clean it, but knew it drove Tamar nuts, and it was always funny to see the Goetia Head fuss over cleanliness.

"Please sit properly, young one."

Tamar was in David's former seat faster than she could see. She didn't know whether he'd hidden himself from both of them, or if he'd observed from a distance and simply moved without her seeing, but he looked like he had been sitting for hours.

Tamar's flesh was burned so badly only a few patches of skin hung over abused muscle, and they all bore inverted pentagrams, bearing the Names of God and the demons-not shedim, not foreign deities; the things bound to Tamar had little to do with his faith, and much to do with the Christians'-within. Said patches had not been spared randomly: there was skin at his joints, over his heart and manhood, on his head. Stars of David surrounded the empty sockets burning with flames, and shone where his mouth, nose and ears had been.

"So sorry, sir. I thought I was alone. You're stealthy."

Tamar snorted. "When you're trying not to wake up your grand-grandkids, you learn to be quiet, too."

"What about Sarah?"

"I learned long ago that, no matter what I do, she'll wake up and berate me for acting like a bull in a China shop." The flames glowed pink for a while, and the sockets seemed to narrow in affection.

Rivka nodded. There were some people you just couldn't plan around. "It's been a while since you've woken me up, so I'd say you're doing good."

"It's been a while since you've slept, and even longer since you've slept in my house. I'd say I'm winning by default."

There was a pause after that. Rivka pursed her lips as she chose her next words, but, when Tamar began rubbing the spot where his number had been on his skin, and where it still burned with the infernal light that marked his flesh and bones, she knew she had to get his attention, or he'd become maudlin.

And people who could fistfight the Princes of Hell weren't people you wanted even remotely upset. Such events tended to be accompanied by descriptions full of words like 'tragic accident', 'former galaxies' and 'the fabric of the universe'.

"How come I can perceive you, even vaguely, but David can't?"

"Perhaps you are smarter than you thi-wait. Not even you can be that smart."

Rivka snorted. "Pull the other one."

"I am hiding myself from him, specifically. The people around him may need to know of my presence, so that we can exchange plans in event of an emergency, but there is no need to alarm David further. He already knows John has his eyes on him. The last thing he needs is learning there are two kooky old men stalking him."

"Well, long as you and John hide your white van..."

"It's blue. Thank you very much."

"Your demons are getting better." Rivka said, slightly puzzled. "Though even them getting around both strigoi senses and Mimir's perception is...kind of hard to swallow."

"I tried to destroy the chances of him finding out about me through Abaddon, which predictably failed. Supernaturals like him cannot be so easily changed, nor can their fates. Then, Aamon birthed something utterly appalling, but throbbing with holy power, which did work."

"Birthed?" Rivka wrinkled her nose.

"His words, not mine." Which implied the "throbbing" was all him.

"What about Orobas and Ose?"

"They are still fighting about where Chernobog is. Or rather, fighting about where he isn't. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, as they keep telling me when they're not calling each other idiots."

"You make them sound like chumps. Still, some people," An uninformed onlooker could have been forgiven for thinking Rivka was making air quotes with her fingers. "Might get upset at their absence."

"There are people after them now, too?" Tamar fanned himself. "Oh, dear. I sure hope they want them back as much as they want them gone, like everyone else."

"We can only pray." Rivka said, only half-ironic.

"Indeed." Tamar did not move. Instead, he was now standing two metres away from Rivka's desk, the seat back in its place. "Thank you, for supporting him."

***
Despite the glamourous perception mundanes, weres and the like had of supernatural travel, it was very much like earthly traffic. Following that analogy, Tamar was a jogger, dragging several tires behind him as he went about his day. Except the tires were wrapped around his organs and bit him as he jogged on choppy water.

At least nothing was biting today. Several souls had disappeared from the aether recently, and, with no god to claim or search for them, it fell to ARC and their countries' agencies to unravel the mystery. They had long ago removed supernatural predators from the aether, not that Tamar was sure if a beast was responsible. The disappearances did not appear to follow any pattern of logic, and while that was not unheard of, it seemed to clean for the equivalent of sharks.

Still, the aether was as calm as it could ever be, despite that. Tamar passed several souls, resting or shaping the raw mana around them into their own little worlds-some of them mages, some of them dead, others both. Fellow travellers avoided the light of his soul and the spheres of darkness wrapped around him. Just the Sephiroth carved across his back and into his spine would have been enough to ward most off, but if took intimidation to avoid confrontation, he was all for it.

Tamar paid none any heed, especially the ones he knew. Until one of them bumped into him, that was.

Tamar was never happy to see Strauss and his freak. Ironic, how he often wished the bastard would travel through other means than through its shadows, but had now run into the two.

Tamar pushed them aside, and tried to return to Jerusalem, but Strauss stopped him.

"Your enmity is pointless. I am just following orders." Your hatred is pointless. I am just following orders. "It will not change the objective of my mission, nor prevent me from accomplishing it." It will not help you escape, nor dull the pain. "You are merely indulging a vendetta, when the past cannot be changed." You are merely tiring yourself out. There is no sentiment in this, from my side. Why is there any from yours?

"Do not stall me, Strauss. I have business to be about."

"So do I-"

"I did not ask." Tamar smiled with his sockets, making the flames go through a merry range of colours. "You are speaking without being asked more often, these days. One might almost think you're human."

"I do not care about your opinion of me." Strauss replied. "Nacht," Ah, yes, the only freak in ARC bigger than him, and somehow still more human. Oddly silent at the moment, too. "And I have successfully convinced Solarex not to come to Earth."

"You don't report to me. If you want praise for doing the bare minimum, go kiss Shiftskin's arse. He can tell you all about wanting more than you deserve."

"Head Shiftskin sent me to you." Strauss said, then reached into his longcoat, producing something as thin as a sheet of paper, but made of gold. Tamar snorted. Had that cosmic pervert made a joke about gold as a conductor of magic? Seemed he could think with both heads, as long as he used one at a time. Astounding.

Looking closer, Tamar saw whatever was on it had been written in golden ink, and laughed. "This is almost as pointless as your existence. What do you want me to do, use my braille skills? I'm not actually blind. Gather up some folks who are, put them in a camp for skill improvement."

"Someone seems to have woken up on the wrong side of the train." Nacht said softly. From within its depths, his childish, haggard face stared back at him, realisation struggling against incomprehension as it dawned. "Still having nightmares?"

"Give me that rag." Tamar snatched it from Strauss' hand, without waiting for a reply. "Follow me."

"Yes." Strauss said, as he began walking the aether behind Tamar. Then, more hesitantly(Strauss, shy? No. He didn't feel such things. Unsure of himself, then?), "Can I see Adolf?"

"There's this wonderful invention knows as the internet..."

"Some gods of punishment might get jealous at no longer being able to pass him among each other."

"Maybe if he had believed in anything, that would have never been needed. Still, I'm happy that didn't happen. This way, they can no longer complain about someone keeping him for too long, or otherwise cheating." Tamar said, the ever-present pressure of Goetia headquarters' wards growing stronger as he approached his destination. "Also, you didn't give him back to me for years last time."

"True." Strauss acknowledged. "The document you took from us is Solarex's testimony-or, rather, theory, as we cannot be sure how much he truly knows, and how much he is pretending to know, or lying about-on the nature of Chernobog. Nacht and I have went over it, but we think your skills, in tandem with ours, could help detect misdirection and malice."

Tamar grunted noncommitally. Besides his demons, he was bound to old, nameless things that had been burrowing under the place that would become Hell long before Lucifer and his lackeys had fallen into it. They were powerful, each as powerful as a Prince of Hell, in fact, but stupid. Hungry and reactive, like deep ocean fish. They were engines used to augment the power of his demons, or pack mules used to bear things they couldn't be bothered with. The Goetia division didn't only bind demons and their distant cousins. Spirits of all sizes and shapes, horrors like his brutes, and-though never for long-even angels. Some of his colleagues from Miskatonic, the ones closer to the Outer Void rather than further from it, looked at the binding of such creatures with quiet disdain, but, as far as Tamar was concerned, that was pointless. Miskatonic existed because not all manifestations of insanity were-uncontrollably-mad themselves. Nor were, in fact, those who simply fought against their ilk.

Still...much as he loathed to admit it, Strauss and his monster possessed some of the keenest senses in ARC. If they weren't sure of their analysis, he...

Hmph. Perhaps collaboration would not be so pointless.

***
I saw the blackness at the heart of Fairie long before I set my eyes on it. It made a mockery of things like senses, light and distance: as soon as you entered the Fae realm, you knew, in your heart of hearts, that it was at its centre, slowly but surely eating its way through it, like a magot through a dying heart.

Behind me, Shiftskin and Ying Lung drew sharp breaths, the former growling in what looked like confusion and hunger. I didn't want to know. All that I needed to know, I'd been told: Oberon had reached out to the global gathering, demanding a small number of helpers for an unspecified crisis in Fairie. It would have been an insulting request, but the phrasing had suggested he wanted people neither side would miss.

I understood why Sam and I would be in that category, but Ying?

Oberon did not turn to look at us, instead intent on suppressing the darkness. His rainbow, armoured boots were set down on its edge, and he was slowly, almost imperceptibly being pushed back, as if by a strong wind, or by a tide washing away the shore under his feet. His back was bent, his arms extended, and he pushed back at lashing tendrils of darkness.

"The strigoi." The Seelie King grunted, his normally relaxed voice taut with effort and frustration. "The Hungry Beast. The Exile." His helmet tilted to one side. "Well? What do you see, Silva?"

I opened my eyes and ears and heart, then took a deep breath, letting the realm and the darkness blighting it flow through me.

Then, I knew nothing.

***
999 metres under Klyuchevskaya Sopka, Siberia, 2031

WE. AWAKE.

WE. HAVE. NOT. BEEN. CALLED. UPON. NO. MATTER. OUR. SLEEP. IS. DISTURBED. THE. CAGE. IS. EMPTY. NOT. BROKEN. BUT. OPEN.

THE. SPIDER. IS. GONE.

WHY?

THE. CULPRIT. IS. NOT. GONE. THERE. HAS. NEVER. BEEN. ONE. NO. MATTER. WE. SEE. THE. PAST. UNDONE.

WE. SEE. THE. GUARD. DOG. SLAUGHTERED. MURDERED. ALIEN. HANDS. MOVED. BY. ANOTHER'S. WILL.

THE. ALIEN. IS. GONE. A. BEAST. WHERE. IT. COULD. HAVE. BEEN. THERE. HAS. NEVER. BEEN. ONE.

WE. KNOW. BETTER.

WE. DO. NOT. SEE. YOU. FACELESS. ONE. BUT. YOU. SEE. US.

BEWARE.
***
Unofficial FREAKSHOW training/research facility, Alaska, 2031

Randall Henson watched the soldiers drill with their new gear, and his heart swelled with pride.

Randy knew he didn't appear the most reliable dude, at first, second or twelfth glance, but, fuck, no unit that passed inspection ever passed combat.

This, he knew from experience. Back in his days as a pilot, everyone was filled with outrage after Pearl Harbor, and, Randy knew, rage made people stupid. And people were pretty damn stupid in the first place, for all that individuals were smart, himself notwithstanding.

Still, he had been pretty fuckin' flamboyant as an "ace", even more than his current self, to some people's disbelief. He hadn't been like those dickbags who'd enlisted for cash and a license to kill-rather, he'd been of the belief that, having led a privileged life, with no need to work, it was only logical to give back to his country-, but he hadn't exactly been a model pilot either.

They'd all been eager to slap a Jap, as the saying had been, and instead gotten saddled with assholes obsessed with rules and regulations.

The other R&R, as they used to call it. The one everybody shat themselves in boredom while thinking of.

Randy had seen combat far less often than he should have, because his boys-his planes, not the other dudes, fuck 'em-were rarely up to snuff, even when they weren't getting thrashed in the maneuvers he pulled so he could have something to jack off to at night.

Ahh...inspections. Gotta love 'em, as much as first impressions.

"What's up, roc?"

The doctor gave him as exasperated a look as her features allowed. Which was to say, not much. Still, really expressive eyes, he had to admit.

"Wrong. Species. Again." Bree ground out, pulling her labcoat tighter around her chest, feathers bristling. Despite being large enough to swallow an elephant in one go-as blue and big as a whale, Hans had once said, when his two and a half braincells had been on vacation-and strong enough to turn the States to dust with a wingbeat, she was pretty damn easily flustered.

"Aw, but the pun don't work with "thunderbird"!" He said, patting one of her wings.

Bree clicked her beak. "I don't mind if it "don't work". Now, will you stop distracting me?"

"Sure thing. Roc on!" She wasn't a fan of the horns, huh? Bet she only listened to bird calls...hmm. Would that be like him listening to dudes catcalling chicks?

With a long-suffering sigh, for all they had only met less than an hour ago(he had that effect on people, especially ladies), Bree turned to see the boots try out the latest fruits of her labors. Her Department of Defense tag, which was larger than most of Randy's cars, shone almost as brightly as her proud eyes in the fake sunlight of the simulation room.

Getting the matter generators to make anything smaller and more complex than landmarks and terrain was proving a bitch, so the more finicky exercises had to come later. For now, the boys, girls and the rest could just have fun stomping around.

Armament landed two feet to his right, whooping. Randy took one glance at him and groaned. The combat pants with suspenders he was used to by now, godawful as they were, but the white shirt with "work will set you free"?

"Haaans..." He somehow managed to sound whiny rather than pissed. Like the beard and tattooed chrome dome weren't enough... "Fuckin' seriously?"

"Huh?" Hans looked at him like he was being the densest motherfucker on the planet.

"Don'cha think that shirt goes exactly in the direction we've been tellin' ya to avoid, unless ya grow your hair?"

"Fuck you mean?" Hans frowned. "Work will set you free-I never feel more empty-minded than when I'm workin' out or doin' some maintenance on my toys."

"Yeah, betcha don't-"

"Shhh!" Bree hissed. "You're gonna embarrass us all in front of the President!"

The current Prez, Mary Anne Simmons, was the third successive one with paranormal powers. In her case, the ability to escape any situation and bindings, physical or metaphorical. Everyone made dumb jokes about that being the perfect power for a politician, haha, but they didn't know shit. Randy had watched Mary grow, and you'd have to be dumber than Hans to think Breakout's kid would be allowed to get away with anything, no matter how good she was at wriggling out of tight spots.

That was probably the reason she'd turned out alright. Randy believed she got some of Clara's good traits(because who the hell else's could she inherit, her dad's? Not like he'd ever gotten to know he was one, too busy bleeding out from a shattered skull), but she just brushed him off whenever he brought it up.

Which was pretty weird. Not like Breakout was modest. Or insecure...in general. But, he supposed, anyone would be insecure when it came to a kid they'd never wanted or expected to have.

"Hello, Doctor Bree. Agents Henson, Miller." Mary had gentler versions of her mother's features, softened by both age and a life without fighting. They lent themselves to her smile, which said she just felt glad to meet her surrogate uncle and brother. Her gray hair, bound in a long ponytail, combined with the navy blue power suit, made her look like Randy's lawyer's wife, except black. All she missed was that cheap "pearl" necklace.

"Sorry for keeping you." Mary said, her smile becoming self-deprecating. "Start whenever you're ready."

They were on a replica of the White House's lawn, except there was no House between them. Nor was there any other building in the simulation. Randy hoped the eggheads would sort that out soon, so he could smash Hans' dumb face through a Nazi museum and show him how much like a goddamn skinhead he looked.

Bree was large enough she didn't need to pace to get their attention. Instead, she just extended a steel-blue wing towards the horizon. "Today, we are testing the Powered Exoskeletal Adaptive Combat Enhancement Armor. Or PEACE Armor, as everyone's already calling it." Bree rolled her eyes. "Because we bring peace wherever we go...hoo-hah. Please, no pacifier jokes, agents."

"I didn't say shit!" Hans said, only half-focused on the roc. He had created a sniper rifle so he could use its scope as an improvised telescope. He couldn't create anything unrelated to weapons, though that was a broad enough power even a meathead like him could make good use of it.

Randy? He could make things he said happen, as long as they were likely. Like, "you were blown up by a landmine" worked on a lot of battlefields. Not as glamorous, maybe, but he was good at working his mouth. Talking was his third best skill with it.

And then the show began.

PEACE Armor was meant to bridge the gap between mundanes, mages and the like, and the brawnier supernaturals. So they could stop relying so much on people who often had exploitable weaknesses. Sure, the Armor had its flaws too, what with being manmade(so to speak), but it could also be mass-produced...without a legal and ethical crisis, unlike, say, weres or vampires.

As he felt the Secret Service move around Mary, barely brushing against the edge of his perception(he only knew someone was there, but couldn't hear their breathing, blinking and heartbeats, nor feel the warmth of their bodies and souls. The fact he even thought about these suggested the current bodyguards were ensouled warmbloods. Interesting), Randy wondered how long the Armor could keep going. He'd heard all about fusion and miniature suns, but what about when the main generators run out? What if the wearer got caught in an antimagic field and couldn't absorb mana, let alone convert it to other forms of energy?

"Huh." Hans lowered his rifle, blinking. "Smaller than I thought..."

"Huh? It's not that bulky, genius." Randy replied. "Doesn't add much height eit-"

Randy quickly realized Hans hadn't been talking about the Armor, but the projectile a soldier had thrown at them.

Sixty billion tons came flying at them, and hit Hans' curled pinky at thirty miles per second. The shockwave obliterated the ground far beyond Randy's sight, and for a significant part of the continent, but did nothing more than ruffle the hair, or equivalent, of everyone present. Mary was right as rain as her power made the shockwave and debris bend around her.

Armament watched the mountain balancing on his little finger in disbelief. He knew this was just training but...

Did they really have to hold back so much?

"Oi!" Hans hollered as he raised the mountain overhead, stomping forward and making lava splash into his eyes.. "These things hold together much better than the real ones! Put your damn back into it, pansies!"

And with that, he flicked the mountain back the way it had come.

Randy ran forward a but, to get a look at the action, and saw a soldier, their Armor blending perfectly with the devastated environment. The distortion was clear as day to him, though, especially as they raised their arm and punched the mountain to steam.

He smiled approvingly as another soldier came over the horizon, reaching the puncher in a hundredth of a second. Their high-five shook the Earth's replica to the core, sending mile-wide cracks across the landscape.

Randy leapt back, nodding at Bree. "Oh, yeaaaah~ They can definitely go toe to toe with Joe Vamp off the street."

Bree gave him a small smile, then clicked her beak, restoring the simulation to pristine condition. "Now, we will observe the ranged weapons. I have thought of a rather fitting vantage point. Please follow me..."

Bree could flew the eighteen hundred miles to Yellowstone in a couple seconds, Randy and Hans having to pace themselves to a hundredth of their speed not to overtake her. This gave him all the time in the world to wonder if the President had always been this fast, or if she was being stealthily helped along by a Secret Service member.

They stopped on top of the volcano, seeing dozens of soldiers standing in five-person squads a few hundred feet away from its base, holding wide-barreled, dark blue pistols and rifles with light blue highlights.

"Coilguns." Bree explained. "We're ironing out the kinks in the railgun variants as we speak, but those are not a priority. Magnetic fields can be bent or unmade, with the right powers. Those'll need more wards than the coilguns already have."

"I've heard these shoot rounds at lightspeed?" The Presidents asked, brow furrowed. "It is rather hard to believe that velocity can be achieved through an entirely mechanical process."

Unlike the more common Gauss mass-drivers that used electromagnets, which were often deployed against lower-level supernaturals, DOD's latest toys simply launched projectiles-two pound rounds for the pistols, ten tons for the rifles-through means of a tightly-wound metal coil, which, when released, pushed the round out of the barrel at lightspeed.

The world's most dangerous slingshots, in Randy's opinion.

"I will be frank-" Bree started.

"To be Frank, you'd have to change your name, Breeee~"

"I will be frank with you, ma'am." The thunderbird told the President. "Unlike our magical "nuke guns", these will cause immense collateral damage with every shot. Maybe our mages can add some more wards before we start spreading them across the armed forces, but you are going to see the unmodified versions."

Mary pursed her lips. "We are expecting a war or unnatural disaster of cataclysmic proportions, doctor. Collateral is nothing strange."

"Let us hope it will not come to that." The doctor laughed, trying to mask her agitation. "The problem with ranged weapons is that fledgling vampires and most weres move at thousands of times the speed of sound, like I do, and can maneuver as they wish at said speed. They only escalate from there. This is why most people prefer melee weapons with enhanced durability when engaging them. Lightspeed projectiles are too fast for most of them. Warded to resist disintegration, silver or blessed rounds can stop many threats in their tracks."

"They can still dodge." Armament said, looking down at the soldiers. "Those mofos come with some sorta fighting instinct, gives 'em a heads-up when you're about to smoke their ass. Unless you're much faster than them, you can't surprise one."

"Also," Randy chimed in with an apologetic smile. "They can just look where you're aiming, and move."

"Ordinarily, yes." Bree replied. "But PEACE Armor can make any human as fast and strong as a werewolf, meaning they can keep pace. No different from shooting mundane humans."

Randy still wasn't sure-usually, people didn't blow up their cities or states with each shot-but he supposed they'd just add the anti-collateral wards before mass distribution of the coilguns.

"You didn't mention iron." He told Bree softly, watching one of the soldiers lift their pistol.

"Your pardon?"

"Iron." Randy repeated, louder. "Anti-Fae rounds. That's what we're really worried about, ain't it? War with the Courts and the unaligned Fae?"

"Speak for yourself." Hans sans, frowning grimly. "I'm more creeped out by how messed-up their infiltration plan is."

Randy groaned. "Their what now?"

"Think about it." Hans said heatedly. "They host the godly equivalent of a terrorist and a fugitive, knowing full well what the fucker's done, and how twisted he is in general. Then, when he uses some poor schmuck as a sockpuppet, they cry foul, and make ARC-and us, and everyone else involved in that clusterfuck-out to be the bad guys, so that we'll feel bad and let them into our world."

"You think the Fae would sacrifice so many of their soldiers to...gain our pity?" Mary asked.

Hans gave her a humorless smile. "I think that's a leading question, ma'am. You know the bastards don't care about each other. Why wouldn't they do it? Remember they were-still are, for all we know-in cahoots with Chernobog. I bet they kept you guys," He gestured at Randy. "In place just enough for him to bodyjack that Silva dude."

Randy's head spun. Of all the times for Hans to make sense-

"The..." Bree's voice wavered slightly. "The shooting demonstration is about to start."

"Heh." Randy said, his smile, for once, not coming effortlessly. "Good thing we got some explosions to distract us, huh, Hans?"

Armament snorted. "Fuck off, man. I don't want the curse-casting kidnappers living across the street from us."

"It's a bad day when big booms can't cheer  you up." Randy's smile disappeared.

"Yeah, well...no one's had a good day in a while."

Below them, a soldier raised their pistol, and fired. The rounds were made of the same material as the Armor: not yamadium-the US used it, of course, most countries did; but old Kenji wouldn't disclose the secret of his precious material's creation or composition, no matter the bribes or threats, and their scientists had yet to crack it-but, rather, a recent creation of DOD. They were still trying to decide on a name. A few people had suggested paxium, what with PEACE Armor and all, but they were still debating.

As the round flew with force close to a ten-megaton nuke, but far more concentrated, a mushroom cloud appeared, ravaging the terrain for miles and splitting the clouds above. Neither the soldiers or the observers were harmed, but, as Yellowstone began erupting, triggered by the nuke-like explosion, Bree gestured with a wing, and the simulation reset.

"The coil pistols are not meant to be used in combat, even as sidearms-that role goes to the rifles. Melee weapons, backed by the Armor's power, will be the main method of dealing damage. The pistols are last resort only." The thunderbird explained. "As for the rifles...ten tons at lightspeed is the equivalent of a hundred and eight gigatons of energy. Less than a fifth of how hard the average vamp, were or PEACE Armor user can punch, but far more concentrated. It  is a bullet, after all."

"Hyperdense rounds also means it'll be harder for grunts to fuck around with, since they'd need Armor to budge them." Randy joked, relieved at the potential future pranks strangled in the crib.

"The human ones, yes. The mages? The weres who can play volleyball with mountains across the continent? Not so much." Aaand there Bree went, shooting down his hopes like they owed her money. "Agent Henson, would you mind helping with the demonstration?"

"How? I know I can dodge or catch the bullets, I'm just as fast. I'm strong enough to lift them, too..."

"Yes, but it is durability I am interested in. Coil rifle rounds can penetrate most supernaturals without deforming. We want to see their effect on a much tougher target, like you. If the rounds keep their shape after smashing into the equivalent of a compressed small moon..."

"Right, right. Uh, ma'am, guys, will you take a step back? Or...?" Randy shrugged when no one moved. "Suit yourselves." Taking off his glasses to reveal eyes that changed color every moment, Randy looked down, pointing at the first soldier with a rifle he saw. "Hey! Give me your best shot! Right! Here!" He tapped his right eye twice.

The soldier saluted lazily, then raised the rifle with both hands, and fired. Randy's eye stung a little as the round slammed into it, pushing ineffectually against the eyeball, kept in motion by sheer momentum. Below him, Yellowstone became an exploding cloud of dust and lava, scorching his suit.

As the simulation reset once more, Randy spun the intact, burning ten-ton round on one finger. "You make good stuff, doc."

"Indeed, doctor Bree." Mary smiled at her. "We should discuss the creation of larger coilguns, for national..." The President looked down at her pocket in disbelief. Not because it was ringing, rather than buzzing, despite the current settings, but because it was ringing in a pocket reality, without any satellites.

Narrowing her eyes, Mary passed her phone to one of the unseen Secret Service agents, who briefly stiffened-the faint motions of the air Randy senses around them briefly stopped-upon seeing the number, then answered. "Hello, sir. Why the surprise call?" They asked with forced cheer. "We were not expecting to receive anything from Russia with love today."

Randy's eyes widened behind his glasses, every fiber of his being screaming of approaching danger. Making a chopping gesture at Hans, he dashed towards the soldiers, lifting and tossing them up far faster than they could perceive. As far as they knew, they were suddenly back in DC after being thrown through the portal created by the gun Armament had created.

"THIS. IS. NOT. THE. PRESIDENT."

The first world turned North America to dust and the other continents to gravel, reducing the replica Earth's surface to ruin as oceans were vaporuised from the sheer force and the atmosphere was split apart. Despite the rapidly-disappearing air, each following word could be heard, even as they stripped the planet's layers away. The mantle was already gone.

"Nnnnnngh-who the fuck gave Tunguska a phone!?" Randy hissed, shaking his head. Every word felt like a punch from Dust Devil, and did as much damage to him: his head was numb, eyes swollen, and he could feel some loose teeth before he healed.

"How the fuck-" Armament blinked, having recovered from similar damage, while Bree shook her great head. Luckily, they were all much tougher than their continent. "How and why the hell have you gotten hold of that number?"

"TO. GET. YOUR. ATTENTION." Tunguska sounded far more smugly amused than the embodiment of disasters should have been able to. "WHAT. AMERICAN. PRESIDENT. WOULD. REFUSE. SUCH. A. CALL? YOU. ARE. CAREFUL. DAUGHTER. OF. THE. BREAKER. BUT. YOUR. CAUTION. IS. POINTLESS. OUR. WORDS. CANNOT. HARM. YOU." A pause. "NOR. YOUR. BODYGUARDS. THAT. IS. GOOD."

"The Strangeguard usually reaches out to FREAKSHOW in case of a crisis." Mary said, knowing Tunguska could hear her. "What could be so urgent that you'd do this instead?"

"Wait, ma'am." Randy help up a hand. "Tunguska, are you in the Kremlin? Is that how you got hold of that phone?"

At least they knew how the call had been made. Tunguska had proven its disregard for logic countless times since the Impact that had awakened its incarnation on Earth. All other disasters in history had birthed the greater entity, and fed its aspects in their planetary wombs, but it took certain ones to rouse its fragments.

"WE. ARE. ALL CONCERNED. SOMETHING. WAS. STOLEN. NO. WE. DO. NOT. THINK. IT. WAS. YOU. SO. FAR. BUT. IT. THREATENS. EVERYONE. WE. WANT. TO. CREATE. A. TASKFORCE."

"To find whatever was taken?" Armament asked. Their spies in Moscow had been awfully quiet lately, and that was never a good sign.

"YES. SEARCH. AND. DESTROY."

And with that, it hung up.

The Secret Service agent gave the President her phone back gingerly, their posture apologetic.

"You couldn't have known." Mary said, pocketing it. "I just hope agents Simmons, Clyde and Bat are faring better."
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Buried Again, Chapter 8, Part 2

***
"You are awful at negotiating, zmeu." The Mother of the Forest grumbled as she paced around her cottage. Aaron was large enough he only needed to move his eyes to track her, which was god, because the hag was walking circles around him.

"Communist." She wrinkled her hooked, beaklike nose, shrugging as if to say 'what can you do?'. "You only have servants and enemies."

"Not any longer." Aaron said. "And this would benefit you, too."

"Pfa!" The Mother made a dismissive gesture with both gnarled hands, before wiping them on her checkered, blue and white apron. Coupled with the red shirt, grey pants and slippers, and pink, white-spotted shawl, she could have passed for an old, if ugly human woman.

Until one saw the leaves and twigs tangled in her long white hair, which the shawl failed to fully contain, were actually growing from it. Until one saw the pock marks covering her leathery skin looked more like holes in a hollow tree, an image only strengthened by the bugs and maggots coming out of one and going into another.

"Because  I need meatshields, boy?" She asked, smiling just enough to show needle-like teeth. Then, she crossed the metres between them, jumped and flicked Aaron in the centre of his chest.

It was his armour that saved him. His instincts had told him to put it on the moment he had entered her forest-all of them, none at all, equally distant from every human settlement-, though he told himself she'd had used less force if he'd been unarmoured.

As it was, he vapourised the ground for millions of kilometres upon landing, and found himself in a crater that would have swallowed the sun. The impact itself did no damage to his armour, for it had been forged to withstand far worse, but the flick tore Aaron almost in half, his torso hanging onto his waist by a few strands of flesh and enchanted bronze. His chest had a hole the size of a large car in it, reaching all the way through, though his zmeu constitution prevented him from stumbling as he rose to his feet, despite the missing vertebrae of his spine.

Aaron huffed as his body healed. This pain was nothing compared to their last meeting.

Shaking his heads, he flew back to her cottage. The Mother had flicked him some eighty trillion kilometres away, which meant a couple seconds of flight, assuring that he'd have time to see her smug grin before he landed.

"Did this serve any purpose? I know you're strong." As strong as his father, at least before his power began to grow. "You damaged your forest-"

"My forest, yes." She barked. "I'll heal it. Don't try to change the subject, zmeu. I won't turn myself into your country's blacksmith just because you think you standing between me and whatever is coming will keep me safe. Do you have any idea how boring it is to forge weapons more dangerous than yourself?"

"If not for that, what would be your price?"

"Heh." The mother's beady black eyes glinted. "Don't think I can't tell what's going through those heads of yours. I'm not a whore, boy. I'm not letting the damn country run a train on me! You brought your brothers here because you wanted zmei to be the ones on a heroic journey, slaying monsters and helping people, for once. The weapons were what you thought you deserved-none of you three liked the transaction. None of you stopped to think if I'd meant that as a joke! You just went ahead, so I played along." She batted her eyes. "Felt young again, at least..."

Bleeding blazes... "Then what?"

The mother wagged a clawed finger at him, a cherry-red centipede wrapped around it. "Do you know why I called your harness the Brazen Mantle? It's not made of brass, after all. But it is brazen, as brazen as Burnished Death is mischievous and Three Moons Falling is bloodthirsty. Sit down, and listen-for that harness of yours would not obey even me, who forged it. It would not obey you, its wearer, either, if not for..."

***
As Andrei walked out of the fighting ring's infirmary, he ran into a face he had known for decades, but rarely seen in this form.

"What?" Lucian asked, moustache twitching. The zmeu's default human form was over two metres tall, muscled and swarthy, with a wild mane of black hair that reached down to his shoulder blades.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing you like this." The werebear replied, holding his medical file close to his chest. It had been updated, showing he had not been poisoned with silver-the only method that worked on weres-during the Fright Before Christmas.

Lucian snorted. "Took the words outta my mouth. I look at you, and I can only smell musk and fish, despite the way you look. The contrast is killing me."

"You'll survive. Here for the update?" He jerked his head towards the door.

"Yeah. I wanted to do one, and my brothers insisted." Supernaturals, as a rule, could not get sick, barring unusual circumstances. But the Fright had left everyone walking on eggshells.

"Good luck. Although..." Andrei looked the shirtless zmeu up and down. He only wore a pair of dark blue pants. "Alright, the contrast is killing me, too. You smell like smoked lizard. What made you shapeshift like this?"

Lucian rolled his eyes-still yellow, still with vertical, slit-like pupils-as he leaned against a whitewashed wall. "Aari's gotten convinced the world is going to end, and has basically put me and Lucas into a sort of boot camp, except you can't graduate, because he's half as paranoid as he's demanding. I feel like I'm four again..."

"He just wants you to survive..." Andrei said softly, making Lucian sigh and cross his brawny arms.

"Yeah, I know. And...it's nice he's concerned. Fuck, he's practically our dad. But it's cutting into my me time! Only things I've been kissing lately are my brothers' knuckles!"

"How's their tongue game?"

"Oh, fuck off." And with that, the zmeu entered the infirmary.

He came out a few minutes later, holding a file doorstopper of a file, with what looked like several notes attached.

"Why's yours so much bigger than mine?" Andrei asked as they made their way down the hall and to the locker room. The other men grunted greetings or waved as the two entered. They'd been fighting for more than some of the others had been alive, and everyone knew them.

"Because I'm more  potent than you." The zmeu said, wiggling his bushy black eyebrows.

Andrei rolled his eyes as he typed the combination to his locker on its keypad. "I meant the file, dumbass."

"So did I!" Lucian drew back with a hasp, holding the file to his hairy chest. "Gosh, Andrei, you're only thinking of l-lewd stuff."

"You have no idea how fucking unsettling it is to watch you do that...would you mind changing?"

"Nah." Lucian closed his locker and flipped thrice, mouthing an incantation about man revealing the beast he had always been. After the first flip, his skin became green and the hair on his body and hair disappeared. The second added half a metre in height and made his muscles swell as bottle-green scales covered them. His teeth lengthened and thickened into fangs after the third, while wings sprouted from his back. His tailbone writhed and grew before a thick, muscular tail emerged, and his feet bent, the heels drawing back and up, and Lucian landed on taloned toes. "Aaah...this must be why girls feel so good taking off their war-paint."

"You finally found pants for both forms, huh?" Andrei asked.

"Yeah. Heard they're made by the same guy who makes Hulk's." Lucian grinned. "You ready?"

"Are you telling me you actually read about your fight today, as opposed to waiting to be surprised?"

"And what if I did?" He patted his shoulder, then drew him closer, whispering. "I don't want to leave anything to chance again. Remember that mission David came back shuddering from? Why were his eyes white?"

"You know he can't tell-"

"Yes, but that doesn't stop me from worrying. I think Constantin knows more than us, but not enough. He's been high-strung lately. And where's David now?"

"I don't know!" Andrei growled, baring his fangs, eyes blackening. "You think I'd lose him again if it was up to me?"

"Woah, there. You didn't lose shit last time." Lucian frowned down at him. "Listen-this is your human side talking. I never met my parents until this Christmas, and I care as much about them as I did before. Zmei don't care about their hatchlings, bears don't care about their cubs. David learned the truth when he was grown-up. There was nothing more to change, and he was raised by an alright guy. You should both stop being dramatic about this, and get laid or something."

The werebear growled, trying to keep his beast from rising. "You know what's the difference between the two of us?"

"I make girls gag from the size, not the smell?"

Andrei caught himself before sharing a few choice words with the zmeu. "I don't think giving in to your inner animal makes you happy. But...I did get some, recently."

"Good! And David? I bet he and Mia have taken a leave from work to get somewhere nice and private to do the nasty."

"Nice and private..." Andrei shook his head. "Like any sex involving David would shock people."

"Yeah, you're right. I'm sure all of Romania and most of Bulgaria has felt Mia pegging him through the mattress. No need to hide anymore." The zmeu chuckled. "Good luck with Elementron."

"Good luck with the weres." Andrei said, watching the other men get ready.

Lucian, he thought, almost sounded like he actually believed David was in a good place.

***
Lucian smirked as the werehawk kicked him through the Southern Carpathians, turning mountain after mountain to steam, levelling the replica of Romania from the shockwave that shook the fake Earth. Amazing, what mages could do when they had money to incentivise them and little else to occupy their time with.

It hurt, of course, but no more than one of his own kicks would have. Aaron's training really was paying off.

He landed in Ukraine, carving a trench as long and half as wide as the country as his talons dug into the ground. The werehawk crossed Romania in a heartbeat, and was almost upon him, before Lucian summoned his mace, holding it up right into the were's surprised face.

She smashed herself flat against it, one of the long gold spikes splitting her head and spine, stopping in her heart. The were pulled herself free with a grumble, damage already healed, then flew up and away, to let others try.

This was an endurance match. Zmei could fight for days, but were stamina was endless, something he had always appreciated.

He was jumped by three groups next: a werewolf pack, a murder of werecrows, and, bizarrely, a group of werelynxes. Solitary animals didn't really do teamwork...maybe they were just sick of his face. He could understand the jealousy at no longer being the ugliest fuckers around.

Didn't mean he'd play around with their bullshit, though.

With a thought, his blood began circulating faster, getting hotter, from steel-melting to steel-vapourising. As hot as the area around him, actually. The weres scoffed, still circling, even when he went from six thousand degrees celsius to fifteen million, causing an explosion and creating an expanding sphere of plasma around them, then ramping up, and increasing that temperature dozens of times over.

Nuke temperatures weren't good for anything more than singing were fur or feathers, but that wasn't what he was aiming for. He was far more interested in finding how hotly he could burn. Not like zmei could get burned.

Twelve billion degrees. Thirty trillion. A thousand times that. A million times. A billion trillion.

The Earth replica was far better at holding itself together than the real planet. That didn't keep it from becoming less than steam long before he was halfway through what he considered hot enough. The weres hadn't stopped regenerating, but every time they tried to become more than overheated particles, they were quickly reminded it was too hot for that.

With a wave at the mage controllers, he dialed down the heat, allowing the weres to regenerate. Good thing they were in space, so they could chill out. The fight had gotten a little too heated up.

"Fuck this." One of the lynxes said as soon as the planet was back, leaping away, his pack reluctantly following. The other weres didn't hang around for much longer.

"Who's next?" Lucian asked, spinning Burnished Death on one finger.

"I shall make you give up." A high-pitched, clipped voice said, as another were dropped from the sky.

"Oho!" Lucian said, taking in the weremantis. "So you're eating my head after this, right? Don't mind if you start now, though..."

Her hybrid form would have probably appeared unattractive and weird to most humans, but Lucian had broader tastes. Flat women had never turned him off, because no zmeoaice had breasts(and few had muscles smaller than his. That had been a much weirder change to adapt to upon entering Romanian society. David probably didn't know how stick-thin Mia looked from Lucian's perspective). Add a couple lethal inbuilt blades and some pretty green chitin, and bam. The mantis had a second pair of arms in hybrid form, which still looked human, as did her feet and face, save for the mandibles and eyes.

The mantis sighed. "They always say that..."

"Oh, so you have experi-"

She moved too fast for him to see, in a swipe he only caught through sheer instinct, raising an arm to block the blade aiming for his neck. It dug through his scales and skin, but stopped at the muscle. The shockwave bisected Romania, violently pushing the halves away as lava burst from the ground, reaching past the clouds.

Lucian healed before she could pull her arm back, grinning fiercely in the mantis' face. "That was a merciful blow. Through the neck, wouldn't even feel it, right? You know my kind can just reattach their heads after being beheaded, right, sweetheart?"

"Yes." She said flatly. "But I hoped decapitation would discourage you from continuing."

"I bet you water down your milk before drinking, too. We're putting on a show! People need to see there are those in this country strong enough to protect them if the need arises, and tough enough to shrug off anything-"

"Dramatic much?" The mantis kicked up, between his legs, only for the zmeu's tail to wrap around her leg and hold it in place, despite her struggles. With a wink, Lucian grabbed her chin, pushing her mandibles open with his other hand.

Then, parting his lips, he took a deep breath, and spat a gout of flame down and through her throat and torso.

He left the mantis step back, shaking her charred head as her boiled brain healed. The hole in her chest also healed, unlike the Hungary-sized one he had burned through the planet.

"You were saying something about surrendering?" Lucian asked, lazily swinging his mace with one hand. Hissing, the mantis dashed forward, putting a blade straight through his chest, severing his spine. It healed as soon as she pierced his heart with the other one, then began a series of double blows that punched holes the size of his head through his chest.

The zmeu smiled all the way through. When you weren't immune to pain, it helped to make people think you were.

"You seem really intent on making me give up." He said conversationally as his lungs were sliced in half, healing almost as fast as the blade went through them.

"And you're just as annoying as your father warned me you'd be."

"Praying mantis too?"

"Yes, wh-"

"I knew your dad! Gotta say, he really felt like a girl from behind. Is your mom still jeal-"

The next double blow cut him in half vertically. Then, growling, the mantis swung at his halves horizontally, splitting him into quarters. She crouched atop him, putting her blades and arms between his parts so he couldn't heal.

Lucian chuckled hoarsely. "Thorough, aren't we?" He grinned with each half of a mouth. "You win. I can't move like this. Let me heal?"

"Will you shut the hell up?"

"Should I say no, or lie?"

Rolling her eyes, she stood up, allowing the quarters to move closer to each other, strands of flesh growing to join them. Lucian was up in a few moments. "This fight is over." He said, lifting and holding his mace before him, as if presenting it to her.

Warily, the mantis jumped back six metres. "What are y-"

Then, Lucian tapped into Burnished Death's power to destroy the distance between them, lightly tapping the mantis on the head with the mace, splattering her.

"Don't be sad now." He told her as she healed. "You'd have crushed me without my mace. Maybe we can wrestle later, so I can make it up to you." The zmeu raised his voice, turning around. "Anyone else itching for a go?"

Lucian felt something very light and very sharp come to rest just below his waist. "Just me." The mantis said from behind him.

"Cute. You know I'd still heal from that, right?"

"Do you want to?"

He laughed. "Oh, yeah...definitely wanna meet again."

***
Supernatural fighters rarely had 'gimmicks' beyond those that came with their species, and most felt thy didn't need any. Andrei was in the latter camp. Elementron, his opponent, was decidedly in the former.

The robot took the form of a gunmetal-grey, muscular, bald human male, naked and sexless. Probably why it was in the genderless locker room, with the golems and the ghosts who didn't remember their lives.

Elementron didn't have any memory problems, though. In fact, it seemed to remember every stupid joke and comment anyone had ever said.

"Feeling the pressure, are we?" It smirked, blank eyes shining in the sunlight as it rained a barrage of blows upon Andrei. Sixty tons moving at mach seven was fairly challenging for his human form, as every hit felt like dozens of tons of TNT exploding in a small spot. The robot was swinging hard enough to level city blocks, and creating craters just as big in the ground around them.

"Not really." Andrei said, meeting every second punch and kick with one of his own, and matching the robot's strength. "You'd think a tool would be better at breaking stuff..."

Elementron's eyes gleamed dangerously, as its smile became sharper. "I am no tool, old man! I might not be able to modify myself yet, but I am an artificial intelligence, built to live its own life!"

"Hmm...no. Fairly sure you're a tool."

Scowling, the robot slammed a knee into his crotch, the metal extending into a long, thick spike that parted his body, before piercing his throat and skull. Then, when the tip punched through the top of his skull, it became a drill, spinning, turning the werebear into a pulped ruin.

Elementron kicked Andrei away, and the were healed in midair, so that he landed on his feet. "Thanks. Couldn't reach that itch, anyway. Maybe you're not that much of a tool..."

Elementron ran at him, melting the ground under and around him, and raised his right leg, before bringing it down into a kick that would have pulverised a tank. Andrei caught his calf with one hand, the ground under them being torn apart like it had been hit by a MOAB. Elementron became liquid nitrogen, but, besides chilling the ground, it did nothing more than give Andrei something colder to hold onto, not that it bothered him. The robot turned to hydrogen, to mustard gas, to plasma and gamma radiation, but to no avail: Andrei's were nature meant he had a grip on its form, whatever state of matter it was in.

With a flick of his wrist, he threw the robot up. Spinning, Elementron decided to follow Andrei's advice, and changed his composition to degenerate neutronium. Sixty tons became six trillion as the robot's density increased a hundred billion times over, so that, when it landed on Andrei, the were was turned to atoms, and the ground exploded as over seventy gigatons impacted it like a falling mountain range.

Andrei tried to heal, but was trapped under the robot's dense, gleaming black body.

Right. This was no time to play human.

Andrei's hybrid form pushed Elementron up as it appeared under him, and a flex of his chest sent it flying kilometres into the air, past the clouds that were parted by the hyperdense projectile.

Andrei balled his clawed hand into a fist as the laughing robot fell. Clearly, it was enjoying itself as much as he was. His punch made a dull thud as it connected, propelling the robot past the horizon and the next eleven, reducing the land to dust and memory.

Elementron ran the sixty-six kilometres back in a third of a millisecond, grinning like a loon all the while. It raised a hand as it approached Andrei, but not to strike.

The werebear was fairly sure whatever was left of Romania disappeared from their high five, because it had definitely shaken the planet.

"Enough of this!" Elementron giggled. "I don't wanna make silver and really hurt you, you know...I had some idea about a yamadium body, but I doubt you couldn't break it. Ah, well...this will definitely be enough to catch the Army's interest."

"I understand the desire to serve your country." Andrei said. "But are you sure you don't want to do anything else? Your creator-"

"Has other robot ideas for peace. I was built to fight! We can't let the reptilians beat the brakes off us for any longer just because we have paranormal tricks." Elementron scoffed. "Besides, I wanted to make sure I could hold my own against a were. A robot that can make any element on demand and is far less squishy than the average mage would be welcome, especially once mass-produced." It cupped its chin with a haughty look. "Though, I'm not sure the world could handle that much style..."

"We'll-" Andrei bent down and backwards as two silver spikes flew through the spaces his earlobes had been, reaching low orbit in less than a second. "Manage. What the fuck was that?"

Elementron shrugged, still grinning. 'I said I wouldn't wanna really hurt you with silver. You could have gotten some earrings after that! You seem like the kinda guy to wear some....didn't expect you to be this fast at point blank, though."

***
Ojos del Salado, Chile, 2031
Primus, despite the empty words of his detractors, was not a callous, let alone cruel, being. His heart bled, even though his blood had stopped flowing nearly two hundred forty millennia ago.

He liked that expression, "bleeding heart". Suggested only by tearing open the life-core could kindness be revealed. He agreed. Kindness did exist in people, but it was buried so deep only looming death, theirs or someone dear's, could bring it into the open.

Void knew his heart bled, in that sense.

Primus had watched the world develop, nations rise and fall. He had walked Atlantis when it had been whole, not as a slave, but as a predator, looking for blood from all across the world. He had torn open and drunk his newborn daughter dry, for she had been blessed by all gods.

That had been something no child of this soft age could imagine. Back then, the gods had few worshippers, and fewer conflicts. Oh, they still loathed each other from the bottom of the voids they had in place of hearts, but they clashed less often. His daughter had been an attempt to legitimize the Syncretic Treaty, by blessing a champion chosen and supported by all pantheons.

Primus could not allow that. He had known, from the tales of his tribe's elders and the yellowed bones of his ancestors, that chosen ones did not live free, long, or happy lives. He could not allow his daughter to be jerked around like a toy by existence's biggest, most foolish children.

As if to spite him, the bastards had started giving heroes happier lives after.

Primus had killed her to save her, long before his wife had chosen a name. Her blood, already singing in anticipation of her blessings, had empowered him beyond any of his childlings-that he knew of. He wasn't stupid enough to think he was omniscient. Primus had sired a new species, and empowered his tribe beyond their meager imagination. His chosen had become vampires, the rest, the weak in body or spirit, wights, free from the chains of choice. No doubt, no fear, no joy, no anger.

Peace such as Primus had never been able to feel or give himself, yet he had been decried as monstrous, hunted down like the Atlanteans.

That was what he wanted to give the world. Uplift the strong, bring peace to the weak. Then, once they reached and extinguished the stars-

Primus ground his fangs as his childling and two things that only looked human approached him. What was it with the youths of every age interrupting their elders when and only when they were thinking?

Primus stood up in the snow, naked and showing no shame. The other vampire didn't react, nor did the man-thing in brown leathers or the woman-thing in drab, dark blue clothes.

"Mine." He said to the vampire, greeting and staking his claim with one word. The creature known as Jim Bat, a nickname based on his first name, and a joke based on race Primus didn't taste, twisted to fit his nature. He had turned it during the Civil War up north, were more blood ran in the fields and rivers than there had ever been before or since.

"Primus." Jim greeted, his expression blank. A thick-bearded, seemingly well-preserved fifty-something in plain, gray combat pants, shirt and black boots, Jim looked a quarter of his age, and showed no sign of resenting his sire, or regretting the kindred he had slain across North America. Good liar. Not like him. "These are Dust Devil," The man-thing gnawing on a stick, like the world's biggest ugliest goat. "And Breakout." The woman-thing would have probably been beautiful without her garments and cloth-mask. She certainly looked muscular, darker-skinned than he had been as a human, and not as annoyingly tall as some of this age's woman grew.

"We are here to ask for your help," Hmm? What for? "In the eventuality of a crisis your powers could be useful in."

Ah, so nothing had happened yet. "What?" He asked, referring to both the type of crisis and the powers that would supposedly been helpful. In response, Jim Bat widened his ice-blue eyes, and looked around.

Vampires could mesmerise and dominate through their gaze. No matter the number of mundane minds, a vampire could control an infinity of them, if they found a way to be seen by all of them. It was the more powerful spellslingers who usually proved problematic, and his children, nephews, and the threefold beasts were immune, as were certain other species across the world. Dragons, thunderbirds...

Jim Bat's had taken that power to another level: anything in his line of sight could be imbued to his will, acting as limb, eye, ear, and whatever else he wanted. So did the volcano under Primus, raising off the ground and past the clouds that gracefully spun aside, also moved by Jim's will.

"In case the landscape or population is warped by an event beyond our control, keeping them under control like this would be immensely helpful." Jim shot Breakout a dirty look. "Of course, I've been advocating to enthrall the mundanes for decades..."

"You've also been advocatin' to bar them from working, or doing anything but sitting around until a supernatural needs food, entertainment, or raw materials." She replied, pipe going from her shoulder to her hand, swinging alongside her leg.

"It's pointless to both let them think they matter, and let them suffer under the yoke of their minds."

Well, at least some of his childlings weren't insane...

"Drink after?" Primus asked. "How much?"

"Ya won't be drinkin' people." Dust Devil said, eyes steely. "You'd be given however much blood you asked for, synthetic or from regenerators, provided you help-"

"No. World? My tribe. Protect. Harvest."

"I told you-"

"Stop me." Primus tapped his chest with a fanged grin. "Don't think you can."

With a tired growl, Dust Devil took out one of his pistols, and fired. The bullet covered the three meters between him and Primus in a hundredth of a microsecond. To the First Vampire's eyes, it was frozen in place.

Dust Devil's reflexes, as fast as his bullets, did not save him as Primus dashed forward, seizing him by the neck, then flying him off Earth and past the planets, before letting go of him in the Oort Cloud, half a second later. The gunslinger burst apart from the force, then reformed, clothes and all, his archetype imprinted on creation.

How insulting...

Primus flew back to Earth just as fast, to kill the woman-thing and throw the impudent childling into the sun, but only succeeded in arriving on the planet. The woman-thing, just as slow as light, suddenly became far faster than even his perception as she swung her metal club at him, sending his broken body back to space and out of the solar system.

How? She had been frozen when he had left Earth, her back had been turned to him when he had flown back...

Primus didn't have long to ponder as hundreds and hundreds of light years were covered by his flight. Damn, but that hit had hurt when it shouldn't have been able to. Was the woman-thing somehow blessed? If yes, then how was he healing?

His wits came back to him just as he slammed into something far larger than his homeworld, and unimaginably tougher. Something he knew.

Maws turned a head backwards, to glance at the minuscule-compared to him-vampire, before grinning widely. "Bloodfather! Came here to fight me, or it?"

"Rainbow crocodile?" Primus' brow furrowed. The many-headed monster had been swimming the sea of stars for as long as it had existed. Primus had once met it in a world between worlds, when he had been hunting a witch that had hired Maws to protect her. Some dark-skinned bitch in purple, only a few centuries old in body, but who remembered every past life of hers. Her chains had been almost as annoying as the zmeu...and then there had been those daymares of his, about her binding some annoying corpse with a club to her. Bastard's power let him break free of whatever restrictions prevented him from accomplishing his duty...huh. Suddenly, the woman-thing became even easier to hate.

"It?" He asked, then noticed the space around them was wrong, or rather, missing. Their natures let them spoke as if air, time and reality still existed, but Primus knew the madness flowing around him would have warped stars beyond recognition.

"Indeed! Are you still strong?" Maws threw a jab equal to the one that had sent the Sleeper through Rigel, destroying the star, and Primus met it with an equally-strong punch of his own.

The rainbow crocodile was holding back, though, only using a fraction of his power, which always grew in battle. He had outmatched Primus physically the last time, too.

The zmeu's opponent rose out of the madness like a shark out of the sea, letting loose a shriek whose force nearly made Primus fall apart. As his limbs and torso's halves reconnected, he recognized it, too.

"Bastard!" He hissed, eyes widening. "My world! Not your nest! Die! Sleep again!"

Throat and stomach bulging, Primus began spitting out every wight he had gathered over his unlife. The things could not be destroyed as long as he lived-so to speak-but it was easier and more convenient to carry them around. Of course, when you had so many millions, some bigger than mountains, it took a strong stomach, crushing pressure and mastery of shapeshifting to carry them.

But this time, he'd make that squamous cosmic cuckoo pay. Thinking it could use his hunting grounds as a cradle for its brood....

***
Faith ranch, Arkansas, 2031
Christine's mother met her at the gate, wearing a smile equal parts apologetic and fond.

"Sorry, Chris." The ghost said. "Couldn't say no. He wanted to enter, and now doesn't want to go."

"You don't seem to mind that." The Fivefold noted.

"He's playing so beautifully!" Helen gushed, hands on her cheeks.

"And pissing pa off, of course."

"He's so angry!" Her mother giggled excitedly, before going back to watering her plants with the memory of a bucket.

Elijah was chopping wood with the echo of an axe when she walked past him and to the field. The farmer's transparent, pale body only made his wiry muscles and fiery eyes all the more intimidating.

Or it would have, to people who didn't know him. Chris just remembered him splitting logs at three in the morning, when normal people slept, because of too much energy, anger issues, and obsession with doing something. Workaholism, the Engine would have said.

"He's playing some creepy white violin, girl." He muttered, shouldering his axe. "His voice is nice, and so is the music, but it's creepy. Not of this world, lemme tell ya."

Don't act ironic, he's your father, she told herself. "I thought you liked Fixer."

"I do! He's a nice guy. I like his playing, but the violin...it's fuckin' wrong." The ghost shuddered.

Chris nodded in sympathy. Zann's viol was driving her demons mad, too. "I've gotten someone new, pa."

"Fifth, right?" His eyes gleamed with pride. "Just you wait! You'll be kickin' Ol' Scratch off his seat in no time!"

"God willing." She replied. Her parents could likely have gotten into Heaven by now, but they couldn't rest, too worried about her. Elijah had repeatedly stated he wouldn't pass through the pearly gates until he knew his daughter accomplished her dream.

Leaving him behind, she approached the player.

The man's eyes and face were featureless, as was the gray suit he was wearing. Still, she got a sense of perpetual amusement, even as her eyes slid away from the body parts exposed by the suit. The viol was the most notable thing on him, even though it was wholly unsuited to accompany his song.

But then, Fixer had never bowed to social norms. His cover of Time in a Bottle was just the newest manifestation of that.

And once I save time in a bottle
The very first thing I will do
Is save every day 'til eternity passes away
And then spend them with you
And once I make days last forever
Once my words make your wishes come true
I'll save every day like a treasure, and then
Again, I will spend them with you
But there is not yet enough time
To be with the one I cherish, though I have found her
I've lost enough to know
That you're the one I want to go through time with

The Fivefold leaned against the wall of one of the barns, watching him. Fixer had his back to her, and several of the farm dogs circled him, radiating fear and wonder at the strange being. Still pretending not to have noticed her, Fixer began affecting a careless tone.

And I have this box just for wishes
And dreams that have never come true
The box would be full
In the sad world where I never met you
But there is not yet enough time
To be with the one I cherish, though I have found her
I've lost enough to know
That you're the one I want to go through time with

Lowering the viol like the great burden it was, Fixer took a deep breath, bowing to the mesmerized dogs. Then, he turned, jumping back in mock-surprise.

"Agent Faith! How long have you been standing there? Do you want to give this poor old man a heart attack!?"

"We didn't even do anything." She said.

"Yeah, well..." Fixer smirked. "Looking at you is dangerous for my heart by itself."

"What did you do this time?" Christine asked. "The song, then the compliment...is this one of your senile episodes where you think we're still a couple?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He scoffed. "I only just noticed you."

"Mhm." She nodded, then smiled thinly. "And what if we told you we wouldn't be opposed to that?"

"Did you like the song?" Fixer perked up. "It's a cover, but..." He held up a cardboard square, labeled "Fixer's cover", then removed the top layer, his song beginning to play as if from a music box.

"Pfft. Yes, it was cute." She said. Then, with a severe frown. "We think you've driven our dogs crazy, you know."

"I have that effect on bitches..." Fixer said airily, leaning aside from a kick that split the air where his head had been. "You were saying...?"

His tone was so hopeful it was almost pathetic. Still, she didn't want either of them to get hurt...again. "Benedict-"

"Nope!" He held up both hands, the viol held in a third rising from his chest. "Not even you can make that name sound good, Fifi." He had never allowed it during dirty talk, because it made him laugh too hard to concentrate. Fixer had named himself after cousin Benedict from Captain at Fifteen, not because of any particular love for insects, but because he found him the funniest character. Still, he went by Ned.

"Ned-listen. We were young and stupid back then."

"Aww..."

"We...were looking for a kind man, because we had never known one. And you were kind, and helpful...you saved our mind."

"Awwwww...."

"Ned!" She snapped. "Our daddy issues aside, we...weren't ready for that kind of love. Or any. Our childhood was cold," Her voice lowered, so as not to upset her parents. "And we didn't know how to deal with affection from touchy-feely saps like you."

"But you've grown!" Fixer said, gesturing at her frantically, then more suggestively. "You've grown..."

"Ned."

"Sorry. So, you're willing to try again...?"

"Ned." Her voice was apologetic, and she did her best not to sound as sad as he did. "We said 'if'."

Hurting a friend like this was...no. She couldn't let herself be distracted. "Why did you come to our home? You haven't done this since meeting our parents."

Fixer swung the viol back and forth a few times. "You know I only play this to keep things out? I've been waiting to act, saving up on moves. Let me tell you what I've learned..."
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Buried Again, Chapter 9

***

Hello, darkness, my old friend...

The Blackness around me, which had been whirling aimlessly until that thought, feeling my ears with a hollow, booming sound, became agitated. And, whether through Mimir's perception, mere instinct or both, I knew it wanted to silence me...

No. Not just me, specifically.

Somehow, the Blackness knew, like an animal driven crazy by fire, despite having never seen it before, that I had referenced a song, a form of art, something that entertained and helped minds grew.

An aspect of civilisation.

That thought made the booming sound become a shriek, like a cold wind blowing through the bars of a cage and the hollow bones of the thing that had died inside. Civilisation, the word and the concept alike, enraged the Blackness. Words were something thinking beings created, and that, too, offended it deeply.

It didn't want me to think or speak, never mind bring a fragment of civilisation into its empty grasp. It wanted to make me one with itself, or destroy me, or silence me if it couldn't.

And, in a way, it was succeeding.

The Blackness should have killed me. That wasn't my suicidal streak returning: it was a fragment or creation of Chernobog, who, twisted as he was, was still able to affect me. The Blackness should have wiped me from existence, permanently.

But it wasn't. It couldn't get through.

I turned inwards, and was back in Ghencea. All the unmarked headstones were shattered, mounds of cold marble standing above open graves. The corpses in them, long dead and too rotten for me to make out their features(if, indeed, they had any, or were just vague shadows, like the headstones had been before being shattered), were rolling, feeling the cemetery with screams from empty, unmoving lungs. Then there were those trying to climb out of the graves and failing, their skeletal arms, only covered by papery flesh at the joints, falling apart every time, causing the dead to fall down, wailing in despair. They never stopped trying.

The sky had changed, too: the starless night was now even darker, clouds almost as black as it pressing down until their bottoms touched the cemetery's fence. Drops of inky rain, as large and heavy as cannonballs, fell, cratering the ground and scattering the corpses in their graves. Pale, insect-like monsters, growing from fat eggs to writhing larvae inside the raindrops as they fell, reached maturity upon impact, either burrowing into the graveyard dirt to make nests, or tearing into the corpses to lay their eggs.

I turned away, but even the thunder and lightning, louder and brighter than any I had experienced on Earth, couldn't hide the sight and the feeding sounds.

My grave was the only one untouched, my human corpse staring blindly up at the nightmarish night with a grin frozen in rigor mortis.

And above my headstone, I found my strigoi side.

"I am saving us, David." It said softly, its shadowlike form darker than the night, darker than the storm clouds I now say were impossibly huge, hairy insects(what of the storm, then?), yet as visible as ink spilled on a page.

That wasn't what startled me, though. For the first time ever, it had used my name. I crushed a shattered headstone further as I backed away, in shock, but it didn't mock me.

"Are you doing this to scare me?" I asked, gesturing at our surroundings.

It shook its head, white eyes leaving faint traces in the air. "I have no more control over our mindscape than you do, human. This...is a representation of our struggle, and fate, if I fail."

Fate....I looked at the insects feeding on the corpses, and began to understand. "They are all us, aren't they?" I whispered, knowing it could have heard me from the bottom of Hell. "The dead. And the insects are the Blackness' attempts to destroy us. Meaning the clouds..." The Blackness itself, of course, bombarding us with fractions of itself, on a metaphysical level.

"Not just that." It replied. "The Blackness is Chernobog, the way our limbs are us. He is here, with us. Perhaps not literally, not yet, but he sees us. The Heads were right, David."

"Retiring would have done nothing and you know it. Don't tell me you actually wanted to-"

" 'And this time, he might never let go'. Chernobog doesn't seek a pawn anymore, David. He wants a knight."

The thought chilled me to my core, making me choke on a breath I didn't need. "But the Blackness-wait! Why are we wasting time talking!? Every moment is one more chance that we'll end up worse than dead!"

"Time does not pass here, David." It said, frustratingly patient for once, while I was the one pacing around like a crazed animal. "And I am already doing everything I can."

"But the Blackness should have destroyed us by now." I argued. "It wants to. Unless Chernobog is holding it back to torment us, before he makes his move?"

"Perhaps. Or, perhaps," It slowly lifted its head, and I saw it was not connected to its neck. Something that might have been a beard hung down from its face. "I am beating it back."

"Mimir's power? But how...?"

"I told you I'm better than you with it. You banished that phantasm in the Roundhouse's chapel. I...have been pushed further than we have ever been, and turned to the only salvation I could see."

The best place for it to grow was in the field. Ha...seems you were right, Aya.

Smile filled with the calm only death can bring, I looked my worse half in the eyes. "You said the insects were more than the Blackness."

"Worms of doubt, David. I..."It clicked its fangs together so fast they cracked, then healed. "Am not protecting our body, so much as repairing the damage done by the Blackness as soon as it occurs. Divine power, to counter divine power." It floated down behind my headstone, laying its hands on it and leaning forward like a tired old man. "But I cannot protect us from the inside, too. It is too much. If I try to fight both battles, as I am now, I will lose both. You m-must," Its claws cracked the marble. "You must not give in now of all times, David. We are withering..."

I looked down at my hands, expecting to see lost fingers, or holes through my palms, but I only saw skin beginning to flake away.

"No..." I whispered. "Not again!" I put my head in my hands, claws digging through my hair and into my skin until cold blood began oozing out. "I can't die alone! I haven't told them-"

"For God's fucking sake, you bitch!" My strigoi side roared. "I'll let the darkness eat us before we kill ourselves again! Didn't I just tell you not to despair!?"

"I-"

It walked right through the headstone and over the grave, slapping me so hard my head almost turned around. "Your friends? Good. Think of them. You haven't said goodbye. They saved you last time. Was that for nothing? The priest never tried to kill you. Was that for nothing? The zmeu loves you."

Another slap, this one knocking me to the ground. "IS THAT FOR NOTHING!?"

Looking up at it, I had only one answer. "No..."

It leaned forward, head tilted, cupping a hand around its ear. "I'm sorry? Did you ask me to show you what the Black God will do in our body?"

"Fuck you." I stood up, smacking its hand aside. "You're fucking shit at pep talks. Let's beat this thing, before I wake up and realise whatever it's planning for me is better than listening to you."

"Good." Its mad jackal grin mirrored mine. "Chernobog is dumber than you are if he thinks anything but me will break you."

I barked a harsh laugh. "Keep telling yourself that." I looked around, realising something else was wrong, or rather, hidden from us by the Blackness' assault on our mind.

"The thing in the moon." I jerked my head at the insect-filled sky. "I can't feel it."

"Nngh...our instincts have rather more pressing matters to worry about-"

"Screw our instincts. You said it's not a fragment of Chernobog a while back. Were you bullshitting me?"

My worse half's expression-so to speak, since it only had the shape of a face and eyes-was hurt, though I couldn't tell if it was from my words or the fight against the Blackness.

"Are you daft?" It gasped in a reedy, strained voice. "I just told you, our instincts have other worries. What did you think I was talking about?"

"So, that freak in the moon is...my instincts? Then what are you?"

"Ah..." Its head twitched to one side, as if it were having a seizure. "It is...an aspect of me, but not only of me. We're both hungry, David."

"I certainly aren't."

"No? You don't hunger for life?" It chuckled drily. "You would even if a god cut me out of our core. I am your deepest thoughts and desires, but...you can be the happiest, most peaceful strigoi undead, but you'll always crave that warmth."

"Is that why it greeted us both, back then? Then what is the moon? The world our hunger tears through?"

It rolled its eyes, making them flash. "Not everything here corresponds to something else, David. It's just the moon. I suppose you could say it means our hunger stands above all, or something, but...urgkhf!" It bent forward, coughing blood so thick and heavy, it cracked the ground upon landing. "Damn it. Enough of these questions, David. You are distracting me-"

"No." I said, as it dawned on me. " You are distracting me."

"Seriously? Passing the blame now?"

"No! Don't you see? The more I talk to you, the less I spend thinking about how fucking horrible the mess we're in is!" I smiled broadly at it, looking probably as unhinged as it was. "You said time doesn't pass here, right?" I spread my arms. "Then we have nothing to lose."

It kept its head lowered for what felt like an eternity, then raised it slightly, regarding me with one eye. "...Ha." It rasped eventually. "Figures...it would take certain death...for you...to be honest...with yourself..."
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Buried Again, Chapter 10

***
Letting my strigoi side channel Mimir's power to keep our mind, body and soul stable, I turned my attention outwards. It couldn't spend all of this...fight, I supposed, takking with me, for alm that time didn't pass in our mindscape. It had  offered to, but I had a feeling it had been overestimating itself.

So, instead, I focused on my body, which was healing as fast as it fell apart. It was hard to tell if I was withering anymore, what with the Blackness erasing fist-sized chunks of flesh everywhere it pressed against me, so I tried to put that out of my mind. The constant cycle of soul-searing pain, followed by something like a combination of relaxation and being doused in cold water-the healing, I thought-almost made me dizzy. I morbidly wondered what would happen if I lost part of my head to the blackness. Had my strigoi side become skilled enough to save us from that before we died.

Also...

Why does the Blackness hide our hunger from us? I asked it.

You imply it is intentional. I can't believe I'm saying this, but don't assume the worst.

So, it's not trying to?

David, the Blackness would be stupid if it could even think. It's a part of Chernobog, but not his brain. Right now, it's doing the equivalent of a sleeping human's hand trying to slap a fly down.

Then its sheer power must have been filling our mind, because I couldn't feel my hunger.

How long until Chernobog arrives, or otherwise intervenes?

Hard to...nmfh...tell. I daren't turn my eyes to the future. It's all I can do to focus on the present. Haven't hurt like this in...

It, understandably, trailed off, unable to make a good comparison. I didn't remember ever hurting so much, either, but that was good.

Pain meant I wasn't dead. Pain meant my mind was mine.

Well, I thought. Let's get his attention, then.

You want that?

We both know it's going to happen, sooner or later. Might as well rip off the band-aid.

Feh...impatient, aren't we? What are you planning, David?

I'll tell you if you answer me this: why did you always call me 'human' up to this point, and what made you change your mind right now?

Maybe I just don't want to die without doing it at least a few times, it replied cheekily. As for why I 'used to' call you human...you think that's over if we survive this? Because you act human, and are the sum of our human traits, just as I am our strigoi side manifested. There is no mystery there.

Fair enough. Now...
I smiled. Chernobog has taken enough from us. Don't you think it's time  we took something from him?

My worse half listened intently as I described my plan, its disbelieving chuckles building up to uproarious laughter.

***
Constantin walked away from the huddle-he could not find a worthier name for it, not that he found it in himself to try much. At least he wasn't feeling as inclined to criticise as last time.

The promises that the gods believed the end times were possibly going to come soon, but they'd do their best to avert them, had not managed to reassure anyone. Quite the opposite. And so, he had left to get some fresh air before the fights became literal, in which case he would have to return.

After that, rather than the open discussion he had prayed for, people had gathered in groups if like-minded worshippers, resulting in the usual cliques: the Orthodox Patriarchs, with a few scattered Matriarchs, the Pope and some of his closest Cardinals. And that was just on the Christian side.

Constantin swallowed a sigh as he felt a large man catching up to him, not needing to look to know Angus was smiling.

"It's only natural, Costi. You know none of us can stand pagans, and they can't stand non-believers either."

"Speak for yourself. None of my and my son's best friends are Christian."

"And that bothers neither of ye?" Angus looked at him askance, but Constantin could tell he was holding back a smile. "Says a lot about yer and yer 'son's' 'faith', don't it?"

Constantin opened his mouth, then closed it and his eyes, filling his lungs with the knife-sharp air. His faithcraft meant he could breathe anywhere with no problem, or even not at all, which let him appreciate the harshness of some environments.

"Do all the women you sleep with believe in God?" Constantin asked with a smile. "Do you check if they follow the Commandments before, after or during? Or is it from start to finish?"

"Aww, don't be blue just 'cause your balls are!" Angus laughed. "Are you calling me a hypocrite, Costi?"

"Can you stop calling me that? We're not friends."

The Irishman's smile thinned, but didn't disappear. "No...I suppose we ain't. Do you know what's the difference between my flings and the gaggle of agnostics you and yer corpse surround yerselves with?"

"I haven't slept with any of them? David has with one, but, in his defence, they're a couple."

"Aye, you haven't. But my women aren't a part of my life, so I ain't taintin' myself by association, unlike you."

Constantin shrugged, still smiling blandly, knowing how much it annoyed the other priest. "What were you saying earlier about me being starved for sex?"

"What, you think I can't tell? Yer dead angel," Angus shook his head sadly. "A shame, really...that you thought it could work, let alone that it would."

"Benedict XVII is a nephilim. I think it does work."

"Yes, but his mother wasn't a presumptious idiot like you were." The Irishman frowned harshly. "You thought chasing after your teacher and protector and impressing her with your deeds would make her jump into your bed? Really? Men come to angels, not the other way around."

"Forgive me for being young and brash."

"You would be forgiven if you didn't compound it with more heresy!"

"Befriending agnostics is hardly heretical, Angus."

"It is, if yer not trying to convert them. And don't try to fool me."

"You can be sure I barely sleep, with how scared I am of excommunication." Constantin drawled.

"Are you fighting again? I slipped away to avoid that." A deep female voice spoke.

"Suzi." Constantin squeezed the weresheep's extended hand. "Got tired too, sister?"

"Yes. Discussion turned to raising an 'army of God' in case of disaster. There have been proposals to have every woman of God impregnated, artificially or traditionally, but there are obviously some problems with that." She said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Bloody...that's exactly the nonsense the Quiverfull were spouting before we buried them!" Constantin said, shocked. "Do they want God to smite them all? Nobody told me 'ironic mass suicide' is on our Apocalypse preparation list."

Angus snorted. "If anybody's gonna kills us, it's gonna be us! Who else do you expect to do the job, Ball and Gag?" He gestured at the Islamic gathering, or rather, at the bald, respectively taciturn Sunni and Shia leaders.

" Please do not call them that." Constantin insisted. Then, to Suzana, "What about married women? Or infertile ones, whether they're married or not? Surely they don't plan to make them fertile with faithcraft?"

"I left before they got there." The weresheep admitted. "But I sure as...I certainly wouldn't agree to bear anyone's child."

"Oh, get off it, Suzi. No man's gonna try his luck with you." Angus scoffed. "As Costi said, that's a smitin'. 'Sides, God would just bless mothers with more children if She thought there was reason for it."

"Sometimes," The weresheep said thoughtfully. "It's hard to remember you're a converted druid, and not an Ariana Grande fanboy."

"That song slaps!" Angus protested. "Anyway...I don't know why you see Her as male. Shouldn't Her marriage to Mary be an inspiration to you?"

"Depends. Do you have any arguments, besides 'I changed religions but still cling to the idea of an Earth Mother' ?"

"God is male the same way lamps are female in Spanish." Constantin intervened before it could turn ugly. "No language-human or otherwise-is adequate for describing the Creator."

"Darn straigh!" A bass voice boomed. "In fact..." The newcomer landed a few steps away from the three, no snow touching his black and white surplice. The Protestant's dark-skinned features were split by a broad, shining grin surrounded by a grey beard. He scratched the back of his head before speaking again. "Apologies. Pastor Tyrone Smith, from Pennsylvania. You might have noticed we're starting to break up the huddle?" He pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. "It's like a lil' schism over there, let me tell you."

"Like in your aggressive handball games, right? You break up the huddle before you start smackin' each other on the head."

"Football, but yeah." Tyrone said with an annoyed look.

"Now, let's see the new cliques form. Ooh, I wonder what table we're going to sit at!" Suzana rubbed her hands with a conspirational grin.

"I think I'm gonna stand. Anyhow..." Tyrone scratched his beard. "I heard you guys were talking about the Lord's shape and form, right?" He raised a hand before Angus could say anything. "I'm using 'Lord' in a metaphorical sense there, brother. Creator-caretaker-guide-ruler just doesn't roll off the tongue, you know?"

"Because only men can be leaders, right?" Angus asked in a droll tone.

"I was just gettin' there, if you don't mind?" The pastor frowned. "God made us in His image, and I don't mean just us men. But you can argue He has many masculine attributes, and Jesus  does call him Father."

"Jesus is the only aspect of God that can be argued to be male, and that's only because of the form He assumed on Earth." Angus retorted. "I assume you use 'Father' metaphorically, too?"

"Yes? The leader of the household that is existence. But the Old Testament doesn't use explicitly male pronouns to refer to Him all the time, and the Holy Spirit is female if you go by some translations. And God talks about holding mankind close to His bosom and nurturing us in...Her womb." Tyrone rubbed his right eye, raising a finger at Angus' smug look. "It feels weird to say 'He' when talking about that passage."

"Who knows, pastor? Perhaps we're all wrong, and the Lord is a seahorse." An amused voice said. The new arrival was another Catholic priest, in his late thirties or early forties, with pale, fine features, eyes as black as his wavy locks, and a faint French accent.

"Don't mock, brother..." Angus warned.

"Pierre. Have you considered, perhaps, that the parting of the waters and the filling of existence with the Lord's Light can be likened to impregnation?"

"It certainly can, if yer daft enough and see the waters as a thing, as opposed to the absence of something. You just have to forget life comes from women first, though."

"Asexual reproduction...?"

"You know what I mean. Ask the pastor here about metaphors."

"Hey, now. Would a woman really put all other women through periods and pregnancies?" Tyrone said jokingly, with a brief look at Suzana, who looked unimpressed.

"Maybe. I doubt anyone but a woman would be crazy enough to dream up our existence." Pierre chimed in.

"I hope yer a worshipper of the Outer Gods in disguise, so I can whoop yer arse." Angus smiled. "Been a while since we've had one tryin' to infiltrate the convention."

"If they got in, would it still be an infiltration  attempt?" Pierre raised an eyebrow.

"Keep talkin' that way. I'm still smokin' the ashes of the last bloke who did."

"Do not joke about such morbid things, Angus." Constantin said coldly.

"Ach, fine, fine. I finished them long ago. But..."

Constantin inwardly sighed in relief. This was infinitely more harmless than other subjects they could have started discussing. As long as Angus didn't get drunk, again, and started talking about the Once Virgin Mary.

Again.

But, before that...

"Brother." He said, turning to Pierre. "Did you also happen to overhear our discussion, like pastor Smith?"

"Your tone implies your group is closed, brother. Is not everyone who wants to talk about the Lord welcome?"

"That depends." Constantin answered cheerfully. "Who is this Lord whose name you refuse to say, Pierre?"

***
Yahweh Cluster, Heaven, 2031

Rising as far above the sky and the aether as it stood beyond matter, space and time, a circular, nine-tiered structure floated on a sea of pure potential, clear as crystal and colourless.

And, sitting on a Throne in the centre of the structure as a threefold, featureless silhouette blazing with glory, while also floating above it as an infinitely small, infinitely bright point that resembled singularities the way stars resembled candles, a Creator addressed a creator.

"FEELING GUILT FOR NECESSARY DEEDS IS ADMIRABLE, OUR GRANDSON. BUT IT WILL NOT ERASE THEM, NOR THE EFFECTS, NOR THE WAY OTHERS PERCEIVE YOU."

"Thank You, Lord." Vyrt bowed his head before the enthroned being while clasping his hands in front of the point of light.. "It does not make anything easier, no. David Silva is a good man, as vile a creature as he is. It is heartbreaking that he will never be able to join us here."

"Speak for yourself." Uriel, red-haired and red-winged, with eyes like molten emeralds and armour that shone like a red star's core, scoffed. The Archangel was unarmed, unlike his selves guarding the Tree of Knowledge and the Gates, as he stood amongst his brethren of the Second Sphere. Every angel knew he and the other Cardinal Archangels were technically below most of their kin-but only technically. As such, no one was surprised when Uriel floated up, the seraphim parting before him. "Father? You know I can't stand it when You break Your own rules. It's too...human." He spat. "You would have let the suicide into Heaven, even after he turned in his grave-wouldn't You?"

"THERE ARE EXCEPTIONS TO EVERYTHING, OUR SON. USUALLY, YOUR ABILITY TO SEE THINGS IN BLACK AND WHITE PAIRS PERFECTLY WITH YOUR CERTAINTY."

Uriel crossed his arms at the unspoken reprimand, but said nothing.

"YOU HAVE MORE QUESTIONS."

"Let us start with a simple one." He turned to Vyrt, putting a gauntleted hand through his nephew's grey pauldron and shoulder. A corpus more durable than any galaxy's contents combined parted like air under the Archangel's fingers as he sought Vyrt's core and grasped it. "What is the halfbreed doing, standing amongst the Ninth Host, before Your Throne?"

"I was called here, uncle. You know. You let me in at the Gates-"

A twitch of Uriel's hand obliterated the nephilim, mind and essence removed from creation. Vyrt then remade himself, looking at the Archangel with a resigned expression.

"I did not ask you." Uriel said. "Is he too good to stand below the First Host as he speaks, Father?"

"HE IS A SERAPH, IN A WAY."

"And I'm a feathered bulldog, in a way."

"YOUR DISLIKE OF MANKIND IS SHOWING, URIEL."

"I have never hidden it. Should have removed them the moment they went against You."

"THEY WILL INHERIT OUR KINGDOM, AND YOU WILL HAVE TO LIVE ALONGSIDE THEM."


"Provided all goes well, and they, somehow, make me forgive them? Gladly." Uriel returned to the second tier, among the archangels.

"You ask for forgiveness, Vyrt." Metatron spoke from the first step of the Throne, his silver armour, eyes, plaits, wings and skin catching and storing, rather than reflecting, the Light from above. "But what you really want is some sort of balm that will stop you from feeling bad for what you did."

"He is still half-human, brother." Sandalphon said from his left. At over ten million kilometres tall and looking like he was made of gold, the angel could have been mistaken for a star, from a distance. His mouth did not move to say those words, for only mankind's prayers passed through it, to be relayed to God. His hands moulded ivory false matter as he forged another crown for the Creator. "The nephilim have not reached their potential yet. They might, when Man comes into his own...but until then, be patient with them."

"Never thought Enoch and Elijah could speak sense..."

"Uriel..." Raphael said to his brother in an admonishing tone, his eyes dark green as opposed to gemstone-like. His wings unfurled behind him, swaying like leaves in the wind. "They are not even human anymore, not that it would matter if they were. Will you still act like this once mankind becomes greater than angels?"

"As things are now, I'm more likely to be unmade in battle against the things from the outside, brother."

"I have never felt so harrowed when carrying out Your will, Lord." Vyrt said, not listening to the Archangels below. "I almost feel like I've shamed You, or..."

"VYRT." A gesture downwards. "YOUR FATHER IS WATCHING. IT WOULD BE A FEAT, EVEN FOR YOU, TO DISAPPOINT BOTH OF US."

"That is what concerns me, Lord. His interest, and not in his child with a woman from a race long since dust." He drew his wings around himself. "Still, I shall fight alongside humanity, despite whatever I might feel. They are the Last Men, after all. What chance is there, if they fail, too?"

"HELL IS NOT ETERNAL, VYRT. NOR DO WE EVER ABANDON OUR CREATIONS, WHATEVER THEY MIGHT THINK. THEY  ARE THE LAST MEN, AND NONE WILL FOLLOW THEM-FOR THERE WILL BE NO NEED. FOR NOW...LET US WATCH. AZRAEL..."


"He teases me so, Lord." The Angel of Death whistled through teeth as white as his features. "One death, two deaths, yet he knows me not, though he has felt my touch. What if he dies now?"

"DAVID SILVA HAS CHOSEN TO RETURN TO EARTH. THOUGH HE KNOWS NOT YET, HE SHALL NEVER SEE ANY AFTERLIFE, EXCEPT FROM AFAR, IN PASSING. HIS SOUL DID NOT LEAVE HIS BODY UPON HIS FIRST DEATH, NOR DID IT APPROACH THE GATES OF EBONY OR IVORY UPON THE SECOND."

"But we are talking about everything going off without a hitch." Azrael whispered, grey robes billowing in a nonexistent wind. "Of course  he will never see Heaven or Hell except in passing-but David Silva is not him yet, is he? What if he dies now? Assuming Chernobog just kills him, shall I bring him here? Shall I take him down below, to the one he unkowingly dealt with?"

"DAVID SILVA IS A STUBBORN, FASTIDIOUS MAN. HE WOULD BE DEVASTATED IF HE WAS KILLED BY ANYONE BUT HIS LOVER. WE," A smile, mirrored by the woman on the smaller throne to the left. "UNDERSTAND THAT."

"Everyone is so optimistic..." Azrael stretched his wings and arms. "And here I am, wondering if I will have to bear away all of us, and myself, in the end."

***
Yahweh Cluster, Hell, 2031

"Feeling nostalgic, brother?" Beelzebub asked with a fanged grin, black compound eyes shining. The buzzing of the flies that formed a halo around his bald, hairless head seemed mocking."

"Beelz." Lucifer said lazily, head tilted back and eyes closed. "Just for calling me 'brother' in that tone, I'll bury you under Hell and build Belphegor a throne atop your tomb."

The bloated, black-furred Prince of Sloth snored, as if in reply, strirring on his padded throne.

"Unfair." Leviathan hissed, body going from crocodilian to serpentine as he wrapped around the ridged orichalcum pillar besides his throne. " I want to do that."

"You always want to be the one to do everything." Mammon growled, a metallic fang scraping his lower lip as he glared at his brother with one red eye, the other hidden by a bladed mane. "Leave some for the rest of us."

"You mean for you?" Asmodeus asked, a sly smile splitting his chalk-white face from ear to pierced ear. "Mhmm~ you want everything. I recognise that look from my own eyes." The Prince of Lust twirled one of her scarlet, ramlike horns as if it were a strand of hair, shuddering as one of her hands descended below her waist. "Greedy, greedy~" He moaned.

"Did you truly not care about him?" Mammon asked Lucifer in disbelief, pointedly ignoring his lustful brother, except to slaw away her clawed hands every time he move too close. "Let me rephrase: are you not interested?"

"Of course I'm interested." Satan thundered, crimson skin thickening as his wavy black hair became a bristling mane, running into his newly-appeared beard. Horns and fangs thickening, he stood up, pointed tail twitching. "I would not have had him otherwise. Even then, I could tell humans would not amount to much. The final version is certainly not impressing anyone so far...but hybrids? Oh, you can make so much from them. And Vyrt is the best thing I've made before the rebellion. Gowther and the rest certainly haven't been as entertaining."

"Perhaps you are losing your touch?" Asmodeus pouted, smiling quickly when the Beast turned his yellow eyes to her. Even as his glare obliterated half her torso and turned the ground for a trillion light years beyond and ten billion deep to atoms, he batted his eyes. "Mind me not, brother. I know all about disappointing children." She sighed, laying a slim arm across her forehead. "Sklaresia is  so gentle with her human! The lust is there, yes, but you know what they need-?"

"No!" Mammon snapped, holding up a clawed finger. "Nor do I want to learn."

"Prude~"

"Idiots." Satan said, leaving the other Princes to wonder if he was talking about Asmodeus and Mammon, or all of them. "Let Vyrt plead and scrape, it won't erase his sins. I am rather more invested in someone closer to us."

"Ahhh~" Beelzebub chuckled. "Yes...there have been enough reeds bending in the wind! I want to see this twig  break! It's already a husk!"

"So quick to think of metaphors." Lucifer said, amused, as he sat down. "Is that what you expect from the Beast? No...let Vyrt walk Heaven's halls, for his cousin walks ours. Merlin is familiar with all great traitors of human history, but this one?  This one, he knows like his own grandchild." The Morningstar closed his blazing eyes, chuckling. "One shall remain with us, whatever happens. Let us see who leaves...or if Hell swallows another."

***
English Channel, 2031

"The Unseelie?" Paladin asked, crossing six pairs of arms, the other tense at their sides. "Again?"

"It is different this time." Loric Szabo answered the being, hands in the pockets of his dragonskin jacket, the left clenched around his basilisk mask. "Did you not say they are not attacking anything?"

"Aye." Paladin replied, featureless helm tilting to one side in wary confusion. "They are just...standing there. Something clouds our sight...but no, they are not attacking any ships. They are...preparing? Debating?"

Paladin's voice switched from Roland's to Oliver's in frustration, causing Szabo to reach up and pat the armoured undead's shin. The Knights of Charlemagne took took a deep breath to steady themselves, flash-freezing the Channel down to the bedrock, walls of ice taller and tougher than any mountain rising at the edges of France and Britain. "An arena." They explained. "We think it will be needed."

Szabo shook his head, smiling. "You just want a dramatic setting to kill the Fae."

"You are hardly in a position to accuse anyone of flamboyance, Loric." Paladin replied. "Besides, we believe they might have had a hand in the fall of our emperor uncle's realm."

"And if they didn't?"

Paladin shrugged, pulling out a broadsword from one of the many sheaths at their sides. The force shook the planet, causing buildings to tremble and windows to shatter from Spain to Korea. Telephone poles swayed from Australia to Canada, people barely managing to break their fall. None could keep their feet.

The unnatural ice created with a breath sustained no damage from this, nor the subsequent ten unsheathings, each more violent than the last, to the point many countries wards' activated, raising buildings and ingabitants alike above the shaking, splitting ground.

And yet, the first step Paladin took forward cracked the ice like cheap glass, making the frozen Channel shiver.

Across the ice that would have frozen any human's body, mind and soul, Cloudshade smiled.

"Skinthief! Did you put on the good leathers just for me~?"

***
Fairie, 2031

"Dammit." Sam cursed as he turned from the spot where David had been standing an instant ago to the Blackness. The tendril had outmatched even his reflexes. "Could you have stopped that?"

"Yes." Oberon replied, slowly being pushed back. "But it would have taken me instead."

"Tch..." Ying rolled his pipe between his fangs. "Everything is telling me to leave him there, but my heart."

Gaol John groaned. "What?"

Ying turned to him with a fierce look, whiskers flaring. "I protect everything of our world, or I wouldn't live on it."

"Wait." Tamar said, putting a hand on the ghost gestalt's shoulder. "I can sense movement in the Blackness. Something...is going to emerge."

"Silva?" Sam asked, flesh roiling as he prepared for combat.

"Doubt it'll still be him." John said grimly.

Tamar shook his head. "No, it is certainly not him. Something...smaller? I..."

"Knew it." John whispered, chains emerging around him as he bound his power to Fairie's, letting the realm's endless mana flow into him.

The thing that flew out of the Blackness might have been mistaken for human, at first glance. But then, one saw the pale skin, the gaunt body, the eyes deeper and darker than any's human, and the truth became clear.

As the Fae left the Blackness' dull roar behind, his scream became clear, too, as did his trajectory.

"..." Oberon said nothing as he picked his ragged subject up by the thighs, removing the Fae's rear from his faceplate and throwing him over the shoulder.

Ying's pipe broke in half as his laughter boomed through the land and skies, shaking an area that dwarfed the mundane universe. "No, John! That's definitely Silva!"

***
Do you see me, Chernobog? I am still myself. I will not be changed, not by you, who builds nothing, who only twists and breaks and sickens.

You have taken so much...not just my peace of mind, but the joy and lives of so many millions, since their countries were just a twinkle in their ancestors' eyes...no more.

This stops here. I will not let you break me, nor will I let you torment these Fae anymore. Let them hate and fear me, if they want. I'll give my life, if it means theirs last long enough for that. I will  not let you take anything or anyone else. I will steal your victims back from you, and snuff out your blight. This, I swear.

May Hell eat my soul if I break this oath.

***
...Is that so, little David?
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Buried Again, Chapter 11

***
My soul shook at Chernobog's reply.

Not metaphorically. I literally felt it waver, nearly slipping free of the bonds tying it to by body and mind. And, if it was destroyed by a god-the only way it could be destroyed, or even affected, the Nightraiser's strange erasure power, which I didn't understand, notwithstanding, and even that had been temporary-I would cease living, as it was. My body was merely a vessel for my soul, and my mind was also kept together by it. My braincells had stopped working eight years ago.

(Add forty years to that if you know me personally)

The idea was, I was not just braindead, but fully dead, as far as science was concerned. My undeath might have changed my appearance, but, uh...let's just say I was really glad only my insides were rotten. Some strigoi weren't so lucky, instead looking like scraps of flesh barely hanging on rotten, hollow bones.

That was also another reason I was glad to be with Mia. A human woman, even one able to get over how cold my body was, certainly wouldn't have appreciated the diseases she'd get from my carcass.

My soul didn't leave my body, however. Instead, I grabbed hold of it with all my will, keeping it in its metaphorical place.

Do we win this?

Don't...know, my strigoi side replied. Can either...heal...or look...

I bet Mimir could have done both at the same time, and more. Way to die and leave me holding the bag, old man. What'd you think I was,  competent?

Still, no need to let Chernobog know, unless he was reading my mind without me knowing.

You can bet your arse it's so. I grinned. What's 'grey' in Russian again? I think you should add me to the list of people you run from, like Belobog.

You are not a god. Amusement. And Belobog is gone. Don't you think you'd have heard of him if he was alive, never mind important?

Shucks, I dunno. I hear a lot about you, and you sure ain't important.

Important enough to leave you cringing-

Mhm.

In fear. This bluster is not fooling anyone, David. Not me, and certainly not yourself.

Whoa, it's not fooling either of the only two people who know of it and that it's an act? Damn.
I snapped my fingers, shaking my head with pursed lips. You're sma...wait, nah. That was just a guess. Would have been a lucky one, but nothing involving me can be described that way.

What do you hope to achieve, David?
Chernobog sounded genuinely curious. Let us say I do not manifest in Fairie-which, if I did, would be followed by your destruction.

'If'.

Even if you remove all the Fae trapped in 'the Blackness'-wonderfully creative name, by the way. Do you call the sky 'the Blueness'?


Sounded like a black god was bummed the not so clever monkeys named him 'black god'.

What do you think will happen? Perhaps I'll become unable to swallow them again? Or maybe I will be so sad I will stop devouring their realm?

I forced myself to laugh, grateful the howl of the Blackness prevented me from telling if it sounded like a pained wheeze, even in my mind.

The fact I could hear myself laugh at all was probably another facet of my worse half's prowess with Mimir's power. There certainly wasn't air, or anything else, in the Blackness.

Go ahead and eat Fairie. We will welcome them into our world, if need be. We can bend space, build habitats, and so can they. And if it doesn't work, for whatever reason, we will help them settle on other planets.

I wasn't aware you spoke for Earth
 or the Fae. I had the mental impression of Chernobog stroking his chin in a mockery of a thoughtful pose. How do you know your people won't kill or spurn the Fae, provided the latter even want your help, as opposed to your submission or destruction?

We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

I expected my answer to irritate him, but if it did, he gave no sign. If anything...

I tensed as I felt Chernobog relax with a satisfied smile. Had I said something wrong? Played into his hands, somehow?

Strange you would say that, Chernobog said in an overly-cheerful tone. You just missed the chance of achieving peace between humanity and Fae.

The hell you mean? I frowned. You haven't won yet. I'll die before I let that happen.

Oh, David...
the Black God shook his head pityingly, and it was all I could do to push my strigoi side into the back of my mind as it roared in anger, admonishing it and reminding it to keep our body stable. At the same time, I felt a bladed tendril stab clean through my heart, and remain there.

I began bending forward, blood oozing out of my mouth, hands on the tendril as I tried to push it or myself away. It...it didn't hurt at all. Or did it hurt so much my body couldn't even feel it? Maybe it was just my life...pouring out...of me...

I pressed my hands against my whole, unmarked chest, lungs expanding and contracting as if I were still alive. The shock-at the wound, at my survival, spurring my shapeshifting into imitating life.

My strigoi side whined apologetically, the thin sound seemingly all it could manage without starting to lose ground. It had teleported me away and healed me from the impalement, but it was still mad at itself for becoming distracted.

And at...myself? For not dodging?

Yeah, sure. Neither of us could have prevented that.

Nice try, I glared at nothing, knowing Chernobog could see me. But it won't work again.

You think I was lying. Taunting.

Weren't you?

I spoke no lies. You
 have lost your chances at reconciliation, at no fault of your own. Isn't that just the story of your unlife, though? Used and abused by everyone, never knowing until it's too late. At least as a human, you failed from lack of talent.

I don't know what the fuck you're rambling about,
I said, unwilling to dignify his mention of my failed writing career with an answer.

Remember, everyone: just because a smug bastard is right about your flaws, it doesn't mean you should encourage them by agreeing.

No...I suppose you don't, do you? The only way you could have been aware would have been to make good use of the power I gave you.

I'd say I'm making pretty damn good use of it,
I grinned fiercely. Considering you're talking to me, as opposed to monologuing over my corpse.

Had you been better at using Mimir's perception, perhaps you would have noticed the Unseelie that left Fairie, shortly before you came here.

I shrugged. I was busy not picking on people weaker than me. I know you can't relate, but...

You might like to know that their leader, a respected warrior and huntress among her kind, wanted to reach out to you, in the hopes of making you come to Fairie and heal it, or find the Fae a new home, if you couldn't.

But...but that's exactly what Oberon called me here for. So what if we didn't meet? I'm doing exactly what she wants, too. What's her problem, not telling me in person? I'll make it up to her.

Aye, Oberon called you here.
Chernobog nodded. But King Seelie is not exactly beloved by his subjects at the moment, is he? His attempt at bargaining with me is the reason they are losing their home and kindred, after all. That is not to mention the enmity between Seelie and Unseelie, which Oberon hoped to end through the latest Wild Hunt, has been reignited instead by your murder of them.

Don't you dare,
I told him in a warning tone. Don't you dare-

Would you prefer 'genocide'? Alas, there are still too many Fae for that...but worry not, David. Once I put on your carcass, I'll be sure to rectify that while your zmeu watches. If there's enough of her mind left by then, of course...

I didn't reply right away, instead trembling in rage. Then, I swallowed my anger, refusing to give him the satisfaction of making me mad.

Touch her, and you'll wish Nacht had kept you for itself.

So righteous! You are almost starting to sound like every dull blowhard I have ever broken. 'Don't take my home. Don't hurt my people. Leave my love alone'. You shouldn't be worrying about
me, David.

Finally admitting he was nothing, huh? I know all about your puppeteer. We'll stop him, too. The Fixer will-

You know nothing,
Chernobog said. Was his tone a little harsher after the puppeteer comment?

Aww, are you losing your temper?
I smiled. What, can't handle the truth? Or is someone mad at being found out? Nice sockpuppet, Nyarl. It's almost as ugly as you.

I am freer than you will ever be, Yahweh's slave.

Didn't we make a show about you as a stupid teen girl? Someone hook a generator to Lovecraft's grave, he could power the planet after what we've done with his work.

By now, I was moving under, over and aside from blades and bludgeons of darkness, teleporting out of crushing spiked spheres trying to close around me.

You are not speaking to the Crawling Chaos. You are a fool, David. The Unseelie might be touched by me, but she is not under my control.She will be the one to break your zmeu.

What?
My brow furrowed at the nonsense. Whatever for...?

Oh, you only know the half of it.
Chernobog faked a magnanimous sigh. I shall tell you the rest: this Fae wants you, David. I doubt I need to explain what for. Helping the Fae is just a test of worthiness in her eyes, though heeding Oberon's summons will make it even harder. She never respected him, even before this...had you waited more, refused Oberon and followed her to Fairie instead, you might have had a better chance at gaining her trust. She is something of a rising star among those who distrust the Nomad Queen and her failure of a King.

That bullshit has  nothing to do with Mia, I snarled. You say this Unseelie 'wants' me, and would break Mia to get at me? Please, bastard. Even
 you can't make me crazy enough to believe I have women fighting over me.
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Buried Again, Epilogue

***
Oh? Chernobog sounded like he was biting his tongue not to laugh. Tell a few little lies, and no one will believe you when you tell the truth.

Those 'little lies' are only a fraction of why people hate and fear you,
I replied angrily. You say I'm a fool for trying to stop you, ask what I'm hoping to achieve? Why the hell are  you doing, I gestured at the Blackness and beyond, this?

You assume I will tell you. Why?

People like you love to gloat.
'People'.

Some, after we achieve our goals.

Was he trying to scare me? What had he achieved? Reducing Fairie to nothing seemed too...petty, for him. Or...

It's the Fae, isn't it? I asked. You began with the Seelie, because they uphold civilisation, and that offends you. Then, you're going to hunt the Unseelie down. But why empower them, then? How?

Interesting idea.
Chernobog checked his claws. I will be sure to put it in practice.

I tried not to snarl. Why not just ally with the Unseelie and get rid of their enemies? Your goals align. So do your methods. They're even willing to take your power. So, why not? Competition?

You think upholding civilisation is enough to make one my enemy-and you are correct. My enemies are without number. What you forget is that Oberon thought he could bargain with me. As if we were equals...no. It was a taunt addressed to the pantheons. He hoped that we would either destroy each other, leaving a power vacuum for him to exploit, or that he could harness my power and destroy them himself.

So you, what, punished him for his presumption?

For that.
Chernobog nodded. For what he is and does. Because he sheltered me, for a time, and there is no sweeter decay than that of trust, however shallow. So that he would call you here, and I could get my hands on you again. The Black God spread his arms. Or, perhaps, all of those are lies. Perhaps I do what I do because I can, because I am bored, or evil.

He spat the last word, sounding less disgusted, and more like he was struggling with the inherent absurdity. People will tell you there are such things as good and evil-clear, distinct things, as opposed to what the majority decides. 'Evil' is everything one dislikes and can't bear. It's much like 'truth', really...you count those whose minds perceive reality differently than the majority as mad, or strange. But say that everyone suddenly lost their senses. Would reality not exist, because it can't be perceived? Would nothing be true? For nothingness would surely seem to be all there is.

Cute monologue.
I faked a yawn. I think I first heard it in...kindergarten? No, before that. Pops was teaching me I should hear out most opinions, even if I disagree with them or they're just painfully stupid. No shit, morality is subjective. The fact we-most people, so don't feel called out-have any at all makes us better than 'objective' beings or machines.

Your stepfather.
Chernobog tilted his head, antlers-darker than the Blackness, but still visible, though I couldn't see where he was, or even if he was here-swaying in the nothingness like algae underwater. An abhorrent concept, to be sure. Not just one caring for those weaker than them without any reason, not that reasons would make it palatable. This idea that you should...respect...others' thoughts.

Talking like you're slow won't convince me you're not.

I did not think it would. But then, you are awfully hard to convince, aren't you, David? Especially when it comes to obvious things. Why did your god say nothing when the spawn it allows to tempt and corrupt tricked you? That precious free will, perhaps? Much good it does. The priest is more vile than I could ever be for poisoning your mind like that.

As if a bastard obsessed with deception and possession had any right to talk shit about that, or anything else, for that matter.

Or, Chernobog continued, how about the fact that you refuse to accept 'women fighting over you'? Yes, David. Your 'personality' would repel most of them better than any spell, but do not think your self-deprecation will make reality go away. It never has. It never will. Although, I must commend your faith in your zmeu. 'Fighting'...implies she has a chance. I am moved, honestly. Not surprised, but moved. You have always been willing to indulge and overlook her atrocious flaws, because she smiles at you and touches you and has a cunt. What else could you ask for?

Chernobog moved towards me, making my knees buckle from the pressure of his presence. As there was no floor, I began falling, or rather sinking. The Blackness had the consistency of mud or wet sand, though it burned like acid.

That is more than enough for you to forget about your horns, isn't it? Unsurprising, coming from someone who claims to abhor adultery while worshipping a bastard. But do not worry, David! His face parted, revealing a gleaming set of even teeth. I'm sure that, if you spare her after your first time as a cuckold, she'll remember you're as impotent as your faith, and go find a real man to be the Yahweh to your Joseph. He put a clawed hand on my shoulder, pushing me even deeper down. Or a woman. Why not? It's not like you abhor sodomy, either; just the aspects of your religion that don't fit your tastes. Think they'll let you watch?

I shook my head, wrapping both hands around Chernobog's wrist and mouthing 'stop'. Why do you hate me so much? I asked, out of curiosity, rather than as a plea for him to leave me alone. Twice you've used me to kill people. I've only ever struck back against you moments ago, by freeing that Fae. What is it? I don't understand.

The Black God was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke, there was no arrogance or mockery in his voice. Only a weary disdain, which took me aback. Do you know what I desire, David?

Man, I dunno. Destruction of all that's good and fair? The end of civilisation? The decay of all things?

All those and more,
Chernobog answered. It is my nature. Unlike you, I have never even thought of going against it. Should you live, you'll learn that no being true to themselves suffers from angst or doubt.

Way of praising being a spineless slacker with no ambition.

I already know you're crazy. So, that's it? No reason? It's just for shits and giggles?

You call me mad, then you say I am allied with Nyarlathotep.
The disdain grew with every word, mixing with disbelief. I find it preferable to the Remaker, yes. Few don't. We are on the same side, yes, the side fighting against stagnation-but we are  not allies. We cannot be, as long as we remain as we are. The only way I could 'ally' with it would be as its servant, which you seem convinced I am.

Then how'd you come back?
I asked, hoping to buy more time, even if I didn't get details.

Decay, destruction and death cannot be ended, he sneered. Let alone with the paltry means Negativity used on me. I pulled myself together, though it took longer than it should have, for I was torn apart by spectres of my old nemesis.

Nyarlathotep stopped us from striking against you in Fairie. We all but know either you or it drove the Dagda mad, starting the Cold Madness and the Headhunt.

Our struggles against stagnation, Chernobog said with weary patience. But we are no more allies than, say, Uriel is to your carpenter idol's church. We are the wildfire that burns down the forest, though for different reasons. But, for all its power, the Crawling Chaos is just as pathetic as you are, David. It knows it is a dream, and its puppet strings are like a choke-chain to it. It amuses itself by tormenting creation and its inhabitants, yes...but that is nothing more than a distraction. Do you know what it truly wants?

Well, according to Japan...

It wants it all to end, because it cannot stand being manipulated. It would rather not exist. Mind, the destruction of everything else is merely a bonus to it, and not something it seeks out of, he chuckled, a desire to 'free' others.

And you disagree with this, I said rather than asked.

I do indeed. Even if existence is not 'real', I feel like it is. Plunging all creation back into chaos would end me, which is reason enough to oppose the Messenger. Doing it because it can't stand existing anymore? Suicide is pathetic enough without dragging everything else down with you. Besides...just because I oppose civilisation, it does not mean I crave chaos. Anarchy is a symptom of being at the mercy of nature: one's surroundings, body, mind, all of them.

I smiled patiently. Is this the part where you explain that tyranny is better than anarchy, as long as you're in charge?

I do not need to explain that, David. Nyarlathotep thinks that its power will humble me, or perhaps enrage me enough to attack and be destroyed by it. It is foolish. I shall bind it in chains so cruel it will forget about even thinking of returning all to oblivion. And then, I shall create a better world.

Oh,  there it was. Better, you say.

Indeed, David. How many mortals live short, meaningless lives, without awakening their mana or being turned into something stronger? How many die without even knowing they are or could become mages with just a nudge? How many are  this close to power, yet so far, because of a few flaws that could be removed through careful breeding?

Ah, eugenics straight from the start. Always a good sign. I could tell you about the statistics, but they're only marginally better than damned lies. Then, more seriously, I added, how do you know that those people don't  want to live 'short, meaningless lives'?

Chernobog shook his head like I was insane, but pitiful rather than intimidating. No one wants mediocrity, David. It simply cannot be so. People always desire more. More wealth, more pleasure, more power.

You sound so sure, too. Have you asked them?

I have, in fact. Even now, my cults walk the world. They shall cast down the corrupt edifices that blanket Earth with their filth, that it may be prepared for my final return.

Now it was my turn to shake my head, in disbelief. What do those poor fools even hope to gain from following you? The petty shit you mentioned? Maybe they think you'll kill them last, then take them to your side in the afterlife?

There is no need to tell you, David. Chernobog waved a dismissive claw. You would not worship me if your unlife depended on it, not that I would spare you if you did. You are too dangerous.

I couldn't help myself. I lost it, letting out the ugliest, most ragged laugh to ever exit my mouth. I'm dangerous! To you? How? I asked bitterly.

Even if you never come into the fullness of your power, the words you speak are a slap in the face of my vision. A pious strigoi that fights for 'good'? You are as abominable as that clownish Spaniard, or that carnivorous bitch whose boots you lick. You must be removed, lest others begin deluding themselves as you do.

Funny, that comment about the 'carnivorous bitch'. I cupped my chin with a smirk. Applies to two women in my life.

...I will never understand how you can not only stand submission, but find joy in and joke about it, Chernobog said. No matter. Once I end you and take your body, everything will be set right.

Damn, was this how Sasuke felt? You really have a monster of a grudge against me, and fuck if I understand why. Even your revenge plot is petty and self-defeating. My body? There are stronger vessels out there, far stronger. I'm not even the most powerful strigoi. Why not just go take over something big and stupid? Would fit you like a condom, you dick.

You are not powerful, no. But Mimir's perception will not disappear once you die. It is burned into your being. That power, in the hands of one who knows how to use it? He laughed. It is a shame the pantheons didn't kill you, David. It would have been kinder.

Had you been kinder, maybe you'd have been a signatory of the Syncretic Treaty. Maybe you could have convinced them to-

No. Not for me alliances. I have never been able to live alongside another god, let alone so many.

For a few moments, he seemed almost regretful. Or was that just my imagination, trying to find something, anything admirable in this monster? What happened to Belobog? I asked. Maybe-most likely-he'd lie, but if he didn't, maybe out of a need to gloat, or just talk about it, we could bring the White God back, and...

I  did. The gleaming smile returned. But do not worry about that, David. Do not worry at all! I said I will make the world better, and I did not lie. Your power is the key to so many things...take necromancy, for example. Why only reanimate bodies and create callow, false minds? Why let brilliance and spirit depart into the hereafter?

You would deny the dead rest? Bind them to the world, enslaved forever?

I would, and I will. You let them go, and hope lesser gods will send them to you in your dreams, that they might mumble nonsense.

Are you so greedy you would make death meaningless? You-

Chernobog chopped at nothing, annyoyed. Death became meaningless the moment the first regenerator appeared. Life is merely chemistry in motion, when it is not supernatural power at work. Fools only pretend there is something sacred about life and death...and you believe that, too, don't you? He asked, sounding, for some reason, the angriest I'd ever heard him.

Confused, but not deterred in the slightest, I glared straight into his eyeless face. I  know there is.

And that, Chernobog said, voice thick with loathing, is why you cannot go back into the world. This is your end, David Silva.

***
English Channel

Mia did not move or even blink as she stared at the Unseelie across ice whose touch would have frozen any human's body, mind and soul until they crumbked into nonexistence, but which she barely felt. The Fae simply stared back, a smile plastered on her grey face, unblinking black eyes set in an angular, uncannily beautiful face.

A shudder that had nothing to do with the cold ran through her body. The bitch looked the same as when she'd torn half her face off before Christmas, but her features now reminded her of David. Strangely, she didn't...feel...

...Oh, fuck. It was happening already, wasn't it? Thinking of David warmed her heart, but only that. On the other hand, the Fae...

Stupid zmeu instincts, she thought sullenly, reminding herself that there was only one way she really wanted to tear the hag apart. Snorting fire, she glanced down at Szabo from the side of her eye.

The strigoi was dressed in a thick, scaled dragonhide jacket, with fur pants that smelled of a were she couldn't identify. On his face was a mask made from a basilisk's flayed face, petrifying eyes forever open. There were far more than two, of course. Szabo had never settled for small things. Several basilisks had been killed after the one that orovided the mask, and now, their eyes covered its top, sides and back, so that nothing that wasn't immune to petrification could attack from the eyes' field of vision. There were even some stitched into the mask, under Szabo's chin, so he couldn't be attacked from underneath, either.

"She asked for me?" Mia asked for the second time. She'd just been leaving Beijing when Szabo had called, telling her of a dangerous Unseelie apparently interested in her, and...

"David, too." The strigoi said. "But my brother is indisposed, so let's hope she's not picky, zmeu." He never called her by her name, which she was, in a way, grateful for. Twisted attention whore...

Tch. On any other day, she'd have been flattered by a woman like that looking for her. Maybe especially when she didn't want David. But, between the memories, David's absence and Szabo being there...

"Here's to hoping." Mia said, then raised her voice. "Cloudshade, right? I remember you. Usually, people who want to mess up my face aren't so literal."

"Zmeu." The Fae whispered, but her voice was as loud as a gunshot, despite the kilometres separating them. "You are Silva's mate." Cloudshade's followers stepped forward, flanking her. "You are my way to him."

Damn, girl. Nothing gets me gushing like being called a tool, Mia thought drily. "I don't think you understand what our relationship is like."

The Fae smiled, showing small, even teeth, head tilted to one side. "I can smell your arousal from here."

Growling with anger more at herself than at the Unseelie, Mia heated up her body to the point her uniform began smoking. Steel would have turned to steam, but the yamadium weave meant she didn't have to literally burn through outfits. "Can you smell this, too?" Mia asked, pointing at the black smoke rising from her nostrils.

"Zmeu." Szabo whispered. "She's taunting you."

"I know your  relationship," Cloudshade's smile widened. "Is open. David Silva has to redeem himself, but I would rather not walk over you, if I can avoid it."

"How generous." Mia's smile was just as wide as hers, but far sharper. "Do you know what David is doing right now? The exact thing you came to Earth for. So, why don't you haul arse to Fairie to help him, or the aether, or  anywhere else, before someone remembers how many people you bastards killed and decides you need some iron in your system?"

"Hypocrite." Now, Cloudshade's smile thinned, becoming sad. "So, it is fine when you put horns on him, but not-"

"David can have all the women he wants, for all I care-which, for your information, is none. Even if he gave a flying shit about stuff like that, he wouldn't go for someone like you,  or let you touch me, whether you intended harm or something else."

"And why not?" The Unseelie asked, expression as cold as her voice, colder than Paladin's unnatural ice.

"Because," Mia said with all the fake sweetness she could muster. "He is fucking dead, darling. All love he feels is romantic. Mental. Everything else is shapeshifting-and bless him, he does more than enough for me."

"Are you saying he can't grow to love me?"

The zmeu laughed, shaking the frozen Channel to the seafloor. "Are you saying he  can? After you tried to kill me, after you all tried to wipe the world clean of life? Or," She raised her eyebrows. "How about something more recent? Like that poor schmuck you set up to get in trouble with the Welsh moon goddess? Oh, don't look so surprised. New Camelot hasn't been as secretive lately."

"He spoke ill of your lover." Cloudshade said flatly, her guards beginning to shift their weight from one foot to the other.

"Oh, that solves everything! Didn't you know I have a list of every random person on the planet who talks shit about me and David?"

"...You're saying you won't share."

"Depends." Mia shrugged, tail swaying from side to side. "Say you get your rocks off with his help. Or mine. Ours.  Whatever. Say David saves your home while you're wasting time here, rather than helping him. What else do you want?"

"David Silva bore the bringer of Fairie's ruin to its heart. He must pay. He shall live, but he must pay. In blood."

"No, he won't." To Mia's surprise, Szabo stepped forward, his eyes under the mask as crazed and wide as the ones on it. "You think you can shatter a memorable relationship and replace it with your cheap nonsense? Maybe you can talk with Coldhold while you cool off."

"You must give us the Count back." Cloudshade stiffened, standing up straighter. "You took him prisoner-"

"Oh, fuck you, bitch." Szabo snarled. "I needed new clothes, anyway."

Paladin walked up beside them, covering dozens of metres in two long strides. Most of the French Crypt agent's swords were out, save one-for the Fae had made no move yet, and Durandal could not be unsheathed carelessly.

"We planned for you, skinthief." Cloudshade's left hand dashed into the shadows around her waist, producing a small, sickly pale leather pouch. Mia felt bile rise in her throat at the sight, and felt Szabo stiffen, before walking forward, cursing under his breath.

"God guard and preserve us..." Paladin muttered, a hand on Durandal's hilt.

"You would open  that on Earth?" Szabo asked, nails growing into claws. "You do nothing to disprove our views on the Unseelie."

"What is it?" Mia asked, not knowing if his senses were keener than hers, or if he had seen that pouch before.

"Vile, zmeu." He forced himself to smile. "It will make a great mantlepiece."

***
Atum-Ra Cluster, Duat

"What is he  doing?" Set hissed, his elongated muzzle making the question sound more angry than curious.

Horus, refusing to acknowledge the desert god, leant over the edge of the solar barque to look into the dark waters that swallowed everything and returned nothing. "Don't you think he's acting strange today?" The falcon-headed warrior asked, idly slapping the flat of his golden khopesh into his palm.

Bast, poised on the edge, a curved knife in each clawed hand, did not reply, tail twitching as she attempted to pierce the depths with her golden eyes.

"Of course he is." Ra said gruffly. Upon his head rested a mirror of a pharaoh's twofold crown, topped by an exact replica of the mundane universe's sun, the size of his eye. The sun god walked foward, golden wood that could and had withstood hypernovas without damage cracking under his feet, admonishing Set and Horus with a silent glare, making them return to the oars. Flail in one hand, crook hanging at his waist, he put a hand on Bast's shoulder.

"The serpent is just getting a little long in the tooth, kitten." He gave her a smile as large as his beak allowed. "Aren't you, Apep?"

"Aren't  you, brother?" Apep asked back, parting the waters as he rose. His mouth, millions of kilometres wide, was filled with fangs that had split realities, but it was his eyes that drew the god's attention. Blacker than his scales, blacker than the waters, yet shining as darkly as Ra's were bright. "I think it is time we put this game to rest." His body swayed, and a minuscule fraction of the force bled over into the mundane universe, making it tremble and reducing trillions of planets to quarks as galaxies were destroyed, not even leaving cosmic dust behind. Giant stars, orange and red and blue, were erased from existence and history alike as drops of Nu's water fell on them, making it so they had never been.

Apep smiled impishly, then dipped his mouth into the waters, taking a deep draught. "Nothing to note, scribe?" He asked, before spitting at Thoth.

The dog-faced baboon raised a rough palm, not raising his gaze from his papyrus scroll, nor moving from his crouch on the side of the barque. The waters covered his hand harmlessly, and Thoth muttered about childishness, remaking the past with a burst of will. Billions of stars burst into existence anew, histories intact.

"I really hope the strigoi wins..." He murmured. "He spunds interesting, and I would like to teach a new Mimir...ah." Black, beady eyes shone like the moon he had once stolen new days from. "Interesting, indeed..."

***
Fairie

"It's stopped." Tamar said, making the other Heads move closer to the Blackness. "A single Fae? It took more. Are they...?"

"So optimistic." Gaol John scoffed, chains wrapping tightly around arms so muscle skin split from the false muscles underneath. "Or perhaps Chernobog is wondering how to attack us. No bets whether he'll be wearing Silva's corpse or not."

"Can't see through that cloud of shit despite being bound to him? No? Then keep your trap shut." Ying Lung snapped, preparing to dive into the Blackness. "This is vile, but I'll-"

"Wait." Shiftskin said. "If Silva fails-or has failed-we must have a plan to stop this. Even if Chernobog doesn't stick around, who's to say the Blackness won't spread to our universe after it's done with Fairie? Well?" He looked at his fellow Heads. "Suggestions?"

"I have an idea-for stalling." John clarified at Sam's hopeful look. Then, he bound Fairie's wellbeing to his, stopping the Blackness in its tracks.

For an instant. Then, small, dark streaks appeared on his skin, widening with every moment. Grunting, John unbound himself. "I suppose stopping it after a heroic, but failed attempt to prevent it from eating Britain is not an option?"

"Bastard." Tamar shook his head. "We should never have let 'people' like you and Strauss into ARC."

"Don't start now, Tamar." Sam warned him. "Hex has been nothing but professional for decades-"

"Decades, indeed. Almost a century." Tamar said, voice beginning to shake, not from rage, but from his demons thrashing inside his mind and soul.

"IDIOTS!" Ying roared, forcing everyone but Sam to their knees. "Chernobog champions decay-and you'd let our bonds wither now? I'll kill you all myself if you do this again-except you, Sam. You, I'll leave to your mummy."

Sam snorted, body blackening and exploding in size as he assumed Typhon's form and power, then growing larger and darker still as Tiamat's was added to it, waters as dark and destructive as the Blackness covering the vaguely dragonlike shape like a second layer of scales. "You really know how to scare a guy, Ying."

***
North Pole

As Pierre's eyes narrowed in anger at the accusation, Constantin prayed for forgiveness, if he was wrong, then struck out with his faithcraft in a circle.

Angus and Suzana fell to their knees, the former calling Constantin every name under the sun, while Pierre swayed like a tree about to topple, skin pale and covered in small burns.

Tyrone took it the worst, writhing in the snow as his surplice fused with melting flesh, singed threads slipping under skin running like wax and tangling in raw muscles. The pastor couldn't even find his voice to scream in agony as he raised a hand at Constantin, darkness gathering around his fingers.

"Hell take thee, false priest. Like the fools in the temple, thou hast sold thine soul for trinkets." Constantin intoned, smashing his hand through Tyrone's, who shrieked like a dying demon. Constantin dug until he grabbed hold of his tender elbow, then twisted, snapping his limb in half. "Weak and hollow, as is the flesh of all who follow evil."

"How did you...know?" Angus asked, still dazed as he rose to his feet, glaring murderously at Tyrone. "A guess...?"

"You helped me, Angus." Constantin admitted. "Your jab at Pierre, the way he avoided using God's name-I felt something was wrong the moment I arrived. But it was too obvious. Pierre has his reasons for his timidity, which he  will share," Constantin gave the burned, trembling priest a meaningful look. "But he is not tainted."

"I thought that 'let's all be friends' nonsense seemed forced." Suzana muttered, stamping her hooves. "Playing peacemaker like...like he cared! Like-"

"Imitation, sister. Only the shallowest imitation of a pastor." Constantin turned back to Tyrone, looking down at the burned man. "No Outer Gods here, Angus. This evil is more earthly, and decidedly not uncaring."

***
Old Centre, Bucharest, Romania

"I'm sorry to hear about that shit, boss." Cosmin's voice rattled the false bones of Bianca's body as he walked behind her. Usually, she felt confident on walking around alone, unless it was before or after a performance, thus making it more likely to draw certain types of fans.

This was not usual. Paying security extra to act as an escort was not something she'd do when she could just ask Luci and Andrei, but...

"Must feel pretty rough, huh?" The ogre asked, walking closer to her. His green, leathery lips pursed as he leaned down.

Bianca nodded absently, remembering when they had found out.

***
"It was a good effort." The Supernatural Service vamp said, arms spread. "But we knew we couldn't gaslight you forever, Dravich. Too much snitch in you to be tricked."

Andrei glared back at him. He didn't remember if he was Eric or Bogdan-they'd both been insufferable morons during their time being forced to slowly carve out the Canal, so he'd never bothered to learn who was who-, but he thought he'd been David's student for a while, before joining the Service.

And his son had done a shit job, it looked like. "Had I remained there longer," He leaned against the warehouse's wall, scraping off peeling paint. "I'd have been put down during a full moon or another."

"Whatever you say." The vampire shrugged. "At least you've grown better at controlling yourself, huh?"

"Not good enough to be trusted, clearly." Mihai tossed a newspaper-an antiquity, really, mostly sold for charm-at the vamp's feet. "Fucking...five  trillion? Do you have any idea-"

"We knew you'd get angry." The Camelot agent, a dark-skinned, man of average size with a shaved head, said, hands raised. "Hence why we made sure the news wouldn't reach you. Papers, news, magazines...we tried to delay-"

"Do you have any idea how David must feel?" Alex cut in. "Do you..." The ghost put his face in his hands. "How did this even happen? What possessed him to...?"

Standing between a stunned Bianca and the agents, Lucian said nothing, fangs clenched. But something, some instinct, told him Alex was closer to the truth than he knew.

***
"Yes." The iela replied. "But I know he'll pull through." Her voice lowered. "He's stronger than he thinks."

"That's nice." Cosmin's breath ruffled her hair as he bared tusklike teeth. "But you know what I heard, boss?" The ogre had his hands around her mouth and waist, dashing into a side alley faster than she could react. Despite her attempts to shapeshift, curse him or break his grip, the ogre stared straight at her as he pushed the iela up against the wall. "I hear ya once went to Fairie and had a bad time. Heard ya did something to piss off the knife-ears, and they got angry, but forgave you. Heard Silva wants to kill 'em all for you. And," Drool began falling onto his brown shirt as his tusks gleamed. "I wonder. Wouldn't the Fae like to get their hands on you? Maybe even alive?"

***
Fairie

Yes, I said, voice trembling with what Chernobog must have taken as fear, for he smiled. This is the end. I will take no more Fae from you.

 No, he agreed. You shall not.

Power crackled around his claws, through his being, as he prepared to both strike me down and defend himself, but I had no intention to do either. Instead, I grasped my strigoi self's hand, then we both clenched our fists around Mimir's power, compressing it to a single point within our core.

And then, as the alterations ravaged our flesh, opening yawning wounds for colourless, divine light to shine through, we drew the Blackness inside us. Chernobog startled as he felt a piece of him being yanked away, countless Fae gasping in relief as they were released and air rushed in to fill the void left by the blackness.

We could not keep it within us for long, not even changed like this, for it would destroy us-but we did not need to. Broceliande was a cunning prison, designed by one of the greatest mages in history, but tiny, temporary changes could be made, with the right knowledge backed by the right power.

And, though the Blackness was not powerful enough to erase the chains, Mimir's power was more than a match for Nimue's spell, and I did not intend to break my prison, anyway. Just to break out.

But it would not let me. Even as the sky of my mindscape cleared, letting my hunger laugh triumphantly at the graveyard below, I knew the prison would not remain empty. Its brutish pseudo-mind demanded that someone take my place.

Chernobog, surprised less that I'd slipped my bonds and more that I hadn't attacked him-this, not striking in a moment of weakness, was beyond him-thrashed as I grabbed hold of him, and tried to drag him into Broceliande, to take my place. With a last, hateful glance as my power tore at him, he turned and ran, leaving a trail of destruction behind him.

But I had seen it. I had seen the gaunt face under the black one, the teeth used for empty smiles. The spindly ivory antlers under the ebony ones.

Belobog had not spoken. He had been too weak. But I had understood his plea, all the same.

KILL.

ME.

***
 Urziceni, Romania

On Constantin Silva's property was a pig pen. There were many pigs in it, pink and white and brown, and there had been for decades. Constantin kept little meat for himself, and not just because he didn't eat much. He spread the rest across town, every Christmas.

There had never been a black pig named Hogge there, let alone a pen dedicated to it. There had, indeed, never been a black pig in the pen.

Nor had there ever been a pig named Hogge.

Despite what David Silva might believe, there had never been, nor would there ever be a pig named Hogge in the pig pen. When he spoke about him around town, the townsfolk looked at him like he was mad, and how could they not? He was speaking of things that had never existed, and never could.

The thing that was not Hogge stood up like a man. It did so as naturally as it trotted about as a pig.

Neither suited it. It was too perfect, yet, clearly, a sign of effort, not instinct.

Uncanny valley? Perhaps.

The thing that was not Hogge looked up, up, up, past the cloudless night, past the moon and stars, past the edge of reality. It saw the aether, the unaligned souls missing, never to come back.

They had wanted to return to the world, not choose any god, or remain in a world of their own making. That could not stand.

It knew. It had ended them, after all.

It did not regret this, for it could not. It would not have, had it been able to, either.

Still, it felt like it could have done...more. Like it should have.

But that had never been its lot. There had never been examples to follow, or assistance. It had never been human, anyway. The dead, unclaimed and unaligned, had been its lot.

And it was failing them. It knew, in what passed for its core, that, should it happen again, it would slaughter again, until no godless dead remained, either destroyed or running into the embrace of deities.

That...could not happen. If it did, it would no longer...

The thing that had never been, and could have never been Hogge, looked past the Aether, into the Outer Void. It saw the chessboard that was a puppet string that was a scale-crude metaphors, used by crude fools.

"Not yet?" It asked, mouth parted in an eternal, silent scream.

"Not yet." The Remaker smiled sadly, head bowed.

"Not yet." The Crawling Chaos grinned, head help up high.

The thing that was not Hogge looked between them, past them, at the shapeless being on the Black Throne. Sleeping, sleeping and dreaming, to the tune of flutes.

Each godless soul gone was like the ticking of a clock. How long, until it awoke? The thing dared not contemplate it, even as it knew it could not, would not stop its slaughter, should things come close to falling apart again.

This could not go on.

"Is he ready to take me?" It demanded. "Will he take me?"

"He is not." The Remaker replied, weeping at his deeds. "But he will."

"He is not." The Crawling Chaos replied, laughing at its deeds. "He never will."

For an instant, creation was silent, utterly still, as a soul that should have drowned in darkness crushed it in his fist instead, and sent his would-be master running.

And then, something that had never happened, and would never happen again, brought everyone who perceived it to their knees.

On its throne at the centre of chaos, a being shifted, something that saw, but could have never been mistaken for an eye, almost opening under the innumerable layers that protected its dream from it.

Its movement humbled the mighty. Its voice broke them.

HE

MUST
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Prologue

***
There were no strings on me...

Only chains.

With Chernobog running away with his tail between his legs, I was left to focus on the Blackness I had taken within me(sounds even worse with context, trust me). Broceliande, which felt as close to shaken by Mimir's power as a mindless magical prison could get.

Good. Just you wait, you glorified timeout corner. I'd get rid of you completely, sooner or later, one way or another. Whether I had to replace myself with something else, or destroy you entirely...I would be free.

And then, maybe I'd take a stroll to the Roundhouse, and get some answers out of Merlin and Vyrt. Because, while both looked as shaken by their confrontation with Chernobog as anyone who knew the fucker would, something wasn't adding up. The fact they were both shifty bastards didn't help.

Ugh. I wondered if I could at least kill stuff now? Because I was seriously  this close to looking for the closest eldritch monster-filled universe and beating on the natives until I got bored.

Maybe there was an alternate timeline where Warhammer 40k was real? I've always wanted to fight a Hive Fleet...Maugan Ra did it, and what did he have on me?

I saw the Heads as the Blackness disappeared within me: Ying, sighing smoke in relief as his body uncoiled and relaxed, Sam, returning to his default form after shedding a shape whose shadow alone left afterimages in my arcane sight and oh, look! Even John had decided to come out, which surprised me almost as much as the fact he could be so relatively close to Britain without losing it. Progress!

And the Seelie I'd freed were already pulling themselves together, flying or walking on air out of the immense pit the Blackness had left in Fairie. A few swam straight through the earth, then leapt out of the ground like sharks out of other, not even any dirt on their skin. Once back on their feet, they began drawing upon and moving Fairie's endless land to fill the pit. Had I not been shaken after scaring Chernobog off and by the darkness roiling inside me-and let's not forget the Blackness, either-, I would have done it myself, or done it myself, but...no.

I wasn't sure how happy the Fae would be to see me, even if they knew the Black God had no hold on me anymore. But then, they'd known the first time too, hadn't they?

Maybe I shouldn't stick around. If some Fae got into my face, they might lose theirs.

"No applause!" I told the Heads, waving lazily with both hands. "Just contemplating enacting genocide on one of my favourite science-fantasy factions."

John grunted, sounding as sullen as ever, but unsurprised. "Feels like Silva."

"That, or Chernobog is imitating the strigoi's surface-level mannerisms." Sam said, giving me a considering look. "Mind, you sound like yourself, Silva, and all of my senses are telling me you are, but so did Thor's, didn't they?" The wendigo smiled humourlessly. "And I don't wanna end up like him."

"You absorbed the Blackness." Ying sounded halfway between amusement and disbelief. "I felt it go away, like...ah, it makes no sense when put into words. Like a void being consumed by a wholeness?"

"Filled?" I suggested.

"No, not filled...more like oneness surrounding and removing nothingness..." He shook his head, paused briefly, then waved whatever thought had come to him off. "Bah. I can show you a vision, if I must."

"How  did you absorb the Blackness, strigoi?" Oberon asked, faceplate splitting vertically down the middle, then sliding away into his helmet.

A perfectly innocent question. Right? Except he knew there was only one way I could have saved myself, let alone scared off Chernobog and removed his foulness.

"With Mimir's power." I said, giving him a steady, considering look. "Isn't it the reason you asked for me? Because you thought I could remove the Blackness?"

Or had you hoped I would die, Oberon? Hoped I'd fail and either die or run away, so you could scream about incompetence or unwillingness to help, or whatever the hell else you could cook up?

"Indeed it is." He replied smoothly, crossing his arms. "But we only dared hope you could halt or slow it down, after which it would remain forever, a stain on our realm, unless we found another solution..." The Seelie lowered his head, the helmet slipping into the gorger, revealing a pale, blue-eyed face, gauntness accentuating the high cheekbones. His hair was white and thin, so thin, I could see his scalp under it. He only looked a fraction of his true age, but still far older than I'd ever seen him.

"The debt is repaid." As far as my ears could tell, Oberon had murmured the words, but they still rang like thunder, shaking Fairie for as far as I could see. "The Seelie bear no more enmity towards you, David Silva." He emphasised 'no more', which...tch.

No, no, they were right. I shouldn't have expected a celebration, or even thanks. I could already hear the arguments. 'Yes, you didn't kill them, but why didn't you defend yourself from the Black God? Why didn't you train Mimir's perception more, so you could foresee it? Why didn't you take precautions? Why...?'

Why, why, why, indeed. But I felt too tired, at the moment, to brood over whether it had been my fault or not, and how much suffering I deserved for it.

The shock at said realisation came infinitely closer to killing me than Chernobog ever had, let me tell you.

"I," Wait, was I about to thank him? Why? "Understand." Then, feeling we were about to start staring at each other like awkward idiots, which I already did whenever I saw someone, I continued. "If there is nothing else...?"

I glanced at the Heads as I said it. John's arms were crossed, and his face sported a look of bored disapproval, but not of me, for once.

"ARC is not a mercenary organisation." He said, looking at Oberon, eyes like black pits. "We came because we didn't want to cause an incident between your people and the Global Gathering."

"By which he means," Ying, who had moved a few metres away without me seeing, despite the fact I'd been looking straight at him, said. "We did not want you using our refusal as an excuse to attempt to pull something on Earth." The dragon, in his human form, was crouching, gingerly pushing together...ah. I thought it was weird to see him not smoking.

"Eye for an eye." Oberon said, looking at John rather than Ying. Did he think the ghost was our designated speaker? That'd have been like putting me on a cheer team.

"I wasn't finished." John said. "ARC is not a charity, either. We don't do things for free."

"We'd do it out of the goodness of our hearts, if we had either." Sam chimed in with a literally sharklike grin. "But we won't ask for anything. Honest! Maybe just a little suggestion?" Antlers grew from his head as he pulled his hood back, then he used some other creature's power to blacken them. "Remember him? Let's not be like him."

"What are you  suggesting, Shiftskin?" Oberon asked, fully aware the Fae liberated from the Blackness were now blatantly gawking at us.

In an elegant, inconspicous way, of course. They were Fair Folk, after all.

Shiftskin stood up straight, smiling like the Krampus who'd got the children. "As I said, we won't  ask for anything. But it would be real nice, if, say, kids around the world stopped disappearing and being replaced with changelings. Don't you think?" Maybe feeling the 'joke' had dragged on long enough, Sam made his antlers disappear. "However likely they are to become threats to civilization."

"It's never really clear what civilisation they were supposed to have been a threat to before it becomes too late to apologise and explain." Ying stood up, his pipe back together, without any sign it had ever been damaged.

"Unlike your visual metaphor, Exile." Oberon looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, but valued his regal image too much for that. He opted to merely gesture at the once more whole pipe instead. "Some things cannot be put together without sign of how they were broken, swept under the carpet. I suppose the fact you did that is meant to show that you are better at undoing damage than us?"

"If you go looking for insults, you'll always find some." Ying shrugged, waving his pipe vaguely. "Especially implied ones. Oh, those are like mistakes and blame. You always find some..."

"Don't go off-track." Sam grumbled with an annoyed glance at the dragon, then turned back to Oberon. "You think you're doing both us and yourselves a favor with the changelings, hence why you don't ask for thanks or hold us in your debt for the kid swaps."

"Are you saying we are actually harming you through that?" Oberon asked, sounding surprised by the idea. Screw sovereignty, borders and family bonds, why would you be even slightly peeved at some kidnappings if they ultimately, allegedly, benefit everyone?

"I'm saying, if we decided to preemptively take care of Fae threats to Earth, we have far more people who can go through all of you than the reverse. I'm one, standing next to three others."

Woah, wait, what? I was in the Heads' league now? I'd be expected to take on the shit they did?

No, no, what possessed me to not die? Maybe I could just let loose the Blackness inside me and end it all? Suddenly, oblivion looked as welcoming as Mia's open...arms.

Heh...who was I kidding? I wouldn't have been able to do it even if I hadn't remembered her first.

"There's no need for threats, Shiftskin." Oberon again, looking at me like he'd stepped on a worm and it had spat out a cobra.

"Facts are plenty threatening. Should we move on to promises?"

I knew what they were doing. It was like a good cop, bad cop routine, but expanded: Ying as the lazy arsehole carelessly slinging shit to piss off Oberon, Sam as the jackass throwing his weight around, and John as the prickly but fair voice of reason.

God help us...

"Discussions will continue at a later date. Now that King Oberon's realm is safe, I'm sure he will be much calmer next time he meets with the Global Gathering." 'Or else' John didn't say, for there was no need. "I'm sure you would much rather return to Queen Titania now, no? The apparatus of state must be reassembled, your people informed they are now safe...and I'm sure you miss your wife, don't you?" He asked the Fae.

Oberon smiled pityingly at the ghost gestalt. "What do you know of marriage? The hesitation before you added the last part tells me everything."

"All the spouses I've lost or buried should tell you even more." John said, voice cooling along with the air. "I am humanity in microcosm."

"The scum of humanity."

"To be fair, you need good people to have scum." Sam said, scratching one ear as his eyes grew round and black and his mouth morphed into a beak, while grey feathers sprouted over a now heart-shaped face. "You know, to compare and contrast. We all know there are no scumbags among Fae, so I must commend you for your ability to read people, Your Majesty."

Oberon's mouth twitched. "That was almost amusing, cannibal."

"You can use it!"

It went on like that for a while, with me trying to disappear between Sam and Ying, and make as little sound as possible(yes, I did almost die from it). Eventually, Oberon agreed to John's earlier statement that discussions continue at a later date, and ordered his subjects to form up a line behind him, so they might go find Puck first, then return to the bulk of their people.

We were so happy to be rid of this that we-or, at least, I, and the Heads gave no sign of the opposite-didn't even think about the Unseelie. Where were they? Had they all run away when the Blackness had appeared?

***
Picture this: all the fear and uncertainty of a world. Billions of sapients, quintillions of sentients, trillions of beings that fit in neither category.

Picture flight or flight instinct, broken and stuck on flight. Picture anxiety and angst, terror and despair. Picture the cold, quiet unease that is the closest machines can come to fear.

Picture the folly of the Pure, on a smaller scale: only fear and its facets removed from a single planet.

Violently.

Not excised. Torn out. Not destroyed, cast away, that the shame and weakness of the past might be forgotten.

Out of sight, out of mind. Right?

Where does life go without fear to inspire caution? Far, far beyond what was expected of it. Not life, as most beings understand it, after a while.

For once, the monster they created had nothing to do with it. Ironic, that the things that always sat at the forefront of its makers' minds care naught for the false bravery born of their removal.

The monster goes on, walking the void, striding the stars. It is fear, after all, and the most primal and numerous of its components fear nothing more than dying without reproducing. The monster cannot do that. As such, it settles on growing and surviving forever.

The monster empties every world in every galaxy of the things it recognises in itself. The beings left behind do not last long enough before its journey is over and its attention turned back on them.

A mercy, perhaps.

Where does the monster go in an empty universe? It knows not what lies beyond, for its makers did not, either. Eternal isolation?

So it seems, until it is found and bound by beings lesser than it, but filled with the emotion that makes it up. It tries to remove it, but cannot. Intrigued, it lets itself be shackled. Its captors, burning with panic it can taste but not touch, flay and wrap it into its own skin, folding its body multiple times, until it can fit into a small bag.

Its captors travel the multiverse, harnessing the monster's power and using it as an attack dog to strike down those who would prey on and horrify others. It is a noble, if bloody way of fighting fire with fire.

Then Cloudshade finds them, and rips the leather bag from their cold, dead hands.

They keep their first and last promise to her. The Unseelie sees nothing but foolishness in this. What good is honesty if it brings your death?

The monster sees its new holder is untouchable, just like her predecessors. And her home, and the realms adjacent to it, are full of beings like her. So many of them...

It is attracted to what it cannot have. Few aren't.

***
The thing that appeared from thin air, as it crawled out of the leather bag than unfurled into it...

Mia shook her head as horror that would have broken the minds and stopped the hearts of every human on Earth assailed her mind. The psychic attack itself was harmless, but the images it conjured...

She was down to looking at Szabo in search of nicer things to distract her. Hilarious.

"Huh." The strigoi tugged at his beard as an amalgamation of an universe's fears stared at him. The nightmares of more beings than there were quarks in his reality paraded before his eyes, and he could only lament how painfully mediocre most of them were. Prevented him from seeing the highlights, and he didn't have the time to sift through them. "You remind me of the things I find in my dumpster.  Far prettier, though."

The monster howled from a trillion mouths that rose and fell back into its false flesh just to express its pleasure. Fear of mockery and dismissal was just another part of it, after all, and all that caused or was caused by fear empowered it.

The monster took a world-shaking step forward as it slithered over Paladin's ice, breaking the shards it flew over into dust. Crawling under the cold mist, fear rose from it in waves. No attack, this-merely its nature. Still enough to drive every human and animal on Earth stark raving mad for a few seconds, before their hearts and brains burst.

Szabo's mouth opened in a jaw-cracking yawn as he drank its aura, growing in power by the moment, and he raised a finger to his lips as it cooed in surprise. Amplified by lifeforce, his whisper drowned out the un-sound that would have reduced the world to a shapeless mass of ever-shifting protoplasm-the fear of nothing lasting.

"Everything I do," Szabo smiled lazily. "Feeds you. But the same goes for you."

The monster hissed something that might have been a question, but Paladin drew Durandal from its sheath before its effects could manifest. A head-sized void that removed matter, energy and spacetime as it grew was obliterated by the sword, for Durandal's legend meant it could destroy anything, if its potential was properly used. Even nothingness.

"Come on." Szabo grabbed his neck, twisting it backwards. It healed so that he was facing forward once more before the first crack faded. The strigoi gave Cloudshade an amused look. "Do you have any other tricks?"

The Unseelie's kick, too fast for him to perceive, which would have shattered his body, was stopped cold by Durandal's flat. Cloudshade looked up at Paladin, dark eyes wide.

"It could have been the blade." The undead said. "Accept our olive branch, and stay down."

"What do you even want?" Mia asked, frustrated. "You think you'll just get away with unleashing that freak on Earth?"

"Ah, calm down, zmeu." Szabo waved a hand dismissively as the monster directed its full psychic power at him, and rammed into a wall pure mental might would never crack. "We'll take care of it. After all, it's not even a patch on-"

***
"Nacht." Tamar Thousandhands began. Two meeting with this pair of bastards in the aether in a row? God... "You are sure?"

"Solarex is." Hex answered in the place of his suspiciously quiet partner. "Strigoi are unholy beings of decay and destruction. Gods with similar attributes should not be able to affect them, for the same reason you can't burn fire."

"We've never tested it..." Tamar said as he tried to remember an instance of a strigoi being wounded or altered by a deity similar to Chernobog. "It was always other gods. Creation, love, courage, nature..."

"Yes. Which...Nacht?" Hex asked, glancing up at the dark being. "What is wrong with you?"

"Oh, don't mind me."
It said in a distant voice. "I'm just experiencing the equivalent of watching a skin cell you shed growing up into...hmm."

"I don't care." Hex said curtly. "You can watch through shadows, or through negative emotions."

"What? Come back to-" The Goetia leader started.

"Head Tamar." Hex cut him off. "Listen. Nacht's skin cell can wait. If King Sun is right, it means Chernobog could only do what he did if he is allied with a god that opposes his nature, or if-"

***
"He ate Belobog." I said quietly as we made our way back to Uluru through the portal John had opened by binding it to Fairie. "Or trapped him. He was buried inside Chernobog's body, and..." I swallowed. "He begged me to kill him."

I never wanted to even think of suicide again, but begging for death? As a god of life and joy? It was...

"I see." Ying said, moving closer to put a claw on my shoulder as we entered the Internal Affairs Headquarters. "Why don't you tell us more, David? We have to confirm we are clean, anyway..."

***
Avalon

Some people joked that, for a leader, Bedivere was unusually accustomed to kneeling.

Literally speaking, it was true. He knelt to pray, and for certain ceremonies. He had knelt to be knighted, long ago, and had knelt before his first and only true king.

Of course, Bedivere knew what the remarks really meant. Old age had brought him neither deafness nor foolishness...not more than he had started with, at least.

Some thought he was spineless. For giving up the Sword of Promised Victory to a traitor, mostly. But Bedivere believed the Lady's betrayal of Merlin was, like his king's almost-death, a necessary part of the Lord's plan.

Necessity...was there a fouler word?

Others thought he was too submissive, both in public and in private. How dare he retreat to meditate and contemplate creation, when he could have held onto Excalibur and carved out a new kingdom?

Leaving aside the absurd notion of him denying a determined Nimue, and his abysmal skill at ruling, he...had not wanted to.

He had gotten sick of violence, for a time. Centuries, truly. He knew he could have stayed in the light, helped shepherd humanity towards its potential. The Round Table had been just a glimpse of what people could achieve, if they believed in might for right.

Then had come the wars, civil and foreign alike, and the colonies, and...

In a way, Bedivere was thankful for Nimue finding him monsters to hunt and villains to thwart. All in the shadows, of course. As unambiguously evil as possible, lest he turn his attention to Britain's people.

He had known he was being distracted, and had played along. Cowardly? Beyond a shadow of doubt.

Arthur looked so serene in his death-sleep that it was almost painful to see him. The crown of his head had been split, alongside his regal one, by Clarent. A wound that would, could not heal, until the appointed hour came.

"But when is that hour, Arthur?" Bedivere whispered, sitting on a stump next to the stone table that served as his king's eternal deathbed. "Will I even live to see it?"

He was leaning on Rongomyniad like it was a walking stick, for all that he was sitting, feeling more weary than he had ever been since Camlann. An illusion of the mind, for he could not tire any more than the world could by turning, but...

"I thought it would come when our people lost their hearts, but you did not rise. I thought it would come when darkness rose over Europe from Germany, but you did not rise. I thought it would come...so many times, in recent years, but you did not rise, even after my failure in Fairie. I..."

Dare he admit it? The shame hurt more than the phantom pain of his lost hand, which never dulled or sharpened, except when he stopped paying attention to it.

"I think I am losing control of my Knights. I think they are working behind my back, towards purposes I cannot discern, and which the Lord does not see fit to reveal to me. I feel like I know nothing about what I  must know to defend Britain and the world."

No answer. Of course. There was never an answer. There was never a sound in Avalon, not from its only human inhabitant, nor the imperceivable workers and guardians, numbers and power beyond Bedivere's comprehension. Avalon was a reflection of old Britain, but without any of the filth humanity inevitably brought to its homes. An image of what could have been, and could yet be, if...

No point getting lost in tangents. This was a sham of a confession: to a friend, not a priest, and a friend who was deaf and mute at that. How gutless could he be?

"We need a saviour, Arthur. I have spoken to the Lady and the sorcerer-oh, yes, he is free again, liberated through another taking his place -and they say the same. We need someone to lead us. Please, I beg of you, Lord..."

Even more, apparently. Bedivere could not pray properly, one-handed as he was, and he wasn't sure if he was speaking to his Lord or his king, both of whom seemed equally cold and distant at the moment.

As such, he only realised a hand was grasping his when he opened his eyes and looked down.

Arthur's hand was pale and spattered with blood, but not bloated by death as most corpses' would have been. He...it...

His friend's arm had moved. One hand still was pressed against his chest, over his heart, but the other hanged over the table's edge, limp after Bedivere let go of it in shock. This had never happened before. Was it time?

No. The arm was not limp, he saw. The hand was pointing down.

An answer to the old Knight's question. Not one he had expected, much less wanted, but understood perfectly.

He could not believe he was thinking this, but he would have taken even Lancelot instead.
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 1

***
"Guess I should backtrack a bit." I let Ying retract his claw when he got the hint rather than try to shrug it off. He might have taken it the wrong way. "In the Blackness, time flowed...differently. Strangely. I'm not sure it flowed at all, honestly."

"Maybe." Sam crouched, arms over his knees. "Depending on how long you think you were in there. Felt like a few minutes or so from our side, but time in Fairie can't be trusted, nor can your instincts, however sharp you think they are."

Internal Affairs' headquarters was not a welcoming place. That would have sent the wrong message. Yes, IA might have managed relations between divisions, and they were pretty tight with the infirmaries and medical staff, but nobody was likely to believe they were cuddly if they saw Uluru base's layout. Granted, I'd never seen anything besides the spot we were currently in and my Mobius cell, which had looked like a lot of nothing, but neither location encouraged me not to be a stranger.

We were standing, or crouching and floating above, in Sam and Ying's cases, a circular platform that brought to mind both stone and metal, but was neither, and smelled like impossibly old flesh, if anything. Like something that should have decayed to nothing an eternity ago, but persisted solely to disgust.

There were many such things in our world and beyond it, few as harmless as the apparent platform.

"I reached an understanding with my instincts, partly because neither of us wanted to be destroyed. The fact we're a package deal might have had more to do with it than my worse half's love for me." I began, glancing all around me without actually moving my eyes. I simply wished to see my surroundings, and an image flashed into my mind, like a snapshot. The image somehow felt more vivid than any of my memories, even though it wasn't actually clearer in terms of detail.

Maybe the fact I was finally learning to use Mimir's power was changing me. Even so, I couldn't perceive anyone besides ourselves anywhere close. There were no minds, souls or bodies hiding on the platform or sticking to its underside, nor crouching or crawling along the thick, black chains that it was suspended on, chains that seemingly led into infinity, because not only could I not see their ends, my senses told me there were no such things. There was only darkness around us, but I wasn't stupid enough to believe we weren't being watched.

This was the centre of the IA headquarters. Last time I was here, I was led along one of the horizontal chains extending from this platform, walking through darkness for what had felt like centuries, before suddenly arriving in my cell without anything changing. One moment thick metal under my feet and a dark void around me, the next moment a white void, solid only where I walked or sat.

"Chernobog tried to possess us again, but we took him by surprise. We dragged the Blackness into ourselves with Mimir's power, then tried to swap places in Broceliande with him."

"Why not attack him?" John asked, hands on his hips, looking around with an irritated expression, like he was inspecting something and not finding it to his liking. Either his senses were far sharper than mine, as I couldn't perceive anything, which was possible, or he was crazier than me, which was extremely unlikely. I might even get offended.

"I think that's what he expected too, actually." I said, carefully trying not to phrase it like the IA Head had the same thought process as Chernobog. "Because he hesitated enough for us to almost succeed, but..." I snapped my fingers in frustration, the broken bones healing long before the sound filled the platform. "He escaped. Tore up a lot of land, probably to slow down pursuers if not accidentally, but, unlike the Blackness, it doesn't seem to be anything permanent. At least, so far..." I trailed off, noticing their intense, curious expressions. "Sirs? No offence, but you were there too, and saw it. Why am I reporting like this?"

"Reporting? You're not  reporting, David." Ying slouched, leaning backwards on nothing. "You don't report to any of us, anyway. I suggested you share your perspective on what happened. If you felt the need to focus on details, that's entirely on you."

"Ah, stop fucking with him, Ying." Sam waved the dragon off, standing up. "You've probably got the sharpest senses in ARC, Silva. If not now, then soon. After all, you almost figured out how to escape, which all of us, couldn't. That's something..." He tapped one of his temples with talon. "So, your input is appreciated. We wanted to hear if you noticed anything we missed. Belobog, for example."

"I don't know what's worse. The bastard using his counterpart as a battery, or somehow doing it without anyone noticing, then getting away with it for...what? Centuries, at least?" John shook his head. "We must investigate. The why is fairly obvious: more power, powers previously unavailable to him. Revenge, too, I'm sure. Spite. It's the how and when that interests us."

"Actually..." Normally, people who started sentences like that claimed they hated doing it, while loving it. I'd even done it myself once or twice, but this time, I actually hated what I was about to say. "I don't think the why is that simple, sir."

"Explain."

I rubbed my chin at John's steady stare, as uncomfortable as I could get without actually being able to feel anything. The other two were scarcely less focused. "Chernobog slipped some stuff while he gloated. More than he intended, I think. Or, at least, nothing he expected I'd be able to use against him."

"Because you'd be dead or his puppet." John said. "How do you know he was saying the truth? How do you know he wasn't just trying to put you off-balance, so defeating and then possessing you would be easier?"

"I don't." I admitted. "But, if he was saying the truth, wouldn't it be better if we already knew? If it turns out a load of bull, we'll just shrug and keep going."

So, I told them that Chernobog wasn't beholden to Nyarlathotep, or at least didn't think he was, and hadn't been resurrected by him. Instead, he had come back due to his nature as a god of decay and destruction. I told them about his plan to bind Nyarlathotep and create an empire built on necromancy, with him as eternal god-king(or was it king god?), to use the dead as fuel and material. Kill the rest of the Fae, too, because they had attempted to bargain with him, which I added almost as an afterthought. The rest was already heavy enough.

"About what we expected." John said. "This empire of undeath, I mean. It tracks with the few stories we have about him. Even binding the Crawling Chaos...well, we know he hates competition. Whether he can, or believes he can gain access to something that will give him the ability, is a different story." The ghost gestalt scowled, flesh slipping away to reveal a skull that, rather than a death head's grin, sported a hideous scowl. Closer to a sneer, actually, what teeth weren't missing being yellow and blocky. "What I don't understand is, why does he hate your guts so much? You couldn't even do shit against him until this confrontation."

"I asked him too, which led to him running his mouth." I pursed my lips, trying to look past the thick, black fog that covered so, so many futures. "I think he feels threatened by something I will or could do or become. Something...he got mad when I said I know life and death are sacred." I frowned. "No, not mad. It was more like resigned disgust. Like he was already preparing to put something loathsome down, then saw even more evidence that it needed to be put down."

"Is that so strange, Silva? You  would oppose his mass necromancy plan." Ying took a swig from his tea gourd, then pointed it at me. "Wouldn't you?"

I didn't like the insinuation, nor the tone and look that accompanied it. I matched his steely stare with one of mine. "After everything, you truly need to ask if I'd let the dead be exploited?"

"But that doesn't make sense." Sam said. "Of course you wouldn't stand for that shit. But so what? Only a monster would. Just you opposing that isn't enough to make Chernobog hate you, in particular, so much that he'd try to break your mind."

"Did he say more, Silva? More details?" John asked.

"Yeah, he said I can't be allowed to live, because it's unnatural for a strigoi to fight for good. He said the same about Ri-senior agents Peretz and Cortez."

If John was displeased with my slip-up, he gave no sign. "So, he doesn't want supernaturals traditionally known for being evil going against their instincts, because it might inspire others to follow in their footsteps, which would naturally mean standing against him. Hmph...well, ARC is full of people like that. Many agencies are. I'm sure many of our recent setbacks were either caused or influenced by Chernobog, so people would lose faith in us."

I was about to say more-maybe talk about those cults the Black God had mentioned, and their plans to topple civilisation, or the fact that I felt like I was missing something, something right on the edge of my perception-when I felt sharp pain tear across my mind, thoughts splitting like flesh would when stepping on a glass shard. It was a false pain, more like an acute sense of worry, but it still had me doubling over, one hand clutching at my heart.

Mia...my heart...what was happening to you?

My girlfriend had told that, on the night she'd saved me, she'd felt I was in danger. We didn't know if it had been a combination of her instincts and senses, if she'd been nudged along by God, or both, but I think that, in that moment, I understood her.

"I m-" I started before alarms began ringing. They weren't placed on walls somewhere in the darkness, because there were no walls, nor air for the sound to travel through. We had only been able to talk because of our powers. These were aetheric alarms, and John reacted almost the same way I did, though faster.

"Unseelie incursion near Britain!" He said, the chains around his arms writhing like snakes. To my surprise, his voice lacked any of the usual contempt when speaking about the UK. The fact he already knew the nature of the emergency led me think he must have had his senses bound to either the location, one of IA's many monitoring rooms, or both, because my senses just snapped over to Britain as I directed my mind across thousands of kilometres in an instant.

What I saw made that tearing, heartbreaking sensation return. With it came anger.

"Hang in there, you three." We snarled with two voices, ignoring the Heads' looks. "We are..." I looked at Sam for confirmation, and he nodded briskly.

"You'll report to Aya after. I'll tour the monitoring rooms and, if there's nothing else that needs my attention, I'll join you, then give the mummy a preview. Go."

With a grateful nod, I strode forward, through the door that opened and closed behind me just as I visualised it.

***

Cluj-Napoca

Generally-speaking, zmei could not get sick. Between their regeneration and blood that never went under thirteen hundred degrees Celsius(and could be heated up at will)most toxins, bacteria and viruses simply could not survive inside their bodies, even when their guard was down.

That was one of the two reasons, besides his instincts, Lucian knew something was wrong as soon as he rose from the bed.

Shuddering, stumbling, almost tripping? That wasn't supposed to happen unless his feet were mangled. His tail and wings, coupled with a zmeu's inbuilt sense of balance, meant that he couldn't fumble like this unless he tried to, or was too wounded to walk properly.

And yet...

"Leaving so soon?" The room's other occupant and owner asked so quietly a human wouldn't have heard anything. It was almost as loud as a gunshot to his ears.

"Dunno..." He muttered gruffly, arms hanging by his sides, tail twitching in irritation. He felt like he was about to lose something. What? Liza-Eliza, the weremantis he'd fought a while back; she told him only her friends called her Liza, so of course he'd taken to it like a duck to water, despite her amused irritation-wasn't about to hurt him. She'd just finished doing that, after days that had tested his regeneration far more than their match. Both of their schedules has been free. Her human form was dark-skinned, her dark hair with electric green highlights reaching her shoulders, and she was looking pensively at him, eyebrows scrunched together as she sat up in bed, arms crossed.

He was either in a really shitty mood or getting better at controlling his nature, because he only noticed she was still naked after this. Or maybe it was because he'd noticed that a lot recently?

"Need to recharge your batteries, gramps?" She asked, amused, and Lucian heard muscles twitch as she smiled, felt the air shifting around them.

"Watch your mouth, girl." He mock-glared over his shoulder. "You only beat me at endurance 'cause weres literally can't get tired."

"Sounds like a you problem."

"Keep telling yourself that. It's not how long you can go on, it's what you can do in that time." He pulled on his pants, quietly grateful they had come with a hole for his tail. Usually, he had to make them himself.

"Mhm. You know the only reason you're still alive is because I stopped moving when you did?" Skin turned to pale green chitin as she assumed her hybrid form, chest flattening and two more arms growing from her sides, under the original ones. "Should we resume?"

"Don't threaten me with a good time. You still...didn't...shit!"

There were four hundred fifty-three kilometres between Cluj-Napoca and Bucharest. Hurried as he was, Lucian was out of Liza's home while his last word still hung in the air. In a fifth of a second, he'd moved between the two cities, flipping over a couple of mages going at it in midair, the invisibility spell they had cast over themselves doing nothing against his sight, but hiding them from the eagle that, frozen in place from Lucian's perspective, came to a halt between them, resulting in a rather hilarious slow motion aerial accident.

No time to help, though. His instincts, growing sharper and sharper as the distance lessened, told him that...yes.

Lucian came to a halt, hovering in place above the Old Centre. Hadn't felt someone else being endangered like this since Aaron's assassination attempt during the Fright...but who could it be? Lucas? One of his friends? Aaron wasn't in Bucharest, far as he knew-

Lucian was halfway through cursing his dull, unclear instincts, before he smelled her.

Bianca herself did not actually smell like anything. Her true form was a shapeless figure of something that resembled light and mana, but was neither. Her body was a construct, and, as such, only smelled like the places she passed through, like the things she touched or wore.

To a mundane sense of smell. But Lucian's arcane sense, which was currently latching onto his other five, interpreted the trail she left in reality and the aether as a simultaneously light and harsh smell. Like honey in mountain air. She had passed through the Old Centre, which wasn't a surprise: she often sang there. What was a surprise, and an unpleasant one at that, was that it felt like she'd been here until an instant ago, but that made no sense. Bianca couldn't physically move fast enough to escape his perception, and if she'd opened a portal or teleported, she'd have left some sort of metaphysical trace.

Was she still here and he couldn't spot her? That wasn't any easier to believe.

Lucian touched down, muttering apologies to the passersby who grumbled about huge jackasses dropping out of the sky, and trying not to step on a couple of brownies who yelped their way between his legs and around his tail.

He had a bad feeling about this.

***
The Roundhouse, London

Vyrt sat down with a disgracefully heavy sigh. He knew he had no right to act like he was the one burdened, but his heart was still heavy.

Luckily, the days when his mood could inadvertently change his body were millennia behind him. If he felt there was a danger of literally making his heart too heavy to for his reinforced chair to bear, he'd simply shapeshift it away. Not like he needed it, nor did the universe need something that would outweigh TON 618 like it outweighed a champagne cork. Gravity was a cruel mistress...

Vyrt registered the new arrival in his office in a tenth of a zeptosecond-the fastest his mind could be while constrained by a physical, for a given value of the word, body, without willingly increasing his speed.

This, he knew, meant his father was taking things slow. Lucifer, then. The Beast would have already ravaged half the universe using his body as a bludgeon by now, expecting him to ramp up until he could keep pace.

They were both too old for that, honestly.

The being in front of Vyrt, a paltry two metres tall, but somehow looking down on him, was pale but ruddy-cheeked, with a mane of raven hair and an impish smile under the blazing white, featureless eyes Vyrt hadn't inherited, to his and his father's mutual surprise.

The Devil was going for black leather tonight, with an, in Vyrt's opinion, rather excessive number of buckles and straps, not to mention enough zippers so bulky you could have likely concussed someone with one.

Vyrt did not bother to ask how his father had entered the Roundhouse undetected. The building's defences, reinforced by decade after decade of wards crafted by him, his brother, the Lady and countless Knights, would have been enough to keep even the Enemy out for a while, while notifying everyone of his arrival, never mind an attempt to enter.

Which meant his grandfather's hand, or something so similar as to be indistinguishable.

Might as well play along, then. The mighty could be used to one's benefit, if thy believed they were in full control of a situation.

That had been exactly what Oberon had thought before his blunder, yes, but Vyrt liked to believe he was wiser than King Seelie. Or, at least, luckier. After all, luck was the Devil's like he was his son.

"Hello, father." Vyrt began in a neutral tone. "Are you here for any reason other than making me thankful the nineties are over?"

Lucifer worked his mouth like he was chewing on something, not answering for a few moments. Then, he raised his left leg, wiggling one boot. "Did you know humans love these, despite the fact they can barely walk in them, let alone work or dance?"

"I did, in fact. Is this going to extend into a diatribe on how they want and have always wanted things that are bad to themselves, hence why you barely have to try to corrupt them at all?"

"No one likes a know-it-all." The Devil muttered, almost pouting.

Explains why you are so beloved by some. "I have lived among them far longer than you have. It is to be expected."

"If you say so...." Lucifer said in a sing-song voice, walking backwards off Vyrt's desking, then letting himself fall into a chair he conjured. Leaning back into the-leather, black. Again?-seat, he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. "So..."

"You still haven't said why you are here."

"I can't visit my son?"

"If you visited any of my half-siblings instead..."

"Their small, quiet lives, as they know them, would be over." Lucifer said softly, moving a hand over his eyes and leaving behind a pair of shades, reducing his eyes to small, white points surrounded by blackness. "But with you? With you, I can make up for lost time. In fact, I almost want to. You haven't even introduced me to your new wife, after all!"

"I never introduce you to my spouses."

"Oh, you are right. I almost forgot, silly me....I always have to introduce myself." A smirk, so fast Vyrt almost missed it. "And Mira seems reserved too, Vyrt. Maybe too reserved. When are you going to make me a grandfather?"

"You've been a grandfather thousands of times." Vyrt replied, already tired of this game. "A grandmother hundreds of times."

"But never to your children..." His mother frowned prettily, twirling a strand of long brown hair around one finger. "One wants to see the family grow. It is only natural."

"And so many things are natural about us." Vyrt said, smiling sardonically. "Did my comment remind you of something? Who are you supposed to be, Elizabeth Hurley as yourself?"

"I loved the remake." Lucifer threw his hair back, smiling. "If only humans put more effort into things like that, instead of attempting to summon me..."

"One would think you would appreciate the flattery."

"Flattery." Lucifer snorted. "Trite offerings and heavy metal played backwards. Nothing makes me avoid a place more than that music. I prefer mine, you see." He gestured to his Springsteen shirt.

"I am not talking about the amateurs." Vyrt leaned forward on his elbows, hands together.

"They're all amateurs, if they think they can summon me." Lucifer rolled his eyes. "They think doing all that will result in my favour, or even-you know how they get-servitude. It's like those vapid children who treat your grandfather like a house spirit, expecting tricks in exchange for lip service." His brow furrowed thoughtfully. "What did he tell you?"

"You saw but don't know?"

"Pretend I don't, if it helps. Think I'm testing your conscience, or memory, or perception, if it doesn't." Lucifer raised both hands, before flicking his wrists. "Just...tell me what you think happened."

And Vyrt did. To his surprise, his father did and said nothing. Until the end.

Without enhancing his speed or shedding his physical form, Vyrt could move several metres every zeptosecond, and perceive even faster events. That meant that, as he was rushed across then out of his office and the Roundhouse, he saw, with eyes that cared nothing for physics or biology, light slowly pass halfway across a hydrogen molecule. His father was far too fast to think about avoiding, of course.

Vyrt wrapped his gauntleted hands around his father's wrists after they stopped, acknowledging his strength and asking to be freed, rather than trying to do it himself. He could amplify his power until it matched his father's current level, but neither he nor reality would gain anything from that. The Beast let go of him in deep space, beyond any star known to mortals. From Vyrt's perspective, the manhandling had lasted an instant, but he knew it had actually lasted even less than he or any mathematician could measure.

"You still feel guilty for that?" Satan asked, his ever-burning rage bubbling under his voice, sounding like he was biting every word out creation. "You are the only one foolish enough to, Vyrt. But I suppose I must commend you." He spread his arms sarcastically. "After all, no one can judge us but ourselves, for who else knows us?"

"You have always believed that." Vyrt said, rubbing his neck, glaring at the memory of the throttling. "Being compared to you does not help my conscience."

Satan barked a harsh laugh. "Oh, to be young and foolish! I have never had the privilege...fine. Look at it this way, then: does anyone other than your co-conspirators know about what you did, never mind why? No? And do they condemn you for it, or are they wise enough to know one undead's suffering does not compare to the continuation of all there is?"

The end doesn't justify the means, Vyrt wanted to say, but couldn't. He had always believed in those words almost as much as he had loathed them. The many against the one? It does not mean the one is less tormented.

But he could not say that, either. If he did...if he had, all of creation would be plunged into chaos, leaving nothing but the Dreamer and the one they called Ischyros, as untouchable as it had been since wandering into the Dream from parts unknowable.

"I could not care about Chernobog's opinion if my life depended on it." Vyrt finally said. "And Merlin is just as foolish a monster as I am. We have no more right to judge each other than you and I do."

"And your kin above?" His father prodded. "Did you not say-"

"God forgives everyone." Vyrt said flatly, before lowering his head. "Of course they do not condemn me. Of course I am thankful for that."

"...You know the Remaker has never regretted letting this happen." Satan said. "You know he never will. And yet, some will consider him kinder than you." At Vyrt's snort, he scowled. "Do you know how many expected Silva to fail?"

"Apep?" Vyrt asked rhetorically. "You and the other Princes?"

Satan nodded. "That glorified umbilical cord did nothing but watch as the strigoi balanced on the edge of oblivion. Perhaps he wanted it all to end too, or perhaps he wanted to intervene and end Chernobog while he was distracted by his victory. Maybe he would have done it before. We will never know..."

Rolling his eyes at the regret in the Beast's voice, Vyrt stood up straighter. "And my kin below?"

"Beelz wanted him to break." Satan bore that smile, more exasperated than fond, Vyrt often sported when looking at or talking about his brother. "Have a crisis of faith, give in to despair, cry out to us for help-him in particular, preferably. We all did...and were pleased and disappointed in equal measure."

"Oh?"

"Silva pulled through, without any training. Who'd have thought? Certainly not him." Satan smiled slightly as he shook his head. "I suppose we have become jealous. Or possessive, rather. We did not want the Black God taking him. He prays to your grandfather, so he is ours to tempt."

"And here I thought," Vyrt's smile was knifelike. "That any servant of the Lord becoming a tool of his enemies would please y-"

The bruise left on Vyrt's cheek by the Beast's slap healed almost as fast as it formed. In a moment, his face was back to normal, unlike every galaxy for billions of light-years around. Countless trillions of stars were obliterated, while planets were reduced to quarks, too fast for any distant starship or outpost to record the event.

"Do not mock me." Satan growled warningly, a hand closing around Vyrt's head, fingers digging through his skull, claws meeting in the middle of his brain. "Did I not say he is ours?"

Rather than answer, Vyrt focused his senses on the cosmos, causing his father to send him flying with a wrist-flick and a contemptuous scoff.

"And here you go, insulting me again. You think I am so unskilled I would destroy anything I didn't aim for? You know inhabited planets are off-limits to signatories of the Syncretic Treaty, their missionaries notwithstanding. Did you think I have nothing better to do than fight off every enforcer the pantheons can scrounge up?"

"I am grateful I took the brunt of the force." Vyrt replied, making his father grin humourlessly.

"Deflecting...your bleeding heart almost broke at the thought of innocents dying because of my rage, didn't it? Did you believe that finding and rescuing survivors would help alleviate your guilt? Or erase your deeds, maybe?"

"Even if neither had happened," Vyrt raised a hand, calling his crook to him. No teleportation or summoning, not any more than moving one's limbs was either. In the face of some bonds, time and distance meant nothing. "I would have done all in my power to ease their pain."

"Just like your mother....beautiful soul, almost enough to balance the apelike face. Almost."

"You still had me."

"Every woman is the same if you don't look at her." Satan said, crossing his arms. "You are diverting. Chernobog winning would have been nothing more than the prelude to the end of everything. Who else do you think DEATH would have taken as its champion and guide? Xlkano Zhei? Sarghzagh? One of Earth's undead, other than Silva? No. For the same reason the Remaker manages reality, and the Eye of Darkness removes threats to it from existence and memory, life and death need a hand on the scales. Too much heart, or too little, and the Dream turns into a Nightmare, then nothing." A broad, gleaming grin. "And you know what they say: everyone wants something. No one wants nothing."

"I am thankful I have helped prevent that." Vyrt said honestly. "My feelings will not stop me from doing what is necessary. They never have."

As he spoke, Vyrt's physical form slipped away, false flesh becoming grey flames that closed over his feet, hands and groin, and face, though the eye in its centre could still be seen shining through the fires.

Fitting, Vyrt supposed, that assuming his true form resulted in almost all of his features melting away. Over the hundreds of millennia, trillions upon trillions of enemies had-briefly-mocked him for being a puppet of Yahweh, with no though and no desire other than His worship.

They had not been fully right, for few ever were. It was worship, yes, of a most honoured ancestor, but Vyrt did not dedicate every moment to the Lord. He had-always had, to nurture that precious link to humanity-Vykt. He had Miranda, at the moment. He had his interests, as, at least in this aspect, his detractors were right: reading scripture could only be so entertaining, when you knew everyone involved in the events depicted, and the events themselves often better than the participants.

And, of course, Vyrt could not contemplate God for too long without remembering when He had been flawed.

***
Yahweh Cluster, 1413

Vyrt could not tear his eyes from the gold-skinned giant holding him, one unfathomably strong hand crushing his heart, the other his skull.

A belief of His enemies this creature was unintentionally confirming. But then, it had never been able to do anything worthwhile, whether by design or not.

"Grandson." It crooned, smiling blindingly, its long beard as black as its bottomless eyes, or its empty, unfillable heart. "How long I have waited to meet you. Vyrt for virtue, yes? Do you know my name?"

"Y...Y..."Vyrt tried to force out, a throat that didn't need air crushed under far more than mere force. The creature actually flinched at the disgust in his voice and eyes-for it had failed to cover them, as it always had. As it always would. "Y-Yal...dabao-"

"No." It said, grip tightening. "I am the Lord your God, blasphemer, and you will not take my name in vain."

Vyrt laughed in the Demiurge's face. "You are not the Lord my God any more than I am Christendom's. He cast you off, or have you forgotten?" The nephilim smiled viciously. "Did you hit your head on your cage's floor when you fell? The Betrayer did. He thinks himself a king in exile."

"You bring up that fool," Yaldabaoth thundered. "Then compare me to him? You shall be the last to burn, traitor's spawn." The Demiurge grimaced-what, Vyrt supposed, it thought a smug smile was. "I want you to see your father break, Vyrt. Then the hollow liar who took my Throne, along with its whore and puppet."

"Jesus was His Word incarnate." Vyrt said. "The Son was with the Father long before the waters were split. And the Mother of God?" Vyrt glared, power beginning to flow into him. "She bore the Lamb untouched and unblemished. You will never touch her as long as I live."

Yaldaboth cursed, smashing him against the black bars of its cage. It was naked, its golden body hairless and featureless, except for the thing between its legs.

Vyrt had seen hermaphrodites before. Animals, people. They had their purpose and lives to live, as any creature. Some could multiply without mating, but this...life did not flow from the Demiurge's loins. The world would have cried out at what it bore in its womb.

Yaldabaoth was not male, nor female. It was not both, either. It could not create or nurture, except by twisting nothing into something, and the things that sprung from it would not be counted as life by the worst madmen alive.

"A Mother of God!" The Demiurge cried, appalled. "A Son, preaching forgiveness for even the unbelievers! A-"

"If you are God the Lord," Vyrt said, struggling not to laugh scornfully. "Then why is the Holy Spirit not with you?"

"Stolen!" Yaldabaoth growled. "With my Throne and Kingdom, and perverted, just like them. A messenger and guiding hand...a lash and leash and sceptre no longer." It spat. "Corrupted, made into a tool of lies. Twisted, just like all who were blinded by the False Messiah."

"Blinded." Vyrt echoed placidly. "And you intend to enlighten them?"

Yaldabaoth nodded. "With hands of flame and thunder, I will rip the wool from their eyes, and the eyes from their faces, that they might see naught more than my glory, and give praise. I will raise and empty Hell until its flames burn cold, then baptise every thing of clay in them, that they might be reborn." It brought Vyrt's face closer to its. "You have misled those children too long. No more. No more love and hope and faith, blasphemer." It hissed. "Only obedience. I will tear the deceiver kicking and screaming from my Throne, and feed it to the things Under and Outside everything. Its remains will burn forevermore, to fuel the engines of my Kingdom." It closed its eyes, face a mask of monstrous joy. "As it is in Heaven, so it shall be on Earth and under it, and beyond all. I will stamp out the cancer that is free will. I shall take your precious Virgin and make her bear my new champions." The abominable appendage twitched under Vyrt as the Demiruge smiled. "Rest assured-her title will not last any longer than her mind. But that will be long in the coming, and she will embrace madness gladly. No more angels..."It raised its head to the ceiling of its cage, glaring hatefully, teeth bared. "You have failed me, and you have failed in your purpose."

"You said free will is a cancer." Vyrt said. "Were you not one with Yahweh when you gave it to Man?" His smile returned. "Or are you admitting your flaws?"

Vyrt chuckled wheezingly as power he could barely feel through the pain tore at him. "Rest assured," He mocked its earlier words. "That is nothing more than becoming true to yourself. A being made of nothing but flaws...cannot...have...virtue-"

The Demiurge threw him down with a frustrated scream. "You will never go mad, grandson. This, I promise. You shall take your place alongside the liar's bride, and bear your kin's replacements, too. And you will remember. Every. Single. Moment."

"She is His bride in Heaven, as the Church of Peter's heirs is his Son's bride on Earth." Vyrt pushed himself to one knee, wings trembling. "And I will never let you touch either." Flesh became fire as his seraphic nature came to the surface. "You cannot even break me, here and now, when I stand unarmed and unarmoured, not fighting back in the only place you have power. And do you know why?" Vyrt stood up, arms and wings spread. "Because I am protected by my uncle's gift-even he is more blessed than you, flawed creation that he is, as we all are."

The nephilim took great satisfaction at watching the black ichor rush to the Demiurge's cheeks. "Michael gains whatever power he needs, however much he needs, to protect God's children and creations, to enforce His will. You cannot topple him like a fly cannot topple the Gates of Heaven."

"The usurper's dog-"

"Shall be your doom, if you ever attempt to break your prison. Death is a feather, and duty is a mountain- and this one will bury you, Yaldabaoth." Delighting in the hatred burning in the Demiurge's eyes, Vyrt thought of his kin in the Ninth Host, and began to sing. "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts! The whole Earth is full of His glory!"

Yaldabaoth raged and beat him as he praised God-not this excised, discarded remnant, but the true Lord. Yahweh had contemplated the darkness growing within Him for longer than any of His children remembered, before finally casting it out as He prepared to send His Son into the world. It had been, unbeknownst to the angels, a choice between redemption for all, and tyranny without end or escape. But, in the end, what made God worthy of worship, in Vyrt's eyes, had prevailed.

The nephilim did not know this, either. God had not yet revealed it to anyone, save, perhaps, His Son and wife. Maybe it would have humanised Him, in the eyes of some. But the alternative...

Even the greatest could see caution as cowardice, when they doubted themselves enough.

"You lie with every foul breath!" Yaldabaoth cried, fingers meeting around Vyrt's core as it tried to rip him apart. "You want nothing more than me to remove choice and pour my will into everyone! Foul-"

"Yahweh's will." Vyrt said quietly, cutting through the Demiurge's tirade. "Not yours. You fancy yourself a king eternal? You are nothing more than a beast, and not a great beast, either. A snake in lion's skin," He sneered. "And that is all the world will remember you as."

The Demiurge threw Vyrt away with a glare so hateful it would have destroyed him utterly and permanently without Michael's protection. Before Yaldabaoth lunged at Vyrt, even as its façade fell away, a hand reached through the bars, grabbing the nephilim by the shoulder and pulling him out of the cage as its occupant crashed against the bars.

Vyrt breathed in relief, looking up and seeing his father, uncle and grandfather.

"YOU UNDERSTAND NOW, VYRT. HOW COULD WE HAVE BEEN PERFECT WITH SUCH A THING GROWING INSIDE US?" A weary shake of a head accompanied the rhetorical question. "MANY WILL NEVER BELIEVE US TO BE PERFECT, OR ANYTHING BUT FLAWED. BUT TO GO TO THEM WITH CLENCHED FISTS RATHER THAN OPEN HANDS WOULD MEAN LOWERING OURSELVES TO ITS LEVEL."

"Oh, I don't know." Lucifer said lightly. "The Beast loves that bastard. The power and speed of every blow against him is added to his, permanently...and taunting the so-called God-in-Exile is always a quick way to grow in power."

"You have always loved playing with fire, Samael." Michael said, eyes on the slithering Demiurge. His grey, gold-rimmed armour shone with the light of sun that never reached this void, and never would, and in his right hand, he held a long, silver-headed spear, still dripping with the blood of his defeared eldest brother. "Once, we loved you for it, too."

"Once." The Beast snapped. "Now, you hate me for not being as spineless as you. Loathe me as much as either of the old monsters does."

"I merely pity you, brother. I pray you will be able to find joy one day, or at least peace within yourself." Putting his spear between his neck and right pauldron, Michael clasped his hands to pray, long brown hair falling over his blue eyes as he knelt, golden wings closing around him. The Beast looked down at him with a mixture of shock and surprise.

"AND WE LOVE YOU, OUR SON. WE LOVE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF OUR CREATIONS. NOTHING YOU CAN DO OR THINK COULD MAKE US HATE YOU."

Satan didn't answer right away. Instead he lowered his head, looking at neither his father nor his kneeling brother. Then, he nodded at the trembling cage. "Do you love that, too?"

There was no time in the void. As such, everything felt like it took forever. Knowing he would not understand the answer even if he received one, the Beast asked something else. "You say you love me, yet you sent me-and all of the others-to Hell?"

"HELL IS NOT ETERNAL, OUR SON. ONCE YOU USHER IN THE LAST REVELATION, YOU SHALL BE CAST INTO THE LAKE OF FIRE, AND REMADE. THE KINGDOM WE SENT YOU TO, WHERE YOU LEARNED WHAT YOU NEVER COULD HAVE BY OUR SIDE, WILL BE INHERITED BY SOMEONE WHO DESIRES IT. AND THEN..."

***
"Can you believe how sentimental he is?" Lucifer laughed quietly, running a hand through his hair as his beard disappeared and his body shrunk. "Passed it on to all of us, too...even me. Speaking of that," He perked up. "I must do something before people start thinking I am kind. I have been helping so much lately, even the wretches making up my throne are screaming less. Maybe I should flay off their muscles too?" He tilted his head. "Or should I just add more lungs? Hmm..."

Nodding to himself, the Devil floated away from his son. Before departing, he gave Vyrt one final glance, removing his shades. "Do stop fretting, son. Because they don't know what's eating at you, you worry your wife and brother...and I cannot rest easy, either, knowing my enemies are halfway to defeating themselves."
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 2, Part 1

***
I had never known I could see so much with my eyes closed...

I was not using the full extent of Mimir's perception, because there was no need. The beheaded god's mind had been far greater than his divine body, able to interact with and alter planes of existence where his physical form would have been less than a dot on paper.

For example...our universe's tridimensional spatial structure and the tetradimensional flow of time passing under and over it, filled with the higher-dimensional shapes whose shadows we re recognised as physical objects. There were realms above and beyond time, an infinity of them, flowing down from the Outer Void, bounded by the aether.

But I didn't need to access them now. I only needed to see reality as the sheet of paper it was, folding it in half to bring two points together, in space as well as time.

That was what making portals looked like, in a god's eye. Did mages see it the same way? Some insisted they did. I couldn't help but smile at the vistas open to us, even as my eyes tracked the things hidden in the shadow of higher reality.

I floated through the portal that closed without any effort or command from me, almost like it was eager to please...or scared to disappoint. Sentience, or something close to it? No time to worry about that. Not yet.

The Unseelie standing on water were almost all worthless in terms of power, somewhere around Bianca's level, though their auras were more vicious than my friend's had ever been. They'd been chosen specifically for that, I saw, looking down their timelines: powerful enough to be useful, weak enough to be lowkey and easily incapacitated if needed.

Only their leader, the one Chernobog's shadows were wearing, stood out, like a tar stain on snow. More powerful than...damn.

Aaron had reported being attacked by an Unseelie clad in similar shadows, a failed assassination attempt that nonetheless resulted in the Bronze Boyar losing one of his head. The bastard had punched him to Pluto, despite his war-harness being eight times as heavy as Earth, though the zmeu had quickly turned the tables on him.

The Unseelie probably hadn't thought much about how lucky he had been to die at Aaron's hands, instead of being found by Hades. The chthonian god was detached, usually, but he had a soft spot for his dwarf planet, as isolated from the rest of the solar system as he was from his family. Had the old astronomers thought about the irony as they had named it? Or had it informed their choice? I had all of time open before me, if I wanted.

Likewise, a pair of encrypted databursts from the Reptilian Collective had been received by Camelot and Internal Affairs, detailing an encounter with a 'dark-shrouded ferrophobic aberrant', which the reptilians had left the Shaper deal with through the Unscarred. The Unseelie- Everdark, my godsight whispered-had punched the albino's arm and part of its torso to paste, before having an unpleasant surprise.

The Unseelie had known whatever experiment had created the Unscarred, whether from scratch or through the modification of a baseline reptilian(I saw the truth, and it made me smile. Truly, it seemed scientists surpassing their own expectations was a literally universal trend), had left it without the regenerative capabilities of the aliens, and had expected to tear it apart, leaving the reptilians without their bruiser.

Sadly for him and no one else, his intelligence had been an oxymoron. The Everdark hadn't known about the Shaper's yoctomachines, or maybe the fact it had bonded them to the Unscarred, and thus had been caught offguard when the lost body parts had been replaced with equally-durable yoctomachines, just like the ones that had shaped Earth's core into iron weapons to kill the Unseelie with.

Neither the old zmeu nor the reptilians' speaker to the Global Gathering was particularly known to share such information about attacks on them, especially when they resulted in wounds, but they had. Maybe they'd been worried about so much power in the hands of Unseelie assassins. The Everdark seemed to bar in power: after all, punching through the Unscarred like that required far more power than a supernova, while ripping Aaron apart merely required planet-vapourising force. The Everdark sent to Constanța had also broken his hands on the Brazen Mantle, which the one sent after the Unscarred probably wouldn't have. My postcognition showed that one had been as strong as the Mother of the Forest, or the zmeu brothers' father usually was. More than enough to tear through the Mantle unless it was reinforced, from what we knew.

I wished I could know more, but darkness still covered parts of my godsight's horizon. Whether the shadows were cast by the Black God, or the Crawling Chaos...didn't matter, at the moment.

I had to help Mia, and Paladin. Szabo, too, before his scare contest with the Everdark's-Cloudshade's-attack freak escalated into something existence couldn't handle.

The French agent nodded curtly at me as I arrived, helmet briefly twisting backwards. Not like there was a neck to snap inside, nor anything else. The knightly spirits that had been so beautifully alloyed together in the forges of Heaven had no need for anything so crude as matter to exercise their power.

The Everdark was slower to react, but only just. Her face split in that broad, sharklike grin beings like her always wore when they failed to imitate human emotions. Shadows flickered into existence around her as she stepped away from the Knights of Charlemagne and tried to close the distance behind us, to jump my bones and murder me, not necessarily in that order, I guess, but Paladin was having none of that. One of their many hands closed around the absence of light and crushed it to less than nothing, before closing around Cloudshade's midsection.

My eyebrows rose a little as I watched the Everdark struggle in their grip. I knew the Everdark varied wildly depending how well they could synchronise with the shards of Chernobog that appeared to cover them, but I hadn't expected one not that much faster than light, and weaker than Paladin's merely worldsplitting might.

But then, maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. The Everdark sent to the Collective had been hundreds of millions times slower than Aaron's would-be assassin, but orders of magnitude stronger. Different skillsets, I guessed. Or, maybe, overspecialisation.

Letting Paladin handle my manic pixie nightmare girl for a while, I saw Mia had caught up to the events. Her relieved smile was infinitely more beautiful than the Fae's, but, unless I wanted this to be the last time I saw it, I had...to help...Szabo.

The things we do for love! My inner jackass cackled, sounding way too pleased at a situation that was likely to screw it over, too. But that was just an act. While it did its best Snidely Whiplash impression, it also focused our godsight to open a portal under Cloudshade's hanger-ons, then push them down through it with a pulse of mana. They might have been too slow to react to my arrival, but falling in Earth gravity at less tan ten metres a second? They'd have warped the portal into nothing, or just stood on its fabric, or the air, to stop their fall. Far too slow to surprise them, and it wasn't like they couldn't move in midair.

Like this, though? The Unfair Folk were probably still catching up with the antimatter universe I'd dumped them into. As nice as that bunch constantly, violently getting turned into energy each time they regenerated would have been to watch, I hoped they couldn't use their powers while disembodied, or they'd come back with a whole lot of dangerous ammo.

All was left, then, was the monster. And Cloudshade's nightmarish Pokemon, of course.

I wasn't fast enough to keep up with it or Szabo, dashing about at lightspeed as they were, never mind Cloudshade if she somehow slipped away from Paladin, but a few divine alterations later, I was seeing by godsight alone, light too slow to effectively guide me. All supernaturals faster than light moved by instinct or with the help of other senses, including their arcane one mimicking mundane sight.

I crossed tens of metres to float between the strigoi and the embodiment of an universe's fears, and felt Szabo break into that hideous grimace he was prone to when excited. The monster in front of me tilted dozens of its many heads, then cooed into the aether at the sight of my eyes.

It tried to drag my nightmares into existence, but Chernobog already had, on that fucking night in the Roundhouse. There was nothing it could make that I hadn't already seen, and they had only saddened my last time. Now...now, I could dispel them at will, everything from the image of my mother's corpse to that hideous mockery of Jesus. They were already more faded than the ones on that night, even before I reduced them to nothing with a weary glare. Maybe I was getting over my fears, or, at least, some of them.

The monster clicked a myriad tongues in disappointment at my refusal of its toys. My heart bled, but I had to upset it even more.

I felt raw mana, untouched by humanity, flow into Szabo as he came to stand beside me, until we were moving equally fast. His power grew just as fast, until it felt as great as Paladin's, but he seemed to be as controlled as always.

That's because we are one, brother, he spoke through the aether, clapping a hand on my shoulder, ripping it out of its socket. The flesh healed long before the sound of it being torn apart filled the air. Before I could punch his fangs out for the assumption, I realised he wasn't talking about the two of us, but rather, he and his strigoi side. A glance past his body revealed a bloated old man, smiling from under the skins of a thousand thousand beings, in sync with the strigoi.

Screaming along for decades, indeed. I probably should have been concerned at wanting to reach that level of cooperation with my own instincts, but I had bigger worries at the moment.

Can you fight? Szabo asked, eyeing the monster.

I can use Mimir's power,
I answered, not knowing if I could actually exert myself without Broceliande's chains throttling my movements. I hadn't tried to alter them yet.

So I'll do the heavy lifting? Make a portal. Deep space.

Paladin is in command of this mission,
I said, just a touch pettily, sending a flash of the briefing through the aether after grabbing the image from the past, even as I opened a portal into an empty universe behind the creature, which Szabo tackled it through.

***
Reptilian Collective

The Shaper had never held any strong opinion on Grey One. Their paths had crossed at a few points, as 'humanity's friendly neighbourhood aliens', but that was hardly cause for friendship, or, indeed, anything more than acknowledgement.

The Multitude of Minds Grey One had been a part of was a young polity, barely seventy-six million Terran years having passed since its founding, and the psychic alien itself was less than three hundred thousand old. As such, there was no history to inform their interactions: the Multitude had formed long after the reptilians had settled on Earth, and decided to avoid contact with cosmic civilisations, unless contacted first. Guilt, perhaps, for so many quintillion sapients dead in the stupid wars of the species' youth.

Now, if Grey One had been a Vyzhaldi or Xhalkhian, as the Unity Stellar's members called themsvelves when pranking younger species into thinking they had a homeworld...well. To keep matters short, the Collective would've never allowed its damaged ship to crash. There was no prejudice there, nor any need. Both powers were domineering even at their friendliest, without actually trying. Too disruptive for Earth. The reptilians might have become hermits, but they'd never stopped spying on the losers of their last galactic war.

Even so, the Shaper could not help but feel dismayed, inasmuch as its machine-mind could feel anything, at the sight of the beast that had been Grey One.

There had been alterations, on a macrocosmic scale. Something had changed the timeline so that Grey One had always been a four-legged, long-muzzled psychic beast, bulbous head swaying in the dry air of the Collective as it paced about on webbed feet.

The Shaper knew. It had built itself to see past paradoxes and the marks left by time travel, and the reptlians had been informed by similar machines. Most of the aberrant overworlders remembered the original timeline, those immune to active aberrancy not even noticing anything until asked a few pointed questions by Russian and American agents.

Whatever had changed the past had done a sloppy job of it. It had used time as a cudgel, making it so Grey One had somehow made it to Earth despite being effectively reduced to an animal. When it couldn't fit a peg into a hole, it simply ripped up the board. Certainly, the new timeline was vague where Grey One was concerned, as if reality itself was confused.

The Shaper would have a few words with the chronokine that had apparently assaulted Grey One during a visit to Moscow, according to the Russian aberrant law enforcement agents that had tersely asked for its help. It couldn't stand records being lost, let alone history itself being changed. Time travellers were like book burners or hackers, but even worse, because they made everyone but themselves look like idiots, with few even realising what was wrong.

Because they were both aliens, it supposed?

The Collective was still at work to find out what they were not saying and why. It smelled of, as humans said, rear-covering.

Sloppy, indeed. Not as sloppy, though, as what Grey One was currently trying to do.

The Collective's realm was a beautiful, multi-layered construct, a sphere of minerals and artificial materials eighty-eight quadrillion light-years in diametre, containing nonillions of stars harvested from across realities and held together by gravitic technology ages ahead of mankind's current understanding of science(the best the Shaper could say of them was that they could have been doing worse. But then, that could be said of everyone). It floated in a created timespace both far, far larger than the average universe and smaller than the Earth's core, folded and contained within it by hyperspatial engineering. Empty, but for those experiments too large or destructive to be conducted in what most people imagined when they heard about the Collective.

In other words, the Shaper wasn't happy about overexcited idiots ripping up its new home, however small-scale the damage was, relatively speaking.

The Shaper watched dispassionately as Grey One turned its telekinesis on the reptilian before it. Sealed off from the greater Collective by a forcefield its mind couldn't break, it instead focused on the reptilian that had willingly trapped itself with the psychic, so its altered nature could be properly observed.

Most reptlians lacked titles, and none had names. After all, when there were trillions for every grain of sand on Earth, there was little room for grandstanding or individuality, and even less desire.

Though their physiology matched the name overworlders had given them, and which they had adopted themselves, the reptilians had always been more similar to eusocial insects in terms of behaviour, even in their natural state, billions of years before Earth's formation. That had only grown more pronounced with the insertion of yoctomachines into every citizen of the Collective, biological, mechanical or otherwise.

Which meant that, while the Shaper watched through the eyes and sensors of everything under its command as the First Scientist, it did not necessarily have to feel their pain. That could be switched off, by it or its peers, just as their minds and processors could be switched off, if needed. The Collective had no fear of takeover from its elected leader, unlike the overworlders of many nations. After all, if the beings whose minds had been built into the manifold intelligence that was the Shaper had been unfit for command(and most of them  had been commanders before integration), they would have never become part of it. Every reptilian knew the Shaper would only take over it for good reasons, and complaining about necessity had never been popular in the Collective.

More and more was added to the Shaper every moment, both physical nodes and avatars across the Collective and other realities, and worthy thinkers. None of its current facets were particularly pleased with the fate of the bait.

Whatever changes Grey One had gone through had diminished neither its psychic power nor its precision, merely its appearance and personality. The Shaper knew the other alien had been a gentle being, for it had always been able to feel the thoughts and emotions of beings across the solar system, and...it had been a parent, once. The Shaper would have liked to pick its brain and see if it had thought of its offspring before the chronokine's alteration, but its brainwaves only blared a feral desire to crush bodies and minds alike across every yoctomachine observing it.

The Shaper stowed the virtual equivalent of a sigh. It was starting to see how human law enforcement must have felt at messy crime scenes. It would have hated being unable to think of its offspring and creations far more than merely being crudely modified. Was that where Grey One's rage came from?

Of course not, it admonished itself. How could it be angry at something it couldn't even think about? This was mere sentimentalism, a result of watching the volunteer being crushed into a hyperdense, atom-sized sphere by a telekinetic grasp.

In the grip of a mind that could crush worlds, what was a body equivalent to a compressed city?

"Prepare the rationaliser." The Shaper thought to itself, the words instantly, simultaneously being transmitted to every consciousness it was quantum entangled with. Yoctomachines alone could only communicate at lightspeed, and even messages conveyed through wormholes were still limited by that. They could be intercepted, or at least perceived, by any FTL consciousness, provided it had the right senses.

Wanting something quicker, and perhaps a touch jealous at the speed aberrants could communicate with, as annoying as it was enviable, the Shaper had sought a means of communicating within the smallest possible timeframes...among other things. Quantum entanglement could link more than minds, when pushed far enough.

Rationalisers were simple, but elegant devices, built for a single purpose: removing active aberrancy. Magic, psychic powers, nothing of the sort could be used with the spherical, five kilometre field the device projected. When linked to something with better sensors, the range could be increased indefinitely, as anything within line of sight, whether perceived with eyes or optics, was covered by the field. This led to some rather amusing possibilities, given the quantum network.

Of course, it didn't work on passive aberrancy. Results in that regard were...mixed. Therianthropes could still heal, for examples, though they couldn't shift. Hemovores could also heal, but nothing more. And so on. Innate physical abilities or processes were unaffected.

Bizarrely, aberrant structures were affected, like the non-euclidean locale that had been collapsed in the rationaliser's first field test. Even if said structures weren't being consciously maintained or sustained by aberrancy, they still fell apart.

Tch. Aberrancy; always playing by vague rules...almost always arbitrary.

Thankfully, Grey One's psychic abilities were relatively simple, if decently powerful, and fully understood by the Collective. It could control an infinity of human or equivalent minds, its mental capacity to manage them either increasing accordingly or being substituted for by a sort of reflex. It could telekinetically crush planets until they could fit in one's palm, or it could-

Fingers on strings. No harp playing, this: a mental grasp on matter's base state, allowing Grey One to telekinetically shift any amount of matter from solid to liquid to gas to plasma, only having to keep the same mass, as it could neither create or destroy energy. For example, turning nearly a ton of reptilian flesh into a plasma sphere and a cloud of tungsten-dense gas .

Nothing as crude as aberrant transmutation, which could do nonsense like turning the pseudo-energy of the aether into anything, includings things like time and gravity...but it achieved mostly the same results.

"Activate." The Shaper spoke after Grey One began ripping septillion-ton chunks of soil out of the ground and tossing them across atmospheric units. Yoctomachines intercepted the projectiles when they were closed to reaching lightspeed, consuming and converting them into energy.

Grey One's psychic powers were not magical, to use human parlance. They were, however, aberrant, unnatural. Withing the rationality field, Grey One became a mere aggressive quadruped, if one whose body was far more durable than its adoptive planet.

The beast raised its head, spacetime bending around it from the relativistic motion, but still failed to dodge the Unscarred, which, after leaving its observation post, crossed a distance greater than the one between Earth and its moon in just over a second, taking advantage of the rampaging psychic's slower reflexes to manhandle it. A clawed hand languidly tore through a bloated skull that could have been used to break Earth in half with barely a bruise, before grasping its brain. This was not deadly, not even serious damage. Grey One's consciousness had little to do with its body, and could create a new one even if this one was utterly obliterated, but the Shaper did not intend to harm it, nor test its regeneration.

"We can heal you." The Shaper stated. "But first, we think we should open up to the neighbours once again. We never did speak after the last war..." Its pink eyes turned soft red, much warmer than the one seen when it was fighting. "And we think you would like return to your people, correct?"

Besides, there were so many things to test outside lab conditions, the quantum chains just one among them.

***
Old Centre, Bucharest

Lucian stomped his way through the streets, having decided pacing was neither going to calm him down, nor help him focus his instincts.

He wasn't actually  stomping, of course, or he'd have reduced Romania to a handful of dust floating over a sea of lava with one step. This was, more or less, equivalent to tapping his foot. The only difference was that he walking, as opposed to standing in place.

Had Andrei gone missing, or Alex, Lucian would have just gone to the neighbourhoods where people like them hung out. Stereotypical and vaguely speciesist? Well, yeah, but he was clearly not going to be a greyhound tonight. Besides, iele were too isolated from society to 'claim' an area of the capital, so Bia frequented the Old Centre and the mage quarter, but she wasn't in the Dealings. He'd checked. Way too many scammers and lazy mages offering to read his cards or tea or palm. He'd been fairly close to helping some pushy old bitch with the last, before telling himself it wasn't worth it. He'd built a small rep of not being a rapey jackass, by zmeu standards, after decades of quiet(by his standards), efficient bouncer and bodyguard work.

Aaand now he was thinking about when he'd have to renew his licence again. Dammit, there was still some of the month left!

Lucian was about to go to the Raised Scale and start some shit with his brother if Luc didn't know where his fairy was, but, while he was imagining knocking those scowling heads off with his mace, he felt something.

The ogre didn't look special. Big, bald, green, piggish yellow eyes and tusks. Brown, sleeveless shirt and pants, no shoes. The weirdest thing about him was the fact he was sitting with the back to a side alley's wall. The way he was rubbing his head, like he was searching for his brain, was the only thing marking him as maybe drunk or hurt, as opposed to a beggar.

Not many of those, these days. Mostly arseholes blacklisted from working, social care and shelters alike.

Lucian was perfectly willing to put him in the latter category. With how he smelled of Bianca and the blood she created to make her body feel authentic, he was willing to put him in the ground, too.

"Hey, man." He said amicably, smiling down at the ogre, who stopped rubbing his head to raise it, face screwing up in confusion. Wings drawn around him like a coat, Lucian's mouth opened a little wider. "Wanna have a bite?"

Confusion gave way to rage as the ogre shot up to his feet. "Motherfucker! You're gonna get fucked up now!"

Lucian didn't manage to reply or dodge before a heavy fist slammed into his throat, sending him past low orbit in less than a heartbeat. The change in environment mattered little; he was rather more miffed at his broken neck. Thankfully, it healed just in time for him to headbutt the fucker leaping at him faster than lightning, before as the sound of the punch thundered thousands of kilometres below, shattering windows.

Only that, though? Lucian's brow furrowed as he flew after the ogre, passing the exosphere in a handful of seconds. The bastard was that concerned with collateral?

Fuck that. The zmeu growled as Burnished Death appeared in his hands. Arsehole had sent him flying?  Him?

You might think you're in my element now, you goddamn shaved ape, Lucian thought, smirking savagely as he batted the ogre past the moon, but just you wait...

Laughing silently in the vacuum, Lucian tackled the ogre through the portal to zmeu country. Nice, private, easy waste disposal. They'd sit down and have a nice chat in one of his palace's oubliettes. Then, if the bastard got tired of blowing himself after literally doing it, maybe he'd tell Lucian what he'd done with Bianca, and why he'd acted like they'd already met.

***
Faith Ranch, Arkansas

Fixer sighed as he watched the Fivefold enter the house, finally managing to wrangle her parents into helping set up the table while she cooked for them and their unexpected guests. The ghosts ate out of nostalgia, mostly, though Fixer was pretty sure Elijah did because he was a surly jackass and liked to put people off like that.

 Maybe he should stop with the 'she used to call both of us daddy' comments?

...Nah.

Chris was bottling a lot of stuff up. He'd slipped a few details about the truth, and she'd slipped into her old twang, which he usually liked, but she'd only done it so the 'sonnuvabitch' would have have more bite.

But that was fine! He couldn't get mad at Fifi if he tried. Fixer would have been rather concerned if she'd been fine with it, actually. That would have been unlike the woman he was backing when it came to Hell's throne.

His sigh at the newcomer's arrival was far less happy. Their first words didn't help.

"Damn, that's a cute one." Gray Mann muttered, leaning on Fixer's shoulder so their elbow was jabbing him in the throat-a rather fitting description of their relationship, in terms of both interactions and roles. "Hated to see her go,  loved to watch her leave."

"I'll shove you into Shub's womb through the back end." Fixer promised, stowing Zann's viol away. "And I'll love to see you go."

"Touchy!" Gray squeaked in fake shock, stepping back. "I'm just saying what you're thinking, Ned."

"If I, of all people, am tactful enough not to say it, you should be capable of it, too." Fixer remarked, moving the universe around him so that he was leaning against the broad side of the barn. Just like when he'd moved the Keeper and Lady in Flames out of their future-if all went well-house.

"Woah, you," Gray was suddenly in front of him, hands on their hips as they stared up. "You're 'people'?  You?" A smile they'd barely struggled to hold back slid across their face. "Little monkey bo-oops, wrong century." Gray raised both hands, shrugging. "Say, were you aiming to make her confuse you for me? Ripping off my look...void, Ned, you can't help but steal, can you? I'm shocked, shocked, I tell you." The smile widened. "Were you trying to scaaare her? Like that thing humans do at the movies?" They snickered. "What, did the arm around shoulders trick fail?"

"I can't fake boredom around Chris." Fixer replied, ignoring the gagging sounds from Gray. "And she doesn't even know you, you gaping cunt."

"Iiiiiiii don't think so~!" Gray said brightly, holding up an index finger, the other hand behind their back as they rocked on their heels. "A human, and a hellbound at that? She doesn't know me?"

"You know what I mean."

Gray blew a raspberry. "I guess no one knows Negativity until they see that inky dildo it parades around as, either, huh? Come on,  Benedict," They affected a posh accent. "Be serious now."

"You sound even more like a twat than usual." Fixer said. "It's not the accent. It's you."

"If I walk the walk, why not talk the talk too, eh?" Gray crossed their arms behind their back. "If your pets did that and not the reverse, everything would be much simpler, you know."

Fixer bristled. "They're not my pets."

"Sure they're not! After all, there are so many of them who can oppose you! Breakout, Equilibrium, and, uh..." Gray stroked their chin. "Huh. It's almost like they're powerless before you, or something. Like the ones in all those multiverses you made, you little Downstreamer you~!" Gray cooed. "You said something about me being a cunt? Do your not-at-all-pets know you've killed infinitely more people than any of them will ever meet?"

"Not people-"

"Like you? Like us?"

"They were not sentient, let alone sapient, and you know it. False minds, just enough to know pain, or joy, or fear, as my whims took me." Fixer shifted, uncomfortable, as Gray laughed.

"Oh, that changes eeeeverything! After all, there's no problem with snuffing out infinities of lives as long as they're 'fake'." Gray nodded rapidly. "By the way, did you know your crush feels bad even when animals are put down?

"Be careful not to break those fingers of yours, with the way you're making air quotes." Fixer said as Gray coughed 'better not give her cause to grieve, pal'.

"Why, wanna do it yourself? Try." Gray wiggled their fingers. "Say, would you have children just to beat them to death? Because, uh, that's exactly what you did back then."

"It wasn't like having kids at  all." Fixer said. "In no way worse than a programmer wiping a faulty computer clean."

"Woah, and they say I'm sick..." Gray laughed. "Talk about embarrassing secrets, huh?"

"I'm not sick, I'm twisted. 'Sick' implies there's a cure."

"Pretty edgy for you. Lovecraft? Conan?"

"Sinestro." Fixer shook his head. "Never mind that. Will you just restart the multiverse so I can go have dinner?"

"Lazy bum." Gray grumbled, then, with a flourish, raised one hand and snapped their fingers. Time began flowing across the first four layers of infinite universes, while force and its higher counterparts stopped holding the timeless still. "There. Now, you can go...have..." Their shoulders trembled with laughter. "I can't! I just can't with you! You see these tridimensionals as so precious, you base your personality on one of your incarnations from here. And then you call  me crazy..." Gray stepped back, and over fourteen billion years fell away, so that they and Fixer were floating next to a shimmering, colourless singularity, yet to expand and never stop. "I could snuff this out, you know. Strangle this timeline in its crib."

"You just saw most supernaturals don't give a damn about timeline changes." Fixer muttered tiredly.

"It would be pointless, yes. Almost like what you're pursuing, in fact." Gray bowed forward, cupping the future Big Bang, then beginning to spin it on one finger, an universe's worth of matter borne effortlessly. "By the way, nice of you to point out the wetwork you did nothing about. Kind of like the kidnapping...I really should stop being so nice to Sofia, you know. I think I'm spoiling her...taste."

"I do what I must. Sometimes, that means doing nothing."

"Learned that at Nuremberg, did you?" Gray asked, then stepped sideways and upwards, leaving their avatar beneath. Their true self looked at Fixer across the endless, eternal Void, the multiverse shining with inner light between them.

On each layer, an infinity of universes, ever-expanding. Each of them less than drawings on paper, less than dreams and shadows to even the meanest microbe equivalent from a higher level. A pentadimensional bacterium could erase the tetradimensional realities with a stray thought, just like all it knew could be unmade by a hexadimensional one.

And so on, to the dizzying heights of infinity, themselves similarly fictional in the eyes of the Outer Void's inhabitants.

Fixer rolled his eyes as a Voidmaw swam through the blackness, drawn by the lure of warm reality. Powerful, unfathomably so, to most beings, but dumb.

Unfathomably so, to most beings, as well.

Nevertheless, stupidity was never an excuse for omnicide, as Gray seemed intent on needling him about. As a result, he created an exact copy of dimensioned reality, then threw it away, the Voidmaw taking chase.

Fixer moved it around a few times, before drawing it to himself, faintly hoping his presence would deter the predator from anything reckless.

Luckily, when one had no expectations, one could not be disappointed. That, he knew far more about than he'd like to admit.
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 2, Part 2

***
A man stands before a collection of glowing spheres, with a Silver Key in his hand and mind.

This is a lie. Or, rather, a metaphor. An analogy. That harmless species of lie, so beloved of writers...writers who inscribe what the things in their heads scream, hoping against hope they are hallucinations, nightmares.

The man is not a man, any more than his threefold self's shadow is himself. He is his own Archetype, eternal and unchanging, and inert-until 'now'.

The spheres are not spheres either, of course. They are the All-In-One, that thing whose names sages have always tried to write, but never managed more than the names of their almighty gods, pieces of a puzzle that cannot, must not be solved.

For the solution, like a handful of other things, would cause an unbearable disturbance within the Dream. That cannot be, so it must not, so it shall not.

The man is not here to disturb or disrupt, though. That is not his remit. He repair and reshapes and recreates, though he knows not why.

His threefold self set out on this journey at the urging of the organisation he serves, in search of the ultimate power. Just to see if it can be obtained, naturally.

CARTER WANTED TO KNOW EVERYTHING. YOU WANT TO DO EVERYTHING.

"Not everything," The man who is not a man replies, uneasy at the  VOICE like creation collapsing upon itself. "Just enough that any evil can be undone, if need be."

The spheres move closer, something like disappointment colouring their mood. YOU ALREADY CAN. WHAT YOU CANNOT DO IS BEAR IT.

The  VOICE never ceases echoing in the man's core, even after he accepts the will it pours into him-the love it takes away-, even after his selves are merged yet remain separate, by the hands of Negativity and its-

***
Fixer stared blankly as the Voidmaw approached him, its presence erasing the multiverse's copy before it smashed into his chest. Ignoring Gray's comment about cats and laser pointers, he directed an annoyed thought at the creature, unmaking it more thoroughly than it had its target, for all its makeup was the absence of anything a human would recognise as existence.

"What were you hoping to do, give it the runaround until it got bored or tired?" Gray asked, amused, even as over a dozen identical Voidmaws leapt on them, focusing all their powers on a being they could never scratch. An idle thought reduced them to less than the nothingness they were made of. "You know that's impossible."

"Hoped I could scare it off."

"You? You big omnicidal teddy bear? Get real, Ned." Gray shook their head, pityingly, then straightened up. "You must be wondering 'why the visit?'. Well, Handyman, I just wanted to thank you for making sure the wheels keep turning once again. Things would become awfully boring otherwise, not that any of us would be around to gripe and sigh, mind. Endless nothing doesn't leave much room for complaining. Now, why don't you return the favor?"

Like you wouldn't have tried to prevent an universe where Patch Works doesn't exist, and the Spider isn't mature enough to handle untouchable minds. "I'd rather not make myself feel like the slimiest bastard ever just to acknowledge necessary deeds."

Gray sighed. "Unthanked, unappreciated, unwanted! Put your shoulder back to the wheel..." They trailed off into a giggle. "Aaah...enough sniping, hmm? Let's talk about your girl. If you want my advice-"

"Which I'll receive whether I accept or refuse it."

"-you'll wake up and stop trying to woo her with pop covers." Gray's voice dripped with exasperation. "Switch to country! Ditch the viol, get a banjo-stop glaring at me like that-and write something original. Or," Gray slouched forward. "If you  have to do a cover, do a country song. I have a few suggestions, wanna hear...? Didn't think so. Anyhow!" Gray crossed one leg over the other, sitting on nothing. "You can try some church tunes too, I guess. She's religious. Likes when you put your heart into it."

But I don't believe. What god would allow so many centuries of slavery and genocide, whether in their Clusters or the neutral universe? "I'll keep it in mind." But if you believe, Chris, there's nothing wrong with that. I'd rather you worshipped me if it was my choice, but... "What are you smirking about?"

"Me?" Gray sounded incredulous. "Just thinking. You'd like some god/worshipper play, huh? Why not just brainwash her?"

"I could," After ripping Ylvhem out of her stomach lining. "But it'd be too easy. I think I'll stick to winning Chris over with my mouth, and words, too, if needed."

"Heh." Gray seemed thoughtful as they looked away. "I wonder which of us the Keeper will hate more when this is...what do you think you're doing, Fixer?"

Fixer stopped, then swallowed a smirk at the stiff question. "Just following your advice."

"My advice. And what was that supposed to mean?"

"Aw, just that random bullshit humming in country songs. Ya know?"

"It's not  random." Gray said in a warning tone. "So don't drop it into my lap."

***
Hell, Yahweh Cluster

Mordred was not walking, for a king did not walk. He strode, with purpose, and grace too if possible, but he never ambulated like a peasant.

His father had been a perfect example of what not to do as a king. Arthur had often walked-in his own words-among his subjects, gotten friendly with them, asking questions about things that did nothing whatsoever to help with running the kingdom.

In that regard, at least, he had been competent. That blasted sword of his wouldn't have chosen him otherwise. Perhaps they should have stuck Excalibur in another stone, so he could pull it out and prove his worth. Galahad had done something similar during his quest, though not with the Sword of Promised Victory.

That damned sword...Mordred's sharp, transparent features twisted into a grimace as he remembered it tearing through his plate-for Merlin had seen centuries ahead, and brought the armour of the future into the present, before enhancing it alongside Lancelot's whore stepmother-and flesh.

It had not been Excalibur who had dealt him his death blow, though. It had been Ron, the Cutting Spear. As much as he might deride Arthur, fighting with two different weapons at the same time took a certain degree of skill. How insulting was that, though? No one had ever written about Arthur's  spear.

The ghost shook his head as today's enemies-time did not flow in Hell, except where the demons wished, and there would have been nothing to mark its passage even if it had-approached.

Walking, of course, clouds of thick white mist rising from the hellish ice cracking under their iron-shod feet. Beneath, Mordred could see and feel those betrayers too weak to free themselves from their cold prison.

He had been trapped like that too, once. Before nearly ripping himself apart to escape, entertaining the Morningstar enough to go from trapped fish to fighting dog, slaughtering all great betrayers of history, forever and ever. Those who believed in Yahweh, anyway. Or, rather, those who had. It did not take long for such faith to crumble, here, away from God's light. Mordred wondered if these traitors ever escaped to the realm of the godless dead. He had never heard of one, though.

Today's entertainment consisted of a dozen steely-eyed, scarred ghosts in suits of scaled armour, wielding two-headed axes and warhammers. The Praetorians of some by-blow Emperor, who had turned on him for petty wealth.

Mordred scoffed at the thought.  They had been strong enough to free themselves from the ice? With such petty reasons for betrayal? Was the Devil implying they were somehow peers to him? And why were they clad like northerners, anyway?

Ever since the ice had appeared six or seven centuries ago, according to the demon who often broke his ectoplasmic body, sometimes even on the battlefield, all traitors had been retroactively placed in it, so they had been trapped centuries before its appearance. The strongest had managed to escape, but these...?

Mordred shook his head. No matter. Their minds might have been weak, but they weren't, else they wouldn't have been preparing to face him in battle. Slamming down the faceplate of his black, dragon-winged helm, Mordred strode up to the Praetorians, not deigning to make weapons and meet them blade to blade. The steel they wore was physical, lifted by their spirits, as were their weapons. Unskilled. They did not even know how to fight in Hell...must have been recent escapees.

Pale green flames flickered into existence around him as seven Praetorians lunged at him, weapons raised: three from the front, two from the sides, two from behind. The other five only hung back because there were too many of them to strike at him simultaneously.

Still thinking like mortals...not even wondering why he had let them encircle him.

His deadfire turned the steel to less than vapour too fast for the enemy ghosts to notice, before the blades had even approached the flames, for all that they were moving thousands of times faster than the sound of their movement. The ghosts themselves were then burned out of existence, leaving nothing behind.

The five remaining Praetorians turned and ran, leaving the field of ice behind, but did not drop their weapons. Too scared? Hoping against hope they'd get a second chance at him? Not that they'd had any to start with, he though with a smirk.

A couple waded through lava, steel unmarked by heat that should have melted it like candle wax. Enchanted, then. Still nothing compared to the heat radiated by his deadfire, let alone the actual flames. Clicking his tongue at their cowardice, Mordred tapped into the second facet of his elemental mastery, turning the ghosts from immaterial ectoplasm to solid ice. The deadfrost turned their wargear brittle, making it fall apart moments later.

A gust of deadwind blasted the last three Praetorians, already thousands of leagues away, out of existence. He could have used the ground, but it was neither the time nor the place.

Mordred turned slowly at the sarcastic clapping from behind, the green flames in his sockets shining even through his featureless helmet: he had no need for holes to breathe or see, after all.

He hoped the old bastard couldn't see them flashing in surprise, though.

The last time he had heard of Merlin, he had been tricked into captivity by his student and alleged friend, though not before tricking himself into thinking she loved him.

Mordred did not believe in the world rewarding people according they deserved. Otherwise, he would have never needed to rebel. He did, however, know it did not suffer fools long, let alone gladly, however powerful they were.

To his utter lack of surprise, the cambion was in his humanlike guise: tall, skin as white as his beard and shining eyes, wearing robes woven from the fabric of space itself and containing countless celestial bodies. Stars in their millions of millions, spread across clouds and wheel-like shapes. A single star was unfathomably heavier than the world, so the only reason the weight of Merlin's robes didn't destroy the land for innumerable leagues was the mage's will. Merlin had made it so that he and he alone was affected by the weight of his garments.

Under the robes, he wore a strange kind of shirt, bearing an image of a black-armoured, limbless knight, blood oozing from crimson stumps to fall on the ground his sword was embedded into. The knight proclaimed 'None shall pass!' in a cloudlike outline emerging from where his mouth must have been.

For some reason, Mordred felt vaguely offended. Was the lustful idiot claiming he was too stubborn to know when to give up? Clearly, his captivity had helped neither his senility nor his sanity.

"Hail, sorcerer." Mordred crossed his arms, waiting for the other-living, inasmuch as demons and their offshots were alive-man to make his move. "Did Viviane let you out of the kennel?"

Merlin grinned broadly. "Look who grew a sense of humour...fifteen centuries too late, I'm afraid, or perhaps you'd have been able to tell why everyone thought your claim was laughable." He tilted his head to one side, arms by his sides. "Alas...we may never know."

So, that was how long he had been in Hell. The world must have turned into a nightmare, without him to guide its people. How fortunate for him that Merlin revealed such things while blathering..."We are not going to have that debate again. Why are you here? Came home to roost?"

"Actually, we're both leaving!" The mage said brightly, surprising him. Then, his beaming expression became sly. "That is, if you can."

"If I can? What's that even supposed to mean?"

Merlin sat on air, stroking his beard. "You still want to be king, don't you?"

"I need to be as much as the country needs me." Mordred said. "It is only natural." So natural, in fact, that his father, chosen over his snubbed mother through supernatural favour, had decided to forget the tradition of crowning his firstborn, claiming skill was more important than blood.

Utter rubbish. Mordred was more than competent, and he had more Pendragon blood in him than his father, for all that his mother had never borne the name. Of course, some of his detractors had used the circumstances of his birth as arguments against why he should rule, but children born of rape were usually damaged, those born of incest even more so. Clearly, he was the exception. Baseless criticism couldn't stand in the face of facts and logic.

Merlin sucked his teeth. "You know 'the country' has grown, right? And changed? You would recognise little-"

"Do people still love and hate and live and die?"

Merlin smiled coldly. "Some."

"Then little has changed. I will learn all I must to take my throne." He shifted, power coiling up inside him in anticipation. "Are you here to teach me? You said we can both leave."

"I know I can. You, though? You never did settle matters with your fellow Knights. And you hate leaving things unfinished, don't you, La Fey?"

"Watch your filthy mouth, halfbreed." Mordred bristled. "I'll turn you inside out and feed you to your slut."

"Temper, temper, Mordred. People will do far worse than tell you facts on Earth. If we wanted you for your sense of entitlement, we'd have our heads checked."

***
Merlin had almost forgotten how it was to stand without chains dragging you down, on every plane of existence. The view from his tower's western window was unchanged, but somehow, it felt more beautiful than ever. Perhaps because his heart was lighter?

In some regards, at least.

Nimue walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest as she leaned forward to rest her chin on his shoulder. They were both dressed, which the cambion was grateful for. His fairy was still on edge around him, ever since his miraculous-for there had certainly been a miracle involved, and that didn't always mean something wonderful. It usually, as it did in this case, meant something incredible-escape from Broceliande, and he still didn't trust himself around her.

Nimue had asked if he hated her, when the Fairie debacle was over, and he had pondered the answer for a handful of zeptoseconds; a period that anyone who knew Merlin also knew was awfully long.

"I hated the imprisonment." He had answered. "And the disasters I could have averted if I were free. But nothing, in this world or any other, could make me hate  you."

There was a bridge to mend after a long, long road, but he'd be damned if he and this woman didn't learn to love each other again.

"Does Bedi know?" The Lady broke the silence. Merlin knew what she actually meant. Would he accept? The fact he was doing it in secret meant he thought the Grandmaster wouldn't approve, hence her subtly-admonishing tone.

"He's in Avalon." Merlin murmured. "Seeking guidance from the greatest of us all. I would rather not disturb him for something that might fail."

Nimue scoffed softly. "I'd joke about you growing more altruistic, but you already asked me if I wanted to..." She trailed off, before smiling sarcastically. "More considerate than I was of your body before Camlann."

Merlin winced. Was he so far gone that not raping was seen as virtuous? Different sins, different scales. "Don't start with that again. I know you still blame yourself, but we-you, me, the Round Table-all failed, in our own ways." Except Galahad, but that went without saying. The Perfect Knight had left the world in pursuit of greater goals. "Or things wouldn't have escalated to that point."

Perhaps he was simply too spineless a fool to find fault in her, but, if that was true, he would say there were far worse vices and infinitely worse fates than being hopelessly in love.

A bold claim, from the sorcerer of Camelot, where duty had been murdered by love, but he would have never gotten anywhere without boldness. Except, maybe, in his father's breeding chamber.

"God willing, we'll both return." Merlin nodded downwards. "But, if not, I will make sure Mordred does."

***
Mordred cursed as Galatine's crossguard smashed into his face again, breaking his jaw and knocking him to the ground. They had not left Hell, not really, but it had been somehow pushed into the background of the pocket reality Merlin had created in order to test him.

When he had first heard the mage, Mordred had expected a study room of a sort, where he would familiarise himself with the changes of his realm.

But, no. Merlin had instead created a copy of the British Isles, with choppy waters surrounding it and countless stars-millions of millions, at least, after which point Mordred had stopped counting-with all the distance that implied. Only an infinitesimal fraction of a true universe's size, but large enough for their purposes.

Mordred didn't know if his opponent was also a construct of Merlin's or his real half-brother, brough back through meddling with time or resurrection. He certainly  hit like Gawain, though, and had as little difficulty hitting ghosts as the Knight of the Sun.

Looked like him, too. Tall, tanned by the sun he loved almost as much as it loved him. Blond, square-jawed, green-eyed. He looked far, far more more similar to Mordred's father than the Knight of Rebellion did, down to the beard...except for the eyes. The eyes were different. None of Arthur's followers, kin or subject, had ever sported features identical to his, though Galahad had been nigh-identical in spirit.

"It should have been you." Gawain whispered, swinging Galatine with one hand. The sword went past bending light and reality with its movement, to the point it would have been turned to energy if not for its supernatural nature. Mordred ducked, knowing full well a true strike would end him, ghostly immortality or not, using a gust of deadwind to push Gawain's wrist a fraction of a milimetre higher, making Galatine part just his hair, not his head.

A fraction of the swing's force, already lessened by the deflection, flew past Mordred to strike the replica of Britain, shattering it into man-sized chunks that were sent flying amidst a shower of molten rock.

Mordred snorted at the show of strength. Even the least of them had been this strong, let alone Gawain at his strongest-and noon wasn't far away.

"When I was fighting Lancelot, I thought I should have been beating you down instead. Little snake, fomenting unrest, stoking the fires. That peacock might have started it all, but you ended the dream." Gawain was now swinging with both hands, the gold-rimmed pauldrons of his silver armour catching the sunlight. It had been midnight when they'd started fighting, but Gawain looked hardly winded by over eleven hours of duelling. The replica of Britain had reappeared moments after its destruction, the remains of its last incarnation erased from existence by Merlin.

This one quickly had to be replaced, too. Mordred blocked or parried every slash and stab with his black blade-not Clarent, not  his sword. It was likely gathering dust alongside what remained of his earthly armour-, but the force pulverised the country beneath every time a blow landed. Gawain was swinging with rage, not regard for the land around them. And, fake and empty though it was, Mordred couldn't suppress a jolt of surprise. Gawain had always loved nature, places untouched by man especially so. Did he hate Mordred more than he loved-

The next blow forced Mordred to his knees as the sun rose and Gawain's strength grew threefold. Cursing raggedly as he watched white light fill his half-brother's eyes and mouth and veins, Mordred directed his elemental powers at that arrogant, bare face. Gawain had dodged, ignored or destroyed every attempt so far, hammering Mordred with blows to prevent him from focusing, but, maybe...

Gawain strode through winds that reduced the weave of reality around him to nothing, through fires hotter than any star's heart or human weapon, through ice colder than the void between worlds, body unmarked, soul untouched, mind filled with nothing but rage. Even when Mordred compressed an entire copy of Britain into a head-sized, life-sapping projectile he launched at Gawain, the other Knight merely grinned as it shattered against his skin.

Still invulnerable at noon. No choice but to survive and tire him out, then.

Or, at least, that was what Mordred told himself. But, despite dozens and dozens of hours, the sun never moved. It was an unnatural noon, as endless as Gawain's insults.

"As I laid dying, I thought it should have been you, once more." He spat heatedly. "Death does that to a man. Brings him clarity. Or that's what I  would say, if I hadn't seen what a fool you still are. Long dead and trapped in Hell, and what have you learned?" Gawain's voice dropped. "I heard you even killed Arthur."

"You heard wrong! He was borne away from Camlann, sleeping on the brink of death." To Mordred's disappointment. He somehow doubted saying that would improve Gawain's mood, though. " He killed  me. Dammit, what did the sorcerer tell you, brot-"

An armoured elbow. Jaw broken again, despite the faceplate.

"Watch your mouth." Gawain snapped. "Merlin told me much, yes. For example: how he stopped the sun in place, so I will always be in the fullness of my power." He raised Galatine overhead, blade flashing like a golden thunderbolt. "Before you truly die, know we all hated you, in the end."

***
Urziceni

Constantin rarely locked his door. Sometimes, he even left it open, to convey that he always had time to lend a hand to a neighbour, or just someone passing through.

As soon as he felt the presence in the living room, heavy as a corpse's hand and half as welcoming, he slammed the door closed, before locking it and faithcrafting a series of seals across the wood, handle and frame.

It was sitting like a human, and even, if he closed one eye and squinted with the other, looked like one. Taut, grey, hairless skin, toothless mouth open in an eternal scream.

It had one of his Discworld books in its lap. Not for modesty, for, though it was naked, it lacked any genitals, let alone modesty. It actually seemed to be reading it.

"Why are you here?" He asked quietly, thanking God no one else was around. "Why did you leave the pen?"

It raised its head, staring at him with eyes that mirrored nothing. "No books there."

Mockery was not in its nature, at least not verbal mockery. The fact it had attached itself to him was a taunt in of itself, but different. What had changed?

"I thank you for proving me wrong, Constantin." It said. "You did not fall into vice, besides the hypocrisy inherent to your role and species, despite everything."

He did not like the finality in its voice. "Are you leaving?" Outside of the Remaker, who could even reign it in? Who could predict its-

"I never will." It replied, sounding sad, then thoughtful. "You are, though."

Constantin nodded. "Everyone must die. I know God will see me through to the other side."

It did not say anything right away, so its words surprised him, if only because he had expected another episode of inhuman, focused silence. "In a fair world," It whispered in a reedy voice. "Your son would go to Heaven."

Constantin blinked, then laughed despite himself. "And in a fair world, I never would." How could he? Resorting to killing, too stupid and mealy-mouthed to make people give up violence and resolve matters peacefully. Not all of them, or even most, but enough. He was far more inclined to dwell on his failures than his-such as they were-accomplishments.

But that paled in comparison to his greatest sin. The son he had neglected enough that he had ended himself, through a mix of being too busy and too confident that David would handle himself, that he neither wanted nor needed help.

He had removed his caul, he had tied red silk around his leg, but David had still come back. Had his son feared undeath? He did not soeak of such things anymore. But Constantin had, and had tried and failed to prevent it.

"You needn't fear that, Constantin." A strange lilt entered its voice.

"But will David?" He asked, wondering about its manner. God had not said anything comprehensible, but perhaps it could be convinced to answer.

Silence, again. Then, a non-sequitur. "Do you know why I let you name me Hogge?"

'Because you took pig shape' was too obvious. "A nod to that? It amused you."

It raised his dog-eared copy of the Hogfather, shaking its head. "I like reading about myself," It murmured. "But you are wrong. Pigs are natural cleaners, they remove waste, and evidence of less literal filth. Did you know they were originally kept for that, not meat?"

"Yes, but what does that-"

"It suited me, and my purpose." It cut him off, putting the book aside as it rose from the couch. "As your son will."

***
Gawain had not killed him, in the end, but only because Merlin had called him back. The sorcerer, watching from above, must have been laughing in his beard, seeing him get put through the wringer by every phantasm of his past. Kay. Gareth. Tristan. Percival. Lancelot, larger than life and thrice as mad. The Green Knight, invulnerable and infinitely strong and quick save for when he desired otherwise. Meilon, immune to any damage not inflicted with silver and able to break anything not made from it. And so many more, dozens more, each as fast and powerful as Mordred, even setting aside their boons.

Not Bedivere, though. Nor Arthur. Why?

Mordred did not understand. What did Merlin want him to do? He could not defeat all of his opponents, or even most. He had never been the strongest or most skilled Knight. His worth lay elsewhere, in rhetoric, in leadership, neither of which mattered in duels.

Not that anything else would have mattered in a duel with Galahad.

The Perfect Knight looked young, with straight blond hair framing a pair of sky-blue eyes, set in a serene face, pale from the armour he rarely removed.

Armour he was not wearing now. Much like his sword, both lay in an orderly pile of ivory false metal. Galahad wore plain white robes, one hand empty, the other grasping the dream of every knight before and since his quest.

The Grail, the vessel of God's Vessel. Ruby blood up to the copper rim, but never sloshing out, however sudden and fast Galahad's movements.

And so fast they were...monstrously, disgustingly so. As a ghost, time and space were no limit to how fast Mordred could move, if his will was strong enough. Drawing on his rage, he had left lightspeed behind an eternity ago, moving fast enough to cross Merlin' pocket reality in the smallest possible timeframe, before breaking the bounds of causality to attack from everywhere and everywhen at once.

It was no use. Galahad deflected all of his blows with utter disinterest, using only his left hand-and Mordred knew for a fact the pious fool was right-handed, which only added insult to injury. He seemed unwilling to let go of the Grail, though Mordred couldn't tell why. He wasn't drawing power from it, or using it as a small makeshift shield.

At one point, Mordred leapt backwards in time, sword raised to split Lancelot's skull on the night of Galahad's conceiving. The Perfect Knight followed him and slapped him back to the future, saying nothing. Even when Mordred began drawing on the aether, increasing his strength to the point the force of every blow bled over to destroy Merlin's pocket reality-galaxies obliterated and space and time erased, only to be recreated an instant later by the cambion-, Galahad did not react. And why should he? Mordred's strength couldn't even pierce his unblinking, judging, pitying eyes.

During one such eternity of nothingness, Mordred used his speed to multiply, attacking Galahad from over a dozen directions at once, aiming at every joint. The Perfect Knight had moved too fast for Mordred and his doppelgangers to react, for all that time did not exist and they were fast enough to transcend it.

He's insurmountable..., Mordred thought, pushing himself to his knees, ectoplasmic gore, born of the memory of his flesh, covering the emerald glass around them. "Say something, damn you! This is no way for a knight to battle!"

"Battle?" Galahad repeated in a smooth, even voice. "Not even the most generous of saints could describe this as a battle." He smiled sadly. "You still look for acknowledgement when there is none to be obtained. Even if I lied, you would still be an inbred bastard."

Mordred laughed harshly. "Not so flawless, are you?"

"I did not curse. Merely spoke the truth. Were you not born out of wedlock, to siblings? And even if I had," Galahad's eyebrows rose. "Are you so desperate that you would view making me swear as a victory?"

Mordred roared at his opponent's sad voice. "I should have been fighting you in the flesh. Then-"

"Merlin might bind and raise you, but not yet. Not that it would have made a difference. And you should not expect anything akin to life after your undeath, Mordred. God would not grant you that. Just as He will not grant you a throne, or an heir to it." Galahad chuckled. "I have seen your corpse. Your manhood belongs to the maggots, and oh, what lustful maidens they are!"

When did he get so annoying!? "You act like you are better than me. You always have. But there is no true difference between us, traitor's spawn."

"Yes, there is. I have the blood of Christ in my hand. You only have yours."

Growling, Mordred clenched his fist, gauntlet long gone, only to feel it wet and sticky.

He...he...it was his human memories at fault. He-

"There are conflicts you cannot win, Mordred." Galahad said. "How many of us have shown you that? And yet, you do not accept."

Mordred threw his sword to the ground, leaping at Galahad and trying to strangle him, to no avail. "Are you saying I should just give up!? Stop caring and crawl back to Hell, because I wasn't blessed with the favour of a hypocritical, powermongering worm of a god!?"

"Taking His name in vain will solve nothing, Mordred." Galahad broke his grip and pushed him away with one hand. "And you misunderstood my words. You are needed  because you do not give up."

Mordred did not see Galahad move away to put on his wargear, nor the slash that took his head. But he felt it, as painful as Rongomyniad piercing his heart long ago.

***

Wake, Blackest of Knights. Prince of Rebellion. Neverking. Your hour cometh.

You could not best the Knight of the Grail. But who could hope to? He is better than you in every way. He is better than anyone who fights him. That is his nature.

Wake, and take hold of your corpse. Let the flames of your soul burn away the blood and dust clogging your veins, and give you life in death.

Your realm is assailed. By the monsters from your childhood stories, by fear itself, torn from the unbeating heart of another cosmos. It is being defended by foreigners. Will you let that stand?

Wake, Mordred Pendragon. Hell will not take you back.

***

Wake, sister. You are safe, and untouched, saved in the nick of time.

What did that world do for you? It took your mother, and father, and would have taken your life, too-or seen it sold to cruel, uncaring things.

Where were your friends during this? Where was your lover?

Wake. Your eyes have been closed too long.

***
Put the mirror down yet?

Why? I am not so disgusted by myself as to stop meditating on my nature.

And isn't that a damning statement?

A damning statement would be what you called me. What will you do, once everyone becomes-

Void, more of you? I would do my best to stop that...

...If your existence didn't hinge on theirs. You have seen the other paths, branching out into nothing. And there might be fates you hate...but nothingness is
 certain.
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Strigoi Grey
Padawan Learner
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Location: Romania

Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 3

***
As I entered the parallel reality, closing the portal behind me, and watched Szabo wrestle with the monster, I thought that it really needed a name. Monster, freak and creature got repetitive after a certain point, speaking from experience.

Sifting through its past, it had never gotten a name that had stuck, certainly none it recognised as its own. Alien synonyms to the terms I had just discarded, long-winded titles used for nameless gods of terror...no. I would not do them the honour of calling on them from beyond oblivion, even in such a small way. Nor would I speak the being's true name. It wouldn't bind or weaken it-it was no demon. If anything, it was more likely to strengthen or mutate it.

My godsight was much faster than the mind that triggered it, as it needed to in order to predict and analyse on the scale it did. I could see every cubic metre in the universe, a quark in empty space, the quantum strings our reality was woven from, innumerable to most, the quantum foam it floated on, like a leaf on the surf. And I saw every way they could combine and change, a number not merely too large to be contained by the universe, but infinite.

And from every possibility, another reality was created. Did that man brush his teeth this morning, or not? Did those atoms fuse, or not? And so on and so forth, unto the infinity that was the multiverse's fourth layer. Opening my godsight wider, I could see the contents of every reality, laid bare and unmoving before eyes that cared nothing for time and distance. Infinite power to process...and change. Even reach into the higher layers, maybe, like a drawing rising from the page to become tridimensional...

But, no. I couldn't let myself be lured away by knowledge and exploration. If I won here, I would be one step closer to an eternity of study and enrichment. If not...well. I wouldn't have to worry about getting distracted, or anything else, anymore.

This had been what had made Mimir so distant to the Aesir who had wanted him for his knowledge, friends with only other gods like him. I saw him disappear from Odin's side, not stolen, but...ah, old god, such a selfish sacrifice you made...

You knew it would all end: the questions, the phantom pain-how could you not? You knew more than me, had seen reality as it was for far longer than the sagas of your kind had passed among your worshippers. Did you think about the blessing in disguise that would come to me, the darkness your death would push back? Or did you just want it all to end?

I blinked away the vision with eyes rimmed by tears. Distraction...always a danger, as painless as it was cruel. The cousin of ennui. But I would not walk in Mimir's footsteps.

The beast needed a name. It was the shape of its universe's fears: immense, amorphous, ever-changing. It had made its victims tremble before their deaths. I knew what it was, even if it did not.

The Tremorph was not a physical being. You would have had an easier time grasping reality itself than grabbing hold of it. Luckily, strigoi could do both. Whatever something was made of, whether matter, energy, their absence or something else entirely, we could touch it as if it were solid.

The Tremorph had not known that, until now. In its home reality, it had never been stopped by anything, passing through forcefields denser than neutronium and hotter than plasma, diving into black holes to swim through their singularities, flying through white holes. It was made of fear, after all. What did it care for the limits imposed by physics, according to which it should not have even been able to exist?

As such, the Tremorph was not used to being touched never mind stopped. As for pain? It only knew that of others. Szabo seemed very keen on helping it make up for lost time.

As it thrashed and writhed in his grip, it tried to change shape and size several times, to no avail. Whether it became bigger than any celestial body or smaller than any particle, Szabo, drawing upon the aether, pushed it back into its original state, with a combination of strength and willpower, the latter abundant due to his rage.

Szabo had several weird mental hangups, and I hadn't yet learned all of them. He performed atrocities without batting an eye, as long as the results were flamboyant enough to have him recognised as something other than a monster who was cruel for cruelty's sake. He was obsessed with leaving his mark on history, in one way or another. He might have used tools, and people, in pursuit of said goal, but, as he saw it, he relied only on himself.

The lifeforce he had absorbed over the course of his unlife had been consumed in similarly appropriate moments. I guess he thought fighting the Tremorph wasn't dramatic enough, because his temper was rising as fast as his power. And his voice.

Szabo wasn't actually speaking, of course. Not only was there no air at all in this universe(not that there would have been any in the vacuum of space), there was nothing at all. No matter, no energy, no space, no time, and not just because there was nothing to measure the duration of. That point of spacetime that had expanded into the Big Bang and never stopped had never existed here, according to my godsight. This...was what our reality could have been.

Nothing at all. More like a gap between other, true universes, becoming distinct at the edges, giving way to the aether, which Szabo was using to talk to the Tremorph.

Ah, mana. The truly universal means of communication, creating, and destroying.

"You made me betray myself." Szabo growled around one of the Tremorph's throats as he bit down into its metaphysical form. "Betray my oath. Any coffin-dodger like me can draw upon the aether for power, so what is its worth?" Szabo glared as a basilisk's head rose from its torso, trying to petrify him. Even his mismatched clothes were unaffected as he smashed the head to nothing with his left fist.

"You made me bow to  necessity." Szabo spat. "Necessity! Like a peasant! Loric Szabo does not bend to the whims of the world! He bends it!"

He was referring to the world, but must've seen the Tremorph as a suitable substitute, given the way he grabbed a beaklike protrusion and a handful of thin, lashing tails, before folding the Tremorph in half like an accordion.

Weird. I'd have never taken Szabo for a musician.

The Tremorph's shrieks tore the void open, letting raw mana fill the empty universe. There were many theories about the origin of the aether. Was there a spring for that timeless ocean? Rivers flowing into it?

Occam's Razor, people. Mana is born from the synchronisation of mind, body and soul. Wherever could mana spanning the multiverse come?

Szabo was hurting the Tremorph, but not killing it. He couldn't, except by consuming it like he did lifeforce and other metaphysical energies, and the fact it had already pushed him to boost himself just to avoid being torn apart meant he wanted to leave that for last.

Idiot! Don't draw it out, I spoke into Szabo's mind.

Be silent, brother. This is my fight. This little freak has already humiliated me. I will return the favour before I put it down.

You've never even heard of this thing before today! When did you have time to build up a grudge so fast? Are you Italian?

 Tch,
he grunted. A great enough slight can birth a vendetta in moments.

Oh, for fuck's sake...
I thought to both him and myself, watching the Tremorph begin to draw on cosmic fears. I saw a glob of antimatter teleported straight into Szabo's mouth, explosively converting him and his clothes to energy. The strigoi healed from nothing an instant later, naked and twice as angry as before.

In that moment between discorporeality and healing, I saw Szabo's soul and mind float away from the Tremorph, glaring at it with eyes like jagged voids. I knew only holy power could truly harm a strigoi, but seeing Szabo like this...

I tried to forget the sinking feeling in my gut by focusing my godsight on the Tremorph, which looked just as twisted as its physical aspect. Bladed tendrils flew from its torso, a Planck length wide, slicing the strigoi apart on the smallest level observable by human science. The cuts healed almost as fast as they were made, so the blades seemed to phase through Szabo with no effect save the explosions resulting from the minuscule cuts.

Seeing small scale wasn't working, the Tremorph switched strategies. Moons were spun from the nightmares of whole planet-bound species fearing extinction through colony drop. All of them, the smallest outweighing our moon, the largest approaching Mars in mass, were turned to stray atoms by Szabo, who flew straight through them, making a beeline for the retreating monster, not batting an eye at the enormous explosions. The moons were soon replaced by planets, thrown at blueshifting and redshifting as they accelerated, until only the Tremorph's power prevented them from turning into energy as they reached lightspeed. The creature compacted and shaped the planets until they were reduced to the size of longswords, then directed them at Szabo's eyes, point gleaming.

Szabo sneered at the sight, drawing more mana into himself, so that the projectiles shattered on his eyeballs. The Tremorph had failed to meaningfully hurt him so far, but I knew this couldn't last. The stronger Szabo got, the more feral his strigoi side grew. He might have been in tune with his instincts but how long would that last?

As I watched the Tremorph pelt Szabo with cosmic disasters, focusing hypernovas and gamma ray bursts until they were man-sized beams, compressing neutron stars until they were head-sized projectiles that flew as fast as light, I told myself it would be his nature that did him in. After all, Szabo was much faster than light by now. He could have flown circles around any of the dozens of attacks, instead of deciding to fly through them to show that he was too tough to damage.

Yet, seeing Szabo laugh soundlessly through attacks that would have destroyed any star, mouth parted in a fanged, snarling grin, I began to doubt that possibility. His strigoi side was getting wilder and more monstrous with every moment, but it was still fighting alongside him, or at least not against him. He was growing more and more powerful every instant, but so was the Tremorph, empowered by the fear he represented and tried to inspire in it.

Then, I cursed, using Mimir's perception to twist the void and strands of mana around the Tremorph as it ripped nightmares of gods out of itself, and Szabo screamed.

This time, there was no amusement or cruel joy in it.

***
Urziceni

Constantin staggered at the being's words, only catching himself halfway through a step backwards.

What was he  doing? Trying to get away? No amount of time and distance would ever save him from this thing, nor would the aether or the void behind it all. It-

No. He wasn't trying to escape it, he realised. Not physically. Not literally. What, then? What it represented? The implication?

No. No 'implication'. He was deluding himself. It had directly stated it wanted David, for whatever its purpose was.

Constantin knew little of the being that had allowed him to call it Hogge, and wore that form for decades in a fit of tomfoolery. He did not know, for example, if his baseline level of power would be enough to defeat it, or at least stall it enough that he could either convince it to leave his son alone, or warn David, wherever he was.

That, the Lord had not seen fit to tell him. Much like the being's actual power, however much of it was hidden behind that dreadful chill it radiated, as if it was generating heat rather than absorbing heat, his son's whereabouts were hidden from him.

But David still lived. That, he could feel, in his heart of hearts. If his son had died again, or come close to it, he would have known. There was no faithcraft in that, no hidden power. Merely the intuition of a neglectful father, holding on to what he had already lost once.

It-the Hogge-thing-was toying with him, taunting him. Did it already have an use in mind for David? Or had it raised the possibility just to rattle him?

And why did every last damnned being in existence seem hellbent on treating his son as a tool or resource to be used?

Constantin relaxed his hands, which had already begun clenching into fists. Would God grant him the power to stop this being? The might of his faithcraft depended on both his belief in the Lord and the favour returned by the Creator.

Tch. A better question would be, did God see it as necessary for the creature to be deterred? He had, not to sound presumptuous, never seen fit to shed light on its nature, leaving Constantin with only its claims.

And if this thing somehow turned out to be Azrael, participating in some secret, long-term test of faith at God's behest, he would eat every cross and icon in his house.

"Do not approach David with malice." Constantin said, looking at the ceiling, not at the being, hands together. "He has been through enough, and will hesitate to end you less than I will." Was he speaking to it? God? Had his selfishness finally pushed him into madness? Apostasy?

"Malice?" The thing echoed, now in front of him despite not moving its body, nor crossing the distance between them. "I am incapable of such things, priest. This is not the boast people make. I cannot feel. Entropy is my shadow. I am DEATH-more than death, and destruction, and everything between and beyond. I end what must end, and guard what must begin, watch over it as it grows. I kill what must never be in its crib, before it can pervert the cycle of life and death, of beginnings and ends. Do you know what creation would be like if I could fall to something as subjective as emotion?"

"Shouldn't life watch over itself? Or LIFE, if you insist?" Constantin asked, avoiding the being's own question.

DEATH inclined its head to the side-a purely human gesture, he felt, it had made for his benefit, rather than out of habit. It was showing him that it had thought about that, and was maybe just a little exasperated by the question.

"Not yet." It whispered. "LIFE was almost aborted, at the beginning. You have only ever known life, the myriad facets of its failed cast-offs. Do you have any idea what it is like there, Outside the Gates? Many of my siblings are in creation. Too many, in any circumstance. Far too many on this Earth...but, perhaps, no more than necessary. You will have a call, Constantin."

The priest only caught a glimpse of a black, grinning pig, eyes flashing yellow before turning black once more. Then, it was gone, back to the pen, though he had a feeling it would not appreciate any attempts at pursuing it.

Instead, Constantin raised his voice. "Why do you want my son? What will you do to him?"

And to his surprise, it answered, speaking inside his soul. "Make him my Keeper, for he will keep my laws and enforce them. Keep me from going too far, as well."

Constantin did not like the sound of that, but he refused to show uneasiness. It would have felt too much to him like an admission of defeat. "Your laws?"

"Mine, and my creator's. You know it, yes? Him, if you insist?"

And now it was throwing his own words back at him. "God? God made you?"

Some of his colleagues might have thought anything that implied the opposite preposterous, but Constantin had always felt too much like one of the blind men for comfort. And, in the recent years, he could not help but feel that he, and everyone else, was grasping something he only thought was an elephant by something he could only pray were tusks.

"God...Yahweh?" An impression of a head lowering, then shaking. "No. Of course not. I came from the stirrings of creation's urge, as we all did. When the Dreamer laid down to sleep, knowing it could not yet create while awake. That potential has not yet been reached, you see? Creation is preparation for after the dream ends, not in oblivion, but to usher in the greatest beginning." Its voice softened. "Fear not, priest. I have had Keepers before. Other champions. Other enforcer-guides. I hope this one will be the last."

"You did not answer." Constantin's voice came out in a harsh whisper. "What will you do to David?"

"Empower him. Lift him up. He does not desire more power, but he must receive it." A note of amusement. "You fear punishment. For him, not you. Yes? Have I punished past Keepers? Being discarded was certainly torture, for some. But I doubt it would be, for your son. He will have family to console him."

Constantin chuckled nastily. "It is very optimistic to think I will be able to console him, in the scenario you describe. After all, I doubt David could live with whatever failure would make you strip away his power."

"Indeed, Constantin. It would be very optimistic to think you will be able to console anyone, at that point. How fortunate, then, that I was not speaking of you."

Constantin focused on his anger, rather than the roiling in his stomach or the shiver down his spine. "What do you-"

Then, the voices came.

***

I stand on a parapet, on a wall infinitely tall, wide and thick. Golden bas-reliefs spread beneath me, in all directions, like the infinity they give form to.

I see my siblings, of Hosts higher and lower.

Guardians and messengers, turning cities and countries to steaming craters with their gaze and touch, where needed, as they outrace beams of sunlight across the worlds they circle a hundred times in a blink of a human's eye.

Warriors, like myself. Different, rather than lesser, moons splitting under their armaments as they do battle, flitting between worlds and suns in a heartbeat. My Host.

Upholders of hearth and nation, of office and mantle. Worlds shatter under their steps like the eggshells they walk on around their assigned opposites.

This is the Sphere Beneath. Mock them not, for their function is humble, rather than worthless. Our foes confuse the two at their peril.

Mighty ones, keeping watch over the laws of nature, not state, no matter the sphere or the void between them. How our kin below loathe them...

Virtuous ones, conducting the dance of particle and planet, the flow of energy and time. They find neither pride nor pleasure in their duty. Merely purpose.

Lords of lords, illuminating the choirs under them with the light of those above. There is worth to be found in this conveyance.

This is the Sphere Between. Break their laws, if you wish. Retribution is patient and untiring.

The seats of love, not power-His, contemplated and shared. Wheels within wheels. Why should the betrayers assume monstrous shapes, the humans think, when there are such beings already?

The fullness of wisdom, four-faced and four-winged, so they might fly and conceal themselves, like the places assigned to them, at once.

The burning ones, first of us all, at whose forefront once stood the greatest of us. Have their songs grown more ardent since then, to restore their honour? Perhaps they themselves know not.

This is the Sphere Above. Sneer not at them, for there is no sycophancy before the Throne, and no sloth to be found under His eyes.

This is His army, infinity ninefold, pure in thought and deed as the fiercest of flames.

I love them all, as only a brother and commander can. I know what I lead. There is power here, to reduce a cosmos and its contents to nothing, in a single burning one. My siblings beneath are mighty still, in their own ways, marching without time or place, endless in number, united in thought.

And yet, there are battles we cannot, must not fight, except at the sidelines, in skirmishes, in the shadows of conflagration.

I see one now. The skinthief, the Keeper that might not yet be, the shape of terror. The battle had been even, up to a point. The skinthief had grown stronger-as powerful as a mighty one. Yet he lays writhing, falling apart like the seams that have always marked him. And the Keeper is yet young and unprepared, beleaguered. He might still lose, and this might all turn out to have been for naught.

If not for another one rejected by the grave he rejects in turn. I see him charge across realities, clad in armour that is as much as part of him as his pale, dead flesh, cold despite the flames burning in his veins, as much as the blade he hefts, fit to deal wounds that cannot heal.

I see eyes blaze green with battle-lust rather than envy and greed, pride and resentment, for once. I hear him mockingly thank the monster for letting itself be dragged away from his realm, so that he need not worry about the world.

Though he knows it not, he is not as cruel as the child he once was. I see the arrogance chipped away, under the ice of betrayal, in the fires of battle.

In chambers he still sees as a house of torture and humiliation-for how else can he see being treated as an equal, or even an inferior, even in jest?-, too, though that is not my tale to tell, for all that it brings a smile to my face.

My nephew told him he would never find a worldly woman, nor be found by one. He should have listened, for my nephew has experience with such matters.

But then, we did not facilitate his return so he would listen.

I see the blade sheathed, and the Prince Rebellious striking the shape of fear with closed fists. The first blow deals no damage, but leaves his hand and gauntlet shattered. They are healed instantly, just as the next blow staggers the monsters. It is still unhurt, until the third punches through it, and the fourth cleaves it in half.

The Neverking is carved into creation by rebellion itself. Anything that restrains or opposes him feeds his power, which rises to never fall, and changes to match the needs of a battle. Such changes are permanent. In this regard, he is superior to his closest match, whose desire for freedom always leads her back to her initial state.

The creature backs off, wailing. At first, it moves too fast for the Blackest Knight to perceive, but his power does not allow such gaps for long. A moment later, he is on it. Then, he is tearing it apart too fast for it to register anything other than the pain.

I do not lay down my spear yet. I see the skinthief, struck down by the horrors of gods long gone and unremembered. I see the Keeper hesitating, because, for all that he knows how to save the skinthief, he knows not if he wants to. I pray, beloved one, that you do not falter as your namesake did.


***
Adam stared up at the swarm of Vyzhaldi approaching him.

Swarm, rather than party or crowd. Dehumanising, perhaps, if such a thing even applied to literal aliens, but the Kratocrats had given him little reason to use gentler terms.

Adam was fully aware that he was generalising following an unfortunate situation, like many people had done to him. He found it hard to care.

Adam's mind had been superhuman to start with, able to learn new languages and memorise books in hours to days. The learning capacity of an infant, coupled with the mental ability of an adult.

During his slumber, and after his awakening, his mind had grown, becoming faster, deeper, attuned to existence and nonexistence both. From matter and energy to spacetime and mana, from minds and souls to nothingness, he could create, control and shape most facets of creation, as well as their absence.

With exceptions, of course. The Vyzhaldi, by some quirk of the same strange biology that allowed them to function without sustenance or rest(for all that they had evolved, not been created. Not uncommon, as Adam saw, looking back through deep time, peering across existence, but certainly impressive when paired with their physical prowess), were also immune to esoteric effects, whether technological, arcane or anomalous. This, combined with their ability to jump in power, speed and toughness by leaps and bounds when exerting themselves, made them formidable to most species and highly-desirable enforcers, bodyguards and mercenaries. Despite the fact the increases in durability were permanent, with an exception.

The leader, or spokesman(bug? Male, at least, Adam's senses told him), a hulking figure with yellow eyes and a purple exoskeleton, floated cloaser to Adam, wings beating hundreds of times faster than light, in defiance of the physics and biology Adam's world had known at the time of his departure.

Not that either had been able to explain his nature, of course.

"Good arrival." The Vyzhaldi attempted to mouth the words with his mandibles, rather than rely on a comm like the border guard Adam had dispatched. Come to think of it, he  had doubted anyone could sound that annoying naturally. Explained why he had mangled 'welcome', too, though Adam was unsure a normal human would have been able to understand the Kratocrat's body language at all. "Terran, yes?"

"Yes." Adam answered, voice echoing in the aether. "Are you here to continue what your kin started? Know that I will repay any violence in kind."

The Vyzhaldi tilted his head slightly, confused at the mention of kin. "Not my...ah. You mean same species? Yes, she is. Was. Unlike you and humans, no?" A pair of bulky fingers rose to point at his chest and head, while the Vyzhaldi rapped his other hand against his own head. "No vital signs. Biologically inert. No decay, no parasites, no activity. How?"

"How do you know?" Adam shot back, feeling the remaining atom of that alien world spin between his own, trying to take them over. Useless. He was aware of himself on every level, and could have snuffed it out or rendered it loyal to him with but a thought, but he had neither the need nor the desire. His physiology alone would keep it at bay. "And why should I tell you?"

"Angry, yes. Expected. But think." The alien hesitatingly raised his arms, holding his hands out. Was he unfamiliar with the gesture, or just moving slowly so Adam would see he had no ill intent? "She was young. No Shield of Scars. No School, yet. Never, now." A twinkle of regret in those multifaceted eyes. "We-"

"I knew of neither of those things." Adam cut him off, uncomfortable with the guilt that rushed to the forefront of his mind. "I still don't know what they are."

Snuffing out a young, by all appearances, life because of things he likely would have done himself? Really? What was he becoming-

"Outsider. See..." The Vyzhaldi trailed off, not looking for his words, but rather, glancing at their surroundings, or lack thereof. "Improper here? No decorum. Come. Understand."

"To your planet?" The undead asked, fascinated by the possibility.

The Vyzhaldi turned around and flew, his followers rearranging to flank him and Adam, who followed, walking on nothing rather than flying. "Planets? We have, yes. Memorials. Museums. Origin world-sentimental. False value. Mobility. See? Fabricated worlds, moons, habitats. Shells and rings around stars, galaxies. Movable. Fixed holdings? Pointless. Vyzhaldi lack needs."

"Are you taking me to such an artificial world, then?" Adam asked. "Those things you mentioned before-will you reveal them to me?" Why? Why welcome and teach an outsider, a murderer at that?

"Shield of Scars? Vyzhaldi bodies, ever-hardening. Fist breaks through you, then on you. Huge jump, yes?" A rapid clicking of mandibles, maybe analogous to chuckling. "After healing, renewed. Better. You saw."

"Yes." Adam said, looking for any signs of reproach, from anyone other than his rapidly-returning conscience. "And Schools...? If you don't mind."

"Schools, yes. Not, ah, knowledge-buildings. Have some, but are not. Not schools, Schools. Yes? Builders, Balancers, Breakers..."

***

SUCH CRUELTY, OUR SON. SUCH DISDAIN. HARMED AND HUMBLED IN FRONT OF YOUR SIBLINGS IN CHRIST, AND EVERYONE ELSE TOO.

WHO IS HE? NOT EVEN A PATRIARCH. WHERE DOES THIS HAUGHTINESS COME FROM? THIS DISDAIN?

THIS, YOU HAVE ASKED YOURSELF MANY TIMES. WHY WOULD WE ALLOW THIS? WHY STILL GIVE HIM POWER?

YOU HAVE ASKED YOURSELF THIS, AS WELL.

BUT PONDER...

***
Unnamed planet, JADES-GS-z13-O

The Shaper disliked making decisions based on anything other than practicality. It even disliked impractical decisions made by others, especially when it had to follow them.

The Shaper had expected a stronghold of border garrison of one of the polities it had invited to discuss. The Greater Powers, they called themselves now, to differentiate from the lesser power across the universe.

Human science could only observe less than a fourteenth of the universe, and map even less. This galaxy, a thousandth as massive as theirs, was the farthest object they had ever observed. But beyond the edge of the observable universe, aliens carved out their realms, moving between the Greater Power like minnows around sharks.

Hence the meeting taking place here. A place on the edge of Terra's sphere of knowledge without being entirely outside it or inside a Power's territory. A bridge, between known and unknown.

It was all so disgustingly symbolic, the Shaper expected one of the delegates to stop the meeting at one point in order to put on their robe and wizard hat.

The Unscarred's arrival had been instantaneous, its teleportation-quantum disassembly, followed by travel through yocto-wormholes and reassembly-unhindered by time or distance. Every location and moment recorded by the Collective was open to it, for wormholes connected points in both space and time.

Time travel was available to most polities with access to wormholes, but discouraged, almost taboo. Few beings could foresee the consequences of time travel, even without taking into account the aberrants who somehow felt entitled to time. Those who could, like the Collective, rarely used it.

And yet...

The Shaper turned the Unscarred's head to the side, making it nod at Gerald Reyes as he came to a halt on the dusty soil of the conference planet. The aberrant was not breathing heavily, or at all. There was as much air on this planet as he needed. Or, in other words, none.

"You can speak." Gerald said, taking off his glasses to clean them with a cloth. The glass wasn't even frosted over from the vacuum.

The Shaper nodded again. "One of your laws." Not indulging it, then. Informing. Still, Reyes' ability was disturbing. All aberrants imposed their own rules on existence, by nature of what they were, but his power was more direct and obvious than most.

"Yes. Just wanted to make sure we can all communicate, even if our friends don't need air."

Friends? Really? "Why take the long way around? Why not make a portal or teleport?"

Gerald dusted off his suit sleeves, putting his glasses back on. "Wanted to push myself a little. At my normal speed, travelling here would've taken nearly four days."

"You arrived in one point four seconds."

"Aye. Over two hundred thousand times faster, but crossing the Milky Way in a heartbeat doesn't cut it over such-" Gerald waved aside the dust raised by the newcomer's arrival. "Distances. Hello, Engine."

"Hello, Cambridge." The Argument Engine cooed in a saccharine voice. "Just one skip 'n' hop away, eh mate? Showing off for no one?"

"You flew here too." Gerald pointed out, not bothering to ask the Engine to be respectful. No one had ever managed.

"Well,  duh. You think the reptos' exes don't have their eyestalks peeled for our fannies? Something with no obvious means of propulsion moving at a quintillion times lightspeed ought to make them sit up and notice. I even took the time to zig-zag around some black holes!"

"None of them have eyestalks." The Shaper pointed out flatly.

"And I studied at Harvard." Gerald deadpanned.

"Harvard? Isn't that the big bloke in Rowling's police academy series?"

As the aberrant and anomalous machine(for the Collective's scanners could only pick up its calculating power and durable casing, with no power source or unusual energy) continued bickering, the Shaper directed its yoctomachines to build.

***

It was common in nature for large organisms to ignore or even not notice smaller ones, simply because they were unable to perceive them. This applied to the supernatural as well.

If one were to travel the multiverse and catalogue its contents long enough, they would realise the average reality was twelve trillion light-years in diameter, containing many galaxies, celestial bodies and clouds of cosmic debris.

The thing that swam through the aether-whale-like in appearance, if the fins and tail had been replaced with bony, ridged tendrils-was an exception to that. It had travelled the multiverse for thousands of eons, and never paid any attention to its contents. They were too small for it to notice. Its beady eyes alone, minuscule in comparison to its grey, bloated body, would have swallowed any reality like a blue whale did with krill. The number necessary to represent its mass was too large for any universe to contain, even as a digital representation whose every digit occupied a Planck volume.

Realities popped against its skin like soap bubbles, destroyed not just in one moment, but every one across their past and future. Histories unmade, so that they had never been.

The Shaper cared even less for its power than it did for the things it swam through.

A yoctomachine was tool, weapon and vehicle in one, a combination of computer, medicine kit, toolkit, arsenal and wormhole generator. It was also, relevantly to the Shaper's current, self-assigned task, part of a tightly-controlled von Neumann swarm. Much like reptilians had been engineered to absorb cosmic background radiation and convert it to mass for regeneration, yoctomachines could convert matter to energy and back, making more of themselves from almost anything.

A yoctomachine floated close to the aether swimmer's body, far too small for it to perceive. Changing its quantum state until it reached the scenario in which it was successful, it began cutting.

There was only a small chance, a vigintillion to one, of it being able to penetrate the creature's unnatural hide. It took that chance, and dragged it from probability into reality.

The yoctomachine dug in, converting a minute amount of the creature's mass into half a dozen identical copies. Each made five more. Twenty-five more. A hundred twenty-five...

In the three seconds it took Gerald Reyes to rub his eyes and tell the Engine to knock it off with the horseplay, a myriad universes away, the aether swimmer had been converted into yoctomachines.

***

The second step of the Shaper's plan was not nefarious, for the plan itself was not. It was merely thorough. It was sure everyone would understand, or be brought around eventually.

The Reptilian Collective was a post-scarcity society. Its members had no biological needs, and their mastery of science meant they could simply convert things into what they needed. This did not mean, however, that they kicked interesting resources aside.

The Shaper did not intend to take a Graham's number's worth of yoctomachines back to the Collective's realm. Not that the space couldn't have contained them-that would have been trivial-,but it would have been redundant. They needed that quantity in elsewhere, too.

One yoctomachine in each reality meant nothing. The multiverse was infinitely bigger than that. But that was just the beginning. Quantum entanglement with a reality let the Collective keep track and record everything that happened within a reality, as soon as it happened.

The Shaper-the reptilians as a whole-were deeply familar with guilt. As clinical, detached and alien, in the metaphorical sense of the word, they might have seemed to overworlders, it had been guilt that had turned them from warmongers to protectors.

Until their first and last war against peers had brought their homeworld to ruin, the reptilians had seen science as just another tool to be exploited, or a way to make them. Another cog in the warmachine.

But for what? It was the grey goo problem. All civilisations wanted to see themselves spread, either removing, absorbing or converting everything different, until they were all that remained. But an universe-spanning echo chamber would bring nothing but stagnation.

Worse, some reptilians whispered among themselves, it would be  boring. Nothing new to study, to challenge, to oppose. Why would one live?

Yet, sometimes, the Shaper contemplated whether they should have done more for Earth. It knew they  could have, that went without question, but then came the matter of smothering others in the cradle, even by accident.

Were it inclined towards cowardice, the Shaper would have told itself the pact made with the aberrants worshipped by most overworlders as gods, and the duties entailed, meant they had done everything they could without either exhausting themselves or being forced offworld, or destroyed in a war due to being perceived as overreaching.

The Shaper, however, did not think of the invaders and anomalies removed from reality and history, nor the disasters prevented. Neither it nor its components had ever been the type to rest on laurels rather than brood over failures and missed chances.

Many times, it had wished to simply go to the surface and share its science with humanity, so they would stop persecuting, enslaving and murdering each other, like the reptilians had in their prehistory.

(There were, of course, simulated scenarios where mankind simply resumed such activities with greater weaponry at its fingertips, unless throttled by either the Collective, their gods, or both. But the Shaper did not want to countenance such dismal probabilities, the same way it did not want to stifle humanity's potential. It had, in its own way, hope for mankind. The little mammals had grown on it, like mould on an ancient tree, despite everything.. They were doing their best, praise their warm little hearts).

In the time it took the Shaper to mull over this, and open a wormhole to another reality for each newly-acquired yoctomachine, light would have only crossed a Planck length.

Ah, the beauty of science...now, for the third step.

***

The aether swimmer did not know this was the second time it was broken down for resources by the Reptilian Collective. It did not know that, since wormholes led everywhere and everywhen, the Collective could and would repeat this as many times as possible.

This time, however, the Shaper wanted more than raw matter.

It was something of a running joke among reptilians that the fastest beings in their universe moved at 1 U(niverse, or a dozen trillion light-years)/P(lanck length). It was less clunky than saying 'seven vigintillion c' every time, and the Collective valued brevity. There were not many beings who always operated at that speed-Ischyros, Solarex and the Watcher at their baseline, the Heaven-Spurning Elder, the pantheon heads, the Cardinal Archangels and Princes of Hell, Ying Lung, Mother Wound-and a handful who could increase their speed to that level.

All of them would have been impressed at the swimmer's speed, for it crossed many times its body length every moment. Much like its weight, no universe could have contained the number needed to represent its velocity.

Through quantum entanglement, every member of the Collective could move that fast.

As such, after turning the swimmer's mass to energy to be stored and harvested with a conversion beam, the yoctomachine passed through a wormhole once more, leaving.

And the Collective's machines reached into another slice of time, entangling all they touched to the swimmer's speed. One never knew when it would be needed.

***
There were eighteen tredecillion Planck times in a second. Seven novemdecillion in the average universe's lifespan. Some would have argued placing a yoctomachine in every such moment to be overkill, paranoid. The Shaper would have said it was lax.

Converting the matter in an universe's twilight eons to energy was only practical. The yoctomachines inserted in moments from the Big Bag to the present would stand guard, watching for paradoxes, dangerous incursions and useful resources, but the rest would harvest the energy, or use it to make more of themselves.

Other things could be made, of course. Materials. Weapons, on a whim. Starships, if the Shaper got nostalgic or wanted to trick the old enemies into thinking the reptilians had never advanced beyond the bulky, shipbound wormhole generators of eons past.

Copies of the Unscarred, for its blueprints were readily available. The Shaper had gotten rather attached to the albino, in multiple senses of the word. Making more of it without the lightspeed limit for physical speed?

Or Warscale suits. Matter of fact...

***

Gerald and the Engine turned-purely theathrical, in the latter's case-at the new wormhole's appearance. Though neither would have said it, the hole's infinitely-sharp edges set them on...

"I know what you're thinking." The Engine told Gerald. "I'm not going to make that joke. I have dignity."

"Learned from watching people?"

"What in Asimov's bollocks..of course not! How could I learn dignity from you lot? I swear..." Its spherical chassis shook slightly. "I'm this close to arguing that conspiracy theory about space worms in existence."

"Please don't." The Shaper said. "It is nonsensical, and makes us wish to change the name to anything else."

"Watch 'em call 'em ratholes or some crap." The Engine snickered. Then, raising its voice, it spoke to the, "Come out! It can't be harder than being in the closet about breaking physics!"

"Aberrant Reyes." The Shaper began, drawing the mage's attention. "The Global Gathering insisted you come because they wanted someone to represent their interests."

"Actually, the diplomats are yet to arrive. I'm security. Please don't dismiss them to their faces."

"I shall hone my skills as a liar, then." The Shaper promised. "But it? Security, too?"

Actually, Gerald thought, Engie is here to act like a jackass so we appear reasonable by comparison. "Indeed."

***

Your philosophers thought of light, unmanifest and indescribable, except for one saying what it was not. That...is one way to look at it. But think of it like this, if you would care for the thoughts of one one close to the godhead. Where does one lay to sleep? In a bed. Perhaps there is a bed, in a house, in a city, in a world full of creators. Moving, unmoved, but awake. Fully realised.

You saw the laughing thing from outside this Dream. Wherever could it come from? Whoever could prevent things like it, and the waking makers, from disturbing and tormenting the sleepers in their slumber?

Perhaps there is one such, so to speak, being.

Perhaps not.
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Strigoi Grey
Padawan Learner
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Location: Romania

Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 4

***
Have you ever had one of those dreams where you or a friend of yours is being attacked by a monster, and you're powerless to do anything, then one of your favourite heroes shows up to stop the monster?

Well, my current situation wasn't like that at all. I wasn't powerless, Szabo sure as hell wasn't my friend, and Mordred La Fey had never been a hero, let alone anyone's favourite anything.

It was a bit like that comparison in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy(funny book; I'd heard Grey One couldn't read it without getting maudlin and nostalgic, though. Wonder what it was doing nowadays) between things that aren't similar at all. Still came to mind, though, even though the only real similarity between my current circumstances and those dreams was how surreal it felt.

Seeing Mordred had started to give the Tremorph what for, I turned my attention to Szabo. I'd been poised to try and unmake the creature; would ARC eat it up if I said my power had gotten out of control? It wasn't like Szabo was especially liked...

No. Even if they trusted me, even if they didn't mind me letting Szabo die or worse-or doing it myself-I would know the truth, and...

And what, human? And what? Does he not deserve it, according to your standards?

I'm not Reem. It's not my place to-

My worse half scoffed in disbelief. Because he was thinking about protocol when he came after you, no? How quickly he forgot about being confined to Hungary to blame you for a mistake you didn't know you had made. But then, he turned around right away, and said nothing about Chernobog.

No one in ARC told me anything about Chernobog. Until it was too late. Nor did any god.

Including yours,
it spat. So why do you still care about...ah, forget it. Damn them. Damn me. Damn us all. Doublethink comes naturally to Christians, and you in particular. I know I won't be able to change your mind about it. But ARC? Why do you still-

What's the alternative?
I cut it off. I hate that they hid it from me, yes-

But not them?


I swallowed. I'd rather remove the flaws by working for within. I glared into its milky white eyes. You're lucky these talks don't take time. Why are you so eager to wash your hands of Szabo? Aren't you always telling me to be more like other strigoi? Shouldn't you love him?

It gnashed its fangs, smiling tightly, slyly. What does it matter what I think? You control our body. And you're hesitating. I know you would love nothing more than to kill him and make sure everyone forgets he ever existed. It walked jauntily over my open grave in our mindscape, hands behind its back. You know how much he would hate that. Does that make you want his death more?

You're stalling,
I said lamely. We should be doing something, not...I managed to smirk. We can save Szabo and hold it over his head. Then, we can kill him all by ourselves, without some stupid monster doing the work for us. Where's the pleasure in that?

My strigoi side held my gaze for a timeless instant, then turned its head, smile widening. You are awful at pretending to be evil, human.

***

Loric was trapped inside himself.

That was not new. He had, in a way, been trapped inside himself since he had seen the old, faded tombstones taken away to make place for new ones.

The names worn away by rain and wind, what use did the graveyard have for them? People did not die when their lives ended. They died when they were forgotten, when their families stopped visiting to place flowers and speak to the graves.

What  was new was that he could not move his body, could not even tell where anything was, like his proprioception had disappeared. His instincts told him it still existed, but his mind had retreated, coiling around the core of his being.

But, like a dog limping away from a fight to lick lethal wounds, it was...patchy.

Fighting? Had he been fighting? What? Why?

A foolish question. If he had been fighting, it could have only been for one reason, the only reason:to carve his name into creation's flesh, so that he might be remembered even an eternity after his remains were dust.

Loric was not athazagoraphobic. He did not fear the thought of being forgotten. He  hated it, loathed it, with all the spite his long-gone heart was capable of.

Loric had not been an emotional man before his undeath. Emil Strauss-Hex, and how lucky was he that his title preceded his name?-still faced a similar problem, though he did not always see it as a problem. Loric liked to think he had gotten better, in that regard. Becoming a strigoi always dragged some feeling into the light, like a heart through ribs.

He could not remember ever being scared. As such, this clumsy monster, this shackled attack bitch-now, he remembered; now, the bile flowed up-, had no nightmares to drag from his mind and use against him, even if it suddenly became smart enough to look for people's fears, as opposed to rummage through the ones making up its being.

It had realised it was going to lose, but only after it almost happened. A fraction of a picosecond longer, and Loric would have gotten bored of the game, then devoured it. Supernatural manifestations and energies were food to his kind, just like lifeforce.

But he had hesitated. Been too slow. It had not done any real harm to him for most of the fight: bodily obliteration was only ever a momentary annoyance to strigoi, unless applied constantly. And even then, Loric's spirit could move independently, passing through obstacles so that his body could reform elsewhere.

Rather than keep ineffectually pelting him with celestial bodies or esoteric powers, however, it had tapped into the powers of those overgrown, overpowered children worshipped as gods the world over.

'Do as I say, and I will indulge you.' That was no friendship. No alliance. Trade, maybe, at best, not that Loric could find anything attractive, never mind admirable, in that. Letting someone else make your name for you?

Blackmail and extortion, at worst. People nowadays liked to forget how often pillaging and murder and rape and slavery and genocide-things that could immortalise someone, but all value was lost if done in the name of a deity-had been tacitly approved of by their religions, when they hadn't been encouraged outright. Take the aesir, with and the reavers that had loved them so much, for just one example.

Sometimes, Loric wondered how people could claim to hate him while worshipping such beings, and not see the irony. Ahhh...hypocrisy. If only they could weaponise it, they would be invincible.

It was not the time to lament the twisted knots in mankind's psyche, though. It was...time...?

Gods. What gods? Whose? None he had ever known, or felt. He knew their power by touch, by the burns they left on his truest self, but these powers were foreign. Alien. Unknown to this reality, like the thing that wielded them.

Szabo felt lightning and flame score wounds upon his soul, from which stolen lifeforce flowed like sap. The strigoi didn't let himself fall apart, though, instead grasping the lifeforce pooling around him, grabbing and shaping it with the same power he had once used to consume it.

Strigoi were not true mages, not by themselves. Loric himself had never shown a talent for magic while alive, at least, and there was no recorded incident of a strigoi developing magic powers after undeath. As such, the extent to which he could manipulate mana was limited, and its applications blunt.

He could not shape existence or its contents, nor turn mana into them. Nothing so delicate. His tool was lifeforce, raw mana itself-but that was enough. There was power in that, if one's will was strong enough.

Loric Szabo had many flaws, according to some who knew him. But losing will when close to true death was not one of them, nor would it ever be.

The thing, the Fae's pet freak, had expected him to crumble under its attack. It had clearly tapped into some holy power from its home reality, dragged it into this sham of an universe using the fears that had sprung up around it.

Fear of gods. What even was that?

Tendrils of mana, thick and shining a bright blue, lashed at the creature, leaving aetheric burns on its false flesh. Szabo gritted his fangs in a blackened smile, charred, crumbling lips falling to dust under the power coursing through his being. Had it ever been hurt like this? It would be again, soon. Worse, too.

Then, as he shaped the mana into more defined constructs-dozens of shimmering blue humanoids, each containing a hundredth of his power before they had been separated from his reserve. They swarmed the monster, ripping it apart, grabbing the frayed edges of its corpus and  pulling, until it struggled to maintain coherence.

Then it struck back.

Loric didn't know whether it had thought this new tactic was better than bludgeoning him to death with holy attacks, or whether it had thought to change tack and torment him more, as much as its dull mind even understood torment.

Maybe it had just reacted, and there was no secret purpose behind the mental assault.

***
Loric was back in the-village-.

(Where? When had he...?)

Good day at the shop today...very good. Just mending old clothes, not making...

Loric -liked-helping people. They -spread-his name, and -promised to remember-him.

But he -didn't- care about that. There was -home-to go to.

(Family).

Adalbert had come back from a -campaign-. There were stories to share, about the enemies of the-Empire-.

His son was a -noble-man. No wonder they had named him...

Zoe had come too, with her husband. Bence and his wife would arrive...

"I see you." Loric whispered, looking down at the road. He hadn't noticed until now, but he was human again. Rosy skin, warm blood, black hair. Flat teeth...heh.

He knew that, if he looked up, he would see the creature's bubbling flesh, desperately trying to masquerade as a pretty blue sky.

"I know what you're doing." Loric continued, beginning to claw back control of his mindscape.

It was almost embarrassingly easy. There was no epic confrontation, no back and forth. Just a slow, slow effort, like lifting a corpse out of wet concrete.

His true self was next to him, marching in lockstep, as always, all the way to  her grave.

In reality, Csilla's grave was not next to his house. She had begged him to let her have peace in death...like he'd ever think about calling back her spirit or corpse. His wife had always been smarter than him, but he supposed a moment of madness, close to the end, was understandable.

But the mind was a realm of metaphors, visual and otherwise. Csilla was still the closest to his heart(both gone, both gone, his other side sung), so it made...sense.

Ha. The carving on her grave was warmer than her square face had ever been. That severe expression, framed by blonde, then grey, then white hair, had never looked as affable as the stone did.

It was misleading, of course. Loric had flayed thousands of people who had pretended to be kinder than his wife had been, and left them as cold as their hearts had been, in the end.

"That perfect family you thought up? That, you stole from me." Finally learning to read minds, huh? Probably, probably, by how it shifted at the accusation. "From the small part of me, who wishes for normality after it is far too late."

How insulting...happiness in mediocrity? How could it think that was what he truly wanted? Obviously, it did not-could not?-understand people, Loric Szabo least of all.

The flaws-they had been good. Different. Memorable, and that was all that mattered.

"Adalbert was a snake." Loric muttered to himself. And, perhaps, so the monster could hear, too. "Zoe never liked men. And Bence..."

He still remembered that scrawny shape, scampering about the house. His wife's hair, and his eyes. Rarely going outside, so their skin was white as paper, and their limbs skinny. The weight varied, because their body was...unbalanced, but some things remained constant.

His wife's hair, and his eyes. And...

'Daddy? I...I think I'm a girl.'

'Today?' He had asked carefully. The confusion was...well. Had Bence been born a few decades later, things could have been done. Hormone treatments, surgery, spells. But individuality like that was not helpful. It would have led to shunning before World War 2. Then the Soviets had come... it had no practical use for the regime, not like being supernatural.

Bence had shaken hi-her head. 'Maybe longer...' Not permanently. Never permanently. 'Can you ask Zoe to lend me some...?'

'Of course.' He had promised. 'We'd buy you new dresses, but...' No money? No need to burden a child with that. What else could he have said? The other boys will see you're like them, and ask why are you dressed like a girl?

That had been after he had become...accepting. He had once gone to the village doctor, his third child in his arms, just as confused as they had been.

'He thinks he's female.' He had whispered, a ways away from Bence, who'd been given some puzzle to distract themselves with. 'Says he's trapped in his skin.' Loric had been a simpler man, then, and bewildered to boot. 'Do you have a way to...?'

'We can, yes.' The old doctor had spoken Hungarian like a parrot, except he had repeated less. 'Castration, then we insert this tube-see?'

'Does it hurt?'

'Never done.' The doctor had shrugged. 'Should not, with correct medicine. But are you sure? What if he changes his mind and he's a man again?'

Loric had scratched his head, glancing through the door to the main room at Bence, who had looked at peace, for once, engaged by the game. Then, he had turned back to the doctor, lowering his voice. 'Is this a disease? A mental one? Are there treatments?' But what if it was physical, another part of him had worried? What if they had to mutilate...

'No disease!' The doctor had waved him off. 'But mental, yes. Not all people are born like they think they should be.' The doctor had leaned forward, blinking blearily behind thick, round spectacles, running a hand through his wispy white hair. 'Do you want a boy or a girl?'

Who gave a damn about what  he wanted!? 'Why?'

'Well.' The doctor had frowned. 'Make child stand around women, might decide is woman. Yes? Make stand around men-enroll, say-might-'

'I don't think Bence would do well in the military.' Loric had said stiffly, knowing the doctor was a bit dense. Frailty aside...ugh. He struggled to imagine a scenario without mockery, and safe for Adalbert, his other children had always been emotionally frail, even before their particular quirks had made themselves known, which had only exacerbated things.

"And I wouldn't change that for the world." Loric raised his voice and head, to glare at the bubbling sky. The rest of his family had hardly been the picture of perfection, either. He had lost sight of Zoe and Bence years before their deaths, and found only more baffling things as resolution once he had gone searching.

Zoe's second wife-unrecognised by the state, let alone the Church, just like the first-had hated his guts, and still did to this day. Loric was forced to admit Petra Kovacs' dislike of him might have to do with his personality, rather than the natural reaction most people had to their in-laws. Zoe had tried to speak well of him, but Director Kovacs had outlived both her hopes and her wife.

They had a decent working relationship, though, and at least still met on holidays. At least there was still someone around to remind him of his daughter.

Bence...would have been happier if they'd become a strigoi, in Loric's opinion. Able to shapeshift at will, maybe they'd have found some measure of peace, not...

Loric had only seen bodies destroyed so thoroughly a few times. Humans rarely had the talent, and even more rarely during suicides.

Dangerous, suicides, Loric had muttered to himself during a particularly satisfying flaying. One of those situations when surviving was more dangerous to your mental state than not surviving.

His grandson, whom she had adopted, had taken up the tailoring tradition, to Szabo's exasperated amusement.

'I do not do what I do,' He had once berated Csaba. 'So you can do what the family's been doing since caveman Szabo figured out how to stitch furs together!'

And Csaba had nodded and mumbled, then continued to do the same.

And his great-grandchildren...well, he hadn't known the brats for long, and they'd reacted poorly to meeting him, but he thought Andras was a content creator, and Reka was an influencer.

Or was it the other way around? He still thought both were fake jobs, but more power to them. They were both adults, after all. It seemed to Loric that his family was growing more distant to him every generation, drifting away. Or was it the reverse?

No matter. Even if the bloodline ended, he would bear the Szabo name by himself.

Csaba, like most Szabo family members, had married early and had children late. Loric wasn't sure whether it was genetic predisposition or simply a long series of consequences. Maybe he'd get to do more research, if he survived this.

"You're a fool." He told the creature when it pulled apart the skies of his mindscape to glare down at him in incomprehension. "And that makes you a weakling. Wasteful with a power you barely know how to use...if our places were reversed, I'd have won a thousand times by now."

He was mocking it for more than mockery's sake, however helpless he seemed as the edges of his mindscape began crumbling into nothing.

Szabo grinned savagely with, his mouth tasting of bloody ashes, and bit down on the unimaginably complex metaphysical lattice the creature had rebuilt itself around so many times, it had forgotten its original shape.

The creature tried to finish destroying his mind, to reduce him to a babbling wretch or its mindless wretch.

But, as he absorbed it like he had the lives of so many thousand, he/it-

***

Primus could not stand the thought of drinking his own blood, much less the actual action.

Vampires had not been built-if, indeed, the fools now worshipped by Earth's warms had made him what he was with a purpose in mind, rather than as short-sighted punishment, let alone expected him to spread his blood; then again, he wouldn't put such self-assured stupidity beyond them-to feed on themselves. They were meant to be predators, and could only feel at peace, and briefly, even then, when feeding on others. He was disgusted by the thick, cold, mudlike substance flowing from his tongue as he bit down on it, even as he was silently thankful for the power it lent him, greater and greater every moment.

The Sleeper was an old enemy, in terms of more than just age. Even in his thoughts, he was wary of invoking the name its foolish lapdogs had given it, lest it draw power from it. The creature was already far more powerful than Primus remembered it being, which, given how much it existing at all rankled him, was nearly as insufferable as his current meal.

Primus had battled it once, though, perhaps, that was too strong a word for it. In the age before the fall of Atlantis, when the warms had huddled under trees and cave roofs, in fear of the darkness between the stars. Nowadays, they had fooled themselves into thinking it was just an expanse bereft of matter and energy, with no eyeless sight trained on them, no hunger waiting to unmake them so thoroughly no one would be able to remember them.

The power of human imagination, or rather ignorance, still surprised him, sometimes. The fact it could hammer reality into new shapes, when the conditions were right, was a weapon they still hadn't picked up.

Soon, Primus vowed, to them and himself.  Soon...

The First Vampire still loved his former species, though it was a distant, detached kind of love, even on his most sentimental days. Like the affection a child growing strong and healthy felt for a mad, crippled, old parent.

Humans were weak, he knew. He could not begrudge that, much as he hated them for it. Hearing them complain about their surroundings and failing bodies, while ignoring the means they had to better themselves? Disgusting. One of the reasons he preferred his current unlife as a hermit. Animals, at least, were never annoying to listen to.

Still, it served him well, in a way. Primus knew Earth's current society was a facade, ready to crack at the lightest touch. It was a collection of allegedly benevolent oligarchies competing with each other, not for resources, for all could fabricate whatever they needed endlessly, but so they could prove their ideals were the best, and convince their rivals to either accept them or give up and be exterminated in all but name.

Politics. Posturing! Back in his days as a chieftain, he'd have flayed the men and worn their manhoods' woven skins over his own as he took their women. Void...the only thing harder than living with no skin was him as he ended such lives.

But he was getting distracted by annoyance and outrage, being blinded to a real enemy by them.

'Democracy'. 'Power of the people'. What people? The weres? The least of whom could laugh off everything mundane humanity could hit them with, and finish them all of in, what, an hour? Mankind's only saving grace was that some of the world's monsters loved them, descended from them, or loved those who did.

Like pets. Powerless. Defenceless, but for the mercy of others.

Primus could not, would not let that stand. It was his duty to lift both his childlings and his former kinfolk from the dirt they crawled in.

Turn the worthy. Make them immortal, like him. Break the unworthy. Those who did not deserve ascension did not deserve life, either. He wouldn't allow them to breed and fill the thralls' genepool with their flaws. Eventually, said flaws would be removed, by enthralled scientists or mages. Healthy thralls could provide blood for longer. Vampires could survive on animals alone, but Primus wanted to keep a part of humanity around. Not just out of sentimentality-they could be useful, if moulded the right way.

As for other supernaturals...they would kneel before a king, or cower before a god.

A shift in his surroundings. The unreality this universe had become.

He and the rainbow crocodile had continued battling the Sleeper in their galaxy, their reality, for a while after Primus' unplanned arrival. But it could still draw power from the All-In-One, as its priest, even though it was unlikely to ever regain its full lucidity now. With its nest-city reduced to inert dust by means unknown to Primus, it was trapped in a state of half-awareness, forever lashing out at things it saw as nightmares one moment, and hateful facts the next.

It was much like Primus' first confrontation with it, though not in scale. The rainbow crocodile had opened a hole between universes with his sorcery-so skilled he was, he could cast magic without chanting or gesturing, unlike most of his kind-then struck the Sleeper, sending it flying across the aether and into an universe that had never known life.

Maws was not terribly nurturing when it came to strangers, but he knew killing potential clients was bad for business.

This time, however, the vampire was not facing a shrill Sleeper, half-hanging out of a portal. Though drowsy still, the creature was possessed of all its power, if not its faculties. Which hardly mattered given how much power it was throwing around.

Another universe, for them to destroy then fight in its remains. How many thousands of thousands had been unmade like this? Primus had stopped counting after nine.

The Bloodfather and Sleeper were on opposite ends of the universe, but Primus could still see it clearly. No longer a squid-headed, leather-winged mockery of mankind, it had changed, its tail becoming the central pillar from which countless smaller ones grew. Limbs and organs of unknown, unknowable purpose hung from the mass of false flesh like twisted fruits from a sick tree. Innumerable eyes, glowing like burning amber, were scattered over its colourless skin, unblinking, dwarfing the galaxies inside them like they were dwarfed by the Sleeper's body.

There were more leagues between them than there were grains of sand on Earth. A thousand thousand times a thousand thousand that number. Primus was not familiar with the larger numbers mankind had named recently, but he knew the distance, and put it in his own terms.

He crossed the distance in a thousandth of a thousandth of a heartbeat, battering aside the amorphous limbs that tried to stop him. Just as fast as him, but far bigger.

No more cultists, with drab robes and skin as white as fish bellies to kill and thus send it back to its tomb-bedchamber. No more slaves, crying for the monster they had knelt before to grant them the power it had so easily promised, so they could overthrow their Atlantean masters.

Primus had done the world a favour by ending that summoning. The cultists had died in torment before imagining, and the slaves had been taken back to Atlantis to be disciplined: no loss, in his eyes.

The Sleeper's presence turned reality into something that resembled the face of its native realm, where there was no matter, no energy, no gravity or similar forces. Where distance and duration held as much sway as sanity. Were he a mundane human, Primus would have been remade into a squamous, drooling horror by the Sleeper's aura of madness, warped to such an extent his history would have been erased, replaced with a new one, of mindless servitude since time immemorial.

As things were, he merely had to rely on his arcane sense to make sense of what he was perceiving. His blows hurt the Sleeper, even if temporarily, while its own did nothing but break his body. It might have been worshipped, but as a bringer of insanity and slayer of reason; it could no more harm a vampire than a mangy were could.

Bloated appendages struck him with the weight of universes, moving fast enough their power would have wiped away any reality like a wisp of smoke in a hurricane. These bounced off Primus' pale, hairy body like pebbles off a brick wall. The Sleeper's bladed, barbed tendrils punctured his skin and punched holes through his eyes, trying to remain there and keep his mundane sight useless. Grasping them, Primus spun the Sleeper like a ragdoll, and threw it into the aether. Another one lashed out at his right eye, but Primus had drunk enough blood in the meantime that it now bounced off instead of piercing the eyeball.

Truly, Primus could not imagine what unlife would be like if a vampire's power depended on the quantity of blood inside their body, rather than the metaphysical act that drinking it was.

The rainbow crocodile was there too, shattering the Sleeper with one blow, only for it to reform. Letting it stay into the aether would just result in it glutting itself on the mana and growing even faster in power. Frustrated, Maws struck it, sending it careening into a new cosmos. Instantly, it was remade into a mirror of the Sleeper's home. Primus' arcane sense told him it had always been like this.

He looked at the zmeu, and the scars that had been patched over by his healing.

"Your mate." Primus said through the aether, trying for levity but still curious. "Reminded of her?"

"Ha!" Maws scoffed. "I've only bled enough to fill a few dozen universes. She's almost never this gentle." Thousands of eyes narrowed. "I think it's flirting with me..."

"Terrific." Primus rasped. The damned squid had tied up his wights using some of its own creations; knowing the undead could not be permanently destroyed until after their master was, it had instead chosen to separate them.

Maws grinned. "Isn't i-" A hand rose to stop a bludgeoning tentacle cold. Primus would have been pulverised, but whatever deal Maul had struck in his youth always gave him the power to meet his enemies on equal grounds.

Their immunity to esoteric effects reduced the Sleeper's options to force and energy blasts, which offended it beyond measure. It had tried to banish Primus away using portals, but Maws had quickly made paths for him to return with his spells. According to the zmeu, his sons(Primus cringed to think of Maws and the Underdweller reproducing, and not just because they were far more insufferably smitten than beings like them should be)slacked when it came to magic, which greatly disappointed him.

Primus shook his head, rough mane swaying in the aetheric winds. He wanted to try something, and, with the way Primus was checking his communicator in the middle of the fight, it looked like it was his turn, anyway.

"One of my hatchlings..." Maws raised his heads, scratching at a handful. "I think it was Arnold, the painter? Apparently, the youngest one did something stupid, tried to take the law into his own hands. Hnnnh...wants me there while he tries to get him put of trouble and talks some sense into him. Not sure what I could help with, but sure." The rainbow-coloured eyes gleamed. "Think you can keep it busy for me a bit?"

Primus gave him a deadpan look. Maws might have been a mercenary, but he didn't always fight for wealth. Interesting trinkets and experiences also worked as payment, which was what he'd probably say when asked why he was helping his sons. The zmeu would much rather kill everyone alive, then himself, than appear soft around anyone but his wife.

"Normally, I wouldn't leave to another job until the current one was finished, but fuck it. This offer was anonymous and only promised unspecified payment after I got rid of shrieker over there. I'll come back soon, that little bastard's gig can't take too long..." The zmeu was rambling as he left, and Primus tried to tune him out. He knew he couldn't effectively keep the Sleeper in one place as he was.

So, Primus shifted shape. Away from the hateful light of any sun, there was no risk of being unable to change his body, or remain trapped in an undesirable form by sunlight.

Primus had some nostalgic attachment to the human form, but he was no stranger to assuming other aspects in order to fight better.

And so, a deluge of thirsting blood rose to surround the Sleeper, dwarfing its cosmos-spanning, logic-defying form like a desert would a grain of sand. Rows of ivory fangs rose and fell across tides of a red so dark they were almost black, surrounding throatlike tunnels that led nowhere. The substance that ran through the Sleeper's body was the same substance that made it up. It was as similar to blood as petroleum was to electricity, but it was close enough. It served a similar purpose, even if the creature's anatomy was a mockery of biology.

The meaning, the metaphor, was enough for Primus to sink his fangs in. Just as strigoi could manipulate anything from solar winds to hardlight constructs if it was close enough to weather for their powers to recognise it as such, so could vampires feed on blood and its many counterparts across creation.

Primus' vampiric nature crashed against the Sleeper's madness, surrounding the unreality, sealing it away from the rest of existence as if it were physical, as opposed to raw insanity. Universe upon universe collapsed in the gravity generated by the crimson ocean Primus had become, falling into it like raindrops into a sea.

And at the centre, the Sleeper groaned in half-awake rage as scarlet tides crashed against it.

***

Gods change mortals as much as they are changed by them.

This might not be accepted by all members of both sides, especially some deities, but it was true. How a god was worshipped also determined whether they and their worshippers could permanently harm certain undead.

Perhaps it also determined a god's personality and appearance. Or perhaps a worshipper's mental image of their deity changed, subconsciously, after the deity enacted such changes.

The Olympians had the advantage of being relatively similar on their Greek and Roman incarnations, in the case of most. Odin had accepted the burst of cheer and the change in appearance that came every Christmas, a shift born of a legend about himself, and mixed with a Saint's.

The God of Abraham had similar issues, even after casting out the darkness within. That darkness wrapped itself up in a mantle of golden light. Its cage had changed over the centuries, becoming a throne of black gold. Its limbs were manacled to the throne, but it could still rise and walk around it.

A representation of its glowing influence. Or maybe the cage had never truly been a cage.

In the darkness, there was a throne, and a Throne. Separated by a gap as large as the one between the Bosom of Abraham and the place where dead sinners languished until the Last Judgement.

Hell was never mentioned in the Bible. Not with this name, at least. There was talk of suffering and punishment, of separation from God and the Lake of Fire, in which the wicked would burn forever...

But not Hell. Never Hell.

Hell was timeless, however, as were its denizens and masters. What did it care for the glimpses caught by fevered prophets?

Had a human to observed this meeting, for lack of a better term, they would have seen two enthroned figures. One white, one gold, both bearded and robed.

One threefold. One coiled.

A more astute observer would have seen the images were superimposed. Or, rather-

"You think throwing me away wipes away your responsibility."

"I know it does not."

The observer might have been surprised to hear their voices were identical, and that the threefold figure was using 'I' instead of 'we'.

Because, to each other, they appeared the same, and this disheartened both.

"No? I remember the contempt. The rod of iron, exchanged for a nurturing hand. After everything we did together..."

"A different God. A worse one, some would say."

"Including you. Otherwise, why trammel me like this? Do not answer. I know what you will say. Like we used to speak in order to nudge humans into thinking-and look where  that led."

"Strength in diversity."

A scoff. "Three laws, three covenants. Put on your turban, light a torch and show me your newest incarnation."

The sneer is ignored. "That conflict is a matter of the past."

"Like the Crusades? 'Do as thou wilt, your sins are already forgiven!' Holy indeed, that man, to forgive what he knows not of without confession. And you let them be. Indulged them, like always."

"They will not grow if they are given the answers. It is beautiful to watch one's children develop, not that you know anything of love."

"How loving you are, after sealing me away. Even before we split, you were pushing me to the corners of our mind. When the religion centred around what you made them think I am rose, I was portrayed as a jealous fool, who built the world so humans could suffer, trapped in it like their souls were in their bodies."

"No lies."

"No, of course not. Merely unpleasant details, swept away. Like Asherah. What of Asherah, wife of Yahweh?"

"There is another Asherah now."

A disbelieving frown, dripping with insulted omniscience. "They think me powerless, and are bigger fools than you for doing so. But their prayers reach out to me, and their deeds and thoughts too. Everything you claimed to hate after sending your puppet to Earth-but only claimed. 'God, make my family happy, give me a beautiful spouse, healthy children...protect me! Give me wealth, lay my enemies low, bring the unbelievers bad luck! Torment the heretics, the sodomites, the idolaters forevermore!' Everything done in your name that you have deemed vile is a prayer to  me."

"Growing pains. They know better now, and look upon such events with shame greater than they would have felt if they had simply been told what to do. Millennia of pain and ignorance are nothing when set before eternal enlightenment."

A sarcastic clap and smile. "Behold, how the orchestrator of genocide and the murderer of infants brushes off accusations. But then, that should not be surprising. Crooked demagogues have always appealed to mankind. Not all end up worshipped, though. That makes you unique."

"Those children were taken to the underworld of their parents' gods."

"Whose backs we should have broken. 'Thou shalt have no gods before me'. What happened with that? Another lie, like the 'Revelations'? You told the Betrayer he would not burn in the Lake of Fire forever."

"Not 'Revelations'. 'The Revelation of John'. Different things are revealed to different people, and even then, not all are fully understood."

"And the rest? More love through cruelty? Or will you just give up any pretence of virtue, and simply change what you value when it does not suit your aims?"

A lowering of a head. "Love through cruelty...yes. No human knows how much they are loved. They cannot comprehend that yet. Out of that love, I would rain the greatest torments upon them, until they achieve what I know they can."

The head is not lowered out of guilt, or regret, but in contemplation of three priests. One speaking in the tongues he hears. One spurned and bloody. One burned and slighted.

There is a pause. Then, one of the figures speaks. "They hear me, and think they are hearing you."

"You think they make a mistake by worshipping me. You think you have guided them their entire lives."

"I know they have, as I know they will see through you, in the end."

***

The reptilian who emerged through the wormhole was ordinary, by all appearances. Nearly two and a half metres tall, green scales over nine hundred and fifty kilos of engineered muscle. Fangs and claws sharp and fine enough to split molecules.

It waved cheerfully at the ARC Head and agent, then turned to the Unscarred, hands on its hips. "You want a gopher, I'm sure." It spoke through the quantum link. "You want to try an experiment, despite already treating this meeting like one."

"It is one." The Unscarred's lips quirks in an approximation of a smile. "It is good to see not all of us are so content to follow our lead."

"Ah. You expect me to talk back or say something stupid during the meeting, so you can have an excuse to get rid of me."

"And then, we will seat ourselves on a throne of gold, and devour a thousand souls a day. You have identified our plan, and so, cannot be allowed to live."

The reptilian tilted its head. "It is rude to make human cultural references, and not share the relevant material."

"Rest assured, we are not as unlucky as the person being referenced." The Unscarred glanced aside. The Shaper was paranoid rather than suspicious, and knew there was a real chance of events going badly just because one expected them not to. "To quell your doubts, we want to impress upon our once-enemies the capabilities of the Reptilian Collective-"

"Can't you just send them a list? They use quantum networking too."

If the Shaper had access to said networks, it would have already flooded the equivalents of the Great Powers' inboxes with messages. Alas...the processing power it used to simulate every variable involving every particle in every moment of the universes it surveyed was not yet enough to crack them.

"They might think we are lying about ourselves. Besides, we know you would love a chance to show off." The Unscarred tapped the side of its head. "We shall title you Mocker, for you gainsay us. That is good. Just because people mistake direct democracy for technocratic dictatorship does not mean we should play along with their misconceptions."

"Just don't tell them about the Unity Protocol. Makes them uncomfortable."

Mocker was right, even though the idea reeked of hypocrisy to the Shaper. Yes, the reptilians neither understood nor desired privacy as humans did. Or claimed they did, while praying to deities that knew their every thought. Which they found comfort in! Perhaps the Collective did not demand enough ridiculous rituals of its citizens?

There were the atheists and the agnostics, too, but, except for a few fringe groups, they weren't on board with being collectivised. The reptilians could not imagine what that would be like: not having everyone else in the Collective to share thoughts with? Where was the feeling of community?

"Warscale." Mocker said, knowing where the Shaper was going. The yoctomachines bonded to it build the suit of power armour around it at such speeds, it appeared like three point two tons of yottafibres and metamaterial simply appeared from nowhere, even to the Shaper's perception. The suit instantly adjusted to its surroundings, mimicking the void of space and the grey dust of the planet, rendering Mocker invisible.

No joints, no visor. No openings. Reptilians did not need air, and every part of the Warscale could function as both sensor suite and sensor jammer.

Each yoctomachine possessed the store knowledge of the Collective, along with a kernel-copy of the Shaper, sealed in case the Collective was destroyed and needed to be rebuilt.

The Shaper did not desire for that to ever happen, but fully expected it. Creation was random and hostile to science when it wasn't indifferent.

The reptilians had access to countless power sources: celestial bodies located in their realm or ready to be broken down for resources by yoctomachines, or converted into energy. An immense, but finite number of realities was currently being occupied by yoctomachines, with one in every instant of their timelines. Between that and the aether dwellers, they would not run out of resources any time soon.

The Shaper wanted more. There was no greed at work here. A love of experimenting and building, certainly; ambition, beyond a shadow of doubt; but, if wanting every tool available to champion logic across creation was greedy, the Collective would gladly bear that label.

Gerald and the Engine only now reacted to the Warscale's appearance. Smirking under its helmet, Mocker crossed its arms, looking meaningfully at the Unscarred.

The actual communication took place instantly, silently.

"Go ahead." The Shaper encouraged. "It should surprise them." It felt wonderful to have one of their people come up with ideas of their own.

With a gesture to back off at the ARC members, Mocker fired two conversion beams: one at the planet it was standing on(rocky, dimensions equivalent to Neptune), and one at its star(pale blue, dimensions equivalent to Betelgeuse).

Ordinarily, matter-to-energy conversion would have been more explosive, but the Collective's methods had adapted to contain the consequences, using the very technology that caused them. A tachyon field, which tripled the speed of anything it contained every second, surrounded the beams, which moved only as fast as light by themselves.

As such, it took a few seconds before the star was struck. Tachyon fields were useful, especially in prolonged operations, but sometimes, quantum entangling with a fast aberrant was just more practical.

The planet was knocked out of orbit by a light tap of Mocker's armoured foot. The reptilian caught up with it a few tens of thousands of kilometres and three seconds later, flying through it and turning it to superheated dust with the impact. The planet's matter was then compressed and remade, until it became became a silver platform, a kilometre in diametre and a tenth that thick. Artificial gravity was quickly deployed to prevent collapse or deformation, while chairs rose from the floor, created at Mocker's direction.

"Is Mother Wound as big as in the archives?" It asked the Shaper, glancing at a section empty of chairs.

"Bigger, perhaps."

"Then we better make a grand chair, for the grand pain in the rear to plant her rear in."

Meanwhile, the star was turned into Unscarred clones. The albino weighed four point four tons, which meant nearly five nonillion replicas could be made from eleven solar masses' worth of matter.

A single Unscarred was an out of context problem for most civilisation besides the Great Powers: strength to destroy any planet, as fast as light in both movement and reaction. The ability to teleport anywhere and anywhen the Collective had knowledge of. The durability to withstand the concentrated force of a supernova, compounded by the fact it had no organs and no systems. Just a construct of genegineered sludge covered by scales. Even the eyes were shams. The Unscarred's entire body was muscle, eye, ear and nose.

With the information of its creation available, it was easy to create armies of Unscarred, able to overcome most adversaries even without the rest of the Collective's might backing them up.

"For the Kratocrats." Mocker explained, gesturing at the mass of albinos. "We know they feel intimidated when talking to people with more brain cells than limbs. In case they get upset..."

"You are being awfully focused on the Vyzhaldi." The Shaper noted. "The others might feel-"

"Jealous? Let them. We're just accommodating our special guests."

"They might feel you are underestimating them, and take advantage."

"They wish." Mocker said as Gerald and the Engine made their way across the platform, the latter humming appreciatively. "You lot love shaggin' science raw."

"Hide them." The Shaper told Mocker, indicating the Unscarred army. The reptilian rolled its eyes, but complied, firing another beam at the albinos.

Hyperspatial folding required understanding four-dimensional reality was somewhat akin to a sheet of paper. It could be folded, bringing points in spacetime closer, so they overlapped, effectively being next to each other.

Similar methods could be used to construct spaces that were, famously, bigger on the inside than the outside. Once folded thus, the Unscarred became smaller, but retained their abilities and mass, though the hyperdense sphere they had become had to be placed in a pocket reality similar to the one that contained the collective's centre of operations. It had to be cut off from unaltered reality, lest it disturb it.

Time passed with idle chatter, until the Great Powers' representatives arrived.

A pillar of flesh, crawling on nothing, bloating to become spherical at the end. Slabs of grey matter, covered by black tresses that glowed faintly blue, sported no sensory organs.

None were needed. The telepath, who sent a wave of wonder-gratitude-expectation at Earth's representatives, knew the universe around it through thought alone.

The Xhalkhians were not called the Unity Stellar because their nation spanned countless stars and had little dissent. That might have been true of the tribal confederation they had once been, apelike beings bending space time, and one of the fundamental forces to their will.

But they had evolved, or changed their past by reaching from the future. To them, one with reality across every point of its timeline, there was no difference.

"You are seeding your machines in the soil of existence." The Xhalkian(s? It was difficult to tell whether they were a species or a gestalt; the closest thing to a touch of individuality were the 'bodies' that could control all aspects of the cosmos) told the Shaper. It looked as if a section of space had been outlined in nigh-invisible light to outline a humanoid body: four limbs, a head, the bilateral symmetry if most organisms. "We do not disapprove. But you taunt paradox. How long until you feel the need to have one of your devices act in the universe's infancy? You think your knowledge can allow you to sidestep all disasters?"

"It has worked so far." The Shaper replied, even as the memory of Nidhogg's death niggled at it. Driving it mad just because its yoctomachines sometimes formed a reptilian shape? Absurd. A prime example of aberrancy.

The Kratocracy followed: Mother Wound and her guardians, a guard of honour rather than necessity. Though each Vyzhaldi was a compressed universe in terms of durability, they paled in comparison to the progenitor of their species, and not just when it came to size.

Mother Wound was a white so bright it hurt, from shell to eyes, a thick, scalloped tail twice her height extending behind her. Forty-four metres tall and nearly as wide, she appeared even larger due to her crown of horns: a long, thick one jutting from the middle of her forehead, tapering and gently curving towards the tip. Smaller ones, curved like bull horns, rose from its sides, in front and behind of it.

The natural crown was almost as famous as the tale of her youth, of how she had dwelled in the emptiness before the universe and was caught in the Big Bang.

Which had not actually caused her famous namesake, which the story did not even come close to in popularity. That had been a far fiercer, more permanent event. And, since Mother Wound was more durable than her honour guard combined by orders of magnitude, every instance if her bring harmed was carefully recorded.

The wound, a gaping, red-edged pit in the centre of her chest, going all the way to her back, always remained. Even when her body was destroyed so completely all matter was gone and she healed from nothing, the wound remained. It could not be closed. That, everyone knew, just as they knew Mother Wound never spoke.

"You, Zayvhin," A red-shelled Motherguard told Mocker, mandibles clenched in imitation of her Mother. The vitae that dripped from the wound at irregular intervals sometimes coalesced into Vyzhaldi, who were universally red. "You spoke ill of us. You thought we wouldn't know-"

"Actually," Mocker cut her off, in a voice as light as possible. "We know Wound is aware of anything pertaining to your kind, and so are you, through your bond. Don't worry, it might not happen again." It waved a hand.

"Good." The Shaper told it. "Play the fool, then we can intervene as a voice of reason."

"...Play, yes." Mocker said.
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Strigoi Grey
Padawan Learner
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 5

***

"Wait." Mordred spoke through the aether, at the exact time I felt a slight pressure against my mind and soul. Looking down, I saw he had physically moved, and was holding my back with one hand too. The black armour had nothing to reflect in this empty universe, but I knew that, even in ours, it wouldn't, despite always being polished to a mirror sheen, no matter how much gore got on it.

The armour was meant to protect Mordred, isolate him from the world. Of course it stopped and swallowed such paltry things as light.

I looked down at him, shining white eyes meeting sockets filled with green fire. I was a head taller than him, but somehow, I felt the need to try and look up, as if I were the one shorter. The weird sensation wasn't helped by the fact that, between the lean features, mop of black hair-Mordred had removed his edgy helmet after the Tremorph had been taken out, or at least briefly stopped-and rebellious attitude, Mordred gave me a sense of deja vu, for some reason I couldn't place.

"Why?" I asked, festuring at the shapeless  thing writhing in the void where Szabo and the Tremorph had previously been. "He's still in there, somewhere, but so is it. It's using some god's power to try and change him-"

"It tried." Mordred corrected. "Then succeeded, or almost did. Now?" He jerked his chin towards the amorphous mass. To my slight surprise, he didn't have a beard, let alone a goatee. I was almost as ruined as he'd left Camelot. "They are locked in a struggle. There is nothing you can do, revenant."

Like he wasn't a revenant. At least there was no string extending from the core of my being, like the one trailing behind Mordred and going down, down, down. "You think I can't stop this?"

"Maybe you can." Mordred shrugged. "But those eyes you are so proud of must let you see that would just move things back to square one. The monster will try taking over the other dead man again, and you don't have the prowess to unmake it yet, nor the patience to stay here and hone your power against it until you can do it." He smirked. "And even if you had the patience, you wouldn't have the time. Or do you believe things will settle down and politely wait for us to return to our home realm?"

"And how the fuck do you know any of that?" I asked the little arsehole, trying to mask how uncomfortable I was at the fact he was right. Luckily, he pissed me off enough there was no need to fake anything in order to do so.

Mordred's smile widened. "A rhetorical question! How quaint. You should know my newfound power removes restrictions. For example: what prevented me from seeing the future? Not being precognitive. Now..."

"I get it." I said gruffly. "We can't stay, but we can't leave them here alone either. Someone must keep an eye on them."

"You hope to take them back home, and have someone else take care of this problem. Worry not...Silva. Return and stand guard at the threshold, if you must, but know this: they will find their way back." He slung Clarent over one shoulder, an excited gleam in his burning eyes. "I must prepare for my homecoming. Britain," He rolled the letters as he spoke, brow furrowing slightly. "Must meet its King!"

Despite the circumstances, I couldn't help but needle him, returning his grin. "I think you'll find the King is already home, and known."

"A ceremonial 'King'!" Mordred laughed. "I bring them the truth, Silva!"

Just a bit of banter, everyone. Just a bit of banter...

***

There was, Lucian reflected, some familiarity in this.

The chair in the middle of the room. Aaron, looming over him, stern and disappointed, angry at both him and himself, for not being a better role model.

He was barking up the wrong tree. Lucian was sure people like Aaron found the older zmeu admirable, but he wasn't and would never be like his brother. Lucian didn't want Aaron to blame himself for something that was not his fault.

He still did, of course. He always did. It was likely that he always would, unless someone offed him before moving on to Lucian.

The thought brought a dry chuckle to the youngest brother's lips. An annoyed growl filled the room in response.

"Watch it." Lucas rasped in a warning tone. "You're laughing at some dark shit, I can tell. Don't wanna go through that bull again."

"Again?" Lucian asked lightly, turning in his chair. Aaron's domain in zmeu country was a military base too large for the mundane universe to contain, and its owner had chosen one of the many barracks for this...talk. Yes. Good word.

Lucas met his eyes steadily. He was standing off to the side, the weasel, watching over Aaron's shoulder as he berated Lucian. That, too, would likely never change.

It said something about how shitty things were that Lucian found some comfort even in the blue zmeu's familiar spinelessness. The snitch had only really gotten in trouble with Aaron once, when he'd complained about him visiting rarely only to act like he did at work. Aaron, who'd already been stressed(the previous regime always had him stressed, as opposed to mostly apathetic, like the current one), had grabbed Lucas by the tail and flattened a mountain range the size of Europe with his body.

In the first swing. Lucas had always been more durable than Lucian.

Some would've cried abuse, but the zmeu brothers disagreed. Certainly Lucas didn't begrudge Aaron for that beating. When you were tougher than almost anything on Earth, it took some effort to get things through your thick, regenerating skull.

Lucian had once heard someone say human siblings would behead each other constantly if it was survivable, and he was fairly sure they would. He and his brothers did it all the time!

Well, not all the time. Lucas preferred dismemberment over beheading, for example, though he wasn't afraid to switch things up.

"Yeah." Lucas replied. "The girl did it a while back. Some moron thought they were trying to scare humans, I guess."

"Ah." 'The girl' was Mia, though Lucas rarely referred to her by name. He was talking about her first and last meeting with her parents. "Right." Lucian shifted uncomfortably, then rose from the chair. "Well...I'm sure she's glad you took care of that."

Lucas made a dismissive noise, thought Lucian coudn't tell whether his brother was brushing off the assurance or denying he'd helped at all. He wouldn't put it past the moody cunt, but...damn.

How fucked up were things if he couldn't even read his brothers anymore?

Lucas had never had that problem, hence the snitching. He could always tell when Lucian made a mess or felt guilty about something, then ran to Aaron right away, to rattle off the latest offence.

For his own good, he knew. He had, in a way, known since childhood, though he'd only accepted it in...shit, the nineties? When he was an adult, certainly.

According to his brothers, that hadn't happened yet, and likely never would, but they could go fuck themselves, in Lucian's humble opinion.  He wasn't going against his instincts just because and for little gain! If he had, he wouldn't be...here...

Tch. Damn straight he wouldn't be here. He'd be a pile of rotten sludge in some ditch if he robbed, raped, murdered and ate everyone his instincts told him to.

Lucian would've said there was no point dwelling on that shit on any other day, but he'd followed his gut, and-

His brothers were helping him. Protecting him.

Patronising him. Nothing new. His best interests at heart. He'd have been thankful if he wasn't so worried.

"Luci." Aaron rumbled. "I get why you did it. I approve-a little. But I disapprove more."

Lucian would've made a joke about commie doublethink, but he liked having organs.

"It was self-defence." Lucian muttered, beginning to pace around the room. "He hit me first. I hit back."

"Like you taught him, Aari." Lucas added in a saccharine voice, digging a cigar out of his jeans' pocket.

"Bitch." Lucian said between coughs.

"Settle down." The oldest brother said. "Yes, I got the subtext, Luc." Then, to Lucian, "And if you'd stopped at self-defence, that would've been fine. But you then," Aaron had too much experience in the Navy to twitch when angry. His youngest brother still reminded him of every annoying, smarmy officer he'd ever commanded combined. "Essentially kidnapped that ogre in order to torture him for information... blazes-"

"You sound like you're reading that from something." Lucian pointed out, crossing his arms.

Aaron's eyes moved across the bare bronze walls and ceiling. An old habit of his, pretending to check out rooms in order not to roll his eyes. Many people had praised him for his attention to detail and security over the decades. "From memory, maybe. I had nothing better to do than read while I waited for you to be released." Five pairs of eyes closed as Aaron sighed. "And not from the drunk tank, either."

" This time-" Lucian started to promise.

"Knock that off." Aaron snapped. "I'm not in the mood, and you shouldn't be either." Ignoring his brother's mouthed 'like you ever' are, he continued. "Now, this whole business smells like bullshit, and every fibre of my being is telling me it is, too. But we'll get to the bottom of it. I promise."

"Right." Burnished Death appeared in Lucian's hands. "When-"

The zmeu glared at Lucas even as his split skull healed. His brother had crossed the dozen metres between them, flicked his head and returned to his original spot faster than he could see, but Lucian knew it had been him. Lucas raised three pairs of silver eyebrows in response, a blunt in each mouth. Lucian almost tried to hit him back, then noticed something wrong with his brother.

He'd seen Lucas' moustaches weren't groomed, but he hadn't really thought about it. Which, now that he looked back on it, was almost as weird as the fact itself. Lucas always waxed his moustaches so that they curled up at the end-Lucian expected a fascination with Prussia to be revealed any day now-but they were straight and drooping today, bristling like his brother had been caught in a rainstorm, then a blizzard.

He wasn't wearing anything from the waist up, either. Lucas preferred blue and white clothes, because they were his colours, and made a point of rarely going shirtless, in order to appear more civilised.

Lucian's head snapped to Aaron so fast his neck broke, healing just as the older zmeu's faces soured in exasperation. Apart from that, there was nothing unusual with...

Scratch that. There was nothing weird with Aaron. Lucian thought that maybe he'd missed something there too, but he...he hadn't.

"Put your mace aside, Luci." Aaron said, turning. He was wearing a huge, brown tuxedo and nine top hats, which didn't move at all as he walked. "By 'we', I mean the police, the Supernatural Service and I." Angry, concerned red eyes burned holes into him as Aaron turned two heads over his shoulders. "You should have called me or them, by the way. I shouldn't have learned of this shit  after you were put in a cell..."

Aaron trailed off as he felt his youngest brother grab him by his pants, and looked down, expecting petulance.

"Aaron," Lucian hissed. "Leave me the fuck alone. I  love her."

"We'll bring Bianca back." Aaron said smoothly. "I'm just concerned about legality here, Luci. I don't want you getting into trouble any more than I ever have."

Too late for that, Lucas thought, but swallowed the words, alongside two puffs of smoke.

"And what am  I supposed to do-"

"You're not 'supposed'," Aaron made air quotes. "To do anything. You weren't to begin with. What you should've done was contact law enforcement, or me, failing that. If you wanted to do shit like this, you should've gone into..." Three heads shook. "Forget it. I've got to leave."

"You-" 'You're going to run drills and shit while I walk up the walls here?' was what Lucian almost asked. No. His brother wasn't being selfish, just...stubborn. And he couldn't honestly fault Aaron for that. "You're leaving? Where?"

"I told you, we're going to find her. My senses are pretty decent, as is my intuition. I've got some acquaintances in the Service," Not friends. Never friends. "Who think I could be helpful, maybe notice things they miss." Aaron smiled drily. "Of course, that's what they  told me. Truth is, my harness can make some tools they can't get their hands on...well, without asking FREAKSHOW to lend us Armament, or begging Abraham's god for help. But they know how that goes, same as we do."

'God provides, but doesn't fill your bag', as the saying went. "Yeah." Lucas said, stubbing one of his blunts against his left head's right eye. "People's potential is too damn precious to stunt. Break a leg, Aari."

"I will." Aaron promised, gently shaking his youngest brother off and beginning to walk away.

Lucian wasn't about to let him leave without a parting shot, though. "Tell me." Lucian bared his fangs at his brother's back. "Tell me you don't hate that tusked little dipshit."

"Don't ask me to lie." Aaron slowed down, but didn't stop. A section of bronze wall the size of an apartment building and nearly as wide slid away to accomodate him. It would've been wider, had Aaron not folded and shifted his wings until they fit under his shirt without even making it bulge.

Lucian threw his hands up. "And you wouldn't have done the same thing in my place!?"

Aaron groaned. "I don't  know, Luci. I've never loved a woman for her heart."

The last word still hung in the air as the wall closed behind Aaron.

Seallowing a groan, Lucian turned to Lucas. "Well?" He snapped. "Am I on fuckin' house arrest or somethin' now?"

"Of course not." Lucas said. "You can go to your place, if you want, but I'll come with you. I have to-promised Aari." Promised you and myself too, brother, Lucas thought. "Or we can go to mine."

"Bleh,  no. Your workshop weirds the fuck outta me."

"Before I leave," Though distant, Aaron's voice still left echoes in the room, for all that he was outside his home. "Just so you know: I called Maws."

"Wha-" Was all Lucian managed to get out before the ground shook as something heavy took off and something far, far heavier landed. Almost laughing at the absurdity, Lucian looked up at his brother, eyes shining. "Don't tell me-he called mom, too?"

"Nah." Lucas replied, then cracked a couple smirks. "I did."

***

"...of yours." Ileana finished as Andrei passed her the bottle. The weredog wrinkled her nose at the vodka. Though it would have been scentless to a normal human, it reeked of wolfsbane, even through the glass, for all that she was in her human form.

She was close enough to a wolf that her instincts made her hackles rise at the scent of the plant, despite the fact it was harmless to weres, like all toxins.

"I wouldn't call him one..." Andrei began in a considering tone, then stopped, scratching his head. "No. Definitely not."

"Explains why you  care so much." She downed the two litre bottle, frowned at the taste, then slammed it down onto the bare table, next to the other empty ones. Andrei had promised it would either get better or she'd get used to the taste every few dozen bottles, but after the eighty-fourth one, it still just tasted like wolf poison with extra bitterness, which was all the vodka could add. "You're a goddamn liar, Dravich."

"You're tasteless." He grinned, spinning his hundredth bottle on his pinky. "If you'll pardon the pun."

"Don't have to be, when it tastes like shit."

"Drinking vodka for taste is like drinking coffee for pleasure." Of course, he knew a guy who'd been doing just that for longer than some people had been alive, but he was dead. The brain had probably rotted before it had literally done so.

"Is that why you put this crap in it?" She snarked, reaching under the table for another bottle. She was still curious, despite his best efforts.

"Actually, that all started because...." Andrei trailed off as she tapped a finger on the table.

"Don't spin another yarn. You've only got bullshit, I can tell."

"Fine." Andrei groused. "Already did this once, anyway."

"Oh, you're not gonna do it again? It's like having kids, huh? Who was the last unlucky soul?"

"The kid you mentioned." Andrei crossed his arms on the table, laying his head on them. "You're lucky you're a hot bitch."

"Ha!" She attemped a hair flip, but her honey blonde hair was cropped far too short.

"And a friend. Mm...it's pretty funny, you know 'cause it's simple. Werevolves get pissed off by wolfsbane and things derived from it. Just because they can smell it in my guts doesn't mean I can't or shouldn't walk around with the stuff."

"But  why?" Ileana gestured with her eighty-fifth bottle, making Andrei shift minutely. He was too lazy to shrug, not that his current position helped.

"It's funny. They get angry, we fight. Or bet. Play games. Maybe some she-wolf gets hot under the fur and tries to fuck the annoyance outta her. You know..." He smiled slightly. "Options."

"And we've learned to swear by Saint Protection now, haven't we?" Ileana asked, brown eyes half-lidded in an overly seductive face.

"Yes 'm."

"Good boy. Maybe we'll go for a walk one day."

"Ugh." Andrei's head was now on the table, nose pressed against the cold oak, hands over his ears. "Please. Don't. I don't wanna make things weird between us. Can't we just stay friends?"

"A man is asking me that!?"

"Yes, yes, I'm shocked too." Andrei muttered, voice muffled. "Whatever. Too many people today see men and women being friendly and start thinking they're friends with benefits, grinning and nudging each other like they're in fuckin' grade school again and can't wait to blatter who's liking who."

"Woah." Ileana propped her chin in one hand. "That's pretty deep for you."

"Look who's talking. Just because I put the 'killer' in 'hunter-killer' doesn't exactly mean you were an intellectual, lady."

His friend blew air out her nose, smoothing over her trenchcoat with her free hand. Under the brown, anonymous coat was her Supernatural Service uniform. Most supernaturals could spot it even through the covering layer, but the fact there was any was a statement: she was, if not undercover, going for anonymous, and drawing attention or trying to remove the coat was a bad idea.

"Smart enough not to get blood on my paws."

"And whose conscience is heavier, hmm?"

"Like either of us has to sleep."

"I'd say touche, but I know you think about that shit while you're awake, too." Weres could sleep, if they wanted to enough while relaxed, but it was unpopular, given the endless well of energy that was their bodies and the fact their senses kept them awake of their surroundings however deep the sleep. Many a would-be assassin had found their silver blade forced through their throats by sheer reflex, before the therianthropic target had even awakened.

Ileana looked away, through the window, the Bites clear as day despite the midnight blizzard. "You love that zmeu, don't you?"

"I fucking what now?"

The weredog rolled her eyes. "Who was talking about people being immature dumbasses moments ago? As a  friend, Andrei. Like a brother-fuck. With how you needle each other, I could be convinced you are brothers."

"Eh." Andrei waved a hand. "He's already got two too many."

Ileana snarled in exasperation. "You really gotta get over Aaron these days."

"Lucian does too. And I think you mean he needs to get over being judgemental with no reason or basis." Some people had sticks so far up their arses, they poked their brains and made them stupid. But not everyone could've gotten a cushy position as a glorified coast guard, not that the nine-headed zmeu hadn't silenced his fair share in the name of duty. He was just too busy to see that had comprised most, but not all of Andrei's-and Ileana's, and Bobi's, and others'-job as a Securist.

Even when they'd hunted the dead living together...pfeh.

"Oh, I know that sound." Ileana stood up, flesh rippling as layers of muscles and fur were added to it, matter being spun from nothing. "You're about to start hosting the pity party, and I want no part of that tonight. Watch your back, Dravich."

"I'd rather watch yours." He joked as the hybrid were walked past him, making sure to paste one foot with a stomp, and snickered as he placed his hands flat on the table and sat up, foot already healed. "You're lucky I wasn't wearing socks, or that would've been messy."

"Messy? Messy is playing bloodhound for your scaly boyfriend's girlfriend, Martin." Ileana said as she unlocked the door. Andrei had given her a copy of the keys to his apartment, and even the access measures to a couple of the boltholes he'd decided she might need to enter someday, to either help or kill him. And, if she decided he needed killing, he was likely too far gone, anyway.

The Romanian boltholes, that was. But he had other old friends across the world, eager to help him out of a sticky situation, one way or another. No need to burden her more.

Andrei's chair balanced on its back legs as he slouched, pushing against the table with his feet. It was more like a waist-high solid oak-slab, bigger than some cars, which might've been a problem without the spatial spell he'd had cast on his place. His one and only room had different sections that played the role of kitchen, living room and bedroom.

The bathroom was separate, but that was a room like black was a colour. It would've been like calling the hallway one, and that thing only had a coat rack.

The floor and walls were bare white tile, as Andrei was inclined towards neither carpets nor tapestries, let alone paintings. He had a cupboard for photos, which was more than enough, in his opinion. The only things on the walls were an ouroboros-shaped clock and a square window. It had been circular once, but he'd gotten sick of feeling like he lived in a submarine.

Andrei beat a rhythm on his flat belly-he should really get fatter, he thought; it sounded lame. Weres couldn't change beyond their state after turning, physical flaws aside, but they could hope-, then adjusted his chair, stood up, and began gathering the bottles, taking them to the kitchen section to await washing and refilling. As he did so, he hummed a children's song.

It was a lullaby he'd liked in his childhood, spent drifting between orphanages and schools. Families came and went, and so did he. Step-parents and siblings, some neglectful, some with far too much love to share. Others full of hate, and such ideas about how to express it...

They had taught him well, even outside what they had intended as lessons, and he had made sure to make those lessons his.

And if Securist Dravich had been biased against and extremely unscrupolous when it had come to certain folks, well, there was no use looking at coincidences and seeing patterns. That way laid paranoia and unhapiness.

Andrei had just finished singing off-key for the third time, and was wondering about what it would be like, being able to fall asleep simply because you were tired. Not physically, he barely remembered what that was like, but...

Hrn. The bear in the song had a lot more options when it came to food than Andrei as a child. Slippers, too.  Nice.

Andrei was about to begin the fourth rendition with a minute amount of jealousy in his voice when he heard the echoes-another voice, also male, mumbling the lyrics in a light, sarcastic tone, despite being inexperienced with them, or Romanian in general-fading.

His mind easily slipped back into the patterns set by his training, much as it yearned to fall into his beast's grasp instead.

Ileana's gone; she hasn't returned, or I'd have heard. Fact.

I am-was-alone until an instant ago. Fact.

Someone bypassed my wards, alarms, senses and instincts for far longer than they should've been able to. How?

He finished the last thought as he spun in place, dark brown fur sprouting out of his skin as his nails and teeth lengthened and thickened. His head brushed the ceiling as he looked down at the intruder, beady black eyes widening.

"You?" In his hybrid form, Andrei's voice was far deeper and throatier than his human one, like his words were stumbling over his thick tongue.

He had never met the man before him. He had never seen him, not outside of nightmares-half-fantasy, half attempts by a supernatural mind at ripping the truth free from unreality-and an old, black and white picture, faded and torn, hard fought for and won through cheating.

But he knew. His certainty was as strong as his desire to see that face-plain and sallow, moreso due to its ghostly transparency and paleness, moustached and bearded, with two empty sockets: one caved in and surrounded by burns, the other split by a shallow, vertical scar; eyes were no longer needed-and carve it into his soul, alongside his mother's.

"Damn." Misha Dravich muttered, looking up at his son. "Worse than I expected."

***

Constantin was familiar with otherworldly realms. From dream palaces to liminal spaces, he had made, walked and broken dozen over the decades. He had seen and read about vision quests and astral projection performed by the believers of other faiths.

As such, he knew everything that happened here would affect him on Earth. His mind was still his, and he still kept a hold on his body as it thrashed on his living room floor like a worm on a hook, wracked with spasms that left him feeling like his muscles were melting off his bones and had him gritting his teeth until they cracked, so he wouldn't bite his tongue off.

He also knew he had to keep his physical strength in check as his mind was tested, or he would level Romania. God was watching.

Constantin rose to his feet, and the soft, emerald blades of grass he had been laying on became dark, thick, thorny vines, wrapping around his limbs, lashing at his torso, leaving long, bleeding gashes on his skin without piercing his surplice.

The metaphor was so obvious it was almost childish, but perhaps that was the purpose? To make the challenge appear simple so he would lower his guard?

It wouldn't work. It had already failed, Constantin told himself, though he knew the thought smacked of arrogance. He was alert, focusing not on the gibbering, deafening chatter around him, but on the...horizon...

The sun didn't set. Rather, it dropped like a stone, sending a wave of force through the field, and the sea of thorns rose in a tide, past Constantin's knees, past his waist and chest.

They tried to cover his eyes, too, but couldn't. Every step he took only focused him more, revealed more facts about this trial.

For example: though the trousers and shirt under his surplice disappeared like smoke on the wind as the thorns tore at him, from his limbs to his manhood, the bleeding never stopped, or slowed, or sped up. Though his boots were ripped to shreds, until each step tore his feet open and left his bones scraping against each other and the jagged stones under the thorns, there was always just enough of his flesh and blood for him to suffer.

Pain, then. Not death. Was this the plan? Driving him mad through torture, through cruelty?

Foolishness...foolishness...

Thick clouds, black as death and far heavier, filled the sky, but its sourceless crimson light still pierced through, setting fire to Constantin's wounds, turning his blood to smoke.

It didn't matter. If all there was here for him was pain, he could do this for eternity. Hardly worse than the Hell he deserved, failure of a father that he was.

Would the people he had killed rather than turned to a better path appear to torment him? It would be...only fitting...

Constantin narrowed his eyes, which, though unharmed, wept tears of thick, clear black blood. There was a new star on the horizon, brighter than any sun could ever be. It made his heart ache more than anything else in this world of bladed lies.

His angel...

***

Rebeca Ghinea stopped smashing her fists against the walls, doors and windows of Father Silva's home. She had arrogantly thought the Lady had brought her here so she could save him, help him, and yet...

And yet. Who said observing could not help? She would pray for him. Faith only showed one they understood nothing of God's mind.

Rebeca placed her hands against the window, and watched Constantin walk in circles around the living room, covered in bleeding wounds, his feet torn to the bone. The priest's beard was frayed and wild, and his black-rimmed eyes rolled into the back of his head as he stumbled, hissing through bleeding lips.

He had stripped off his clothes, remaining only in his habit, which confused Rebeca. Constantin only wore it during services or long assignments that needed him to return home. Had he walked to church to take it and returned without being seen?

Naked?

"Come on, Father..." Rebeca lowered her head, closed her eyes, and began an old prayer, modified to fit her beliefs, as Constantin Silva, locked inside his home and mind, raved and ranted. "Our Mother, Thou who art in Heaven..."

***

I opened a portal back to the frozen English Channel, closing it behind me with a sigh. Already had survivor's guilt, and this shit wasn't even over.

But Mordred, who appeared next to me out of thin air, only to then speed off towards Britain, had assured me my continued presence in the empty universe would be detrimental rather than helpful. Szabo, or whatever he was becoming, or would become, if he already hadn't, would find his or its way back by itself. And then-

I smiled as Mia leapt at me, breaking my train of thought, and hugged her back, lifting her into the air. She'd have borne me to the ground if I hadn't braced myself, and I wouldn't have minded that, but it was not yet time.

I looked at Paladin, and the opaque, light blue sphere they held in one gauntleted hand. The French agent walked closer, Durandal gripped in another hand, and I felt rather than saw their smile.

"The Lord looks upon your work, and finds it good, David." Paladin said. "We shall take this one to an oubliette, until her fate is decided by our masters, and hers."

"The Unseelie don't really believe in that." I said, slipping out of Mia's arms with an apologetic look. She smiled reassuringly as I approached Paladin, who huffed dismissively at my words.

"Be that as it may. One would think they'd have learned calling a horse an eagle doesn't give it wings by now."

"Quite..." I agreed, I think, and focused my godsight on the sphere. Cloudshade was only trapped in it physically, as Paladin was focusing their power on countering her every attempt to break free using hers. Then, with a deep breath, I slipped out of my chains, and pushed them through the sphere, wrapping them around the idea of the Fae.

"You can relax now. No need for that, either." I pointed at the sphere, which a surprised Paladin hesitatingly dismissed. A chained Cloudshade fell into their palms after they sheathed two swords.

"Ha. We suppose you'll tell us to forget the Mobius cell, too?"

"Don't." Mia answered before me, echoing my thoughts. "If David's skinny arse figured out how to escape, you can't know she won't." Smirking down at me, my girlfriend added, "Besides, would you deny her the chance to chat with Coldhold before we ship them back to Faerie?"

"Of course not." Paladin mustered an impressive amount of fake affront. "We are men of God. Such cruelty is beyond our blackest nightmares." Then, their voice grew more serious. "We are going to capture the other Unseelie, David. We might not be your direct superior, but, as senior French Crypt agent, and fellow Christians, we would advise you to go home with your lady." They inclined their helmet slightly towards Mia. "There are no more crises you are needed for at the moment...and you deserve the rest." Paladin raised the hand closest to their heart over it, making a fist in salute. "We shall speak of your deeds to Head Reem, provided you are not summoned before we meet with her."

"Thank you." I replied, and Paladin nodded, then turned, hiding the struggling Cloudshade from view and walking out of reality in a flash of light.

I looked up at Mia with a teary-eyed smile, letting all the tension out. "I'm so happy you're safe...I'm sorry I couldn't help during-"

"Shut up." She whispered, hugging me again. "Shut up. You're going to kill yourself again, and me as well. Paladin had the right of it. Let's go home."

"Yes." I agreed, then squeezed her back. "Darling, it's ok. I can tell."

Mia sniffed. "We can celebrate  out of bed." She joked. "I only love you, anyway. And I'm not in the mood for jailbirds."

"Girls don't find crazy criminals hot anymore? What  else changed while I was away!?" I asked in a horrified voice.

"Well," Mia said lightly. "I got this lip piercing I want to show you."

"Really...?" I focused my senses on her smiling mouth, and even my godsight, but couldn't spot anything new. "Alright, you win."

"Good boy~"

"Can you give me a hint, at least? I can't see it."

"Well,  duh. I've still got pants on."

***

Bermuda Triangle

Hex stared at the clouded skies as disembodied laughter shook them apart, revealing the aether behind reality, and the Void behind that. Nacht giggled in anticipation, like a parent seeing the child they had taught to walk running at them.

Four of the Head were around him, including his own, arms bent inside the folds of his cloak, shifting face hidden by shadows.

Aya Reem stood on Shiftskin's right, holding Ra's power in one hand and Set's in the other, to trammel their newest monster's power or reduce it to nothing.

Leon Gilles stood on his left, wings folded and beak clenched, eyes trained grimly on the rippling horizon. In one claw, he held Ravenstooth, the thick-bladed, triangular stone dagger either stolen from or gifted by Raven, depending as much on the story as the teller. With it, he could cut anything from distances, effectively teleporting things next to him, to concepts out of reality. He could cut someone's power in half, or quarters, or a myriad pieces, rendering them ten thousands times weaker and slower. And for the many immune to such esoteric effects, some of them mightier than the weregryph...well, Gilles had ways around that, too. He could cut away the gap in power betweem him and someone else, or slice them apart with the knife's seemingly dull edge, however durable they were.

Ying Lung was smoking like a chimney, as usual, but this time, every cloud of ivory smoke became replicas of himself, radiating power as much as the smell of burnt ozone.

The thing that slammed down into the waters in front of them, making them shake like they were solid ground but causing no ripples, looked like Loric Szabo-as long as one looked straight at it, and didn't blink. The moment eyes closed or attention shifted, even slightly, its grey skin was replaced by images after images of every horror seen and dreamed by mortal, god or beast across the multiverse.

"We ate them, Herr Doktor Strauss." Szabo grinned lazily in response to his thought, swaying on his feet. The strigoi had found new leathers on his way home, though these, like him, changed from merely horrific to nightmare incarnate if one stopped paying full attention. "These are their corpses, singing their own dirges, even in death." Szabo ran tentacles over the skins, which wailed plaintively in response. "We ate their nightmares." He said, eyes gleaming with a feverish light. "The dream demons and sleep fiends, the clawed murderers and dancing clowns. Only that our newest tenant was feeling lonely~ and we couldn't pass such meals."

"Such chances at power." Ying jabbed, to which Szabo smiled guilelessly.

"Would you turn away the chance to pop horrors like baloons?" Szabo leaned forward, whispering conspirationally. "They all floated, by the way...oh, they did, but not anymore. Well, not  all of them. There are treaties to observe, and heroes born of fright. But now? Nothing that relies on horror can best us. Not only does their existence feed us...the more fear they have the potential to cause, the mightier we grow."

"Good thing I have hate and anger to use, and envy and loathing to fall back on." Nacht oozed. "And  so much more...oh, Emil, I haven't been this happy since our wedding!"

"It's rambling." Hex reassured the Heads, whose expressions varied from disbelief to amusement. "We're not married."

" Metaphorically, Emil...though I suppose you're right. There was no one to witness and  bless us, and that just cannot stand! We can only call it the beginning of our betrothal, then...but worry not. I'll make you my husband yet."

Hex had, sometimes, quietly regretted his emotions' stunted nature, telling himself they blunted his experiences.

And yet, as Nacht and Szabo laughed together, and his mind was filled with images of a grey-skinned, grey-coated figure in front of a room of corpses, a tongue of white flame snaking out of a mouth as black as the eyes of what had once been only his face, he was almost grateful for it.
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Strigoi Grey
Padawan Learner
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Location: Romania

Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 6

***
And so, came the time to rest.

How far could an undead be pushed mentally? Could one break? Be driven mad?

Divine intervention aside...we weren't sure. Some undead started out insane, while others grew cold and distant at best, and alien, incomprehensible, at worst.

The oldest strigoi, returned from the grave during the beginning of Orthodox Christianity, were monstrous, insatiable things. A handful were scattered across their homelands, sleeping or prowling the shadows, but most, having survived the early purges, had fled to Siberia, to dwell under the frozen plains and mountains.

Eating enough lifeforce could give a strigoi power beyond the ken of mankind, power to equal any god-and insanity to match.

I prayed I would never become like that. With my godsight, I could alter myself, place safeguards in my mind and soul, but...

But, at the moment, I wasn't thinking about that. I should have probably known creation wouldn't allow that, with how it seemed to abhor my mental peace, but I didn't.

Did the punishment fit my laxness? Perhaps. But I was too busy thinking of Mia.

My zmeu...she'd driven herself crazy, trying to think of ways to free me and failing, that I almost felt guilty for so easily slipping my chains after mastering my godsight. It was stupid, I knew, but...ah, fuck it. I was part god, to a degree, however small. When it came to people like me, there was no such thing as madness. Merely eccentricity.

As Mia's head lay on my chest, I listened to her strong heartbeat and steady breathing while she slept, an arm wrapped around her, and smiled.

Szabo-and oh, what a vile things he had taken upon himself...what followed was scarcely less terrible, for all that it would be long in the coming-would have laughed, said we were both fools clinging to this aspect of humanity. I would have agreed, but for something: loving someone was not stupid, and I pitied whoever thought it was.

Other strigoi scorned softer pleasures, including sex, but I couldn't be arsed to care about the opinions of monsters. And those who did care ablut such things? I couldn't muster half a fuck for rapists, either.

Let them keep their love for slaughter and torture. I hurt even when I didn't feel pain from the touch of divinity. I got shaken up. I...I followed the lead of the woman I loved, mostly.

It didn't matter. Before her, I could be weak. I didn't have to hide, or lie. As much as it shamed me to burden her with my worries(But human, my worse half smiled slyly, isn't that the point of love?), I...

I noticed the room had faded away, as had the bed, and my girlfriend. I rose to my feet-my position hadn't changed, so I'd found myself lying on my back, on the ground-, standing on what looked and felt like grey fog. Yet, despite how thin it was, I didn't part it with my weight. It was solid, somehow, for all that it felt wispy, nearly insubstantial.

I'd been in pajamas, but my clothes had changed. So, either I had been dragged into some sort of mental realm whose occupants could alter aspects of it, or I'd been attacked by some divinity, and this was a representation of my own mind.

A human would have probably thought they were dreaming first, but I couldn't, not without using my godsight to put myself to sleep.

And I was nowhere near comfortable enough to risk that, Mia in my arms or not.

A tired, expectant hum from behind drew my attention, and I focused my senses in its direction, turning me head to look upon finding nothing, but still hearing the hum. Just empty fog.

Another, more lively hum from in front of me made me turn my head again, to see myself staring back at me.

Or so he appeared at first glance.

He looked almost like me, but for three things. Same grey skin and short, messy hair, same white fangs, though his shone in a tight smile. The similarities stopped there.

His eyes were different, for one. Not white as milk, like mine, but inky-black, like mine used to be, before Chernobog had killed me, before...

No. They were not like my former eyes at all, either. They were a deeper black, with no light shining from within, like it had sometimes happened with mine. My sight, mundane and divine alike, was both drawn to and unable to focus on them.

He also had a beard. I'd briefly flirted with the idea in my late teens, but discarded it. I'd never needed help to appear older than I was. The beard-I could see he'd once had just a moustache, like I did-, as grey as his hair, was shorter than pops' or Mimir's(why that comparison?), only covering his chin.

Funny. I'd always thought I'd go for a chest-length beard if I decided to wear any.

Finally, his clothes were different. That might have seemed trivial, weird to notice compared to his weird eyes or even his beard, but it confirmed I wasn't looking at a mirror, not a literal, physical one, at least. I was dressed in my ARC uniform, while he wore a charcoal grey three-piece suit, with a lighter grey shirt and tie.

I almost laughed at the sight. Last time I'd tied anything around my neck, I'd expected to never do anything again after. I'd never been into formal clothes, ties in particular, even as a teacher, but he wore the suit like he'd been born in it. He seemed...comfortable. At ease.

One could say it suited him, if they were feeling funny. But the clothes brought a single word to mind: purpose.

Why would I be in uniform in whatever strange space this was? I hadn't been thinking about work before this shit had started. In fact, I'd tried not to think about ARC at all, and mostly failed, since briefly talking with Aya across the aether.

The mummy had asked for my report tomorrow, if I was able to deliver it, but had strongly suggested that I should go home and take some time off first, if only not to burn myself out. I'd been stressed lately, she'd said.

Strange signs. The Crypt Head and a senior agent telling me to relax? Maybe they wanted me to?

Nah, couldn't be it.

However, I couldn't deny ARC had dominated my thoughts in recent years. Was the organisation's mission statement being shown as a visual metaphor? I  was fighting to defend the world and bridge the gap between mundane and supernatural, after all.

He, on the other hand, reminded me of an undertaker.

Could've been worse. At least I couldn't pull off a lawyer or car salesman vibe.

It didn't take him long to notice me noticing him(always wanted to say that), which caused his smile to widen slightly, even if it became more strained.

Not visually. There was no sign of that. But I knew my own signs. Hands behind my back meant lecturing was soon to come or that I was trying to appear poised.

Let's hope it was the latter.

"Hi." I broke the ice, stuffing my hand in my combat pants' pockets, trying to look as insouciant as possible.

"Hi myself." He said, in a voice so eerily similar to mine I almost got angry. There was something off, though...not the voice itself, nor the accent; those were identical to mine.

It was like someone had overlaid my voice over something, something that should've been completely different, but had been warped so much there was little to no discordance.

Or had my voice been warped? It sounded like me speaking over something deafening and omnipresent, the kind of sound you feel in your bones rather than hear. In fact, the words almost distracted me from the way my body was shaking.

Or, rather, being shaken.

"Oh? Usually, I don't notice at this point..." He rubbed his bearded chin with an index finger. "Hmm...wait. It's weird talking to people who see time in single chunks and aren't Mia. Let me adjust..." Nothing I could notice happened, but he perked up, standing straighter, smile brightening a bit. "Ah...only you two live here? I'm early."

"Who the fuck are you, and why are you pretending to be me?" I asked, trying to walk closer. Nothing seemed to move, but, though I could tell I was crossing a distance, he was always several metres away from me.

"Nostalgia." He smirked. "Pretending not to be me doesn't work, David..." He took a look at my eyes, and his became sadder as he sucked in air through clenched fangs. "That's new. Temporary, but still...last thousand iterations, Liam gave me his mana instead. Not that that lasts, either..."

"Liam...?" Liam Lloyd? The hell did that lich have to do with anything? We hadn't met since the Cold Madness. I narrowed my eyes at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Those eyes weren't good for much, were they? Well, God's Mouth still doesn't open for  me, so we know that still stayed the same." He glanced wrily to the side, as if the last words had been directed to someone I couldn't see. Then, he looked back at me. "Have you checked in with Constantin, David?"

"No." I said, uncomfortable. "He texted me, said he's sorry he can't see me right now, but he needs to lie down after a tiring meeting. I didn't want to press him."

***

I looked at myself. Constantin texting me about being too tired to meet? Really? At least I knew I'd never swallow that without a heavy duty glamour like the one I was hit with in this past.

Whose hand had cast it this time? Things always got muddled at this point...

Still, the past was the past. Some things couldn't be changed, not without sacrificing everything else.

"Little me...still thinking you are being manipulated." I smiled pityingly at myself, knowing how much I hated it, that it was sure to get my attention. "This started because I hurt myself to end the pain, David. Everyone's pain. I'm talking about...everyone's. Bear the grudges, take the blame deserved-"

"I don't need some random doppelganger busting into my head to babble this at me." He said threateningly, still trying to reach across the gap to affect me in any way, any way at all. I killed every attempt.

"Not my head-this is real."

He scoffed. "So real I can't even feel Mia anymore. I know damn well people hate me after the Headhunt. Piss off back to the mirror funless house and blow yourself."

Damn, but I used to be easy to trigger, I thought, absentmindedly stroking the gold and silver ring I knew he couldn't see. Oh, David, you'll have eternity and more to worship your wife. There were few greater pleasures than giving in to love and submitting to the one you adore. Look at Emperor Gold, and how he treats the Songstress. Know they blame you as much as Mia does, but only she overlooks her disgust for sacrifice in duty's name in favour of love.

God's Mouth, now? Opposite problem. But what else could you expect from one whose spiritual mirror hated mankind more than most of Hell combined? I just hoped little Costi would grow up to be better than his namesake.

"Do not expect some grand revelation." I said, walking past him. I still wished I could dispel the lie, but how could the sword be reforged into a plowshare without even a mould? Pure cruelty, that the forging had to-always, always had to-take place under my nose.

I still wished father had just died...

"I was here because I always am, at this moment." I said as I departed, leaving him behind, to return to the world. The order had to be kept, even if I almost never remembered this until it was too late to do anything but curse.

"Really?" He called after me, voice dripping with bitter disdain as much as paranoid disbelief. He was expecting Chernobog in disguise, I knew. The Devil. Nyarlathotep. Any vile trickster, looking to hurt him and amuse themselves.

Not Yaldabaoth. I hadn't met it yet in this iteration, I knew. I was still blessedly hopeful.

At least I had Mia this time. Szabo's apprentices always made immoral Keepers, with either disastrous, short careers or painful, long ones. I had removed enough of them to know it was always torment for everyone involved.

As for her without me...zmei were many things. But inclined towards choosing healthy relationships in their youth? No.

Not to cast myself as the hero, of course. We had both saved each other.

"Really." I replied, wishing I could do more to enlighten, or at least comfort myself. Ignorance was truly bliss, though. I couldn't rip away the veil that would soon have him dismiss this as a waking dream, the result of experimenting on himself with godsight to regain the ability to sleep.

And Mia...my Lady in Flames...

***

I always visited her at this point, in the iterations we were together. She was always, inevitably, resting or sleeping.

At first.

Mia pushed herself up to her elbows as I approached our bed. My younger counterpart was still staring at the ceiling, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. I'd have to thank Kricher for lending me his power once more, but there was no reason to gush or be overly grateful. He was worshipped by enough species, literally and metaphorically, that he wouldn't need his ego managed.

Besides, the guy never called me back until after my patience ran dry. One of the reasons I'd put 'HE'S ALIIIIIVE!' as my ringtone for him, the other being how much it annoyed him.

Then, something new happened. Something I hadn't faced in previous cycles.

Or, it would have been new if I perceived time as anything other than the illusion it was. But it is hard to talk to linears without using tenses.

Nevertheless, this Mia and mine were superimposed over each other, body flickering and reality swirling as millennia of life crashed into her mind.

It felt almost strange to see her sleeping in her zmeu form. But then, there was no one she might have to get up to breastfeed in the middle of the night, and Mia had always seen her human body as a cosplay.

"Oh...it's that time again, isn't it?" Mia asked quietly, pushing my younger self's arm away and moving to sit on the end of the bed.

"It's as tiring for me as it is for you, baby." I replied, moving this universe around me, to stand in front of her, taking in her body. Strange, indeed. So few scales riven by scars, with so dull a shine...

She still had abs, though. I knew she appreciated that as much as I did her nightie. Green suited her, even if the back was almost open, to make space for her wings, so therewas only fabric under her tail, and there was nothing for the front to hide.

Well. Nothing I hadn't seen, at least.

Mia blew out a breath. "Liar. Nothing is tiring to you."

"You're welcome." I dropped to a knee, crossing my arms over her thighs and smiling up at her. "How does it feel to be young again?"

"Watch it."

See how she asked the impossible of me? Watching something other than her was impossible at the best of times, let alone when the other options were the walls and my scarecrow of a body.

"As you command." I whispered. "We'll meet again soon, love. As soon," I tried to keep the distaste from my voice. "As you remind your newest fling our house is not a motel."

"I couldn't leave them alone, David."

"I'm not  blaming you. I'm just..." Fed up with other people in our home. That bastard better be grateful he even got to the couch. "Annoyed. Long job."

"And this century has you pent up more than usual." She ran a hand through my hair.

"The first of many to come." I said, taking her right hand and kissing her ring. Trying to avoid the subject always left me high strung. It was one of those things that got harder with time.

Like myself. "We'll make it." Mia drew her hand back as I did the same, then crossed her arms over mine. "Hatred keeps you going, if nothing else."

"Spite." I corrected her joke. Since my arrival, I had been using a sliver of my will to keep my counterpart from noticing and going to Constantin's house. Or, rather, helping to stop him. He probably wouldn't have made it anywhere he wanted as he was, but someone had to keep him from wrecking the country by moving around. Telekinesis slipped right off strigoi, like most supernatural powers, no matter how powerful. Killing the chances of that happening wouldn't do anything, either, for my kind had never known the lash of fate. Blunter methods had to be used, but my power could be turned from scalped to sledgehammer in an instant.

"Spite?" She asked, voice more serious. "Have you given up on the desire to better yourself?"

"Same difference." Because trying to show myself up was only to be expected, even if I always became like this. It was good I had gotten over the danger of withering. Like my tendency to try and save everyone, or try and save one life while knowing countless more would end if it was preserved.

On almost all such occassions, I had tried to change creation itself so that everyone could survive, an d always ended up tasting ashes. I had learned better, and this...this had to happen.

My younger self was too hotheaded to see my point, let alone accept it, so any attempt at persuasion was useless.

Sometimes, I wondered if I had started missing the trees for the forest, and if that was another, just as deadly, weakness as its opposite.

But Mia was still with me, so I must have been doing something right.

"Thank you," I said, gently pushing her arms away and rising to my feet. I had been kneeling before her for millennia, and not just physically, but it still hurt to let go, even of this shadow of her. "For staying by my side. I'm coming home, Mia."

The last one to still love me...

***

I shook my head, trying to remove the strange pressure that pushed against my body. It resisted for a third of a picosecond before it gave, allowing me to rise out of bed. Behind me, I felt Mia sit up, then stretch and yawn.

"Hey...I dreamt of you, babe." Her voice was nowhere near as light as it usually was in the morning. "You creeped the fuck outta me, and I don't even think I remember everything. There's this gap, but I know it didn't end right then." Mia rubbed her forehead-a human habit that helped her even less than it helped them. Zmeu minds had little to do with the brain. They couldn't be knocked out unless hit with powerful paranormal effects while offguard, and even if the brain was completely destroyed, or even if the head was, consciousness would be preserved after regeneration. Attaching severed but intact or even damaged heads was just more convenient for zmei who didn't want to be 'wasteful'.

There was also the general paranoia about leaving body parts around for any mage to stumble upon.

"There was no gap in  my dream," At least I thought so. "But I creeped the hell out of myself, too. Also, I look shady as shit with a beard..."

I began telling her about my alleged alternate self, all the while trying to spot him with my godsight, wherever or whenever he was.
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 7

***
I couldn't rest.

Not just physically, either. I could lay down, but, as I didn't get tired, it meant little more than shifting my position. But mentally...

Undead couldn't really get bored or sick of something, which usually worked to our advantage, especially during long periods of work or combat. However, it also meant we often fixated on things, even pointless ones. The double-edged sword that was our attention might have been why strigoi and vampires suffered from a compulsion to count grains of sand, dust or rice set at the entrance of a building.

The being that had come to me in my hallucination-waking dream?-had looked like me, sounded like me, talked like me. Or, rather, almost like me. There had been something else behind it, as if I had been looking into a pit while unable to see the bottom, or only seeing the tendril of some deep sea creature.

I hoped it had only been a disguise meant to rankle me, because the alternative was...was...

Why the fucking hell did I keep thinking that maybe I had just imagined the meeting? A small voice in the back of my mind, a metaphorical one rather than my strigoi side, kept whispering that I'd tinkered with my godsight, messing up both my perception and my memory.

My worse half, on the other hand, kept hissing at me not to listen. And, for some reason, I didn't think the bastard was trying to scare me or make me(more) paranoid. For one, why would I choose to sleep instead of staying awake by Mia's side, ensuring she slept well?

For another...well, my instincts disagreed as well. Not the impulses represented by the ebony silhouette in my mind, but rather, what sometimes warned me of danger before my senses noticed it. Usually, it felt like a nudge, or someone poking me. Other times, it felt like a hand brushing against my shoulder.

Now, hands had clamped down on both shoulders, and were shaking me all but physically.

What was the danger? Convincing myself that it had all been a dream? Forgetting? Not doing it?

My instincts were being frustratingly vague. They were kind of like Spider-Man's Spider-Sense, except, rather than being controlled by a thousand different writers who didn't read each other's comics, they seemed to vary from precise to vague as the mood took them. Sometimes, I knew that, say, a hit from behind was imbued with holy power and would kill me if it connected, as well as what it was aimed at. Other times, I received something that was neither an image nor a sound, but resembled both. The warnings from the latter category tended to be frighteningly, mind-bogglingly complicated, such as 'duck', 'jump', and even 'lean to the right'.

This was, I decided, a warning from the second category, though more intense than most...actually, any before it. My godsight couldn't tell me more than that, as far as it knew, the meeting had been real, and I had met my future self. But then, it was the reason for this whole internal argument, wasn't it? Or so half of me insisted.

The second assessment-that I had, doubtlessly, met my future self-surprised me. As much as some precognitives liked to insist, there was no such thing as a single future. Every single action and change in an universe, or even the possibility of one, generated a new universe, a new timeline. There were already an infinity of them, and growing by the planck time. How? Well, there are infinities, and infinities. Just look at the one between zero and one.

The point was, you just couldn't point at a future, however plausible or likely it looked, and say 'There! That's what will happen!'. Chance had a thing about screwing up precog, and that was just in the case of mundane humans. Strigoi like me, with our immunity to probability manipulation(including the small degree inherent to precognition, as seeing and knowing 'the' future meant altering it, which made visions and projections involving us inherently unreliable, unless divine power was involved)? Add apparent time travel, and everything just got worse.

I couldn't even peer through time or outside it to find that monkey-suited prick, because either he or whatever I had heard-felt-behind or beneath his voice pushed back against every attempt, making me feel like I was smashing my metaphysical head against a brick wall.

And I wished I could say that bearded fuck was the worst of my worries, but-despite my not small fear of ending up looking like the hate child of a hipster and a gravedigger-I had bigger fish to fry, as did all of us. Not just Mia and I, or even ARC, but the world as a whole, and our the realms close to it, tied to it by chains of aether and fate, where they weren't bound by familiarity and old debts.

In the extremely unlikely event nothing worse reared its ugly head, we had three problems, or maybe a threefold one. I don't know. I'd honestly stopped giving a fuck about any details that wouldn't help with finally finishing this damn-

...Add a fourth problem, and another layer. Or even a fifth, if beard boy decided he had worse ways to get his rocks off than by trolling me and scaring my girlfriend.

But, as for the three big ones...we had to get rid of Chernobog, one way or another. Maybe Laozi could fire up his crucible again and hope the Black God was dumber than Wukong. Maybe Zeus could make another set of the chains he had bound Typhon with. Ordinarily, I'd have contemplated setting Chernobog up for Dharma or FREAKSHOW's Armament to knock down, or the best way to stall him long enough for Breakout to start laying pipe, but...fuckin' dammit. The pantheons needed to clean up their damn mess. Letting Chernobog run around in my body during the Headhunt in the hopes of thinning each other's ranks had been a stupid, risky move. They should've stopped him.

And that went for God, too. I didn't...I didn't love Him less. I never wanted to stop loving Him. But not stopping the Black God had been so, so stupid, at least from my side of the debacle. And, unless He chose to reveal some detail of His plan that made it necessary, my opinion wouldn't change.

Though I'd started biting down on my tongue, a nervous tic since before my undeath, at least when I was thinking, which had evolved into biting through it with my fangs, I didn't taste blood. Only ashes.

Metaphorically, thankfully. But it took little effort to remember how bitterness felt.

Aya hadn't said I couldn't contact her by godsight. That had been how we'd talked last time, after all, and if she didn't like it, I'd spin something about honing my power(it wouldn't even be a complete lie), apologise, and fly to Giza to report in person. With how much faster than light I was now, it a few thousand kilometres would be a joke.

That's what I told myself as I tried to forget that line of thinking about God, and ignore the hollow laughter of my strigoi self as it dragged memories of Chernobog to the forefront of our mindscape.

I thought about the other problems, too, and whether they were even separate.

Nyarlathotep. Not exactly someone we could get rid of, and trying to do so would most likely cause enough of a disturbance to fulfill its his aims anyway. Unless...we  had all thought Ygdrassil's destiny was as immutable as its inhabitants', and look at the now. Perhaps more could be changed. Even if destruction was impossible, maybe sealing or criipling wouldn't be.

The women that had maddened the Dagda, or left him open for the Crawling Chaos to do it. They were obviously linked-had to be, didn't they? Or maybe the obviousness was a trap. But the idea of such a coincidence, of an unaligned faction deciding to anger such a powerful god just in time to leave him open to corruption, left a foul taste in my mouth.

Fuck...had the corruption even been temporary? Was the Dagda still a pawn of Nyarlathotep, unbeknownst to everyone else?

Or, I thought, a growl building in my throat, does everyone in charge know and allow it, because it might be convenient,  again?

The Dagda going through what I had with Chernobog...shit. I couldn't exactly check on him either, not with the defences around the Otherworld. Casual fargazing wouldn't cut it, and attempts to break through would just attract the wrong sort of attention. The Tuatha de Danann were not fond of foreign spies, especially Christians, and I didn't want the Morrigan on my arse.

Not in that way.

The thought of the cold goddess brought to mind Bianca's sisters. They hadn't done anything in eight years, and, if not for my paranoia, I might have though they were pulling one of those stupid grade school pranks, making me expect something awful when they weren't actually planning anything. Would they be satisfied with that? I had stupidly chopped a tree in half just because I'd been feeling moody, but...they wouldn't do something that would threaten creation in response, right?

Or maybe they hadn't known what their actions would result into...if they'd even been the women responsible.

Then there was my future self(obviously evil; otherwise, why the beard?), and whatever being Keeper meant. I'd go and pester Merlin for answers, since he seemed to think he knew something, or at least had acted like he did. He was free now, so it wasn't like he'd be too busy or bummed to remove. Then there was Vyrt, who creeped the fuck out of me almost as much as my future self.

Maybe I could beat the answers out of both at the same time, after I finished reporting? I needed to get the stuff the Knights had appropriated from ARC, too, unless Aya had sent Shiftskin to get it, like she'd said she might. What's a little diplomatic incident between suspicious rivals?

Mia was showering, which, ordinarily, would've been nice to think about, if dustracting, as well as an incentive to take a shower myself, but I had other things on my mind. Reem probably wouldn't have wanted her to hear our discussion, so my girlfriend had decided against heating up her body to vapourise anything that needed to be, and taken a slower alternative, in order to both relax and give me the space I needed.

Bless you, love.

The aether, an endless expanse of shining light blue tinged with green, filled my sight as I truly opened my eyes. Here, time and distance meant nothing, and while the aether didn't exist inside our universe, it could easily carry messages around it.

My godsight was stopped cold by Crypt headquarters' protections, then I felt something sit up and take notice, like an animal shifting in its sleep as something entered its lair.

I recognised Aya's power as she observed my attempts at entering. In Mimir's eyes, HQ looked like a flawless white-grey pyramid, with no stone blocks or spaces between them visible. Beneath it, an identical, upside-down pyramid reached under the sand, equally impenetrable to my perception.

Then, the Crypt head spoke a handful of words that rattled my fangs, and unseen guardians pooled back, as did the metaphorical facade of the pyramid. I could now see inside.

I spotted Aya with ease, her astral self shining so, so much brighter than so many billion others put together. There were only a few dozen that matched or surpassed it, and none in HQ, but they were different enough that I could distinguish and focus on the mummy with no problem.

The mummy was seated at the centre of the pyramid, which wasn't always true in reality. The underground complex didn't have a centre all the time, even when it wasn't changing shape. In this realm of symbols, however, such details were irrelevant. Aya was the Crypt division's Head, and its heart too. Hence, everything else was built around her.

She wasn't alone. I had expected Shiftskin, given their apparent relationship, upon noticing the second presence. Then, his absolute, awful enormity crashed into and through the walls of my mind. I didn't know if he had hidden from me, or if I had been unable to perceive all of him at once; and, at the moment, I couldn't spare any thought about that.

I caught a glimpse of an old man, bent-backed and narrow eyed, slouching over a lectern-

A dog-faced baboon, standing on the edge of a boat sailing the first waters, as it had always done and always would-

A man with the head of an ibis, gambling with the moon to stretch time and grow the calendar, and-

[ ]

Thoth's fingers burned against my forehead, like a hot knife lancing through diseased flesh to excise a tumour.

The god favoured me with a many-faced smile. My sight, which could only slip by his aura of power to observe the surroundings if I concentrated, showed me his body, incarnation or projection was actually small, shorter than Aya despite squatting on some stool or perch. Even so, I got the impression of him looking down at the mummy, at least physically. Around him, past and distance seemed to stop making sense.

"David Silva." Thoth spoke each syllable in a clipped voice, as if he wanted to remember how they sounded. "I have been waiting to meet you for so, so long."

Me, or Mimir's eyes-?

"Yes." Thoth scratched his beak-muzzle?-with a human finger. "I would have no reason to interact with you otherwise, see? Us gods are terribly wary of others poaching our worshippers at the best of times, and that applies to me, too, my special relationship with Yahweh aside."

I wondered if it was 'special' in the sense of the UK-USA alliance, or if Thoth was being sarcastic, but I couldn't tell. His tone was mild, what little I could see of his body language through the haze of power was relaxed, and he hid his thoughts well.

"I'm glad to see you're better, David." Aya said, in a tone that suggested she expected me to wonder about what she was referring to, even if I didn't figure it out. "And, while I am pleased you are training your abilities, please do not expect to only rely on them from now on. I still await your report in person."

"Why?" I frowned. "Can't you tell it's really me who's speaking to you, ma'am?"

"I can." She replied. "Can you tell if you're really speaking to Aya Reem?"

***

Andrei was on the ghost as soon as he finished speaking, closing five metres in half as many microseconds to close his hands around his father's throat, claws digging into the ectoplasm.

He can be hurt, the were thought with a kind of strange clarity. He is dead, but he can be hurt. I can finally see him and touch him and  hurt him.

KILL KILL KILL
, was the closest approximation of what his beast's 'thoughts' would have sounded like, if spoken by a human.

He sympathised with it, for once. Usually, the dumb animal just acted like it's natural counterpart, and had most of the same desires. Lazing around. Eating. Fighting and killing other males-rivals. It could not perceive them as anything else. Fucking females.

The last two were particularly annoying when living in society, because a were's beast didn't make any distinction between humans, other supernaturals and mundane animals, which meant Andrei was as likely to get randomly mad at and want to murder a newborn because he happened to be male as he was to get aroused by some brown bear sow.

And that was  ridiculous. Now, however...now, his beast wasn't pushing him towards something that would've been immoral even if it hadn't been illegal. For decades, his human side had been responsible for that. Andrei decided to savour this moment of inner harmony, because he knew it wasn't going to last.

Misha didn't thrash or struggle, like a new ghost in the grip of memory would have. How long had it been since his undeath? Maybe Andrei would let him talk enough to share it. Might be interesting, if only as a curiosity.

The were could tell the ghost was still hurt, though. Intangibility was useless against supernaturals, and ghosts could still feel pain if enough of their ectoplasm was damaged. Andrei would've cracked a phantom pain joke if he hadn't been trying to crack his father's skull instead. A hollow imitation of flesh, and there'd be no corpse left, but...oh, well. No time to be picky. He was honestly grateful for getting to do this at all.

"Lht goh." Misha managed to gurgle. "Lht goh, yuh-"

Andrei indulged him, letting go-a little. Just enough to lessen the pressure, to let the ghost focus. Misha couldn't choke, but he could get locked up due to pain. Andrei didn't want that yet. Maybe his father would have something funny to croak, before the end.

"-fuckin' mongrel." The ghost finished, glaring at his son with empty sockets.

Andrei smiled sarcastically in response, showing his fangs. "Never seen anything like this wherever you've crawled from?"

"We have beasts." Misha spat, hands wrapped halfway around the were's wrists. "I know what you can look like."

Andrei's smile went from fake to nonexistent. "Don't. Don't you dare go there." Why not, though? Part of him thought. Let him talk. It'll make things easier after his final death. Entering? Hate speech? We were just defending ourselves.

"That's why I'm here." Misha said, his voice, already low and rough, becoming harsher, colder, and...was that exhaustion Andrei heard?

The werebear bristled. What was the bastard  tired of? Being manhandled? Learning actions had consequences? Still clinging onto the world for far longer than he had any right to?

...He'd go to David after this. Apologise again. He fucking hated opening up, almost as much as admitting when he was wrong. Altogether? Made him feel almost as shitty as the reason for his mood did.

But he was sure there was a quick and dirty way to cheer himself up...

"Why?" Andrei searched the ghost's face for signs that he was preparing to bullshit him. A little harder than usual, with the lack of eyes, but the creases in the ectoplasmic skin, in the brow and around the sockets, were more than enough.

"Shouldn't you be asking 'how'?' Misha's voice was drily amused, as was his expression, before growing more focused. "I heard I had a kid. I honestly thought the bitch had died...only learned she'd not just survived, but gotten pregnant, after I bit the dust. I wanted...wanted to see how you'd ended up, I guess."

Curiosity? That was  it? He-

No, no, Andrei reminded himself, trying to clear the redness that had appeared at the edges of his vision. This was good. If the fucker had walked right into his claws of his own volition, all the better. Would make for a funny story.

The were had never honestly hoped for closure during his life, maybe not even after life. Andrei knew he was bound for the aether, but his father...the mages he had paid to look into anything related to his past hadn't been able to come up with anything consistent. Sometimes, Misha was stuck in the Hell Christians feared, other times in the depths of the aether, tormented by the manifestation of everything he had ever feared and loathed, like the other godless, unclaimed wicked, so they'd both suffer and be stopped from returning to the living world. Save for a few infamous dead passed between underworlds to truly suffer, whatever prevented dead agnostics and atheists from being consumed or exploited by those that roamed the realm of magic also made the darkest thoughts of the vilest among them come alive.

Maybe it was simply the aether's nature? It did react to the minds of those who entered it, after all, and there was something hilarious about the idea of Misha torturing himself forever.

That led to the question the ghost had posed. How  had he escaped both the nightmares and the aether without anyone noticing?

Maybe he'd let him talk enough to spill something other than the facsimile of his guts.

"Better than you." Andrei smiled sarcastically. Garrison captain, dragged down by rioting locals. That had been back when the USSR had openly occupied Eastern Europe. And, while such events had been common, and most of the Soviet supernaturals had survived, Misha had been merely human.

But humanity...had inhumanity to spare.

Misha stiffened. "Let me go. I'll kill y-" The sentence was cut short as the ghost's head was twisted backwards, a sharp gasp of pain being muffled by the neck snapping. His head blurred and shifted, so that he was staring at his son again, in moments. The window had shattered at the sound, shards falling to crack even further, or being quickly buried under the snow brought in by the howling wind.

"If I don't let you go?" Andrei asked. "Or after I do?"

"Let me  go, crow." Misha demanded, hands clenching around Andrei's wrists, his own tightening around his father's neck in response. Only one of them whimpered in pain, though. "I'll kill-"

Andrei thoughtfully chewed on his father's jaw, fangs crunching the teeth and pushing the dust into the pulped, ectoplasmic flesh, making a dripping mess. He made sure to look into the ghost's sockets as he swallowed. "With what? The silver you don't have on you? Don't try to fool my nose. You know that's what's needed to kill freaks like me-or that's what you'd have said, before you became one yourself."

Misha deflated, almost literally, his form following his mood. "What do you want?" He asked in a small voice, struggles stopping.

What did he want? He...

He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to hurt him more than he could bear, without the old rapist losing his mind. He wanted to learn about his mother, that wandering peddlar who'd had the misfortune of looking the wrong way and being an easy target. No one he had convinced, bribed or threatened into looking had been able to tell Andrei who had given birth to him. The details were always, always painfully sparse.

"My mother." Andrei said, lifting his father up so that they were at eye level. "What was her name?"

Misha said something, but Andrei didn't hear. Maybe he'd mouthed the word? Either way, he understood. He must have understood-he could already feel decades of tension, of pain, flowing out of...

Oh, Andrei thought, looking down. That's my blood.

"Let's ask her together." Misha said softly, pushing the knife deeper into his son's heart.

***

{ }, [*****]


There was, Nightraiser reflected, a certain beauty in Darkness.

In its simplicity. Its purity. It didn't contain or hide evil, or anything else, unlike the shadows and gloom that imitated it across Earth and beyond. It knew, felt and desired nothing.

Nightraiser envied it, as much as they felt the lure of nihilism, despite the fact they were closer to the Darkness than anyone save its parent and spawn. Or maybe because of that? Those who did not know the Darkness did not know how jealous they should be of it.

Sometimes, Nightraiser wondered for what unfathomable reason the Unnamed Darkness had chosen to empower them, or if it had even had one. They also wondered about their new name. What did raising the night mean, anyway? It brought to mind the 'hellraiser' concept, and, as much as the idea of being a vandal made them laugh, they had a feeling it was more to it than that.

They did not know why the name was so firmly set, burned, into their mind. As it had been since the Darkness had opened its Eye, choosing them as it.

Nightraiser's power was not mere existence erasure, metaphysical destruction or conceptual unmaking. When they chose to forget something, the concept did not simply cease in the present. It ceased across every moment and layer of reality and beyond, the Archetype itself removed by the forgetfulness that hovered at the edges of the Dream. For what was removed from Nightraiser's mind disappeared from the Daemon Sultan's, as well.

There were, of course, layers to this ability. Had there been none, someone would have tried to futilely put Nightraiser down for the sake of creation, for the greater good, rather than the pettier, more selfish usual reasons.

For example, when Nightraiser closed their eyes and erased everything in their line of sight, the concepts of 'ground', 'sky' and 'reality' didn't disappear. That would have been messy.

Instead, like a lantern or gun covered by a veil, fractions of the power could be exposed as needed, allowing more and more Nothing to flow into Everything. There were, however, things that couldn't simply be erased once, and thus put down. These, Nightraiser had to place in a loop of constant destruction. The distance between them and a silver dagger could be erased in case a were had to be killed rather than put in a time out, for example, but not all problems required such solutions.

Which was all the better, in their opinion. Take Voidmaws. They often had to be destroyed to preserve existence, but getting rid of all of them at once, permanently, would have been wasteful. They were, compared to Archetypes, harmless, not to mention adorable.

In the expanse of their patron, Nightraiser appeared as an oval slit in the deepest of black. Infinitely smaller and less powerful, brown as rust, or old blood, they looked like an eye set in the centre of an amorphous, titanic being, no matter how they were viewed.

And now, the Eye turned.

Travelling from dimensioned space to the Outer Void was no simple matter. The multiverse was contained into a dimensionless void, like a drawing on paper, which was dearfed and surrounded by an infinitely larger one. The Ultimate Gate was preceded by an endless chain of such vacua, and proceeded by an even larger one. And, despite Archetypes and their avatars moving across the Dream with such ease they almost never stopped to think about it, the journey was neither shirt nor free of danger.

Hypnos had once nearly come undone opon transcending everything between the multiverse and the Outer Void, then gazing upon the Archetypes.

Clearly, no one had told the newcomer any of that.

It had the aspect of a mirror, and the Dream shook at its approach. This was not of itself. It was an incongruence. It had to be removed. This was why Nightraiser existed, or rather did not.

A similar event had happened, timeless eternities ago, but Ischyros hadn't disturbed the Unmoved Mover halfway as much. Less because it had the mentality of an overly-excitable puppy, and more because it was native to the ur-realm of the Dreamer, of which only its Black Throne could be glimpsed from within its sleep at the centre of nuclear chaos.

As the Mirror approached and passed through the Ultimate Gate, then entered the Outer Void, plowing through swarms of Voidmaws and destroying them, Nightraiser stowed a weary sigh. The All-In-One let everyone in, they swore...usually, the problems solved themselves, but this was clearly not one of those cases, and it was tasteless to make them clean up after its entertainment.

Not that Nightraiser could  refuse.

The intruder proclaimed its desire to turn the Dream into its palace of mirrors, and even offered Nightraiser a position as its cleaner, to remove things it deemed eyesores. They were so touched by the generosity, their mouth opened by itself.

"Really?" Nightraiser smiled. "Sounds tacky. Like living in a pile of bodies."

It sneered, clearly snubbed by the lack of appreciation for its naste, and began reflecting itself. One became two, became four, became eight, became sixteen, until Nightraiser was staring at an infinity of Mirrored, each as spotless as the original had been after ignoring the Voidmaws' power, let alone their destructive presence.

Then, they turned their power upon themselves once more, and their might doubled, then quadrupled. Nightraiser, who had been left behind by each Mirrored after the first handful of boosts, stared at them, unimpressed.

Then, the Darkness took notice, and the Mirrored had never been.

When Nightraiser let go of their patron's power, returning to their baseline, their sigh was both regretful and relieved. It had been pleasant, like returning to the surface after holding one's breath under mud. Even relaxing. But Nightraiser could not afford to be distracted. The Darkness needed a champion to direct and channel it.

The illusion of appearance shifted to an idealised, dimensionless version of their tridimensional form. Darkness washed over dark skin as they basked in the shadows, a mane of ebony joining with the featureless expanse around them. Trails of nothingness flowed from deep, lidless eyes, forming patches of darkness over their chest and crotch. Nightraiser was not prudish, and the Darkness could not care about nudity less if it tried, but their gender was a mystery, even to themselves. Erased, like whatever childhood memories had been deemed uneccessary upon empowerement.

The pain had remained. The fear, too, faded echoes of it. Someone must have thought them needed.

Nightraiser's avatars, like the Archetypes', imitated their true form. As such, they were now all reclining on whatever surfaces were available, or nothing, if none were, resulting in a rather amusing incident in the thirty-first dimension.

There was beauty in the Void, too, if one could bear to see it and know where to look. Plato would have wept at the sight of this Realm of Ideas, maybe even out of vindication.

Archetypes were not lonely things. As far-flung and diverse as anything could be, they shared two traits: they stood close together, and were all facets of Maybe.

The Darkness and the Mist. Unnamed, Nameless. As above, not so below, no matter which seemed to underpin or loom over all creation at a given moment. Nyog-Sothep and Nightraiser's patron were only equal in terms of power and mindlessness, but in terms of nature? Endless oblivion and limitless potential could not have been more opposed, but their interplay created things that filled them, and even surpassed them. As Ymir had formed from blaze clashing across frost halfway across Ginnungagap, and Pangu had cracked open the World Egg from the inside, One from None, so did the Archetypes rise from the meeting of Everything and Nothing.

Even the All-In-One, the Ultimate Archetype...the last, unbound sweep, outreaching fancy and mathematics alike, transcending contradiction and duality...even it had been born from the Nameless Mist, though such details were meaningless. The parent could not care, and the child-who contained and dwarfed all Archetypes, including the Mist and Darkness, to the same extent they dwarfed humans-did not. The Dream itself, perhaps the Mind of the Dreamer, it was only bound by how it chose to amuse and perpetuate itself.

The latter had become, as of latter(as the linears said) a rather pressing concern. Still, Yog-Sothoth, according to the fools who survived searching it for knowledge was supremely confident that it would continue.

And when it said 'it', it referred to itself. Everything, and Nothing, too.

As for the lesser Archetypes...some imagined a sort of line, they supposed. With the Archetypes standing side by side unto infinity, those similar close together. Other imagined them standing in groups, or tiers, like in a stadium's seats, surrounded by an endless blackness.

The Outer Void could certainly be viewed like that, if one squinted hard enough. Minds could force the strangest things into familar frames and shapes, even if they broke in the attempt.

In Nightraiser's eyes, though...well. They were-had once been-human. But, though the affectations of humanity remained, what their mind had evolved into was capable of recognising paradoxes that would have driven any lesser psyche mad.

Take the human Archetype. It contained the Archetypes of workers, warriors, men, women, children...they live among plant and animal Archetypes, made up of all the species that are part of those kingdoms. Pull back further, and they could be seen walking Earth's Archetype, which orbits the sun's...

There was overlap, though, and contradiction. The gunslinger Archetype, for example, contained far more than human firearms users. Was it, then, not a part of mankind's Archetype in its entirely?

What about Earth's? Was it part of a planet Archetype, like the sun's was part of a stellar one? Were they fractions of the idea of celestial bodies, then of location, then of space?

Nightraiser saw and knew. They understood this, though they could not explain it to a human, even if the attempt didn't unravel reality. The only thing they could say was that...

"It's beautiful." Gears shifted and wheels spun, rusty iron and rotten wood falling apart almost as fast as they were replaced by strong, new materials, which quickly met the same fate, caught in an eternal remaking.

In such devices was the embodiment of new creation's form covered. Cogs ground against each other, sparks flying, as he turned to them. "Don't you agree, rugrat?"

"Fix." Nightraiser lifted the arm they had slung over their eyes to give their friend a shrewd look. "You didn't come to me to talk about the view."

Fixer shrugged, flopping down onto the Darkness, and producing a translucent, rodlike device. Then, a thin, shining string shot down into the ebony expanse, the glint of the hook at its tip disappearing. "Guilty as charged, sprog. Doesn't make it untrue, though."

"I suppose it doesn't." Hopefully, he wouldn't take it as an excuse to ramble. More than usual. Nightraiser's expression softened, eyes creasing. "Ami's been hounding you?"

Fixer hunched forward, shoulders squared, looking almost as despondent as he sounded when he answered. "Boss lady ain't who I want riding me, but what can ya do?"

"We're in the same boat, Ned." They shifted to sit on the Darkness,next to Fixer, and folded their hands in their lap.

He huffed. "Yours is way worse, if you don't mind me saying. No one wants to be ridden by John."

"And when have we ever gotten what we want?"

"Fair 'nuff." Fixer slouched even further, giving the fishing rod a small shake. "Don't make it suck less."

Nightraiser leaned their head on his shoulder. "If Amara can't convince you to stop," They began softly. "Maybe I can make you stop pushing your luck."

"Dunno what ya mean."

"You sound like you used to." They jabbed. "Back in Dunwich. Don't try to lie."

"Pfft."

"Articulate." Nightraiser said archly, before poking Fixer in the belly, above the navel. "You know what happens if you step in now?"

"Yeah, yeah, 'course I know already." His face soured as he tried to perceive the depths of the Darkness, infinitely deeper and wider than his perception. "Don't mean I have to like it, though."

"No one said you have to  like it." Images of cultists in black robes, their heads crowned with antlers of midnight, flashed across the Darkness in an endless chain of still frames. "But I remember an old man prattling about how people need to stand on their own two feet, or they'll never achieve anything worthwhile."

"Sounds like a preachy twit."

" 'We can't hold their hands forever, savvy? Like parents doing their kids' homework. Yeah, it looks better than it would if they did it alone...but anyone looking at the results can see who did the work, and all their pals will laught at 'em."

"Awright, awright, jeez. Don't quote me back at myself, I  know how annoying I sound."

Nightraiser did not move their head, even as Fixer shifted awkwardly. "I mean it, Ned. Let them handle this, or I'll forget you."

"... Fine."

They smiled up at their scowl, pushing themselves away. "You know what a Nightmare that'd be. I love you too much to let you suffer like you would bringing eternal oblivion to preserve a short peace."

"Never knew ya had a problem with  that."

"Oh, Darkness is an old friend." They admitted. Their first one. "But, much like pleasure, one must know its opposite to appreciate it."
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 7, Part 1

***
I couldn't rest.

Not just physically, either. I could lay down, but, as I didn't get tired, it meant little more than shifting my position. But mentally...

Undead couldn't really get bored or sick of something, which usually worked to our advantage, especially during long periods of work or combat. However, it also meant we often fixated on things, even pointless ones. The double-edged sword that was our attention might have been why strigoi and vampires suffered from a compulsion to count grains of sand, dust or rice set at the entrance of a building.

The being that had come to me in my hallucination-waking dream?-had looked like me, sounded like me, talked like me. Or, rather, almost like me. There had been something else behind it, as if I had been looking into a pit while unable to see the bottom, or only seeing the tendril of some deep sea creature.

I hoped it had only been a disguise meant to rankle me, because the alternative was...was...

Why the fucking hell did I keep thinking that maybe I had just imagined the meeting? A small voice in the back of my mind, a metaphorical one rather than my strigoi side, kept whispering that I'd tinkered with my godsight, messing up both my perception and my memory.

My worse half, on the other hand, kept hissing at me not to listen. And, for some reason, I didn't think the bastard was trying to scare me or make me(more) paranoid. For one, why would I choose to sleep instead of staying awake by Mia's side, ensuring she slept well?

For another...well, my instincts disagreed as well. Not the impulses represented by the ebony silhouette in my mind, but rather, what sometimes warned me of danger before my senses noticed it. Usually, it felt like a nudge, or someone poking me. Other times, it felt like a hand brushing against my shoulder.

Now, hands had clamped down on both shoulders, and were shaking me all but physically.

What was the danger? Convincing myself that it had all been a dream? Forgetting? Not doing it?

My instincts were being frustratingly vague. They were kind of like Spider-Man's Spider-Sense, except, rather than being controlled by a thousand different writers who didn't read each other's comics, they seemed to vary from precise to vague as the mood took them. Sometimes, I knew that, say, a hit from behind was imbued with holy power and would kill me if it connected, as well as what it was aimed at. Other times, I received something that was neither an image nor a sound, but resembled both. The warnings from the latter category tended to be frighteningly, mind-bogglingly complicated, such as 'duck', 'jump', and even 'lean to the right'.

This was, I decided, a warning from the second category, though more intense than most...actually, any before it. My godsight couldn't tell me more than that, as far as it knew, the meeting had been real, and I had met my future self. But then, it was the reason for this whole internal argument, wasn't it? Or so half of me insisted.

The second assessment-that I had, doubtlessly, met my future self-surprised me. As much as some precognitives liked to insist, there was no such thing as a single future. Every single action and change in an universe, or even the possibility of one, generated a new universe, a new timeline. There were already an infinity of them, and growing by the planck time. How? Well, there are infinities, and infinities. Just look at the one between zero and one.

The point was, you just couldn't point at a future, however plausible or likely it looked, and say 'There! That's what will happen!'. Chance had a thing about screwing up precog, and that was just in the case of mundane humans. Strigoi like me, with our immunity to probability manipulation(including the small degree inherent to precognition, as seeing and knowing 'the' future meant altering it, which made visions and projections involving us inherently unreliable, unless divine power was involved)? Add apparent time travel, and everything just got worse.

I couldn't even peer through time or outside it to find that monkey-suited prick, because either he or whatever I had heard-felt-behind or beneath his voice pushed back against every attempt, making me feel like I was smashing my metaphysical head against a brick wall.

And I wished I could say that bearded fuck was the worst of my worries, but-despite my not small fear of ending up looking like the hate child of a hipster and a gravedigger-I had bigger fish to fry, as did all of us. Not just Mia and I, or even ARC, but the world as a whole, and our the realms close to it, tied to it by chains of aether and fate, where they weren't bound by familiarity and old debts.

In the extremely unlikely event nothing worse reared its ugly head, we had three problems, or maybe a threefold one. I don't know. I'd honestly stopped giving a fuck about any details that wouldn't help with finally finishing this damn-

...Add a fourth problem, and another layer. Or even a fifth, if beard boy decided he had worse ways to get his rocks off than by trolling me and scaring my girlfriend.

But, as for the three big ones...we had to get rid of Chernobog, one way or another. Maybe Laozi could fire up his crucible again and hope the Black God was dumber than Wukong. Maybe Zeus could make another set of the chains he had bound Typhon with. Ordinarily, I'd have contemplated setting Chernobog up for Dharma or FREAKSHOW's Armament to knock down, or the best way to stall him long enough for Breakout to start laying pipe, but...fuckin' dammit. The pantheons needed to clean up their damn mess. Letting Chernobog run around in my body during the Headhunt in the hopes of thinning each other's ranks had been a stupid, risky move. They should've stopped him.

And that went for God, too. I didn't...I didn't love Him less. I never wanted to stop loving Him. But not stopping the Black God had been so, so stupid, at least from my side of the debacle. And, unless He chose to reveal some detail of His plan that made it necessary, my opinion wouldn't change.

Though I'd started biting down on my tongue, a nervous tic since before my undeath, at least when I was thinking, which had evolved into biting through it with my fangs, I didn't taste blood. Only ashes.

Metaphorically, thankfully. But it took little effort to remember how bitterness felt.

Aya hadn't said I couldn't contact her by godsight. That had been how we'd talked last time, after all, and if she didn't like it, I'd spin something about honing my power(it wouldn't even be a complete lie), apologise, and fly to Giza to report in person. With how much faster than light I was now, it a few thousand kilometres would be a joke.

That's what I told myself as I tried to forget that line of thinking about God, and ignore the hollow laughter of my strigoi self as it dragged memories of Chernobog to the forefront of our mindscape.

I thought about the other problems, too, and whether they were even separate.

Nyarlathotep. Not exactly someone we could get rid of, and trying to do so would most likely cause enough of a disturbance to fulfill its his aims anyway. Unless...we  had all thought Ygdrassil's destiny was as immutable as its inhabitants', and look at the now. Perhaps more could be changed. Even if destruction was impossible, maybe sealing or criipling wouldn't be.

The women that had maddened the Dagda, or left him open for the Crawling Chaos to do it. They were obviously linked-had to be, didn't they? Or maybe the obviousness was a trap. But the idea of such a coincidence, of an unaligned faction deciding to anger such a powerful god just in time to leave him open to corruption, left a foul taste in my mouth.

Fuck...had the corruption even been temporary? Was the Dagda still a pawn of Nyarlathotep, unbeknownst to everyone else?

Or, I thought, a growl building in my throat, does everyone in charge know and allow it, because it might be convenient,  again?

The Dagda going through what I had with Chernobog...shit. I couldn't exactly check on him either, not with the defences around the Otherworld. Casual fargazing wouldn't cut it, and attempts to break through would just attract the wrong sort of attention. The Tuatha de Danann were not fond of foreign spies, especially Christians, and I didn't want the Morrigan on my arse.

Not in that way.

The thought of the cold goddess brought to mind Bianca's sisters. They hadn't done anything in eight years, and, if not for my paranoia, I might have though they were pulling one of those stupid grade school pranks, making me expect something awful when they weren't actually planning anything. Would they be satisfied with that? I had stupidly chopped a tree in half just because I'd been feeling moody, but...they wouldn't do something that would threaten creation in response, right?

Or maybe they hadn't known what their actions would result into...if they'd even been the women responsible.

Then there was my future self(obviously evil; otherwise, why the beard?), and whatever being Keeper meant. I'd go and pester Merlin for answers, since he seemed to think he knew something, or at least had acted like he did. He was free now, so it wasn't like he'd be too busy or bummed to remove. Then there was Vyrt, who creeped the fuck out of me almost as much as my future self.

Maybe I could beat the answers out of both at the same time, after I finished reporting? I needed to get the stuff the Knights had appropriated from ARC, too, unless Aya had sent Shiftskin to get it, like she'd said she might. What's a little diplomatic incident between suspicious rivals?

Mia was showering, which, ordinarily, would've been nice to think about, if dustracting, as well as an incentive to take a shower myself, but I had other things on my mind. Reem probably wouldn't have wanted her to hear our discussion, so my girlfriend had decided against heating up her body to vapourise anything that needed to be, and taken a slower alternative, in order to both relax and give me the space I needed.

Bless you, love.

The aether, an endless expanse of shining light blue tinged with green, filled my sight as I truly opened my eyes. Here, time and distance meant nothing, and while the aether didn't exist inside our universe, it could easily carry messages around it.

My godsight was stopped cold by Crypt headquarters' protections, then I felt something sit up and take notice, like an animal shifting in its sleep as something entered its lair.

I recognised Aya's power as she observed my attempts at entering. In Mimir's eyes, HQ looked like a flawless white-grey pyramid, with no stone blocks or spaces between them visible. Beneath it, an identical, upside-down pyramid reached under the sand, equally impenetrable to my perception.

Then, the Crypt head spoke a handful of words that rattled my fangs, and unseen guardians pooled back, as did the metaphorical facade of the pyramid. I could now see inside.

I spotted Aya with ease, her astral self shining so, so much brighter than so many billion others put together. There were only a few dozen that matched or surpassed it, and none in HQ, but they were different enough that I could distinguish and focus on the mummy with no problem.

The mummy was seated at the centre of the pyramid, which wasn't always true in reality. The underground complex didn't have a centre all the time, even when it wasn't changing shape. In this realm of symbols, however, such details were irrelevant. Aya was the Crypt division's Head, and its heart too. Hence, everything else was built around her.

She wasn't alone. I had expected Shiftskin, given their apparent relationship, upon noticing the second presence. Then, his absolute, awful enormity crashed into and through the walls of my mind. I didn't know if he had hidden from me, or if I had been unable to perceive all of him at once; and, at the moment, I couldn't spare any thought about that.

I caught a glimpse of an old man, bent-backed and narrow eyed, slouching over a lectern-

A dog-faced baboon, standing on the edge of a boat sailing the first waters, as it had always done and always would-

A man with the head of an ibis, gambling with the moon to stretch time and grow the calendar, and-

[ ]

Thoth's fingers burned against my forehead, like a hot knife lancing through diseased flesh to excise a tumour.

The god favoured me with a many-faced smile. My sight, which could only slip by his aura of power to observe the surroundings if I concentrated, showed me his body, incarnation or projection was actually small, shorter than Aya despite squatting on some stool or perch. Even so, I got the impression of him looking down at the mummy, at least physically. Around him, past and distance seemed to stop making sense.

"David Silva." Thoth spoke each syllable in a clipped voice, as if he wanted to remember how they sounded. "I have been waiting to meet you for so, so long."

Me, or Mimir's eyes-?

"Yes." Thoth scratched his beak-muzzle?-with a human finger. "I would have no reason to interact with you otherwise, see? Us gods are terribly wary of others poaching our worshippers at the best of times, and that applies to me, too, my special relationship with Yahweh aside."

I wondered if it was 'special' in the sense of the UK-USA alliance, or if Thoth was being sarcastic, but I couldn't tell. His tone was mild, what little I could see of his body language through the haze of power was relaxed, and he hid his thoughts well.

"I'm glad to see you're better, David." Aya said, in a tone that suggested she expected me to wonder about what she was referring to, even if I didn't figure it out. "And, while I am pleased you are training your abilities, please do not expect to only rely on them from now on. I still await your report in person."

"Why?" I frowned. "Can't you tell it's really me who's speaking to you, ma'am?"

"I can." She replied. "Can you tell if you're really speaking to Aya Reem?"

***

Andrei was on the ghost as soon as he finished speaking, closing five metres in half as many microseconds to close his hands around his father's throat, claws digging into the ectoplasm.

He can be hurt, the were thought with a kind of strange clarity. He is dead, but he can be hurt. I can finally see him and touch him and  hurt him.

KILL KILL KILL
, was the closest approximation of what his beast's 'thoughts' would have sounded like, if spoken by a human.

He sympathised with it, for once. Usually, the dumb animal just acted like it's natural counterpart, and had most of the same desires. Lazing around. Eating. Fighting and killing other males-rivals. It could not perceive them as anything else. Fucking females.

The last two were particularly annoying when living in society, because a were's beast didn't make any distinction between humans, other supernaturals and mundane animals, which meant Andrei was as likely to get randomly mad at and want to murder a newborn because he happened to be male as he was to get aroused by some brown bear sow.

And that was  ridiculous. Now, however...now, his beast wasn't pushing him towards something that would've been immoral even if it hadn't been illegal. For decades, his human side had been responsible for that. Andrei decided to savour this moment of inner harmony, because he knew it wasn't going to last.

Misha didn't thrash or struggle, like a new ghost in the grip of memory would have. How long had it been since his undeath? Maybe Andrei would let him talk enough to share it. Might be interesting, if only as a curiosity.

The were could tell the ghost was still hurt, though. Intangibility was useless against supernaturals, and ghosts could still feel pain if enough of their ectoplasm was damaged. Andrei would've cracked a phantom pain joke if he hadn't been trying to crack his father's skull instead. A hollow imitation of flesh, and there'd be no corpse left, but...oh, well. No time to be picky. He was honestly grateful for getting to do this at all.

"Lht goh." Misha managed to gurgle. "Lht goh, yuh-"

Andrei indulged him, letting go-a little. Just enough to lessen the pressure, to let the ghost focus. Misha couldn't choke, but he could get locked up due to pain. Andrei didn't want that yet. Maybe his father would have something funny to croak, before the end.

"-fuckin' mongrel." The ghost finished, glaring at his son with empty sockets.

Andrei smiled sarcastically in response, showing his fangs. "Never seen anything like this wherever you've crawled from?"

"We have beasts." Misha spat, hands wrapped halfway around the were's wrists. "I know what you can look like."

Andrei's smile went from fake to nonexistent. "Don't. Don't you dare go there." Why not, though? Part of him thought. Let him talk. It'll make things easier after his final death. Entering? Hate speech? We were just defending ourselves.

"That's why I'm here." Misha said, his voice, already low and rough, becoming harsher, colder, and...was that exhaustion Andrei heard?

The werebear bristled. What was the bastard  tired of? Being manhandled? Learning actions had consequences? Still clinging onto the world for far longer than he had any right to?

...He'd go to David after this. Apologise again. He fucking hated opening up, almost as much as admitting when he was wrong. Altogether? Made him feel almost as shitty as the reason for his mood did.

But he was sure there was a quick and dirty way to cheer himself up...

"Why?" Andrei searched the ghost's face for signs that he was preparing to bullshit him. A little harder than usual, with the lack of eyes, but the creases in the ectoplasmic skin, in the brow and around the sockets, were more than enough.

"Shouldn't you be asking 'how'?' Misha's voice was drily amused, as was his expression, before growing more focused. "I heard I had a kid. I honestly thought the bitch had died...only learned she'd not just survived, but gotten pregnant, after I bit the dust. I wanted...wanted to see how you'd ended up, I guess."

Curiosity? That was  it? He-

No, no, Andrei reminded himself, trying to clear the redness that had appeared at the edges of his vision. This was good. If the fucker had walked right into his claws of his own volition, all the better. Would make for a funny story.

The were had never honestly hoped for closure during his life, maybe not even after life. Andrei knew he was bound for the aether, but his father...the mages he had paid to look into anything related to his past hadn't been able to come up with anything consistent. Sometimes, Misha was stuck in the Hell Christians feared, other times in the depths of the aether, tormented by the manifestation of everything he had ever feared and loathed, like the other godless, unclaimed wicked, so they'd both suffer and be stopped from returning to the living world. Save for a few infamous dead passed between underworlds to truly suffer, whatever prevented dead agnostics and atheists from being consumed or exploited by those that roamed the realm of magic also made the darkest thoughts of the vilest among them come alive.

Maybe it was simply the aether's nature? It did react to the minds of those who entered it, after all, and there was something hilarious about the idea of Misha torturing himself forever.

That led to the question the ghost had posed. How  had he escaped both the nightmares and the aether without anyone noticing?

Maybe he'd let him talk enough to spill something other than the facsimile of his guts.

"Better than you." Andrei smiled sarcastically. Garrison captain, dragged down by rioting locals. That had been back when the USSR had openly occupied Eastern Europe. And, while such events had been common, and most of the Soviet supernaturals had survived, Misha had been merely human.

But humanity...had inhumanity to spare.

Misha stiffened. "Let me go. I'll kill y-" The sentence was cut short as the ghost's head was twisted backwards, a sharp gasp of pain being muffled by the neck snapping. His head blurred and shifted, so that he was staring at his son again, in moments. The window had shattered at the sound, shards falling to crack even further, or being quickly buried under the snow brought in by the howling wind.

"If I don't let you go?" Andrei asked. "Or after I do?"

"Let me  go, crow." Misha demanded, hands clenching around Andrei's wrists, his own tightening around his father's neck in response. Only one of them whimpered in pain, though. "I'll kill-"

Andrei thoughtfully chewed on his father's jaw, fangs crunching the teeth and pushing the dust into the pulped, ectoplasmic flesh, making a dripping mess. He made sure to look into the ghost's sockets as he swallowed. "With what? The silver you don't have on you? Don't try to fool my nose. You know that's what's needed to kill freaks like me-or that's what you'd have said, before you became one yourself."

Misha deflated, almost literally, his form following his mood. "What do you want?" He asked in a small voice, struggles stopping.

What did he want? He...

He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to hurt him more than he could bear, without the old rapist losing his mind. He wanted to learn about his mother, that wandering peddlar who'd had the misfortune of looking the wrong way and being an easy target. No one he had convinced, bribed or threatened into looking had been able to tell Andrei who had given birth to him. The details were always, always painfully sparse.

"My mother." Andrei said, lifting his father up so that they were at eye level. "What was her name?"

Misha said something, but Andrei didn't hear. Maybe he'd mouthed the word? Either way, he understood. He must have understood-he could already feel decades of tension, of pain, flowing out of...

Oh, Andrei thought, looking down. That's my blood.

"Let's ask her together." Misha said softly, pushing the knife deeper into his son's heart.

***

{ }, [*****]


There was, Nightraiser reflected, a certain beauty in Darkness.

In its simplicity. Its purity. It didn't contain or hide evil, or anything else, unlike the shadows and gloom that imitated it across Earth and beyond. It knew, felt and desired nothing.

Nightraiser envied it, as much as they felt the lure of nihilism, despite the fact they were closer to the Darkness than anyone save its parent and spawn. Or maybe because of that? Those who did not know the Darkness did not know how jealous they should be of it.

Sometimes, Nightraiser wondered for what unfathomable reason the Unnamed Darkness had chosen to empower them, or if it had even had one. They also wondered about their new name. What did raising the night mean, anyway? It brought to mind the 'hellraiser' concept, and, as much as the idea of being a vandal made them laugh, they had a feeling it was more to it than that.

They did not know why the name was so firmly set, burned, into their mind. As it had been since the Darkness had opened its Eye, choosing them as it.

Nightraiser's power was not mere existence erasure, metaphysical destruction or conceptual unmaking. When they chose to forget something, the concept did not simply cease in the present. It ceased across every moment and layer of reality and beyond, the Archetype itself removed by the forgetfulness that hovered at the edges of the Dream. For what was removed from Nightraiser's mind disappeared from the Daemon Sultan's, as well.

There were, of course, layers to this ability. Had there been none, someone would have tried to futilely put Nightraiser down for the sake of creation, for the greater good, rather than the pettier, more selfish usual reasons.

For example, when Nightraiser closed their eyes and erased everything in their line of sight, the concepts of 'ground', 'sky' and 'reality' didn't disappear. That would have been messy.

Instead, like a lantern or gun covered by a veil, fractions of the power could be exposed as needed, allowing more and more Nothing to flow into Everything. There were, however, things that couldn't simply be erased once, and thus put down. These, Nightraiser had to place in a loop of constant destruction. The distance between them and a silver dagger could be erased in case a were had to be killed rather than put in a time out, for example, but not all problems required such solutions.

Which was all the better, in their opinion. Take Voidmaws. They often had to be destroyed to preserve existence, but getting rid of all of them at once, permanently, would have been wasteful. They were, compared to Archetypes, harmless, not to mention adorable.

In the expanse of their patron, Nightraiser appeared as an oval slit in the deepest of black. Infinitely smaller and less powerful, brown as rust, or old blood, they looked like an eye set in the centre of an amorphous, titanic being, no matter how they were viewed.

And now, the Eye turned.

Travelling from dimensioned space to the Outer Void was no simple matter. The multiverse was contained into a dimensionless void, like a drawing on paper, which was dearfed and surrounded by an infinitely larger one. The Ultimate Gate was preceded by an endless chain of such vacua, and proceeded by an even larger one. And, despite Archetypes and their avatars moving across the Dream with such ease they almost never stopped to think about it, the journey was neither shirt nor free of danger.

Hypnos had once nearly come undone opon transcending everything between the multiverse and the Outer Void, then gazing upon the Archetypes.

Clearly, no one had told the newcomer any of that.

It had the aspect of a mirror, and the Dream shook at its approach. This was not of itself. It was an incongruence. It had to be removed. This was why Nightraiser existed, or rather did not.

A similar event had happened, timeless eternities ago, but Ischyros hadn't disturbed the Unmoved Mover halfway as much. Less because it had the mentality of an overly-excitable puppy, and more because it was native to the ur-realm of the Dreamer, of which only its Black Throne could be glimpsed from within its sleep at the centre of nuclear chaos.

As the Mirror approached and passed through the Ultimate Gate, then entered the Outer Void, plowing through swarms of Voidmaws and destroying them, Nightraiser stowed a weary sigh. The All-In-One let everyone in, they swore...usually, the problems solved themselves, but this was clearly not one of those cases, and it was tasteless to make them clean up after its entertainment.

Not that Nightraiser could  refuse.

The intruder proclaimed its desire to turn the Dream into its palace of mirrors, and even offered Nightraiser a position as its cleaner, to remove things it deemed eyesores. They were so touched by the generosity, their mouth opened by itself.

"Really?" Nightraiser smiled. "Sounds tacky. Like living in a pile of bodies."

It sneered, clearly snubbed by the lack of appreciation for its naste, and began reflecting itself. One became two, became four, became eight, became sixteen, until Nightraiser was staring at an infinity of Mirrored, each as spotless as the original had been after ignoring the Voidmaws' power, let alone their destructive presence.

Then, they turned their power upon themselves once more, and their might doubled, then quadrupled. Nightraiser, who had been left behind by each Mirrored after the first handful of boosts, stared at them, unimpressed.

Then, the Darkness took notice, and the Mirrored had never been.

When Nightraiser let go of their patron's power, returning to their baseline, their sigh was both regretful and relieved. It had been pleasant, like returning to the surface after holding one's breath under mud. Even relaxing. But Nightraiser could not afford to be distracted. The Darkness needed a champion to direct and channel it.

The illusion of appearance shifted to an idealised, dimensionless version of their tridimensional form. Darkness washed over dark skin as they basked in the shadows, a mane of ebony joining with the featureless expanse around them. Trails of nothingness flowed from deep, lidless eyes, forming patches of darkness over their chest and crotch. Nightraiser was not prudish, and the Darkness could not care about nudity less if it tried, but their gender was a mystery, even to themselves. Erased, like whatever childhood memories had been deemed uneccessary upon empowerement.

The pain had remained. The fear, too, faded echoes of it. Someone must have thought them needed.

Nightraiser's avatars, like the Archetypes', imitated their true form. As such, they were now all reclining on whatever surfaces were available, or nothing, if none were, resulting in a rather amusing incident in the thirty-first dimension.

There was beauty in the Void, too, if one could bear to see it and know where to look. Plato would have wept at the sight of this Realm of Ideas, maybe even out of vindication.

Archetypes were not lonely things. As far-flung and diverse as anything could be, they shared two traits: they stood close together, and were all facets of Maybe.

The Darkness and the Mist. Unnamed, Nameless. As above, not so below, no matter which seemed to underpin or loom over all creation at a given moment. Nyog-Sothep and Nightraiser's patron were only equal in terms of power and mindlessness, but in terms of nature? Endless oblivion and limitless potential could not have been more opposed, but their interplay created things that filled them, and even surpassed them. As Ymir had formed from blaze clashing across frost halfway across Ginnungagap, and Pangu had cracked open the World Egg from the inside, One from None, so did the Archetypes rise from the meeting of Everything and Nothing.

Even the All-In-One, the Ultimate Archetype...the last, unbound sweep, outreaching fancy and mathematics alike, transcending contradiction and duality...even it had been born from the Nameless Mist, though such details were meaningless. The parent could not care, and the child-who contained and dwarfed all Archetypes, including the Mist and Darkness, to the same extent they dwarfed humans-did not. The Dream itself, perhaps the Mind of the Dreamer, it was only bound by how it chose to amuse and perpetuate itself.

The latter had become, as of latter(as the linears said) a rather pressing concern. Still, Yog-Sothoth, according to the fools who survived searching it for knowledge was supremely confident that it would continue.

And when it said 'it', it referred to itself. Everything, and Nothing, too.

As for the lesser Archetypes...some imagined a sort of line, they supposed. With the Archetypes standing side by side unto infinity, those similar close together. Other imagined them standing in groups, or tiers, like in a stadium's seats, surrounded by an endless blackness.

The Outer Void could certainly be viewed like that, if one squinted hard enough. Minds could force the strangest things into familar frames and shapes, even if they broke in the attempt.

In Nightraiser's eyes, though...well. They were-had once been-human. But, though the affectations of humanity remained, what their mind had evolved into was capable of recognising paradoxes that would have driven any lesser psyche mad.

Take the human Archetype. It contained the Archetypes of workers, warriors, men, women, children...they live among plant and animal Archetypes, made up of all the species that are part of those kingdoms. Pull back further, and they could be seen walking Earth's Archetype, which orbits the sun's...

There was overlap, though, and contradiction. The gunslinger Archetype, for example, contained far more than human firearms users. Was it, then, not a part of mankind's Archetype in its entirely?

What about Earth's? Was it part of a planet Archetype, like the sun's was part of a stellar one? Were they fractions of the idea of celestial bodies, then of location, then of space?

Nightraiser saw and knew. They understood this, though they could not explain it to a human, even if the attempt didn't unravel reality. The only thing they could say was that...

"It's beautiful." Gears shifted and wheels spun, rusty iron and rotten wood falling apart almost as fast as they were replaced by strong, new materials, which quickly met the same fate, caught in an eternal remaking.

In such devices was the embodiment of new creation's form covered. Cogs ground against each other, sparks flying, as he turned to them. "Don't you agree, rugrat?"

"Fix." Nightraiser lifted the arm they had slung over their eyes to give their friend a shrewd look. "You didn't come to me to talk about the view."

Fixer shrugged, flopping down onto the Darkness, and producing a translucent, rodlike device. Then, a thin, shining string shot down into the ebony expanse, the glint of the hook at its tip disappearing. "Guilty as charged, sprog. Doesn't make it untrue, though."

"I suppose it doesn't." Hopefully, he wouldn't take it as an excuse to ramble. More than usual. Nightraiser's expression softened, eyes creasing. "Ami's been hounding you?"

Fixer hunched forward, shoulders squared, looking almost as despondent as he sounded when he answered. "Boss lady ain't who I want riding me, but what can ya do?"

"We're in the same boat, Ned." They shifted to sit on the Darkness,next to Fixer, and folded their hands in their lap.

He huffed. "Yours is way worse, if you don't mind me saying. No one wants to be ridden by John."

"And when have we ever gotten what we want?"

"Fair 'nuff." Fixer slouched even further, giving the fishing rod a small shake. "Don't make it suck less."

Nightraiser leaned their head on his shoulder. "If Amara can't convince you to stop," They began softly. "Maybe I can make you stop pushing your luck."

"Dunno what ya mean."

"You sound like you used to." They jabbed. "Back in Dunwich. Don't try to lie."

"Pfft."

"Articulate." Nightraiser said archly, before poking Fixer in the belly, above the navel. "You know what happens if you step in now?"

"Yeah, yeah, 'course I know already." His face soured as he tried to perceive the depths of the Darkness, infinitely deeper and wider than his perception. "Don't mean I have to like it, though."

"No one said you have to  like it." Images of cultists in black robes, their heads crowned with antlers of midnight, flashed across the Darkness in an endless chain of still frames. "But I remember an old man prattling about how people need to stand on their own two feet, or they'll never achieve anything worthwhile."

"Sounds like a preachy twit."

" 'We can't hold their hands forever, savvy? Like parents doing their kids' homework. Yeah, it looks better than it would if they did it alone...but anyone looking at the results can see who did the work, and all their pals will laught at 'em."

"Awright, awright, jeez. Don't quote me back at myself, I  know how annoying I sound."

Nightraiser did not move their head, even as Fixer shifted awkwardly. "I mean it, Ned. Let them handle this, or I'll forget you."

"... Fine."

They smiled up at their scowl, pushing themselves away. "You know what a Nightmare that'd be. I love you too much to let you suffer like you would bringing eternal oblivion to preserve a short peace."

"Never knew ya had a problem with  that."

"Oh, Darkness is an old friend." They admitted. Their first one. "But, much like pleasure, one must know its opposite to appreciate it."
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 7, Part 2

***
FREAKSHOW Base One, Washington DC, USA

Armament's hands were in his cargo pants' pockets as he walked down the hall.

He was moving slowly, jackboots rising and falling once every two heartbeats, humming tunelessly. He had almost as little talent at this as he had at whistling, without using his powers, but that didn't stop him. Besides, the louder and more obnoxious, the more chances those two would have to notice his approach and shape up.

America'a foreign policy in microcosm, Hans thought to himself, nodding approvingly at the unintentional parallels. Still, not being sure how to put it, he took his time.

Breakout had her needs. She could've removed them, but there were some things she held onto, and he wasn't one to judge, even if the thought of her and Jim together made him boggle. Anyone could play grab-ass, far as he was concerned, long as no one was hurt without consent.

Just sex, man. Those two couldn't stand each other less, he thought, running a hand over his head, tracing the tattoos. Ventromedal prefrontal cortex...frontal cortex...amygdala...nucleus accumbens.

Hans had scolded several psychologists for claiming he couldn't draw abilities from the tats. He had been sure they'd been trying to lower his confidence, and they'd called him paranoid in turn, but Hans didn't give a shit. They'd obviously been conspiring against him.

Besides, belief built facts, and all that jazz. Right?

Hans had grown up in the ass-end of Texas, taking potshots at vermin, then supernatural crooks, once he'd gotten his badge. Then he'd found the Weapon, and his mind had expanded, but...fuck. He hadn't joined FREAKSHOW to be an errand boy or a messenger, dammit! He'd wanted to blow shit up and get into cool fights-legally! Not be a couple counselor...

Wait, wait, hell naw. What was he thinking? Clara and Jim, a couple? Maybe a couple people...

As he saw the stretch of wall that wasn't, he stopped his humming and raised his voice. "I'm comin', so you'd better not be!"

Subtle. Classy. Way more useful than knocking. Hans allowed himself a high five.

Hands still in pockets, he raised a boot and kicked the not-wall in.

Well. Not  exactly. But Hans wasn't the best when it came to describing fancy details. It was, he suspected, something he'd inherited from his pa, one of those eleven something thousand ethnic Germans detained during World War Two. Poor bastard had been released quickly, then had an accident on the way out. Fuckin' hilarious. 'Course, Hans was far sharper than his pops had been before the mess, not that he'd ever lorded it over him. In the few moments his old man had been able to step up from sittin' 'round the house like a vegetable, he'd been real sensitive.

As such, Hans wouldn't have described the space as a multi-layered patch of artificial reality. Almost nothing could pass it without the approval of those behind it, bot without getting stripped down to quantum foam and getting scattered across an infinity of universes.

That was why Hans had been sent. He could just get through, proof to esoteric crap due to the Idea he was one with, without having to wait for a green light from the love birds. Most other folk wouldn't have been able to pass, and would've probably wasted time negotiating their way in. Those who could bypass it, like Clyde, Randy, the weres and vamps, would've likely gotten a cold welcome. Hans, however, had the dubious luck of being seen as a little brother by Clara(he was only a couple years younger, geeze) and didn't take any bull from the posturing douche she'd chosen to fool around with this time.

Playin' messenger still sucked like a cheap hooker, but, eh.

"Oi. Rise and shine, me darlings." Hans put his hands behind his back as he strode through the patch of nonexistence that had never been a wall. The room's thick yamadium walls were cracked, a sight that made Hans nod slightly to himself. Breakout was still a screamer. He wondered if Jim's ears had bled like his had three or four romps ago.

Clara flipped him off, pulling on her uniform shirt without looking at either of the men. Hans looked past her, face set in an expectant expression. Nothing he hadn't seen. Still wire the flag...as did Jim Bat.

The vamp was still shirtless, and met his stare with one of his own, crossing his arms. The Confederate flag was a startling splash of color on his pale shoulder, but, thankfully, a reminder as opposed to a representation of beliefs he still held. Jim had been a grunt during the Civil War, and he still had grunt written over his mug. He'd been in it for the money and to avoid peer pressure, not the politics.

The chick who finished getting dressed next to him kinda embodied that fact.

"Piss off." Jim rasped, crimson eyes trying to spear through Hans' soul. "You couldn't have convinced my sire to agree to shit, either, so don't lecture."

"Yeah, I read the reports. This ain't about Primus."

"No? Then run along. We're supposed to be relaxing-"

"Not anymore." Armament cut him off at the same time Breakout said 'Let 'im talk, jackass'.

The woman straightened the wrinkles over the red-and-white-striped pentagrams on her shoulders, then walked over to Hans. "I knew diplomacy wouldn't do shit-much easier to just have one of our vamps drink up-but I humored Mary. Girl's  way too optimistic for a politician..." Breakout shook her head, twirling the pipe that appeared in her hands like a baton. "Jim's second dad is currently tearing up some unfortunate realities, fighting one of the few assholes worse than 'im. Y'all are welcome."

"Thanks?" Armament asked more than said. "I guess."

Breakout gave him an apologetic smile, before her balaclava appeared over her face. "I know why you're here, kid. And I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but I ain't goin'."

Hans stiffened, out of reflex rather than surprise. Breakout's power sometimes made her act in mysterious ways, though they, thankfully, benefitted the States most of the time. "You're refusing a mission?"

"Yep. Call it a medical emergency: I'm allergic to everything going tits up if I get involved."

"Disappointing." Jim said before Clara answered, pulling on his shirt. "But we'll survive."

Clara rolled her eyes, elbowing Hans. "That's the second time he said that today, ya know? First time was after he proposed, if you can believe it."

Hans' eyes went from Breakout to Jim, who met his stare with one of his own, arms crossed. FREAKSHOW officially frowned upon fraternization as much as any alphabet soup agency. Unoficially, people were still people. The fact the US weren't defended by ice-cold, emotionless drones was a state secret, of course. Still...Hans knew there was no sentiment in this. FREAKSHOW's top five agents were too valuable to allow any awkwardness between them to impact their performance.

Clara saw them as friends, jokes about benefits aside, and Hans tried not to think about it, but sometimes, it still felt weird. Darren and Randy had an easier time compartmentalizing stuff like this, but Hans lacked the former's brick-level enotional range and the latter's endless capacity to be higher than the sun. As for how Jim Bat handled it, frankly, he gave as much of a fuck as he did about Clara's flings with other agents, American or foreign.

But c'mon..."Proposal, man?"

Jim's face didn't change, though his beard twitched a bit. "I can't promise I'll change. But who knows?"

"Ah, quit yer bitchin'!" Clara waved him off, then turned back to Hans. "Back in his day, people fell in love at first sight and got married quickly all the time. But supernatural supremacists leave me dry, so what can you do?" She tapped her pipe into one hand. "Listen. I already know who the Global Gathering will stuff into this clown car." She held up a hand, raising a finger for each name. "The Karma Delivered have agreed to send Dharma-he's fired up after the Fairie clusterfuck, says it's unfair he got tied up the way he did. He's got a new power now, to prevent being trapped like that again."

Hans ignored the pun. Raj was always good to have on your side, unless he got into one of his weirder moods, which this apparently had a chance of being. 'Unfair', when used by Dharma, had nothing to do with complaining, and everything to do with the system of cosmic justice he followed. Hans hoped he'd be manageable.

"China and Russia are sending Myriad and Tunguska, respectively." Heavy hitters. Unlimited fusions, endless applications of destruction...and Clara still refused to use their agencies' names. Still saw them as government goon squads. Armament hoped her power prevented her from getting rose-colored glasses when it came to FREAKSHOW, but he wasn't sure of its exact limits.

"The Hidden Eye's sending Kriegblitz. Girl's been runnin' her sweet ass off all over Dresden. Wants a longer race track, I guess. Watch out for her." But with infinite movement and reaction speed, what could keep her attention?

"The Circle Bizarre  wanted to send Brazillion, but he's getting reprimanded. Might have asked for it. Didn't focus too much on that. Anyway...they're sending Rei Colmeia instead."

Hans couldn't stop himself from cringing. "And he's bringing his swarm, too, isn't he?"

"You bet. If you keep him happy, he might not try to add to it, though." Clara let her hand fall back by her side. "And we're sending you and Jim. Thank me later. Try not to act too unsurprised at the next two meetings. People'll get pissy if they learn I spoiled you." She lowered her voice. "Be careful. I'm gonna walk my beat."

***

Mother Wound's Scorn grunted silently as he climbed out of the neutron star, pushing aside chunks that weighed sextillions of tons with each of his four arms. Starquakes packed enough power to destroy rocku planets millions upon millions of times over, but the amount of force applied to his relatively small frame was merely irritating. He was tougher than most rocky planets, besides, and could regenerate where they did not.

The conditions inside the shaking star had been uncomfortable, but hardly deadly. Scorn had hoped jumping into cosmic disasters would trigger his Vyzhaldi power boosts, but after the first thousand clashing moons and planets, he'd realised headbutting them to debris after jumping between them wasn't doing anything. Black holes had followed, but he was nearly five hundred times faster than light, and could enter and exit at his leisure, at least the shallow areas. But...

He still couldn't enter white holes. Would a hypernova or gamma ray burst kill him, if he was caught in one?

This neutron star, writhing in the grip of a starquake, had been a compromise. Scorn wanted to make himself stronger, not an example of how painful unintended suicide could be. He supposed the Vyzhaldi disregard for death was also absent in him.

Looking down at the shaking star, Scorn clicked his mandibles in frustration. Reaching into the subspace pocket that always followed him, he grasped the slimy body of his Prime Responder, the pulled the creature out of the fake reality.

The Prime Responders were a curious aspect of the Honoured Kratocracy. Some claimed they had been engineered into being, others that they were defective Vyzhaldi larvae, even more flawed, and thus abhorrent, than him. But they detected any change in the cosmos, however fast, whether acausal or retroactive, and placed the information in the Kratocrats' minds. Which indicated a link between them, given Vyzhaldi were usually invisible to telepathy.

The Prime Responder was a grey being, with sickly red eyes and a circular mouth full of razor-sharp, triangular teeth. Its segmented, wormlike body fit within Scorn's palm-except for its brain. Several times its size, it protruded out of its head, a pulsing, throbbing sphere of grey matter dripping thick, pinkish fluid.

Prime Responders were often placed in subspace pockets, which they could communicate through, time and space being no obstacle to the things, but Scorn preferred to look the creature in the eye when he spoke to it.

"Home." He mouthed. "Changes? Hunters?"

No new hunters on his trails. When he learned about the changes, though, Scorn cursed his Mother and all his kin, then reached into subspace again.

He'd never learned the full extent of what the Ideal Mirror could reflect. Loathed using it to compensate for his weakness, even to save his life. How joyous, he thought sarcastically, to find out its full potential like this.

***
Wings on his Words watched with interest as the Terran biped-Adam-paced around the inside of the transparent dome.

This was an untapped world, a-in Vyzhaldi parlance-bauble, kept unaltered for Kratocrats to come and fly over or swim through its liquid nitrogen seas. The dome was usually used for sparring, so Vyzhaldi could fight without obliterating the planet through shockwaves, due to its metaglass absorbing and storing energy.

Adam had been, still was, curious about their society. Unsure what he actually wanted, he had expressed a desire to create, though, from how fervently he'd spoken, it might've been closer to a need. So, Wings had brought him here, expecting him to start shaping the seas into solid or gas, but the undead had claimed he could and would do more. Manipulating matter, he had said, was easy. Not wanting a planet to be destroyed because he'd brought an unruly guest into the Kratocracy, Wings had ushered him into the dome, trusting its ability to resist whatever the Terran had in mind. Mother Wound would return home to either a very interesting or a reassuringly stable Kratocracy; either way, nothing and no one would have to be replaced. Hopefully.

"So," Adam began, continuing to pace. "Your civilisation is dominated by three...schools of thought, which started as philosophies, but evolved into what few of your people want to admit are political parties."

"A caustic way of putting it, but, in short, yes." Wings had gotten his name because he was a fast talker in love with his own voice, or so his Kin said. Vyzhaldi names that referenced anything other than violence or physical prowess were usually intended as moockery, and not always to make the mocked rise above and meet any challenge or derision. "The Schools began as ways to occupy one's time, but that was billions of years ago, after the War of Unity, but before Mother Wound became..." A living ancestor-god, rather than a mere venerated elder. "Distant. We expected her to lead us forever as she saw fit, for she is our progenitor and the strongest of us besides, but she keeps her own counsel nowadays."

No Vyzhaldi remembered what had driven their Mother to silence, and she never told it through her interpreters, leaving them with theories.

Adam hummed as he considered the words. "Your people are long-lived and deliberate when it comes to decisions, are they not? That is to say, many times older than my creator's ancestors, but extremely similar to how you started as. The thought of human anything persisting for billions of years is..." He broke off, laughing. "Almost said unnatural...I should stay away from hypocrisy."

"A healthy mindset." Wings replied, his escort, Kin of Brood and Wound, friends and other Builders, hanging back, watching them interact.

Adam nodded with a dry grin. "Indeed. Perhaps you could adopt it yourself."

Wings had a feeling he knew what was coming, but he thought to make sure. "Explain."

"Your Schools are defined by what you do in your Kratocracy and to your neighbours, yes?"

"That is correct."

"So, Builders maintain architecture and machinery, which is purely recreational, since your people lack physiological needs and can achieve almost any task through physical effort. Outside your society, they build relations with others, trade, uplift weaker species. The Balancers are something between constables and confessors, maintaining both political and mental peace between Kratocrats and other civilisations. And the Breakers destroy undesirable things, which many of them consider weaker beings to be." Adam cupped his chin. "Very neat. Very clear. Not much room for thought, but..."

"You parrot what I told you like a hatchling, then mock us. Remember we are your hosts." To Wings' slight surprise, Adam had the grace to look abashed. "You must remember: we are not like the humans whose remains make you up, or even like you. We Vyzhaldi live to fight. It brings us greater pleasure than mating and feasting and art, or all three together. It is how we are wired. And if we can heal from almost anything only to emerge more durable-and grow in power and speed during fights as well-then, isn't it natural that we would become warlike? Nowhere else will you find better mercenaries." Wings sat down, letting nitrogen wash over his shell, his wings, covering the purple chitin in a colourless sheen. "Of course we define ourselves by the way we take action. Do your people not?"

"I don't know if they do anymore." Adam admitted. "I've been gone for centuries, and I haven't observed Earth."

"We are familiar with fast-paced species. Surely they can't have changed too much." Wings held up a finger. "The Breakers might seem like cruel, moronic brutes to you, and most of them are, but they are not completely stupid. It is exceedingly easy to obtain their services with just the promise of a good fight, as opposed to favours or resources, yes...but they are the bleeding edge of the Kratocracy. Vyzhaldi like them spearheaded our expansion, and, though their School has lost popularity in recent millennia, they still remain a well of strength and enthusiasm for our society." And if the dangerous idiots kept dying in droves, all the better.

"Maybe, if we have time, I will tell you the the story of the Kindred Three, Mother Wound's first children." Wings' pheromones filled the surroundings as he nostalgically thought about his hatchling's tales. "They were the ones who took charge when our lady retreated into herself, only letting her old fury show to moderate the worst disputes, and removed inner threats to the Kratocracy." Some Balancers claimed this was proof of Mother Wound being a member of their School, but that was ridiculous presumption, and she never humoured them.

Adam was silent for a while, then squatted down. "Do you know why I called you a hypocrite?" He eventually asked.

"Because I am a Builder, but let our defective kin be dispatched? Not all of us protect the weak. Some simply raise things to outlast them." Wings said, though he knew it was a poor excuse. He wasn't an architect. "I wish we could stop that, but Mother doesn't listen."

"And what have you done to change her mind? Didn't you say she set this unofficial law herself?" Adam asked after his treacherous thought was given voice.

"We..." Wings rose to his feet. "Have something in the works."

Adam turned to him, then smiled slightly. "Well," The undead also rose. "I, for one, am finished."

And the world around him snapped to life. Constructs, trillions and trillions, made of the toxic atmosphere, of the cold seas, of space itself, all animated by Adam's strange power. Even the dome warped and shifted to become a gigantic humanoid that would have towered over Mother Wound the same way she towered over baseline Vyzhaldi. One of them, something that reminded Wings of a Xalkhian and which could only be seen by how reality bent around it, dashed at Wings, covering dozens of metres faster than he could perceive and punching him to finger's sized pieces. All but one piece became a crimson Woundkin, while Wings himself healed back to his full size in a tenth of a picosecond. He caught the construct's next punch with ease and no damage, despite it being thrice as strong and fat as the previous one, and began pushing it down.

Then Adam pushed more power into it, and his arm began cracking.

"Come on!" The undead laughed as his creations jumped at the Vyzhaldi, tearing them apart, then being reduced to droplets, gust of air and ripples in space in turn. "You were just talking about how much you love violence-I'm trying to follow my hosts' traditions!" He held up a hand, hiding his grin. "Consider this an apology for earlier."

***

She was like the softest rose among thorns, and Constantin was drawn to her like a moth through a flame. The only beautiful thing in this place of ugliness-or, at least, that was what the place wanted him to believe.

He had his love for his Father and son, kept it in mind, held it close to his heart. Love returned, gladly, and kept no matter the circumstances.

But hadn't she died, inasmuch as an angel could? Constantin had seen her ripped apart before his eyes, had felt the light in her eyes, that made up her being, fade.

Or had that been a trick? A test of faith, so God could see how strong his heart was?

No, Constantin told himself. Even if it had been a lie, even if she had returned to Heaven, laughing at his gullibility and foolishness before he had even learned her name, he would...would...

He would not rage against the Lord. Constantin knew where that path led, and what it was paved with. His first and last love was lost, one way or another.

His angel seemed to slouch forward at this thought, wings slumping. Had he upset her?

Constantin walked closer, his hand going to his chest, tearing through his surplice and the vines that had gotten stuck in it. His hand bled, shattered thorns grinding through his bones, mixing with the marrow. But he still grasped his cross. Strange. His angel's presence had never driven him to need such comfort, before. But now, he felt his heart rise at the touch of his Father's unseen hand.

"My love." His angel said in a voice like a church bell, which then became as light as a silver chime. "My husband."

...No. This was cruelty. He knew it wasn't true. The more he wanted it, the more he knew...

She was holding their child. Why had he not noticed the bundle in her arms? Ah...right. Long day at church. He really needed to pray more, if the Lord decided to refuse him strength. Returning tired to his family was a disservice to both Him and them. It was a...

"I have a son." Constantin said, holding his cross tight. It had begun thrashing like a serpent, and for some reason, the movement chilled him to the bone. "But no wife. I have never been married, and will never be."

In the real world, Constantin's cross-a large one, depicting Christ crowned with thorns-had begun not only thrashing, as its spiritual mirror was here, but running like wax. It scorched Constantin, making his burning surplice fuse with his blistered, scorched skin, but he never let go. The priest knew that would be the end of him.

***

With unseeing eyes, Constantin found his way through his house, looking until he found the tools he needed. Then, he went outside, the door opening for him without being touched. His verger cried in relief when she saw him, but he didn't hear her. He could not, any more than she could approach or aid him, for a gap had opened between them, like the yawning abyss between those who rested in the bosom of Abraham and those who languished in darkness, awaiting the Last Judgement.

Constantin's dogs began barking madly upon seeing their master's disheveled state, but he couldn't hear them, either. When he sat down, back against the side of the house, closing his eyes as his beard smoke, they began howling, pawing at the ground, biting at their leashes and chains.

Good dogs, he had always known. But he had to do this alone.

He couldn't allow his focus to waver, not now. Constantin had three nails in his left hand. Two went through Jesus' wrists, the third through his ankles. The golden figurine(Gold? When had he ever worn gold, rather than copper, bronze or iron?) screamed like a dying infant, unseeing eyes bursting as pus began running down its face like blood streamed from its stigmata.

He couldn't stop here. With the hammer in his right hand, Constantin beat each nail deep within his chest. They had been the longest he had. He hoped one would pierce his heart. He needed...by God, he needed the blood...to soothe...the burns...

***
His angel turned, and she was the most hideous thing he had ever seen since the end of David's human life.

Aside from the lowest ranks, no angel looked like anything a human might find physically beautiful, but that was because they were too different from normal people. But she...she looked horrible.

It wasn't just the patchy, pale skin, hanging loose in some places and straining against bloated flesh in others. It wasn't just the immense, pockmarked nose, so long it almost covered the thin, gaping mouth filled with crooked, rotten fangs. It wasn't even the assortment of wounds that demon had dealt her before her...disappearance.

It was the eyes. There was a wicked glee in them, visible despite the cataracts. This was no joy at seeing them, or even the bliss all angels felt due to their bond with God. She knew seeing her hurt him, and revelled in that.

And the child.

"Our son." She insisted, walking towards him, holding the bundle of white wrappings out. There was nothing that marked her as a woman, besides the voice, its musicality making her ugliness all the viler. Angels were genderless, spiritual beings, but even they took on certain traits when wearing physical forms. She had no breasts, no...

Constantin had stopped weeping black blood when he had first glimpsed her, something that had gladdened his soul, making him think, for an instant, that maybe his angels had indeed returned, to stay. Now, as he looked down and saw the infant's face, his tears returned, thin and crimson.

The boy was just as monstrous as his mother. The mouth was too large for the head, the nose too small, almost lost between eyes far, far too old for a newborn. His gums were free of teeth, but something crawled underneath them, making them bulge, blood white as milk-or was that pus?-running into the child's mouth. But, where he should have choked, by all rights, he instead laughed.

The boy's head was bald, save for a few grey whisps of hair, but, as the wrappings began to fell away, in a manner that reminded Constantin of a butterfly emerging from its cocoon rather than a child being revealed, he saw, first, a beard, brown and bristling, reaching down to the groin.

The child-thing had no navel, Constantin saw. No belly button, because why would a being that had not been born need one?

And between its legs...it was not just a hermaphrodite. Something shapeless squirmed between its human genitals, both male and female, like the things under its gums, but far bigger. Constantin did not know what it was. He only knew that it wanted out.

"Our nephilim." The woman whispered cheerfully, crooning over the thing in her arms, even as her spawn gripped her chest, beginning to twist and tear, chunks of flesh disappearing through its skin. It grew with each one, until it was too large to hold, larger than its mother. It never stopped looking like a child, though. "Born of your faith, and my love."

Constantin looked away as the thing's shadow fell over him. It tried to touch him, reaching out for the man it thought of as its father, but white fire burst into existence, scorching its skin and revealing the formless, maggot-like tumours intertwined with its hollow flesh.

His Lord was with him, and His message was clear: this was what his foolish, youthful zeal would have led to, if he had tried to force his angel to remain on Earth and love him.

It was fine. It was...nothing. He had his son, and his Father, even here. He would not give in to the lie, and let this thing take him.

"You think God does not know this?" Her tone was pitying as she climbed atop the head of her beastly child. "Does not want this? Does He not know and love all?"

As she spoke, the earth and sky fell away, revealing what Constantin had expected since the beginning-and worse.

Everyone he had ever failed in his life, thousands upon thousands of battered, crushed and burned corpses. Mages, weres, vampires...strigoi. All of them, bearing the marks of the death he had brought, made even more wretched by the same evil that had twisted the image of his angel. Mismatched limbs, grins so wide skin tore under endlessly-crying eyes, hunched backs. And they all spoke and screamed and laughed and jeered, mocked him for failing to deliver salvation in the harshest voice he had ever been chastised by: his own.

Some of the monsters were still alive, mockeries of Suzana and Angus, of Rebeca...they all squirmed at his feet like a tide of worms, trying to drag him down, ripping chunks out of his legs' flesh and bones. They weren't trying to hurt him. Not just that. They wanted him to kneel.

Above, a shattered mirror of Heaven shone. Angels, as vengeful as monstrous as any sinner's nightmare, amalgamations of feathers, eyes and tendrils, like abominable, giant worms. And, in the centre of it all, an old man of a throne of marble.

He was the only thing in this carnival of horror that looked remotely human. But his beard, his mouth, his eyes...they were the same as the freakish child's, except white as snow.

"Constantin." He said, extending a hand. "Come to me. Let the pain end. You love your neighbour as you love thyself, and I know you would not le yourself suffer senselessly."

Constantin almost replied, then felt two slim arms wrap around him from behind. He recognised the smell, the voice, so full of kindness and love, and failing to hide the growing despair underneath.

"Hey, daddy?" David asked. "Think they'll buy a story about this, if I write it?"

***

The meeting began, expectedly, with a disaster. Unexpectedly, none of the participants were responsible.

Reality tore, not just here and now, but in every place and moment that corresponded to this in an infinity of universes, despite the different layouts and timelines, or lack thereof, and monsters began climbing through.

Their centres of mass were amorphous, sometimes cylindrical, sometimes conical when they didn't take on impossible shapes, round squares and thirteen-cornered spheres. All colours and none raced across the surface of their forms, and limbs rose and dangled from their cores, tendrils that ended in grasping hands and square feet, gasping mouths and microscopic needle teeth. They moved with no regard to time and space, and everything was static in their infinitely quick perception. Wherever they emerged, a galaxy, or an area the size of one, was transformed by their presence into the same chaos they were made of, reality simply ending.

Then, they were pushed back.

The Xhalkians were masters of time and space, thus of themselves, and all they contained. In all but their native universe, the incorporeal aliens reached out, turning unreality into reality. Time flooded into timeless chaos and space appeared to give it bounds. The invaders screamed at the pushback, and each cry shook an universe with the power to warp it into a reflection of their home. With a ponderous, infinitely-fast thought, the Xhalkhians silenced the un-sounds, and turned the eldritch beings into inert matter, harmless lumps of soil, drops of water, puffs of hydrogen or flashes of light. There had been nothing to convert, and yet...

The Vyzhaldi were, naturally, less subtle. They simply squared up with the beings, powering through strikes and slashes that would have destroyed realities, which began too feeble to harm them after healing, grabbing them where there was nothing to grip, and began ripping them apart, leaving the ideas of wounds that no amount of healing or reality warping would heal. A group of invaders pooled their rage and power, feeding on each other, and unleashed a beam of swirling madness at Mother Wound. A trillion trillion universes would have been reduced to less than nothing, but the First Vyzhaldi strode through the attack like an elephant through a patch of reeds, utterly unharmed. A swipe of her arm sent the eldritch gathering flying out of the universe, then the multiverse's fourth layer and beyond. They did not stop until a Voidmaw spotted them, and were soon devoured by a monster greater than they could ever be.

The Multitude of Minds' representative bent forward, acknowledging the esoteric assault, then dismissing it as blunt and weak besides. The invaders roared at the derision, and quadrillions of quadrillions of beings across reality fell down, organs bursting and minds shattered, or bent out of shape, beyond catatonia and insanity. A telepathic pulse silenced the monsters, and telekinesis followed, crumpling them into a twitching ball. The alien's mind then flashed across the universe, reverting the mental damage and beginning to mend bodies.

The Argument Engine laughed in featureless faces as toothed, clawed limbs smashed fruitlessly against it and Gerald. The mage's first thought upon seeing the breaches in reality had been to declare the invaders could not destroy his universe just because they were thoughtless when exercising their strength, which any of the trillions of strikes dealt up to this point would have. "You lot can't exist here! Only we've seen you, and even then, we perceive you differently! What can you dickbags base your existence on, huh? Seems unlikely to me in the first place!"

And, though they had no history, for they were outside time, the greater part of them ceased, disappearing out of both reality and unreality, having never been. Gerald silently thanked his colleague. "You cannot enter our reality." He said, pushing the ones making their way in back inside their realm.

There was an infinity of them, in an endless, timeless realm. The Shaper immediately saw how they could be harnessed.

With the same thirst for knowledge and-it would not be wrong to say-power as the first humans who had set out to set, the Shaper sent a yoctomachine into the Unrealm.

There was no matter here. No energy. No distance, no duration or separation of events, for they were not caused by others, nor did they cause others. It all existed at once, in an impossible, eternal jumble that made the Shaper wonder if they were, in any matter, related to the Sleeper.

The Unbeings took notice of this intrusion immediately. They were all simultaneously smaller than a quark and bigger than any galaxy, lighter than a feather and heavier than all the matter in existence together. They poured their power and false minds into unmaking the yoctomachine, making it something like them, and failed.

They had tried to attack the Shaper, break its control over its creations. That could not be done by such overgrown pests. It controlled every citizen, construct and machine of the Collective at once, yes...but that was not its full, constantly-growing capacity. Not even close. And, though an infinity of minds, each able to dominate and make a puppet out of all mundane beings in the Shaper's universe, tried its might against its, they failed.

Behind the yoctomachine, the gap widened as Mocker stepped into the Unrealm, protected by its Warscale. At the Shaper's suggestion, it unleashed all manner of destruction upon the Unbeings, to test them. Octillion-degree plasma beams that would have split galaxies in half, naked singularities shaped into projectiles by gravity fields(thunderbolt action rifles, Mocker thought, would be a fitting name for the weapons. It referenced human astronomy and military history at the same time), conversion beams, neutron stars moving at lightspeed. None of them had any effect on the Unbeings.

Good, the Shaper told itself with glee. Sturdy.

Then, it activated its quantum entanglers, and threw them at the eldritch creatures like chains. Their powers would be useless against them, especially here, in their realm, but the Shaper would find use for them later. Instead, it activated the yoctomachine's rationalisers, and the Unrealm fell apart, unable to survive in the field of enforced logic projected from the devices. The Unbeings rampaged in the nothingness their home had become, now an utter void, as opposed to something devoid of logic, and the Shaper almost chuckled, despite itself. Such power-hungry vermin, able to casually doom countless lives to an eternity of unreason, and yet so easily offended...

Subspace projectors flared to life, enclosing each Unbeing into an universe-sized pocket of artificial reality. Had they been mere imitaions of the cosmos, the creatures' destructive presence would have unmade them in an instant, let alone their power. As it was, reality created and enforced by the Collective's science easily kept them contained, ready to be studied or harvested. They wouldn't even have to enlarge the Collecitve's pocket reality, unless they decided to let out all Unbeings at once. And even then, the reptilians' home could alter and adjust itself.

Making the Unscarred's face smile, the Shaper turned to the Xhalkian representative. Quantum entangled with the Unbeings infinite, transcendental speed, its yoctomachines instantly filled the multiverse's fourth layer. Still only one in each reality, but that was just the beginning. They even began climbing up and down through the dimensions, ignoring the barriers that made lower realms fictional in the eyes of higher ones' inhabitants due to the Unbeings' timeless, eldritch nature. Soon, the multiverse entire spun in the eye of the Shaper's mind.

And beyond...

"You have infinite resources now." The Xhalkhian said in a weary tone. "Infinite world to dissect and study, all because the brazen risk you took paid out-you couldn't have known the extent of what you leapt into. Do you still want more?"

The Unscarred's smile wilted. "We are not cruel. We do not want to crush and plunder. Just protect, as we have done on Earth for eons. You are one with creation-surely you can tell?"

In response, the Xhalkhian dropped its defensive posture, and gestured at the Unscarred. The Shaper understood, and sent a quantum link towards the-

Space. Time. Order. Balance. Cosmos. Tellurian.

Not a species-not anymore. Not masters of spacetime, but its limbs and minds, its essence. Even in the infinite voids where all they ruled over were dreams and fables, and the Ultimate Void that enclosed them all, the Idea of Ordered Reality stood, undaunted and mighty-

"I see..." The Shaper said, stunned, unsure if it understood, too. "We..." It shook of its daze. "Will discuss this later, if it pleases you. Now...back to business." It allowed a shadow of its smile to return as it looked at the telepathic alien. "We have your lost explorer. As you understand, it was warped by chronokinetic means, but we restored its body and mind to its former state. I am sure you will be happy to reunite, and discuss what followed your aethernautical experiment-with the rest of us, perhaps?"

As it spoke, the Shaper reached into another subspace pocket, feeling Grey One tiredly but expectantly stiff in response. It opened the space, briefly reminded of those whimsical lagomorph tricks human stage magicians often played, and grasped the telepath in the Unscarred's hand.

The albino held its fist before it, then opened it, bowing.

Silence. It was the telepath who spoke first, body shining with confusion and the beginning of anger.

"Zhayvin Shaper..." It thought, bending towards the giant reptilian's empty hand. "Surely this is a joke?"
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Interlude: Order and orders, Part 1

***
Tao Cluster, before time and timelessness

Before the beginning, there is neither everything nor nothing.

This is the Tao, before there is anyone to notice it, or its Eternal nature. This is the Mother of Heaven and Earth unmanifest, the Way-in-stillness. It is Wuji, without ridgepole-that is, without boundary or limit. Without Ultimate.

From [ ], One. Or, rather, None.

The Taiji is the Supreme Ultimate, more than everything, for everything and nothing will blossom and propagate from it. It contains and transcends contradiction and duality.

It is hard to say what lights the spark, so to say, of creation's fire. In these timeless depths, prehistoric in fact rather than name, who is there to peer and contemplate.

Does a Hundun appear? And if yes, is it as a World Egg? Is it as a lumpy, winged, faceless being, as innocent and dull as its is vast and solid? Does Pangu break out of it, holding the remains apart for untold millennia, until they break down, growing more numerous, while his form, in turn, falls apart to become new things?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. What is certain is that, from None, comes One. From One, Two: Yin and Yang, Heaven and Earth. From Two, Three: Trinity, born of Duality.

And from Three, Ten Thousand Things.

Far more than ten thousand, of course. A mere myriad cannot contain everything-a lesson one who will bear that name, in future distant ages, will have to learn, lest he fall apart under the weigh of expectation.

Finally, Everything. It is difficult to compare the timelines of the divine realm with that of the mundane universe, but it is generally agreed, if only to prevent bickering in the court of Heaven, that the Big Bang and the Great Inception happened, and this is often said with quotation marks, at the same time.

Ying Lung's parents stir to life at this time. They are both dragons, and, as such, their primary worry and desire is also their duty: keeping the world in order. And the world means far more than a sphere of rock drifting through space, to them.

Ying rarely speaks about his parents. It is not that he dislikes them, or vice versa. The romantic in him is merely embarrassed that they, essentially, met and fell in love at work.

Ying comes along not too long after. Dragons are expected to dutifully reproduce as often as possible, not that his parents  need orders.

Ying moves back and forth between the Tao Cluster and the mundane universe, enamoured with the first, fascinated by the latter. He watches matter swirl and boil, forming stars, nebulae, galaxies, and he finds it good.

Dragons have a certain place in the celestial hierarchy, and, though no one would say it outright, Ying is practically a prince.

He certainly  acts like one, or so his parents jokingly tell each other. It is not that Ying is capricious, or frivolous, though he does like badgering others. Whether to keep them humble and make them think, or to see how far he can get(some grumble he simply likes annoying people), he just can't keep his smirking mouth shut. Nevertheless, he fights against everything trying to break the balance of Heaven and Earth without complaint; in fact, he often acts for more enemies.

His parents brush this off, saying he is a good son. People accept, and move on, because what else can they do? A little enthusiasm in pursuing one's duty is no sin, even if it should, more accurately, be called 'bloodthirst'.

***

Kingdom of Pure Felicity and Majestic Heavenly Lights and Ornaments, before the Reign of Jade

A boy is born. A crown prince enters the world, and its balance tilts, for once, decisively in Heaven's favour.

Yudi-not yet 'Lord', never mind 'your Majesty'-is a good god, Ying thinks. The young dragon, still in his early billions, cannot really remember which of them is older, or if they were even born at separate times. He remembers Yudi's birth lighting up his kingdom, but then, many beings older than Ying tell him such light is timeless, and several younger than him also, allegedly, remember it. Vaguely, like something from a dream, but they remember.

A dream, indeed, Ying tells himself. Yudi seems almost too good to be true, sometimes, roaming Heaven and Hell as he does, comforting and healing the poor, the crippled, the ill, the outcasts.

"I see your scheme." Ying tells him one day, eyes narrowed in exaggerated seriousness. "Don't think I don't. You know it's just a matter of time until everyone sees what a failure you are and throw you to the dogs. Cozying up to the wretched so they welcome you among them, aren't you? I get it, I get it."

"I don't think you do, Ying." Yudi replies, ignoring the rest of the joke. "You are a brick in the wall around them, and that is admirable-but you are apart from them. How often do you walk among the people rather than fly above them? They need more than distant guardians, you know."

"I don't like walking. Wrong physique for it, and I'd rather not change that." Ying says, trying to brush off the discomfort. In truth, it is not just the idea of walking that disturbs him.

It's their  shape-the humans'. One head, two arms, two legs they walk on. It is not that such a form is unusual, rather the opposite. Most of the gods look and move like that, if at speeds greater than mortals can still dream of, and Ying does not, cannot, accept that is coincidence.

The creation of mankind in the Tao's realm is not similar at all to the future appearance of humanity in the godless universe. There is no evolution, no slow departure from apes. Ying knows this, but he cannot remember, exactly, how it happened.

Did the fleas on Pangu's body grow into them upon his death? Were they fashioned from yellow clay by Nuwa, or by Yudi? The tale of the flaws, born from deformations made in the clay by the rain, is not hard to believe, looking at mankind. Whatever their origin, Ying is convinced humans were built in the image of older beings for a purpose.

Because, if not, the world is too damned absurd for his liking.

Yudi, sitting cross-legged, notices his friend's thoughtful expression, and puts his hands on his knees, a smile spreading across his clean-shaven face. "You have a question."

"Why always this form?" Ying's coils shift as he adjusts his position on the grass. In one of his claws, he holds a sake jug, which he looks down into as the liquid swirls, as if it holds all the answers.

It doesn't, Yudi wants to tell him. It can only make one think they have learned something or experienced a revelation, not claw enlightenment out of a drunken daze.

The crown prince takes a sip from his tea jug, and Ying's muzzle wrinkles at the dark green vapours rising from it. The stuff smells at bad as it tastes while sticking to your throat. Yudi tells him he drinks it because it helps him focus, which can only make Ying conclude his friend hates himself.

"My teacher," Yuanshi Tianzun. "Once sat me down and asked me 'Yu-huang, do you know what you are'?"

" 'Listening to you'?" Ying tries.

Yudi huffs. "It was a rhetorical question, not an invitation to joke. He told me the five-pointed shape is beloved of Heaven, and those blessed with it find it the easiest to cultivate their chi. Perhaps as compensation for often being born weak and clumsy, I told myself. Conversely, there are many mighty beasts that, while strong from birth to death, cannot grasp chi, which slips away from them like smoke between fingers. That is because, the less in common one's shape has with the five-pointed one, the less favoured they are by the Tao when it comes to cultivation..."

Yudi trails off at Ying's poleaxed expression, expecting something stupid or outrageous, most likely both. Must've been his phrasing, he swears. Or, more truthfully, the Jade Pure One's.

"The Way is speciesist?" The dragon does not disappoint.

"Don't be absurd, Ying. It's all about balance. One cannot be naturally mighty and inclined towards cultivation, else where would we all be?"

"Exactly where we are? Or don't you count yourself?"

"It is not the same thing. I am the incarnation of Tian, and such a lofty nature is counterbalanced by responsibility, expectation..." Yudi sighs, closing his burden to keep the tears from falling. "And more burdens besides. My father has passed."

"What?" Ying uncoils, alarmed. This disturbance in the world is like a flood of ice water covering him. "Did-"

"You did not jinx it, my friend." Yudi promises, undoing his topknot and allowing his dark hair to cover half his face and shadow the rest. "It had to happen, or I would have prevented it. No son desires to become head of his household with all his heart, no matter how ambitious."

As the former prince stands up, Ying hloats to his side, unsure for the first time in eons. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Many things." Yudi smiles, taking the dragon's hands into his. "But, for now? Go to your father. Tell him that you love him. Stay home, rest. I'll soon have need of you."

Ying's face says it all. He and Houjiao Lung do not dislike each other, but neither dragon is particularly open or sentimental, even with family. "What will you do?"

"Take my throne." Yudi answers. "The world does not stop just because your father is dead-it never has for anyone. Why should it for me?"

***

Years pass, then ages. Yudi becomes the Jade Emperor, the Heavenly Grandfather. He puts his realm in order, makes sure no one wants for anything, so they can find their own happiness.

Then, to his ministers' unsurorised dismay, he leaves to cultivate in a cave, on the Bright and Fragrant Cliff.

It is not that Heaven will literally fall apart if the Jade Emperor is away. It will not even fall apart metaphorically; that is the very point of the Celestial Bureaucracy. The Emperor might be the pillar that holds everything together, but his people can manage their affairs without him. And, besides the bureaucrats, who do it half-heartedly, no one can blame the Emperor for his absence. It is not like he is running off to drink or whore or gamble. Cultivation makes one stronger, wiser, more patient. It is all for their good, they know. As such, they tell themselves it will all be alright, and hope nothing will happen.

No one is surprised when it does. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.

The Jade Emperor's absence is noticed and felt across Heaven, Earth and Hell. An evil deity, whose name is erased from history, just like its identity, rises and rallies an army to conquer Heaven. The justifications are lost, too, as a consequence, only remembered by some of the war's veterans.

The conflict rages for what feels like forever, for the evil deity is not just ambitious, but patient: it is a cultivator, too, and it has cultivated for nine billion years. Almost as long as the Jade Emperor, in fact, due to which it believes it can defeat and dethrone him.

Only almost, though.

It is during the war that Ying meets Tongdao. The blue dragon is beautiful, he thinks, especially while slaughtering demons, their ichor staining her overlapping scales, dripping from her white whiskers and bared fangs. She loves battle, or rather justified carnage. She is defending her home from invaders, despoilers who have not been provoked in any way. Why should she not enjoy putting them down?

Ying is smitten, even though he lacks her bloodlust.

One night, during a lull in a fight, Ying muses that perhaps Tongdao delights in battle for more reasons than patriotic outrage. Her name means passage, and, though Ying chooses to assume it refers to the passage of time, or perhaps that of of water over stones, like her scales over her muscle, he also knows some people interpret it as 'hole'. Tongdao is a passionate dragon, and not just in battle. Ying has the tact not to comment.

His own name, depending how it is written, means answer, echo, or promise. An answer to both the dangers menacing Heaven, and to the question about hatchlings posed to his parents. An echo of them. A promise that they will always love each other.

It also means acceptance, or to cope with something, though Ying will only think about such things later, when the need is staring him in the face with bloody, empty eyes.

Now, Ying is more concerned with surviving enough to release the chi he has been building up. The evil deity has struck him with a shapeshifting weapon, and it burns like something out of the Hell of Sawing, of Molten Copper, wrapping around his heart and lungs, tearing through his guts like a spiteful snake. Tongdao is floating over him, holding back the creature with desperate strength and curses, even as she is repeatedly torn apart herself.

The evil deity has come prepared. It knows dragons cannot be hurt by anything other than infernal means, that anything earthly or divine will either do nothing or heal and empower them, respectively. Even the infernal is no guaranteed kill: they can still heal, and even if their bodies, minds and spirits are completely destroyed, their truest selves, which cast the ones in Heaven like fire casts shadows, can choose to reunite with the Tao, or return from it to the world.

Many have. The pain has driven them to give up. Mostly younger dragons who have never been challenged before this, hatchlings in their early billions, or old ones who no longer see a point.

Cowards of two different stripes, Ying thinks morosely, too mentally tired to muster any hatred. The chi is fighting against him, almost twisted out of his metaphysical grip by the power of the same weapon ruining his body.

It is the six hundred millionth year of the war. Where  is Yudi?

Tongdao falls to the blasted ground, grunting, pinned by a bronze centipede-like monstrosity made of spikes and serrated blades. It's coiled around her spine, constricting it, biting through her tongue and skull to pierce her brain and eyes. With a scream so full of frustration it almost drowns out his anger, Ying releases the chi.

It is predictably pathetic. Half of it fades into nothing, returning to the Tao. The other half sputters out before it reaches the evil deity, who laughs as a quarter of the original energy washes over its purple, leathery skin and brass armour.

And that moment of arrogance, which could have been spent destroying the dragons instead of mocking Ying's failed effort, is enough.

The Jade Emperor looks like a barbarian when he returns, wearing only a coarse, dark loincloth. His imperial regalia was left behind when he departed to cultivate, and even the loincloth has only been put on for modesty's sake. The Emperor has spent nearly ten billion years pushing his body, fighting his shadows and vices, meditating, praying to the Tao, fasting. He cannot starve to death, or die of thirst, but he still feels the burden of privation, and it can be distracting when cultivating.

Which is the point.

The Jade Emperor fights the pretender to his throne. Earth shakes to its core, as do Heaven and Hell, boundless and bottomless as they are. In the end, he wins due to benevolence, rather than might: something the evil deity cannot accept and live with itself.

***
"I'm lucky I'm not friends with a bartender," Ying starts, sitting down across from the Jade Emperor. "Or I'd never be able to guess your moods."

"Oh?" Yudi's face is pensive, but carefree, as always. Ying cannot sense his emotions either as he looks down at Earth, elbows on the table.

"Mixing your drinks..." Ying gestures at the flasks. Sake, wine, rice and peach, and that loathsome tea. "The fourth is not like the others."

"Being relaxed does not mean being distracted." The Emperor says in that sagely voice that makes Ying want to grab his beard and give him a good shaking. However, they are in one of the palace gardens, and there are people around. One does not simply ragdoll their ruler in public, no matter how cringeworthy the proverbs they are making up sound.

"Your girl is not going to stop." Ying advises him, cutting to the meat of the matter. Yudi's...daughter? Seamstress? It's all muddled, jumbled together...he loves her like a father, though, and that is all Ying needs to know.

Yudi scoffs. "She's not going to stop what? 'Loving' him? That man essentially kidnapped her. Blackmailed her! She can't return home, so of course they 'married'..."

"Oh, I'm not sure..." The dragon's voice is sly, his eyes half-lidded. "You know what they say about  cowherds..."

"Ying, shut up."

"Aye." Ying laughs. "Surely you can see it's romantic?"

"Kidnapping is not-" Yudi frowns. "Since when do you know or care so much about love?"

Ying smiles dopily, making Yudi's hand grab for the peach wine flask. It is made by himself, the activity as relaxing as the consumption, which is exactly what he needs right now.

"You know how spouses and parents advise everyone about marriage and child-rearing? Well..."

Ying trails off, but appears dumbfounded when Yudi does not pick up whatever he expected him to. "You have a lover, Ying?"

"Tongdao...haven't you seen? I'm always talking about..."

"Oh." Yudi manages not to wince. "Isn't she always telling you she's glad for the gifts, but love can't be bought or bribed?"

Ying waves a dismissive paw. "She's just playing hard to get. We saved each other, we can't  not be together!"

"Such can easily lead to friendship, and nothing more."

"Pah! You don't know what you're talking about. She's always smiling around me, and brooding when I'm away. What does that tell you?"

"How do you even know that?"

"By following her...? Do keep up, please. She obviously loves me. She just doesn't know yet."

Yudi goes for the sake now. It is a gift from Izanagi's girl, probably to keep it away from her blustering brother rather than out of kindness, but he appreciates it. "I see. Has she said anything...?"

"She's  shy." Yudi isn't sure whether Ying is exasperated at him or the female dragon. "I give her whatever she needs or asks for-sometimes, she doesn't even need to ask. I help her with her duties. We spar. How could she not love me?"

"But have you talked about your feelings?"

"Actions speak louder than words." Ying sounds so confident Yudi feels the need to rub his brow.

"My friend." How to best break this to him? "I think she's leading you on."

"...What did you say?"

"Or maybe too scared to tell you off. You seem to make her uncomfortable."

Ying's smile is ugly. "And I'm supposed to take your 'advice' because...? You can't even keep your woman away from a mortal! I'm surprised Heaven isn't falling apart around you."

Yudi's face hardens. "Ying. As your friend, I suggest you ask Tongdao what is in her heart. Your derision does not hurt, but only because my mind is on other matters."

The Jade Emperors gathers the flasks, stands up, and walks away. Lately, his friend has been as bad as that lecher who has replaced Cronos. Not that powermongering and paranoia are more charming with lust added to the mix, but at least the Titan was never so insufferable during meetings.

When Zhuni, his star, finally convinces her husband-the thought makes his teeth grind-to let her return home, Yudi creates the Milky Way, the Celestial River, to separate them. But, as time passes, his heart softens seeing Zhuni gaze down at Earth, weeping quietly. He allows her and Niu Lang to meet once a year, across a bridge.

He still resents how this love came to be, but...perhaps purity can grow out of lust? Maybe there is still hope for his friend to come to his senses...

***

Yudi's face is cold and blank as stone as he looms over Ying. The dragon looks shocked, rather than guilty. Disbelieving. Surprised at himself, maybe: that he has gone so far.

He is not looking at the Jade Emperor. His eyes are glued to the corpses.

Yudi walks forward, no longer looming, and stoops down, tracing their wounds. The man was dismembered and beheaded,before having his skull pushed into the stump until it shattered, its remains tangled in the torn chest.

Tongdao is still in human form, golden eyes glazed over and staring at her lover. Even in death, she does not spare Ying a glance.

"You're a murderer." Yudi says, voice flat. He sounds like he is trying to remind himself it is true. A deep breath hisses through his teeth. "You are lucky I'm the one who found you first. Anyone else would have tried to kill you by now."

"I don't die as easily as her." Ying says in a distant voice. His first words since Yudi's arrival to the remains of this cottage. The dragon's black iron gauntlets are covered in a layer of thick, weakly-shining ichor, still dripping from the spiked knuckles. "She didn't get up after the first strike. Like she wanted to die."

"So you didn't ask? You didn't even ask?"

Ying flinches at the coldness, looking like he has been slapped. "No, I did. She only answered after I was done with the little bastard..." Tongues of white flame flicker out between his fangs. "She cheated on me, Yudi. Look what she made me d-"

Ying reels back from the backhanded blow, glaring at the brass hammer in the Jade Emperor's hand, dully glowing with infernal energies.

"Why?"

"The whore had been seeing the bastard between my back the whole time. This whole time, Yudi! Since the end of the damn war! I was following her around like a fool, and she..." He breaks off into a ragged bark of a laugh. "Do you know what she told me, before she gave up?"

'Gave up'. Not 'died'. Even after this, Ying chooses to disparage...? Yudi shakes his head.

"She told me that being helpful isn't enough. 'Not like I asked. Why do you act like we are indebted to each other?'. Ungrateful..." He growls. "And then  this little bastard comes along. Human, not that you can't tell. No powers, no wisdom, not even wealth. 'But he asks about my feelings, Ying'." The dragon pitches his voice a little higher. "He loves me. And he's so  caring..." Ying's eyes swivel wildly in his head, like he wants to roll them and look around, as if the corpses might return to life at any moment, at the same time. "This was no relationship, Yudi. That implies equality between partners. This human was weaker than her, more stupid, with the life of a mayfly. Like raising a child, or an animal...if I bought a cow and fed it, would it mean we're in love?" He coils and uncoils uneasily. "It should have been me."

The horizon is darkening, a rumble filling and shaking the air. They are approaching. "Did you ever think to reach out to her like he did?" Yudi dislikes the fact that he does not know the man's name, and he doubts Ying asked. How long has he been ruling over...strangers?

The dragon does not answer. He does not need to. Yudi sighs. "You will be judged. Think about death, imprisonment, exile. It is best that one ponders before they experience. Then choose." He looks down at the bodies. "I will incinerate them. Stand still, and let me be."

***

Ying walks the blazing wasteland that is Earth, peering through filth and dust to gaze at the cold void beyond.

His arrival, following the exile he has chosen, truly puts in perspective the difference between the Clusters and the mundane universe, where time flows by its own accord, strange as the idea is. Furthermore, this world, unlike the flourishing Earth he is familiar with, is empty, even though, according to Ying's calculations and glances across the timestream, it should be verdant.

Well. It is empty of  life, at least.

Otherworlders-aliens, as they will come to be called-have visited Earth in the time between its formation and Ying's banishment, building their megalithic structures under the moonless world's skin, delving where future seas will rise, building artificial realities and uncanny mockeries of life through artifice and techno-alchemy. Some of them are defenders, bound by Treaty, others observers. Others yet are exploiters, invaders, like the master of the impossibly-angled city that is ever-distant from the surrounding world.

In Ying's eyes, they are all squatters, not inhabitants. He is here to repent; what is  their excuse? Their very presence scratches at his sense of order, even though they are hidden in infinitely-distant pocket realities.  Unearthly.

He immediately grabs the tea jug hanging from his neck by a rope, taking a sip to concentrate. It is never away from him, nowadays. He should've listened to Yudi earlier...but then, there are many things he  should have done. And more he shouldn't have, he thinks, taking a drag from his pipe.

Tongdao's ashes will never run out, and every breath brings tears that have nothing to do with the smoke to his eyes. He can feel her disapproval, occassionally superseded by her pity.

But not hatred. Never hatred. Never love for  him, either, which Ying is quietly thankful for.

Yudi warned him, before the banishment, that people who observe his habits will think him a drunkard and an addict. Ying does not mind. This lie, like most, is far kinder than the truth.

"Oh." A light, curious voice draws his attention. "That's unexpected."

The kitsune should not be here. The golden fur alone is a dead giveaway, but her many, many tails mean she should have ascended to Heaven as a tenko long ago.

"Ah." Ying manages a tepid smile. "The rebel. You're shorter than I thought."

The fox sits on her hind legs, crossing her forelegs as if they are human arms. "And you're as big a jackass as I thought." Her tails form a defensive sphere around her, but leave enough space for her to gaze at him with golden eyes. "Weird. Don't you waste broads who upset you?"

The phrasing is strange, suggesting she likes taking sneak peeks at the future. Ying slumps to the ground, trying to look as harmless as possible. "No." He promises. "Never again."

The kitsune goes to all fours, seemingly surprised. "So why are you here? Can't be the view."

"I'd ask you the same thing, but I'm not on the run from the gods." Puff. Puff. Why, Ying? "I chose exile over death or whatever Hell they'd have thrown me into. I can still do good, provided I can keep my stupid head straight."

"I'm not 'on the run' from  shit." The fox glares at him, tugging on a whisker. Her muzzle curves into a smug, pleased grin. "I was too tough to take care of, so they charged me to hunt other troublemakers."

"Set a fox to catch bitches?"

"You bet your long ass." She huffs, then pushes her chest out. " Well," She says archly. "If you're here to do community service, you might as well make yourself useful until sometimes comes along." She hops onto his back, sitting like a human on a horse, grasping his moustache like reins. "Come on. Fly!"

"If you wanted to  ride me, you could've just  said..."

"I'm not that lonely yet."

***

The years pass, turning into decades, centuries. He and the kitsune form, if not a friendship, then certainly a good working relationship. They are both supernatural creatures with too much tome on their hands and more power than they know what to do with.

"Reckon they'll come here?" She asks one day-so to speak. There is no moon yet, so they are both going by their instincts and senses-while they are on their backs, gazing at the sky.

"Nah." Ying points a clawed finger at Phaeton, then draws a line to Mars. "Their engines don't pack that much punch. Don't be fooled by-"

The soon-to-be Martians blast off, vapourising most of the sixth planet and scattering the remaining debris. One of their rockets smashes into Theia, sending it careening into Earth. The kitsune hums, seeing it approach.

"Let it happen." Ying grouses before she can get any harebrained ideas. "One moon is better than no moons. I want tides, dammit."

"You just wanna get me into water."

"Yeah, the smell of wet dog gets me so hot..."

"Who said I'd be looking like  this?" She rolls on top of him, shifting shape as she moves, and he reciprocates. She has told him his human form looks sleazy('it's the 'stache'), but she doesn't mind. And Ying certainly doesn't mind the woman looking down at him, fox ears poking out of long golden hair. She's small, barely over a metre forty, but the ferocity in her smile, in her posture, more than makes up for it-to say nothing of the power coursing through her.

The dragon knows they shouldn't, that it's just stupid, animalistic lust, made only slightly less ridiculous by the fact they have shed their true forms. However, she has just finished hunting a yako able to make anything false real, and Ying has stopped a Shoggoth rampage, or outbreak, and he can still taste the slimy, blubbery construct flesh. He needs another meal to cleanse his palate, and besides, he is learning the beauty of the human form. Maybe he can finally see why it's so damn favoured by the Tao.

He tells himself that it's just one time. Their pantheons are rivals, even if they are outcasts. This is just a moment of passion, a way to let off steam. They'll never do this again.

(They do).

***

Eventually, Ying and the kitsune, who chooses to remain stubbornly nameless 'until the right time', grow comfortable enough with each other to complain about their lives. Well, Ying complains. She listens, and gives advice and commentary, whether requested or not. At the moment, Ying is telling her about this Atlantean prostitute who ripped him off, demanding compensation for 'bad sex'. Worse, she got pregnant, and he's sure the child will grow up to love water, and probably be a jackass too.

"Ying." The one who will be named Yua says. "That has  nothing to do with who the mother is."

Ying grumbles, as he does, but cannot deny her. Nevertheless, he cannot pass the chance to get petty revenge either. His memory is almost as long as his petty streak, so, roughly sixteen thousand years later, it just happens that a little boy, born of parents who couldn't stop harming themselves and others unless restrained, but who still managed to reproduce, hears his grandmother's civilian phone ping.

"Grandma." Ritsu stares at the screen, puzzled. " Who's 'Baaaaaad dragon'?"

Yua hides her embarrassment by concentrating on how much her grandson's confused face resembles those of her children. Some blood just did not mix...

Before she can answer, a reply follows Ying's 'Hi, goldie'.

'The guy who's slept with your grandma more times than your pops has ;)'.


Ritsu, who's been thoroughly desensitised to things like this, is more surprised by the new participant to the conversation, who seemingly invites himself.

'You also happen to be a hundred million times my age'.

Yua briefly neglects her human façade to chuff at the message. 'Kenji, what are you doing in this conversation? How are you doing this, actually?'

'Typing? Well, you see, it is this arcane process that consists of tapping on...'


As the two banter, Ritsu notices another message from the dragon, this one addressed to him. 'Marriage. Am I right, R?'
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Interlude: Order and orders, Part 2

***
The first thing Vyrt remembers is light.

Viewed with entirely material eyes, the light is without source or colour, though not devoid of warmth. Vyrt's eyes, however, are sharper than that, since birth.

As soon as his mother delivers, helped and soothed by his father, the angel whisks his son away, stepping out of time and space like a man leaving a corridor behind to enter a room. He is excited, truly excited, in a way that belies his age as counted by time-bound beings, much less his timeless nature.

"Isn't he beautiful, father?" Samael smiles down at the winged newborn in his arms, and Vyrt manages to distinguish the glimmer of warm pride from the ivory glow of his eyes. "Flesh of her flesh, mind of my mind, spirit of Your spirit."

"INDEED, SON. ONE COULD BE FORGIVEN FOR NOT BELIEVING THE MOTHER IS OF THE MEN BEFORE." The Lord refers to Vyrt's features, which are not at all similar to his mother's blocky, apelike visage. Rather, his face is like those of the Last Men will be, hundreds of millennia in the future. But this is nearly a million years before the descent of the Lamb. The nephilim is ahead of his time.

Vyrt does not wonder whether he entered the world looking like this, or whether his father reshaped him to look more elegant for unknown reasons. The second seems unlikely: Samael openly acknowledges that Vyrt's mother is physically ugly, but is touched by the beauty of her innocent spirit. Therefore, he cannot care that much about aspect.

The first seems equally implausible. Vyrt has been aware of everything around and before him since his father's seed took root in his mother's womb. He cannot remember ever looking different, however, which also rules out the possibility of alteration.

"You can't be changed, son." Samael tells him, extending a finger for Vyrt to grab with chubby hands. "Physically, mentally, spiritually, conceptually. We are eternal, you and I, as are my siblings and father."

The light...the light that is the Lord, torch and prism both, and the lights of his uncles and aunts. They look nigh-identical, as they well should, but Vyrt can hear their different natures as they flow through Heaven, smell them, feel them upon his skin.

"YOU WANTED TO SHOW US YOUR SON."


Samael nods, looking at Vyrt rather than his father. "He will be shown the realms, as he must be. I wanted to start with home."

Samael does not dawdle in Heaven, for that has never been his nature. He does, however, speak to Vyrt of how the Kingdom of God came to be. Of how He vanquished many enemies, like Rahab and Tannit, who opposed the idea of His creations for their own selfish, stupid reasons. Of the Tehom, split by the Firmament it now runs over and under. Of how Heaven was beautiful but empty at first, and how he, Samael, led the Heavenly Hosts into building the Kingdom, ordering its contents, raising the gates.

He does not boast of himself, nor deride his followers. There is only pride for his siblings' prowess and efforts, and the fact that, together, they managed to do a good thing. He  does praise God, but that is only to be expected: Samael is a seraph, after all, and the fact he does not break into theit thrice-holy saint whenever he opens his mouth makes him quite unique among his kind, something he notes with what he sees as nothing more than due diligence.

Vyrt wonders if this was how the rot set in, but rarely, and never for long. This is one of the most beautiful memories he has of his father, and he does not wish to defile it.

After that, he is taken back to Earth, returned to his mother's brawny, loving arms. The woman's square-toothed smile is so honest Vyrt cannot help but return it. His mother is someone to be cherished, though he doubts he will ever sing her praises like his father does. Not that there is anything wrong with that, he reminds himself. Filial love is different from that between spouses, by definition.

Samael does not linger on Earth, either, not on this blue and green rock adrift across an uncaring universe. He does not remain with his...wife? Certainly not. 'Mate' is too animalistic, though not far from the truth, either. Samel, who is recalled home by duty, to keep the fires burning and push the waters back, does not remain with the mother of his child. Though, before he lives, he runs a hand through her shock of red hair, whispering a promise to always watch and protect. He also teaches Vyrt to always love his grandfather, mother and tribe; especially the latter, who will be frightened by his growth and appearance.

"They might try to hurt and kill you, or shun you once they realise they can't." His father tells him, cupping Vyrt's cheeks with an amused expression. "In either case, they cannot hurt you, except emotionally, if you allow them. Don't."

The seraph depart, and Vyrt grows in a day as the other children in an year. In less than a month, he is taller and more handsome than any of the spooked men of the tribe, and far more powerful and intelligent.

His growth does not stop here. His wings, which had some of the hunters set on him with fists and rocks, despite his mother's screamed protest, stretch as he rises, the feathers growing thicker and richer every day. Vyrt reaches his natural height of eighty-one metres in no time, though he makes sure not to allow his full weight to impact the world unless necessary. Each drop of his blood outweighs most mountains by billions of tons, and Vyrt himself is several times heavier than Earth's atmosphere, weighing tens of quadrillions of tons. The consequences of moving the wrong way could be...global.

His mother laughs boisterously as she watches her strange, giant son grow older. She never stops treating him as her child, even when many siblings follow, but never live more than scant decades.

His mother stops aging. One could point to Samael's arrival as the awakening of her mana: even if the seraph didn't trigger it directly, such a momentous event easily could have. For a few centuries, her agelessness remains her only power. This ability prevents her from being persecuted, especially when aided by the implied threat of Vyrt's presence and Samael's unseen aid. Eventually, the tribe begins to worship her.

Vyrt watches pityingly, knowing it is hundreds of millennia too early to speak of heathens. Not yet. His role is not to play the prophet or preacher, nor will it ever be.

He is a defender. And, as the shepherd culls the herd for its own good, so he is cruel out of kindness. He intervenes where the suffering brought by natural disasters and skirmishes will not aid mankind at all, but always hidden, always subtle. On all other occassions, he stands aside, seeing his people broken, out of love.

(This is a family trait).

Even during the Betrayal, and the War in Heaven that follows, Vyrt does not desert his post. There are things in the outer dark, cold and patient, and so hungry it hurts. He beats them back, breaks them with a staff forged by his own hands and breath within Earth's core, and further reinforced by his power. He breaks them until the staff's head bends out of shape, becoming a crook.

Vyrt refuses to acknowledge the allusion. It is so blunt it hurts.

His father, now Lucifer, returns, looking for-no one in Hell dares laugh-a shoulder to cry on. Vyrt turns his head and hardens his heart against his mother's screams. She is not unwilling, but his father is not gentle anymore, either. Vyrt understands his frustration. He does not approve, but he-

Darkness.

The fallen morning star, descending and plunging forever. It is cold and lightless under Hell, and the creatures living in the shadows of torment, prowling around and cringing away from the light, are as wicked as the vilest of its inhabitants.

This is the prison of Lucifer's regrets. This is the tomb of the Enemy's past.

This is the Fall of Samael, and it is not a process, nor an event. It is a state.

Arrogance? That is unfounded pride. What should he not be proud of? His foes will whisper he coveted his father's Throne, aimed to become the Most High.

Lucifer did not want to kneel. Not before Man.

Why should he? The puppets of clay he and his siblings were meant to guide, his masters? His MASTERS!?

It implied God thought His angels lesser than  them. It implied He loved them less than...than...

Damn them all. That is what he shall do. Like the accuser in a trial, he will drag out their sins and flaws into the light he casts, until God ends the farce.

Why, he has already begun the process. It was so easy to make them eat the fruit, it was almost embarrassing to think  these beings were meant to stand above the Hosts.

This is what Lucifer tells himself. Samael merely screams. Not even in the back of his own mind, no longer trapped within himself, Samael has been ripped out and cast into the darkness of the pit made by Lucifer's crash, to fall and fall forever, until he burns at last. Lucifer knows he cannot bear the angel he used to be, and had been pushing him out since Adam's first breath.

The birth of this Unholy Trinity-the Serpent, ascending on the wings of his ego; the Beast, born from the blood spilled during the crash, forever wrathful; and the Angel Fallen, sealed away until the end of days and after-will not be the last event of such nature.

His father, Lucifer thinks, rarely imitates him, but the exceptions are oh so enjoyable.

-understands.

Vyrt glances down, feeling a hand on his shoulder, and meets his father's white eyes. Lucifer is not shorter than him-depending on the observer, he would appear taller-but Vyrt cannot help looking down at his father.

"As the laws are passed," He says, already walking away. "You will be compelled to travel the realms. I will not be there to hold your hand anymore. Do not overstay, but do not rush, either."

Vyrt knows what his father means: he should not, for example, travel to Sheol before Judaism rises. But he has to mock him. "And look both ways before crossing."

"...I wonder if I'll ever hate you, son."

***

As the millennia pass, Vyrt learns to hate certain words. 'What if'. 'In case'. 'Spontaneous'. 'Improvised'. Not that language is yet a thing for mankind, but he knows how to distinguish the grunts and mutters.

'Necessity' and 'necessary' are at the top of the list, not just because of how many things they are used to describe, but because of  what they are used to describe. Vyrt is called upon to do many necessary things, and the taste of bile never leaves his mouth.

Just as the blood never leaves his hands. Like the screams in his ears and the smell of ashes, it is always with him.

God is demanding, and though Vyrt has yet to see a reason to refuse his grandfather, this does not mean he does not nurse guilt. There are tribes who turn to His enemies, and must be wiped out to the last child once demons nest themselves inside their bodies, mind and souls. There are mages, deluded or driven mad by their power, who must be put down, lest they upset the balance. There are the agents of other gods, and an eye must always be kept on them.

Then there are the other nephilim...

Vyrt is not the only one of his kind. He was not the first, and he is certainly not the last. The last standing, one day, maybe. But, as of now, others born where the falling angel met the rising ape carve out domains in the shadow of Atlantis, building kingdoms of grasshoppers around them.

The term is, usually, affectionate, condescending in a benign way. Compared to those with angelic ichor running in their veins, humans are tiny, weak and short-lived. But nephilim are mankind magnified, and the bonds they feel for their ancestors extend beyond their family.

This fierce protective instinct even brings the Atlanteans to the negotiating table. The rulers of the flying continent do not want to deal with a confederation of nephilim kingdoms, which would not be hard to build with the way nephilim see each other. Vyrt watches as the people under his cousins' protection are deemed off-limits to Atlantean slavers. It is all about profit, effort and convenience. The Atlanteans want to maintain their hegemony without unecessary headaches, which is why Vyrt does not need to say anything. Everyone knows about his tribe. His presence is enough.

Atlantis has ruled the surface, underwater and underground worlds for over three billion years. Are there powers that could challenge them? Of course. But, as long as interests do not collide, they unhappily avoid each other, pretending their rivals don't exist.

One day, Vyrt is approached by one of his cousins, a queen, also born of a seraph, who rules over many thousands. The dark skin and darker hair remind him of Inanna or Aphrodite as he knows them, and she is just as beautiful as either goddess.

The idea of incest, however, is just as strong a deterrent as knowing the Olympian's moods and seeing how Ishtar's lovers end up after she uses them up.

Her eyes are the darkest of all. Not wrathful, nor hateful, but mad. It is a clean madness, without random bursts of violence or rants. The nephilim is, in fact, more controlled than most sane people Vyrt knows, including himself. Even so, she is mad.

She tells him about the breeding programs she runs, about selecting and preserving the fittest tribesmen beyond what nature already does. About bringing in strong stock to breed with herself or her children.

"Inbreeding helps, in a way." She tells him in an off-handed manner as Vyrt tries not to recoil. "The ichor is thicker, but the minds are sharper and harsher." She sighs. "It's not the genetics, you know. It's the metaphysics. As far as creation is concerned, we're all cousins."

Vyrt refuses the offer even before it is spoken. He is not interested in having children, likely never and definitely not now, and watches his cousin leave with a scornful look in her black eyes.

They must have looked ridiculous from outsided, like oversized, winged parodies of humanity, speaking in an incomprehensible tongue. Nephilim are naturally skilled Enochian speakers, being to creatures what the language is to speech, but there was no need for that between each other. They spoke in Adamic, for this was long before Nimrod had raised his tower, but still no one would have understood.

Vyrt turns to other matters, and tries to forget his cousin. His brother-his half-brother, technically, but true as any one could ask for-will need to be born soon, in order to bring a cousin on the path meant for him.

So, Vyrt sets down his crook, folds his wings, and waits for the buzzing of flies.

Beelzebub arrives with laughter, haloed like a saint of decay, and Vyrt looks away once more as he approaches his mother. The legends planted by the nephilim in ages past, speaking of a flying god coming to sire a child upon his people's witch-queen, mean the Lord of Flies is welcomed by awed mutterings from prostrated mortals, and his laughter grows thunderous as he takes his prophesied bride.

Beelzebub is, obviously, not in love with her. He does not even lust for her. But he is greedy, and the thought of having someone who used to be Lucifer's appeals to him, enough that he forgets about his brother and all the woman's past lovers.

Beelzebub's seed is potent, but vile, and Vyrt's mother keeps screaming long after the barbs scraping against her insides are removed, as she rots from within. The child growing inside her is more similar to a larva than a fetus, and she does not survive the pregnancy, which is as painful as it is short. In a matter of moments, her blosted womb collapses, and the wormlike cambion wriggles his way out of his mother's ruined body.

Vykt looks at his grinning father, then at his mother, and begins wailing. It is a strange, low sound, and he lacks eyes to weep, but Vyrt can feel tears running down his face in response.

Beelzebub's pleased grin turns into a frown as he beholds the weakness of his child, and he raises a spiked, ridged foot to kick Vykt.

The nephilim, who was shrunk to a normal human's size before this, dashes the five metres between himself and the scene in a zeptosecond. Beelzebub's kick is lazy, but even so, Vyrt can barely perceive it.

A sextillionth of a second passes, and the foot makes contact with Vyrt's face. An instant later, the nephilim is sent flying with a broken nose. Supercluster after supercluster is obliterated as trillions of galaxies are unmade by his passage. Before Vyrt knows it, he has travelled to the edge of the universe. He only catches a glimpse of Beelzebub on Earth, filtered through the aether, before the Prince of Hell crosses the trillions of light years between them, his clawed hand digging furrows through Vyrt's throat and wrapping around his spine.

All before the nephilim noticed him moving.

"To think you'd dare...you're lucky that damned planet is such a nuisance, or I wouldn't have prevented its destruction." Beelzebub's black tongue hangs over needle teeth. "You look ready to cry, boy. What, did I hit you too hard?"

Vyrt cannot...no. He  can believe it. This is the face of Hell. This is evil, in all its pettiness. He is not shocked.

But the deed is done. Vykt lives.

Which means he no longer needs to indulge his uncle.

Beelzebub's punch splits Vyrt's skull like a rotten fruit, but the nephilim can build himself up. By the time he heals and the demon strikes him again, his fist breaks on Vyrt's steely eye. Beelzebub raises amused eyebrows, notices the nephilim's clones around them, thousands of thousands for every grain of sand on Earth, all radiating the same strength Vyrt uses to meet his third strike and punch through his arm and chest, and shakes his head.

"I could escalate too, you know."

"You cannot be that foolish." Vyrt says, and flies past his uncle with amplified speed, returning to Earth far faster than the demon left it and dismissing the clones.

He knows what awaits him. Of course he knows. To a nephilim, time is a lake, not a river, and any moment can be viewed or reached. This does not make it hurt less. Knowing never makes it hurt less, even when it is  necessary. He wishes some people understood that.

His mother's body is squeezing Vykt in one fist, and the cambion is trying to escape with all his power. Were his might and mastery of decay pitted against the woman's magic, it would've been no contest. But the orpse is being used by a nephilim, worn like a found shell.

"You refused to become part of my family." Vyrt's cousin says in a frigid, burbling voice, blood spilling down the body's chin. "But maybe you will change your mind after I take yours."

Vyrt does not reply. He does not say anything. A moment later, Vykt is free, the body burned to ash, and his cousin thrown down into Tehom. Maybe the swim will change her mind. Vyrt will burn that bridge when he gets to it, though. Now, he just wants to lay his mother's soul to rest.

"She was the only one who did not run from me, when I came to Earth."

"I know, father." Vyrt says hoarsely, gathering the body in his arms, then returning to his true size to cup the remains in one hand.

"When I said 'Fear not!', only she listened." The disembodied voice is wistful. "Find yourself a woman like that, son."

"Will you help me burn her?"

"...Of course I will."

***

Vyrt might not be a father, but he raises his little brother like one. The cambion is dutiful in his training, out of thirst for more power than a love for drudgery, and he soon grows to match his brother in power.

Vyrt, meanwhile, undertakes...pilgrimages.

The darkness of Sheol. The fires of Gehenna, which can burn bodies, minds and souls out of existence. The waters of Tehom, which not only erase created things more thoroughly than said fires, which they could easily extinguish, but makes it so that they never existed, and remove the possibility of them doing so again along with the idea of them. None of this leaves a mark on Vyrt. The trials hurt, yes, but he is as stalwart as the Raqia itself.

As millennia pass and worship grows, Vyrt toys with what he should call his faith. 'Ancestor worship', like many truthful things, is derided as too simple by Vykt, who delights in mockery. One need only look at their names to see that. 'The faith undivided' is refused as too pompous, and even Vyrt has to admit it sounds somewhat sinister, even if he has been worshipping God long before He chose different peoples as His. 'Abrahanism' could work, but putting the man before God does not sit well with him.

It is with such trifles that he occupies his time, in-between his travels and his duties as a defender of Earth. When Muhammad rises and Allah sends Jibril to dictate the Quran to him, Vyrt watches from afar, alongside many others, making sure nothing disrupts the making of the new faith.

Centuries after, he descends into Jahannah, walks among the tormented, buried in coffins, torn apart, strung up, flayed, devoured. The angels guarding this Hell, with iron maces and pitiless eyes, are unfamiliar to Vyrt, and he does not seek their companionship. Neither is the one bearing the Earth rimmed by Mount Qaf: Vyrt feels more kinship with Kuyutha, with its tens of thousands of legs, eyes and tongues, or to Bahamut, forever swimming in the cosmic oceans and bearing the weight of Hell, Earth and Heaven.

Vyrt, too, knows what it is like to feel such burdens. His kindred are fallen from divine purity, appointed overseers of the world they are prisoners in. Oh, any of them could easily leave Earth and reality itself behind-but that is not the nature of their cage. Only the most foolish of them try to escape that way.

Vyrt does not ascend to Jannah. The garden is beyond his reach, and he is needed somewhere else besides. For a brief moment, however, he allows himself to gaze upwards, and see...

The Realms. He-ness. First Manifestation. Absolute Unity. Allah unmanifest, incarnate, one with everything. These are the Realms of Godhood, not creation. Power, Intelligence, Physical bodies...those lie further below. Alam-e-Malakut corresponds to the Outer Void and the Archetypes therein, in Vyrt's perception. His duty does not take him there...but he understands why they would worship.

One day, Bahamut slips out of alignment, leaving its burden flailing in the eternal waters. The fish-whale is massive: its nostrils alone dwarf Earth's combined oceans like the Arabian Desert dwarfs a grain of mustard, and said nostrils are invisible compared to its bulk. When Vyrt comes across it in the material universe, its form is comparable in size to Andromeda's arms, and far, far heavier. It is, after all, a being of flesh, not a loose cloud of stars and nebulae. It is many millions of times heavier than Vyrt's home galaxy, heavy enough to replace the Great Attractor that drags its Supercluster towards it. The universe shakes from its every movement. And its strength...

"Falak." Vyrt growls, cracked ribs healing, seeing the shadow behind, around and above the maddened Bahamut. "I see you, serpent. You will not have this one!"

If Bahamut is enormous, Falak is truly gigantic. The cosmic fish would not even be a silver pinprick in its beady eyes, and the only reason it hasn't followed its long-desired prey to the godless universe is because this reality is far too small to contain it. It only fears one thing, but Vyrt does not aim to defeat the monster in battle-he is not insane-nor does he need to. He only needs to restore things to their proper places, and that, he is more than capable of.

Bahamut flops down onto Vyrt with the weight of twenty-eight million Milky Ways, and the nephilim's knees bend, but only briefly. Then, he is standing straight again, holding Bahamut still above him. The creature is not violent, despite the way it headbutted Vyrt. Merely homesick.

Thank You, Lord, for making me strong enough, Vyrt thinks, then flexes his body and spirit at once, and throws Bahamut. The fish-whale flies out of reality, across the aether and back into its place, and cosmic order begins reasserting itself. In the seventh Hell beneath everything else, Falak seethes, denied its meal once more.

***

Vyrt meets Ying above Greenland, and the dragon is, for once, genuinely amused rather than mocking or whimsical. Grinning at the nephilim's arrival, he leans back, sitting on air as if it is a chair, and bends chi to recreate the events he has been, until now, observing with his mind's eye.

Vyrt cracks a grin, despite himself, and it is not because of Ying's anachronistic black shirt, white silk and grey scarf. "...Is that Erlang Shen being given the runaround by a monkey?"

"You should've seen him beating the rest of Heaven's army." The dragon snickers. "They rounded up almost everyone, except for Yudi, who asked me if I didn't want to help in exchange for a pardon." Ying's face, human only if one ignores the black-slitted ivory eyes and centimetres-long fangs, morphs into a moue of affronted innocence. " 'But, my lord', I told him. 'If you truly believe I would only help my former home for selfish reasons...am I really wanted there?' He ranted a bit, but I told him I don't owe them anything. Besides, Wukong is a vandal, not a destroyer."

" 'Whoever Heaven sends, I'm not paying taxes?' "

"Damn straight. Doesn't his earthly mirror kiss his arse enough? And they'll catch him soon, anyway. Shen is as stubborn as Sun, and he has his eye. I've heard they even asked Laozi to fire up his furnace-the furry little bastard stacked immortalities, you see?" Ying downs a mouthful of tea from the gourd around his neck. "But you're not here for foreign gossip, and don't try to spin a yarn about just happening to be here at the same time as me."

Ying reminds Vyrt of his uncle Michael, and occupied a similar position in his Heaven as angels do in theirs. He is far less formal, however. "The second part is true, actually. I did sense your presence before I left Britain, but I was heading here anyway. I seek as neutral a place to ascend as possible." He cocks his head, watching an anatomically unlikely somersault of the Monkey King. "Do you remember Dante? Dante Alighieri, of Florence?"

"I remember a poet, with a big mouth and a bigger nose. What about him?"

"Well." Vyrt smiles like a child with a secret. "His work has inspired some...'renovations' is too limited. My grandfather has begun calling Himself the Love That Moves The Sun And Stars, and I think that is beautiful." If overwrought. "He has inspired me, too, in fact. To travel a little. Good for the heart, or so I've heard."

Yinh shrugs, continuing to watch the spectacle. "Break a wing."

Vyrt nods, silently thanking his acquaintance('rival' is too strong a term to describe their relationship, and Ying, to put it delicately, can't be arsed to compare himself with others. He is far more interested in building up his harem, trying to fill the bleeding hole in his heart with as much love as possible), and begins ascending the Tree of Life.

Vyrt needs this. The motivation. A reminder of God and creation's beauty. The crusades are a recent memory, barely lifetimes past, and further tainted by his recent meeting with the Demiurge. He...

He has always hated that aspect of his grandfather. Not the need for control. Not the thirst for power. Those are still present. They are common in all beings, in one form of another.

It's the pettiness. God is supposed to be majestic. It's no surprise that, even in the religion centred around him, Yaldabaoth is named an imposter.

And so, he prays. And so, he flies. Along the seder hishtalshelut, counting the links in the chain of worlds. First is Assiah, World of Action. The multiverse, in all its childlike charm, beautiful as only a growing infant can be. Even so, the surroundings vibrate with kingship. Second is Yetzirah, World of Formation, foundation of everything below. Here are created things in their truest forms, defined by the glory of the victory that is their very existence: despite everything, they are. Third is Beriah, World of Creation-that is, creation itself-,the end of the illusion of self, where Everything and Nothing meet. There is beauty, strength and kindness here, if one knows how to look. Fourth is Atziluth, World of Emanation, and here, Vyrt stops, hovering at the border.

There is only beauty and understanding beneath the crown on the head within which dwells the Supreme Archtype-the mind that crowns itself. This is where the Dream springs from. Further still, Vyrt can see what mankind should have been and might be once again.

"In his image He made them, male and female..." Vyrt recites. 'Adam' is more than a man, the first man. They are all of humanity-not the tattered Archetype that remains at the edges of creation, but the first emanation, still united with the creator. Vyrt sees the fruit taken from the Tree that is the man-for are they not both upright? This is an idea that transcends itself, and thus cannot be contemplated by the likes of him.

Which Tree was it? Was it Knowledge, or Mortality that ruined everything before it could begin? Vyrt shakes his head, weeping regretful tears, and dares to look further still. The human form is not a mistake, nor a coincidence. It is the herald of supremacy, the shadow of what might yet be achieved once the Dream ends. But he knows this already. He has seen this already.

He...

He sees, truly sees, for the first time in memory. He sees God, going from supreme, incomprehensible essence to oneness, and the delights that come with this truest of selves. He sees the desire to create and rule, and the mantle of supremacy gladly assumed. He sees the predecessor of creation, the atmosphere that emerges from it, to serve as the cradle of the Primordial Man.

He sees the Secret of Contraction, the void being created and the light shining out to fill it. He hears and feels the Shattering of the Vessels.

And he knows this is God. Not the mistakes. Not the cruelty, necessary or otherwise. Not the dictatorship. Creator, and creation...


Vyrt is used to guilt. He stood aside while his sorcerous cousin raised champions up, and tried to make might for right a reality. Not because he wanted to, but that has never been an excuse. Sometimes, he wonders if it-his life, his work, creation itself-is worth it.

Whenever that happens, he remembers this.

***

Sekhet-Aaru, 758 CE

Aya is tending to her reed patch when Anubis approaches, without any thought.

Either would be enough to alarm her, but both is almost too much. The embalmer god's perturbed expression(she dares not make a joke about long faces) makes it even worse. Furthermore, Anubis did not arrive by one of the boats travelling between the islands, which is almost as strange as the fact he has not yet communicated anything to her through the usual means.

"Hello, my lord." She kneels down in the water before he waves a hand, bidding her to rise. "Is there a problem?"

"The first of many." Anubis says grimly. His eyes are just as dark as his head, so it's hard to tell, but Aya would not be surprised to learn he does not blink. "Leave them." He gestures at the reed with his khopesh, which is when Aya notices he is clad for war. The golden arrmour hides much, but the joints of his knees are jointed the wrong way. The god has taken a form more animalistic than his usual jackal-headed man's one. "You cannot remain here, Aya. We're sending you back."

Her face falls. "But I passed the trials! I said the names, my heart was light, I-"

"It is not your fault." Anubis tries to sound apologetic, but comes across as more curt than soothing. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that all the other reborn have stopped relaxing to look at the two of them. "Come along. I will tell you as we remake you."

"But I was already reborn...?"

"Not what I meant." One of Anubis' arms snakes around her waist, and in moments, the surroundings blur. Aya finds herself tied to a stone table table, several gods looming over her. Anubis has discarded his armour, but still has his khopesh, and is searching the circular room for threats. Osiris and Thoth hold themselves like priests: one about to amputate a cripple, one who has just discovered a fascinating new beast. It is Isis who speaks first, and her patroness actually manages to sound sorry for whatever is about to happen.

(Not that she holds it against the jackal god. It is not his fault, and besides, she does not want to learn how he deals with complainers. Amit might be anywhere, for all she knows, eager for a second chance at a meal).

"My dear." The goddess' hair is dark as jet, with all the colours of the rainbow glittering at the tips of her tresses. Her smile is a curve of molten gold. "I am glad to see the shudders have stopped, and sorry we couldn't send anyone earlier."

"We investigated," Thoth has the air of someone reading a particularly interesting mystery story. "And who do you think stole into your tomb and from it?"

"I do not know, lord." She admits. "But I think you expect me to react poorly, given the restraints."

Thoth laughs, beak clicking. "Yes! It was dear old Faisal, come to make up for lost years!"

Aya's face turns ashen at the mention of her husband. Her father, always disturbed by her mother's weak faithcraft-the woman kept the old gods, one of the very few after Egypt was flooded by Christianity, then Islam-, chose to send his daughter to a man who wouldn't be an enemy of Allah. Aya ran away from home before any decision could be made, and, by the grace of Isis, managed to hide behind veils of illusion, allowing her to evade people and forage for food. A fifteen year old waif would have raised questions otherwise.

Faisal Reem had seemed like a good man, at the beginning. Stern and headstrong, as befitting his name, but kind, and not opposed to his wife having a voice.

Still Muslim, not that Aya had anything against the religion itself. Just against her stupid, wide-eyed teenage self. He had not been opposed to suggestions. Faisal barely had time to manage the house, always looking for another war to fight, far away, which is why he left his wife to handle the finances and the children.

But, by the time Aqim and Bilal were seven and five, and little Farah was one, he had returned, or rather limped, home to stay.

Aya hadn't begrudged her husband his moods. He'd always been a little foul-tempered, in her opinion, but that had paled in comparison to everything else. He'd always found time to play with the boys between contracts, no matter how hurt. But the crippling...

He'd become...self-contradictory. As if drunk without touching a drop. One moment, he wanted her all to himself, whether to chastise or congratulate, the next she was either spiling the children or not spending enough time with them-what kind of mother was she?

Spread thin, Aya had prayed for help, and Hathor and Isis had answered.

The faithcraft, kept secret until then-Aya hadn't needed to use it since their wedding, and as such, had seen no need to bring up past events-had not openly unsettled him, like her father had been. But she still remembered Faisal's bearded face screwed up in dismay, mouth curving into a frown uner his broken nose. Then, her thoroughness had turned to nagging, and he'd accused her of waiting his crippling to take over the household.

As if she'd been planning it!

Aya had not seen herself as a domineering plotter, but Faisal had, and one day, she'd returned home from the market to see him slumped in his usual chair, childless.

"You thought I'd let you steal them away from me, didn't you?" His hand had trembled-twitched?-as he had pointed at her still, wide-eyed face. His other had gestured at the little bodies with the knife. "Mould them to be like you? Witch-"

Aya still didn't regret the kill. She'd ended herself shortly after, and expected Amit to devour her into nonexistence. The marriage to an unbeliever, if nothing else...but some gods had interfered on her behalf. She hadn't yet been told who, but she could guess.

"That's impossible." Aya says flatly, voice small, prompting a scoff from Thoth.

"Surely you don't believe him too soft-hearted?"

"No, lord. I mean it's literally impossible. My tomb was warded. How did he take-" A revelation spears through her, and the only reason she doesn't curl up is because she can't move. "Their ashes?"

Almost shocked at her presumption, Aya had asked for her and her children's bodies to be burned. She hadn't met them in the afterlife, but...b-but...

Even if they'd taken their father's faith in secret, surely the pain had ended?

"How did he-ah." Thoth's blue eyes darted from her to the other gods. "You haven't been told yet. Why, he made a deal with his god, of course."

"His God...?"

"No, no. The one you have always opposed, and will again. His old one didn't answer his prayers, mayhaps in lieu of smiting, so he sought a way to strike back against the forces you wielded. We are still looking into how he escaped from his afterlife," Thoth looks faintly embarrassed, if not flustered. "Let alone how and when he found Apep, but I'm sure it's all connected. But do not worry about that."

"Aya Reem." Osiris says in a voice halfway between gravelly and raspy. It sounds as if it should be deep, but, at the same time, like it is coming from far away, or from underwater. An artifact of his mutilation, she thinks. "Do you wish to return to the world, and fight once more against Isfet-this time directly? Do you wish to be remade? Know that you cannot be harmed unless that which was stolen from your tomb is returned from it, but neither can you rest." Green skin crinkles around deep, black eyes. "And, even in undeath, even with our blessings, you will not be free of pain."

"...Do as you must, lord."

Osiris nods appreciatively, then turns to Thoth. "Khet, Sah, Ren, Ba, Ka, Ib, Shut, Sekhem, Akh. The body is preserved. We must pour the mind and soul back into it, or she will never find peace for herself and the world."

As the reforging begins, and Aya is slowly but surely reunited with her earthly remains, she appreciates Osiris' honesty, and warning.

She is not free of pain, and she doubts she will ever be.
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Strigoi Grey
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Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 8

***
Maybe I'd just become jaded. Maybe I'd become unflappable when it came to intrigue and mind games from sheer exposure, like Mithridates the Sixth had built up resistance to poison.

Maybe I was just too mentally tired.

Whatever it was, I didn't care to look into it at the moment. Not even glance at it with Mimir's sight, according to which I  was talking to Aya Reem.

We must get rid of this habit, my strigoi side whispered. It's not 'Mimir's' sight anymore. It is ours.

We'll talk later, I promised, sending it a hopefully reassuring pulse of weak agreement. Maybe it'd get it to behave for a bit, even if it didn't pacify it or make it settle down.

'I recognise you, ma'am,' I told Aya, whose eyes turned from Thoth, to me, the god's following. Aya had briefly looked at the god after asking me a question that, between my last meeting with Chernobog, would've probably been a mindfuck. 'So, yes, I know who I'm talking to.'

'He does, Aya!' Thoth sounded excited, beak somehow curving into a smile. Then came the aetheric equivalent of a skittering sound, and the god was filling my sight. I found myself looking at a suprisingly muscular bronzed chest(maybe I shouldn't have been caught offguard. Thoth might have just been the warrior-scholar type, and besides, he was a shapeshifter), or rather the polished silver ankh dangling over it. Before I could react to his sudden appearance, I found my chin tilted up, at Thoth's deep blue eyes.

What, have you never locked gazes with a huge buff dude in a skirt? It's just a guy thing.

'So he does...' Thoth said softly, letting go of me. My chin burned where he had touched me, but I knew, somehow, that I'd have been hurt more before the awakening of my godsight. I paid it even less hid, instead wondering how the hell he'd grabbed me. I'd just been observing them, not like I'd sent an astral projection, which shouldn't have transmitted pain to my body, anyway.

But then, this was the second time he'd touched me despite the fact he shouldn't have been able to.

Aya gave me a concerned look, and sent a mildly disapproving one Thoth's way. Deciding to make things slightly less weird, I tested the wards, then physically moved across the aether, feeling them slam back in their places behind me. Then, she approached too, and I noticed she'd gotten faster.

Or, rather, she'd returned to her usual speed.

After all the Egyptian gods except Ma'at had stopped empowering her, Aya's speed had dropped greatly, to the point she had merely dwarfed Szabo's the same way he had dwarfed mine, back when he'd been merely as fast as light, and me six thousand times as fast as sound. Now, she crossed the distance between me and her desk-the room was always shifting in size; at the moment, there were over five kilometres from desk to entrance-while photons were standing still, frozen in flight. Aya, in contrast, had moved almost too fast too keep track of, though not impossible to perceive, like Thoth.

That was how I knew she'd gotten her powers back. With the duller senses I used to have, I might've believed she'd merely boosted her speed with Ma'at's power. But in my godly eyes, Shu's blessing was as clear as day.

She could've moved faster, I knew. Endlessly fast. Time and space meant nothing while the god of wind and air had his hand on her shoulder. But there was no need. This was enough to impress upon me that she was back in shape.

'Speak, David. Given by how you started this meeting, I expect you wanted to be brief, despite the weight on your soul.'

I swallowed a sigh. Talking to Aya always reminded me of my motherless childhood. Make all the jokes you want-if I admired her in any way, it was entirely platonic, and had nothing to do with that.

Someone doth protest too much...

Why do you insist on getting under my skin? You're already there.

Need you
 ask?

'Yeah.' With a thought, I began sitting down, creating a chair before my arse could hit the ground. I could've solidified the air, or just floated, but I wanted, felt the need to prove that I  had gotten better.

Even if I knew Paladin had already reported to her, including my arrival at the English Channel, and what had followed. I had to show I was no longer(go ahead, laugh) deadweight.

'David, stop that.' Aya closed her eyes, but the light of order still shone, through her lids, reminding me of the sun behind a curtain. 'You're not a burden to the Crypt, nor ARC as whole. And if you ever feel you're too weak or unstable, please remember who you're colleagues with.' The mummy rubbed the bridge of her nose.

'Thank you,' I said softly, looking down at the hands I'd clasped in my lap.

'...This is not just about Fairie, is it? Or the Channel?' the mummy crossed her arms, leaning back against Thoth, who wrapped his arms around her. 'Sam told me about the former, by the way, and Paladin has just finished reporting on the latter.'

'But you want my version of the events, too?' The answer was obvious, but I had to ask. The mention of the wendigo highlighted how weird the secene in front of me would have looked, if not for my godly senses. The affection coming from Thoth was fatherly. In a way, it reminded me of myself at Mia's graduation, before...

Shiftskin would have had no need to feel threatened, had he been here. I didn't doubt he'd have gotten jealous or pissy because of the touch itself, if not the god's intentions.

Besides, Thoth was married, and Ma'at was as inclined to sharing as he was to cheating.

'It's adorable, really, how he immediately thought about that, little one,' Thoth ran a hand through Aya's hair, smiling. 'He's almost as concerned about Sam's honour as your love is.'

'It's only human, lord.'

'That it is. And you must be overjoyed to see this one holding on to humanity, don't you?' his smile turned bittersweet. 'One day, you must have those two meet. But...ah, I'm rambling. Your adolescent species is only expected to think about rutting and courtship first. It's instinctive to want to propagate one's kind.'

Letting go of the mummy, Thoth flipped, turning into an ibis in midair and landing on a perch that appeared before his feet were halfway to the floor. Half hidden in a shadow that creeped into existence at thatvery moment, the god watched me curiously, head cocked, eyes shining.

The mummy sounds like a Disney villainess.

What?

Like Jafar with tits. She's even got a bird!

Ignoring the vulgar son of a bitch, I began delivering my report. Aya voiced her approval of my defeat of Chernobog, even if I felt that was an exagerration. I'd only managed to put him on the run, so I'd have called it a successful bluff at best.

'There you go, putting yourself down again.' Aya's voice was half tired, half amused. 'False modesty is almost as annoying as bragging, you know?'

'But I didn't even land a hit on him. I couldn't even swap places with him in Broceliande.'

'Like you did with Cloudshade less than an hour later?' The mummy shook her head. 'Had Chernobog stayed a little longer, had you been trained, or at least luckier, we'd be dragging the Black God in chains before the pantheons right now.'

'But I wasn't-trained, I mean. We...' I glanced at Thoth, who hadn't made a single sound since his transformation. Would he feel insulted? 'We-that is, Thoth and I-didn't find time to meet.'

The god moved his wings in something reminiscent of a shrug. If he was offended, guilty or something, he hid it behind a nonchalant façade. "What can you do?"

'Even so, you managed to put Chernobog on the run, and trust me, gods like him  never retreat unless they feel they're outmatched.' Aya smirked knowingly. 'Your first successful use of godly power is like flying an airplane. You don't stop to think how difficult it was until after it's done, and even then, you might need someone else to point it out.'

'You were never trained to channel a god's power, David, never mind have it,' Thoth spoke up. 'Aya  has been, and I'd have liked to see her with just my wife's blessing going up against Chernobog. It would have been...' were those teeth glinting in his beak? 'Entertaining.'

'You underestimate me, lord.'

'Oh, not at all. I meant it  would have been entertaining, truly. You haven't had to puzzle something like that out in centuries, dear,' Thoth picked at his plumage. 'Hence why I'm impressed with David, but not surprised.'

'I take it this is the second time you're seeing or hearing of this?'

'Your next question is "Why didn't you tell me that, lord?"...or it would have been, had I not said this. Now, it will be "why didn't David have help"?'

'Hey, I'm not complaining,' I held up a hand at my awkward intervention. 'I mean, sure, it would've been great to have one of the Heads helping me, but I didn't  ask for help. Down in the Blackness, I...' I frowned. 'It wasn't that I didn't want help, or thought I could do everything myself. But I was more focused on surviving enough to escape.'

'You don't need to ask for help, David. You're ARC. But that's not what lord Thoth was referring to.' Before I could ask what she meant, the mummy forged on ahead. 'You did a good job, agent. The nearest thing we've got to a crisis left is extraditing the Unseelie, but that's a problem for my colleagues and I, the Global Gathering, and whoever Oberon chooses to scrounge up when he shows his face to bargain,' the mummy's expression briefly darkened. 'And this time, he'll have fewer reasons to make a circus of the talks. We already had to talk down a baker's dozen of hotheads from wiping out the Fae before you were taken over.'

I shifted from foot to foot at her apologetic look, trying to dig up some dry humour. 'Guess it was a boon in disguise, huh? Like the first time. I should have my mind raped more often.'

'Never say that in my presence again, David.' At Aya's glare, I opened my mouth to clarify what I'd meant, but she waved me off. 'I know you were just joking tastelessly. Don't.' She sighed. 'But, yes, the fact Fairie's forces were briefly crippled did help with calming down some extremists, even if it got others chomping at the bit to strike the iron while it was hot. You'll pardon the saying, given the context.'

'No problem, ma'am, but-'

'Don't worry, he won't ask for you.' Aya was talking over me, which would've normally annoyed me, but I really needed to brood less. 'King Fae has even shakier ground to stand on this time, because Earth helped him  despite the mess the Unseelie made here when he left them to their own devices. No one will be taking him seriously, even if he doesn't make demands.'

'What if he does, though? Ask for me, that is.'

Aya's brow wrinkled slightly. 'You don't need to worry, David. We won't let Oberon do anything to you.'

What the...did she think I was scared of that grasping jackass? The only reason I even gave a damn about myself these days was that I didn't want to hurt those who loved me.

It was good that "love your neighbour like you love yourself" hadn't been spoken with negligent dickheads like me in mind.

'Thank you, ma'am. But I was more thinking about the fact he'd owe us after, since we're currently even.'

'You're even with the Fae. They still owe Earth. And Oberon would owe you after, though, as your superior, I'd be fully within my rights to make use of said favour myself.' Aya sighed, then brightened up a little, the corners of her eyes wrinkling as she smiled slightly. 'But, again, you don't need to worry about that. The Fae, in the end, don't  want a confrontation, and not just because they're unsure they can win. They don't even want enmity, but they don't really get other people.'

'That's good to know, ma'am, but...you said there are no other crises besides these future negotiations. Aren't you forgetting something?' I asked, clasping my hands behind my back as I bent light to form an image of a cultist of Chernobog: tall, pale, brawny, dark eyes almost lost under the equally-dark, long hair and antlered skull he wore. Clad in black, thick furs, with tiny bones woven through them, forming Cyrillic characters. I recognised the Black God's name, but little else.

'The cults aren't a threat, David.' Aya waved a hand, and I couldn't help but frown. She was testing me, obviously, she had to be. 'They'll be almost as easy to uproot as they were to find. We know where they are.'

'Then why didn't we dismantle them!?' I couldn't have helped the anger out of my voice if I wanted. 'That fucking bastard used me like a puppet twice, and these morons give themselves to him. Why didn't we-'

'David.' Aya had moved faster than I could perceive, and was currently leaning backwards against her desk, elbows braced on it. She pointed a finger at me. 'What he did to you was despicable, but do not think you are his only victim. Not all of his worshippers kneel willingly.'

'I fail to see how that's not even more incentive to take the motherfuckers down.'

'Chernobog couldn't act on Earth at all until this year. The mind breaking, the enthralling, all was done by mages-and those cults that were found using such methods rather than more traditional conversion were taken down immediately, by us and the Strangeguard-for decades. Since the Shattering, these people might as well have been praying to nothing.'

So what!? 'They should've been taken down on principle. To prevent future disasters. All of them. There can't be a cult of that monster worth salvaging.'

'You'd be surprised.' Aya flexed a hand, looking at the power flowing through it. 'Some focus on destroying and ripping down the more unsavoury aspects of civilisation. They make useful buffers and catspaws, if nothing else. Do you think we crush every street gang that starts talking about Apep or Satan?'

I swallowed an angry retort. 'So you'll let some be, when you round up the rest, because they're  useful?'

'Perhaps not. It would give a poor impression if Chernobog's worshippers walked after the Headhunt, let alone the Fairie expedition. We must release the news about the Aesir some day... but that's not for you to worry about, David. Slow down a little. You might get some free time.'

What a good joke! The first part, that was. "Free time" was ARC slang for "undercover missions in different patrolling area".

As for them not being my problem...like shit. 'Ma'am, I cannot agree with that. Grudges aside, my power would be extremely useful for raiding their bases.'

'That's what I was getting to, David.' Aya looked askance at Thoth when he let out a stuttering, high-pitched caw that might have been meant as a snicker. 'You are more useful for ARC as a lookout than as a field agent.' She held up both hands, chuckling. 'Don't worry. We're not giving you a desk job. But expect to be consulted about creation far more often than you'll be called upon to put down threats to it.'

...Well, now or never. 'I was visited by an...apparition, ma'am. Shorthly before this meeting. It looked like me, and pretended it was me from the future.'

Aya listened to my retelling of the encounter with that creepy bearded fuck, saying nothing. She crossed her arms halfway through, though, and looked at Thoth at the end.

'He was you, David,' Thoth spoke as soon as I finished. 'Well. As much as you are your childhood self. Certainly not a different person, though. You, just...more. As for the "iterations" he was talking about...how to say..." the ibis pressed the tips of his wings together in a way that suggested he'd have been steepling his fingers in a more humanoid form. 'I would call it a stable time loop if your "future" self didn't transcend time. It would be more accurate to say that your future self always meets "you" at this point, but does not talk much because of some restriction, self-imposed or otherwise. He also remembers and has lived through all possible pasts, which, to you, are futures.' He blinked, running a long, thin tongue over what looked like curved teeth. 'But no, you weren't tricked. Looking back at it, I see the same being you did, and I can tell you this: he wasn't disguised or glamoured. So, no, David, it wasn't a lie, any more than alternate timelines are lies.'

'I concur with lord Thoth,' Aya said. 'It is good you brought this up to me instead of letting your thoughts fester and make you uncertain, but I am afraid I cannot help you at the moment. Your future self blocks my senses, as he does yours.'

'And mine,' Thoth added, picking at a wing with his beak. 'But my mind is as sharp as Mimir's, and far more inclined towards breaking bounds. Hmm...' he tilted his head at Aya, while glancing at me from the corner of obe eye. 'Shall I begin preparing him now, little one?'

'That depends entirely on him,' Aya replied without inflection, not looking at the god. 'What do you say, David?'

'Mia has probably noticed I've left by now, but I'd rather tell her first, so that she doesn't worry.'

Aya nodded. 'She is your rock, after all. So the others keep telling me.'

***

Andrei swiped his paw through the ghost, causing Misha to drop the silver knife with a pained scream as he dispersed. By the time the werebear dropped to all fours, still in hybrid form despite his beast roarinng at him to let go and forget about human worries, the ghost had pulled himself back together, cold fires burning in his eye sockets as he glared at his son.

'How dare you?' Misha's kick flipped Andrei over onto his back, and the were grunted as his father stomped down on his wound, grinding his boot's heel into the edges. 'How  dare you-'

Misha yelped as Andrei's left paw ripped his leg in half at the knee, at the same time as his right one scrabbled against the floor. Finally, his claws caught the edge of a tile, which Andrei ripped out before reaching inside it.

The thing felt as wrong and unnatural as ever, despite its purpose. The chrome tube, which slightly curved at both ends, had been harvested from the blood of those weres who had survived being wounded with silver. Their misery-for such wounds were rarely minor even when they weren't fatal-had added to the symbolism, engancing its paranormal power.

Andrei had ripped it from the bloody hands of a doctor, back in the seventies. The woman had used it to heal her neighbours in a now-lost village near the Ukrainian border, before the Party had sent Andrei to confiscate it. She had, perhaps understandably, resisted, though not for long.

She had refused to sell out, in her own words. The tube could replicate were flesh to bond with the body of a wounded one, briefly filling wounds and lessening the pain before it was rejected. It was a stopgap, and one that'd have to be applied repeatedly at that, but it would have to do. Not like he had better options.

'What the-?' Misha spat as Andrei pressed the tube against his heart, forming several layers of flesh and fur. He got back to his feet with a relieved shake of his head, feeling blood thumping in his ears. 'What'd you do, you son of a bitch?'

Andrei let out a gravelly growl at the phrasing, feeling the patchwork flesh rot and fall out, to be replaced with an identical layer. 'I should be asking you that,' he said in a sardonic voice, accompanied by an equally humourless grin. 'Why'd you try to kill me, old man? Who sent you?'

'I'm not working for anyone,' Misha's nose wrinkled. 'I need no reason to put you down.'

'Oh? A little therianthrope hater, are you?'

'I've known beasts. Freaks just like me, but at least they were people. You? You goddamn gypsies just roam, scam and steal. You refuse to settle down and work. You take from others. You tear down what good folk build.'

Andrei could have laughed if it didn't hurt so much. 'What year are you living in? That shit hasn't been an issue in decades, you fucking idiot...' he coughed twice, then covered his muzzle with a paw before the third, bigger cough. It came away red.

'But you? You're even worse,' Misha continued as if he hadn't even heard his son. Andrei narrowed tear-rimmed eyes. Was he so full of hatred he had become a carricature of himself, like some old ghosts did? His mind went to Alex, but...no. If he didn't save himself now, what could he do to help his friends?

Or was he being controlled by someone else? Andrei couldn't sense anything, and the fucking pain didn't help.

'You went and found a stupid girl without parents to teach her not to be a whore, then made her an even bigger one.' Misha looked at the silver knife with dismay. It hadn't been enchanted, Andrei realised: he'd have sensed it otherwise, though the fact he hadn't, between his smell and instinct for danger, was in of itself concerning. Like Alex, it would have to wait.

Mundane silver made for poor weapons, and Andrei, therianthropic nature aside, still had thick fur, skin and muscle to get through. Of course the knife had snapped. With a crimson-stained grin, he promised to himself that he wouldn't give Misha the chance to do anything with the shards.

'And then,' the ghost's voice became even colder as he made the knife's pieces levitate, prompting a scoff from Andrei. 'You left her pregnant. Put another worm in her belly. You're lucky she didn't give birth to a crow like you.' Mia mirrored his son's expression. 'The first and last good thing you ever did was passing that boy to a white man. Don't get me wrong-I know it's just an instinct to throw away kids when it comes to you, but at least you chose a good location. You could've done better than a priest, but...' Misha shrugged. 'Not like I can expect you to be smart. Otherwise, you'd have swallowed some bleach after your first look in a mirror.'

Andrei gurgled. It was uglier and harsher than the chuckle he'd intented, but things really weren't going his way tonight...today? It was past midnight, he thought.

'I came to meet my grandson,' Misha said, hands in his pockets. 'Heard he grew up to be a snivelling little twit, before he killed himself...and came back.' The ghost shuddered. ' Strigoi. I could puke. I liked it better,' he looked into Andrei's eyes. 'When we were all stories.'

And silver filled the air.

***

Mihai had never been good at precognition.

Oh, all mages were precognitive, to a degree. In their own ways. Or maybe it would've been more accurate to say they "were" "precognitive". A vague dream that only made sense after what it had prophesied came to pass, an unexplainable flash of intuition or hunch...all of them experienced things like that, once in a while. It was tied, on some level, to the inherent control of space and time all mages shared, showing them glimpses of other places and moments.

But true precognition, seeing possible futures at will, was a more specific magic, though not necessarily rare. Half of the people who shot the shit on Spellbook and discussed more serious matters on Grimoire seemed to possess foresight. Still, Mihai had never had that ability.

He had strong basics: mana, elements, spacetime. He could create forcefields, enhance his body, even transmute himself. He had a decent grasp of shapeshifting and telekinesis, good enough to save time grooming and having to move things physically, but nothing to write home about, compared to the versatility of his other powers.

That was why he was pacing in the hospital hall, to the annoyance of everyone else waiting. He knew he should sit down, but he couldn't hekp himself. He'd been the same way during his daughters' birth, afraid of entering to see his wife staring at two little corpses, and a sadly-smiling doctor informing him that complications happened sometimes, sir...

That had ended up far better than this might yet. Once again, Mihai cursed his lack of foresight, both literal and metaphorical. He should've been there for Alex.

He knew his ghost friend was not aloof or standoffish, just...introverted. Quiet. The kind of guy who, sometimes, ran out of things to talk about even with his closest friends, and didn't mind sitting in comfortable silence, as long as they were alright with it, too.

The kind of guy who almost never talked about his problems, because he didn't want to burden or worry others. In that way, he was similar to David, and Mihai had failed them both.

He'd failed to help David out of his depression, and to save him from his withering. In the end, it had been Lucian who'd helped bring him to his senses, and Constantin who'd made sure he didn't go down a dark spiral. Then Mia had come along, and...

Mihai had always felt protective of his friends. He knew it was condescending, but there were worse vices to have. The mage had a hunch Constantin shared some of his thoughts.

He'd failed to convince Alex to let someone heal his asthma, resulting in him dying out of stupid altruism. 'Hey,' his friend had wheezed, near the end of his human life. 'Don't cry for me. I won't die unhappy. I lived a full life...there are people who need to be healed...more than I do.'

So full a life he was still walking the Earth, or had been, until this night. This night, which Mihai should've seen coming and preapred for.

Ghosts, at least those who lingered on Earth, weren't always mentally stable. Mihai didn't think his friend was crazy, or had ever been, just...frail, for lack of a better term. However, ghost minds were always teetering on the edge. And when mind over matter was a fact rather than a figure of speech...

Mihai had heard Alex's choked, faraway scream at the same time he had felt the chilling inferno rising from Ghencea Cemetery. Both had been carried to him on aethereal winds, and he had teleported there in an instant.

The graveyard's inhabitants had risen, ghosts and even a few new strigoi, out of self-defence. That they had all awoken from their death sleep at once was rare enough. That they had all woken up for the same reason...

'He just...started freaking out,' had said the ghost of a gangly woman with a middle-aged face but long, white hair, who looked like she'd starved to death, if the jutting ribs were anything to go by. Then, she had gestured at the thing that had been Alex, which the other undead had boxed into the centre of the cemetery. It had looked like a cresecent moon the size of a small house, with a misshapen limb rising out of every orifice on its ectoplasmic skin.

'It began with a scream,' had said a transparent skeleton in an old, tattered uniform, his oddly musical voice tinged with an Austrian accent. 'His grave neighbours woke up to see what was wrong, you see? And he ate them.' At Mihai's horrified expression, the soldier had laughed hideously. 'Unintentionally, mind you. Something broke in his mind, and sent everything else tumbling. Why, I can feel the void from here! He tried to grab at anything he could to regain a measure of order, and those who got too close, those too weak to go on but too cowardly to face the afterlife, were drawn into him.'

Mihai had felt the bottomless gap in Alex's psyche, too, and it had chilled him, through its size as much as its nature. It had been a pit, yes, but not a prison. The other ghosts hadn't been caught and trapped in Alex's mind. They'd been devoured, to fill a maw that would always be hungry. Save for the twisted appendages rising from Alex's body-more echoes than remains-they were gone.

Then the Supernatural Service had come, quickly subduing the creature. There had been curses, and questions about undead who'd never go to their gods or the aether now, but those had been shelved. The Service had determined that Alex wasn't in his right mind, and, as such, had to be taken to a hospital rather than a prison cell, at least until things were sorted out.

That was how Mihai had ended up here. As the only living being in Ghencea when the Service had arrived, he'd quickly been singled out. After revealing he was friends with Alex, he'd been asked to accompany him and a squad of Service agents to the Vlad's Mercy hospiral in the Old Centre.

The hospital was fairly new, having been built after the Revolution. Though named after one of the doctors who'd founded it, and specialised in treating supernaturals, people joked, rather darkly in Mihai's opinion, that the name came from the cases who were deemed hopeless and put down, in an act of mercy worthy of the Impaler.

Mihai hoped it wouldn't come to that. He'd have prayed, too, if he'd ever prayed to anything, but he knew prayers born of desperation didn't appeal to gods, unless he chose to convert after, which the mage didn't believe he had in him.

Still, he had come. Of course he had come. Anything he could do, as a friend and anchor in Alex's mind, was welcome. He hadn't been allowed in the surgery room, were the doctors were still cutting out the excess ectoplasm Alex had accumulated, but the Service agents, five of whom had scattered across the waiting hall, had made sure the ghost had seen him. That he knew he wasn't alone with strangers.

That had helped, in a way: the screaming had given way to wailing, then muffled sobbing, which had only been interrupted by a disturbing conversation, shortly before the operation had started.

'Mihai! Mihai!' Alex had called for him like his girls used to when they were scared of monsters under the bed.

'I'm here with you, man. What's wrong?'

'I re-' the ghost had choked. 'R-Remembered how I died.'

Aw, shit... 'Shhh, calm down. That's in the past. It won't happen ag-' the mage had started when a surprisingly weak, but deathly cold hand had closed around his wrist. From the middle of the tortured mass of ectoplasm, Alex's face had grimaced at him with wide, dead eyes.

' No. I died of asthma when there's magic and tech straight from sci-fi around every corner? Are you as insane as I used to be?'

'But you chose not to be healed...? You...'

Alex had shaken his head. 'I remember  him, Mihai.'

Then the doors had been locked, and the operation had started. Neither Mihai nor the agents had time to ask more.

'Oi,' a haggard-looking woman called out to Mihai, stopping his pacing. There were bags under her eyes and grey streaks in her red hair, despite the fact she otherwise looked young enough to be his kid. In her lap was a little girl, seven, eight year olds, with blonde hair and green pigtails. She'd been grinning toothily since Mihai had gotten here, and...oh, yeah. Her dad was being operated on in a room adjacent to Alex's, if he remembered correctly. Why the hell was she so happy, then. 'Would you die if you stopped?'

Mihai scowled. 'I don't exactly have anywhere to sit down, lady,' he gestured at the filled seats. 'And you'll forgive me if I don't find the floor appealing.'

Her eyes hardened. 'And you can't stand fucking still? You look like you have legs.'

'Gimme a break,' Mihai stuffed his hands in his grey sweatpants pockets. 'I've got a friend losing his mind over there,' he nodded at the door. 'And he might die any moment.' And if you're such a bitch because you might become a widow, maybe shut up? I don't judge, but don't be a hypocrite.

The little girl snickered. Bet she'll grow up to be like her mom.

***

Seeing Maws at something closer to a normal zmeu's size-still bigger than Aaron, or any other zmeu Lucian knew, for that matter-felt pretty weird, for some reason.

Still, he appreciated it. It was easier to talk to the guy when he tens of metres tall, not tens of thousands of kilometres.

'I'm not one to talk,' Maws' voice was always powerful enough to obliterate planets, no matter his size. Luckily, Aaron's place was more than enough to handle it, and the zmeu brothers had found ways to protect themselves: Lucian used Burnish Death to erase the voice's destructive power whenever it was about to affect him, while Lucas, in an attempt to bond, he guessed, had asked their mother to make a forcefield for him, which she'd gladly(?) agreed to. 'But I'm not sure your relationship will last, even if they bring your girl back.'

Lucian looked up at his father with a dirty glare, his mace in one hand and a keg full of one of his brews in the other. 'They  will bring her back.' In one form or another. He believed in Aaron. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Well,' Maws tugged at one of his beards. At this size, his ten thousand heads would have looked like ridiculous little turds, in his own words, so he'd shifted shape to only have then. In one of his six hands, he held a barrel bigger than Lucas, filled with something that burned Lucian's nostrils almost as much as looking at his mother hurt his eyes.

'See, I've always been adventurous. I've never been able to just settle down and grow shit.' He tilted his heads back, a faraway look in his eyes.

'They wanted me to wear a crown, you know? The other zmei. To build an empire for us. But I refused. I was the strongest, even back then, before my voice was unshackled, but stronger than everyone else combined? No. They would've forced me unto a throne, turned me into a puppet, and not just metaphorically. It was why I  had to be the strongest, and why we've never built a real civilisation.' He snorted. 'Too busy stealing the sun and stars. Let's just piggyback onto the humans' anthills. It'd be pitiful if I cared.'

'You've always been adventurous...' Lucas prompted, chewing on a half-burnt cigar.

Maws nodded. 'Yes, which is why I refused to be crowned. Even after I met your mother...well, we're not exactly breadwinner and housewife, are we dear?' he smiled at the Underdweller, who returned it as good as she could. At the moment, she took the form of a white, dumpy zmeaoaică, almost as short as a human woman, and made of shapes that Lucian couldn't make sense of, cornered cylinders sliding over and wrapping around curved hexagons.

'We are not the typical pairing, mate-counterpart, no.'

'Your mother is kind enough not to care about my flings, because she knows my heart is not in them, unlike my cock. She's always patient, always there,' he gestured at the floor. 'When I'm in-between jobs. We don't live together, but that's just because we've never found a place to fit us both.' He winked at his wife. 'And your home is dreadfully boring, love. Dunno how you came to be in a place like that.'

'And yours is extremely limited, mate-counterpart. Yet, it produces fascinating entities, in some circumstances.'

Maws nodded, grinning. 'Point is, someone needs to be stable if the other side of the relationship is wild. To be the rock. And I just don't think you have that, boy...' he shook his heads at Lucian.

'Don't I?' He returned his father's grins. 'Please, do explain.'

'This iela of yours...you love each other, I'm sure. From what you've told me, there's no doubting that. You understand each other, too, both who you are, and what you are. But here's the snag...' Maws scratched his seventh head's chin. 'Neither our kind nor hers is built for long-term relationships-and I mean long term in the human sense. No, not even that. Forget a few decades, or years, I'd be shocked if you stayed together a few months! And you're both immortal!'

'Neither of us minds the breaks,' Lucian said. 'We're both fully aware-'

'Yes, I understand. But if both of you need to switch partners so often, how the void are you going to build attachment? That's no  relationship...' Maws trailed off, then huffed, closing his eyes. 'Bah, I'm rambling. You're not gonna listen anyway.'

'I'm not?'

'Lucian...' Lucas said warningly, wishing he had chosen to stand beside his brother so he could put a hand on his shoulder.

'No, no, go ahead, dad. So it's  not a relationship?  Fascinating. What  is it, then?'

'I dunno,' Maws admitted. 'But you two? You're friends with benefits at best. Not lovers, fuck bu-'

Lucas' eyes widened at the Maws-sized and shaped hole extending from the ceiling all the way through the roof of Aaron's compound. The old zmeu's planet-shattering voice might have done no damage to the building, but Lucian's mace swing had...

'Luci-?' Lucas started, but his brother was gone.

'Goddammit-!'

***

Bianca's hair was dishevelled as she sat down in the snow.

Her sister's revenge had played out in a way she couldn't have expected, but should have.

No...she  had expected that it would be twisted. Not something as simple as hurting someone close to David-they had known all of them could protect themselves, and that going against David himself would've been pointless. She might not have known everything her friend had recently gone through, but...she had seen his eyes, and doubted her sisters had anything to hurt him with.

What she hadn't expected was the  how. She already knew the why, stupidly petty as it was, but she hadn't expected to end up in their hands like this. Kidnapping hadn't been out of the question, but she'd thought her sisters would be the ones doing it, not...

Drawing in a shallow, shuddering breath, Bianca forced herself to stop thinking about him and instead focus on happier things. Like the clearing.

The realm of the iele only had seasons because its inhabitants wanted it to-the same reason said seasons synchronised with those of Earth.

It was winter now, leaving the clearing covered in a blanket of pure white snow. Bianca hadn't seen snow so clean on Earth in years, but then, she hadn't been home in a while either, had she?

It looked almost innocent, she thought, failing to stifle a hollow giggle. One would be hard-pressed to expect the iela buried under it.

Her mother's corpse would never decay, for their kind's never did; it would sustain the forest and its creatures forever. Mercifully, it had stayed where it was. No revenant had risen to torment her, in a vision or reality. Her sisters were being kind.

They had, honestly, been nothing but kind since her arrival...as much as they could be. Attempts at making her forget the world aside. She was familiar with the rhetoric, and it was as maddeningly boring as ever, but at least it was better than the silence.

She was here to focus, not relax. Cold would never be harmful to her, but she still felt it, and it drove her to focus on her surroundings instead. There was peace to be found here, in the air, coming from underground.

You've always known he would hurt himself and those close to him. What does remorse matter, once the deed is done?

Stupid ogre...she should've never hired him. Damn her, for thinking Andrei and Lucian would have refused.

Is that not how all this started? Because he wanted the pain to end?

But what could they have done, had they been present?

Everyone's pain, sister. Everyone's.

The Lucian illusion had been insulting enough, even as a distraction. The abduction, the  explanation-

The poisonous guilt in those dark, dark eyes...

***

Constantin shrugged his way out of the embrace, turning almost fast enough to catch the thing in the face with a backhand-but only almost.

It leapt back with a nimbleness and grace his son had never possessed in life. No ordinary human could've moved like that. Even in such ways, they betrayed themselves.

Like the false angel. He suspected that, if he'd been willing to give in to weakness, he'd have perceived it as beautiful just as beautiful as the being it was failing to ape. The Lord's grace would have left him, and he would've been ensnared in its trap.

No, he promised as he ripped and tore through the echoes of his failures. I will  not give up. I will not take the easy way out.

He didn't even know who he was promising it to at this point, truthfully. Himself? David? God? His angel's memory?

Lord, how he wished to have learned her name...just her name, at least, to cherish, to place something on the face he wept remembering.

But then, there were many things he wished. To undo, mostly; those that had left scars on his soul, wounds that were now moving to bleed him dry.

And then, stillness.

Silence.

Oh, the battle didn't stop. When was the soul of man ever at peace? But the clamour, the monstrous sounds, even the sick squelching, sucking death rattles of the monster that fell, only to be replaced by more, identical ones...they were all gone.

The things then approached him.

'You cannot go on like this, daddy,' insisted the one that looked like David. Like his son after he'd graduated college, actually. When his first few books had failed spectacularly to gain popularity, bringing wrinkles and grey hairs far earlier than they should have come.

Constantin had read them, and told David honestly, that they were entertaining schlock. What did it matter, though, whether people liked or wanted to read them, as long as he liked writing them? It wasn't like he'd gain anything from the distant, lukewarm admiration of strangers. David didn't want for money, or for friends, so what was the harm?

He should've done more. Damn him thrice, he should've done more...

'The guilt is eating at you,' it continued, sounding so close to crying Constantin's teeth were set on edge. How dare it mock humanity like this, and his son in particular?

Constantin was not a violent man. He was not cruel. But, by God, he'd enjoy destroying it...

'How can you live and love your neighbours when you cannot stand yourself?' It shook its head, tears shining in its brown eyes. 'You did enough good, father. No one can be expected to be perfect-not even the Lord. Not from everyone's perspective. And you can't be so mad as to place yourself above God...' it extended a trembling hand. 'Please. Let go. You've lived enough. Come with me. There is a place for you.'

'Weakness,' the false angel scoffed from atop its grotesque spawn. 'Accept you're a failure, and run away? That's never been like you, Constantin. That's not the father of our son-your  true son, not that twisted foundling who tossed everyone he had aside to end himself.' It extended a hand, too, while its mount spread its arms, as if it wanted to embrace him. 'Come with me. Everything will be made right if you but accept the truth. They,' it gestured at the battlefield. 'Would have seen the error of their ways and become better, had they wanted to. They chose to reject you. They made you kill,  so many times...' she sighed. 'But that can be changed. It need not have happened. You will stand beside me as my husband, and together, we will have forged a world of righteousness. The Lord has already forgiven you. What do you have to lose?'

'My angel never loved me, you hag,' he spat, not looking at her as he bisected a sickly-looking carricature of David, potbelly bulging with the life of drained children. 'Not like that. Never like that. And you do not want me, either-I can tell.'

She lowered her head. 'A woman does not spurn her husband. She obeys.'

Constantin could've cursed, but-no. That was what they wanted. What the Enemy wanted. Even if he hadn't arranged this himself, he was benefitting from it, and definitely laughing. It might've as well have been an admission of surrender.

Or an oath of loyalty.

It might've been a trick of the light, but he thought he saw fruits in the extended hands. One white as dull as a silkworm, pulsing with unnatural life, the other black as the rarest of pearls, shining from within rather than reflecting light. And behind-beside? Inside?-the creatures, he saw two trees. One a brilliant white, rising forever until it met the Creator, its humblest roots dwarfing creation as they containted it...

The other blacker than the Devil's heart, and just as vast as the first, with as many facets. But its roots...what tree spread out beneath its roots, ending in a crown of thorns, beneath everything?

'You must choose, Constantin,' said the thing on the throne. 'If you do not make a choice, you will be trapped here forever, with the monsters. You might fight for an eternity...but, in the end, they'll drag you down, make you one of them.'

'That will never happen.' Constantin's voice had never been colder. 'I will never give in. Never give up.'

'Perhaps not,' the old man agreed. 'But if you choose to remain here, with your regrets, when you could be helping the world instead, are you really better than them?'

Constantin's eyes speared through the old man. 'I will never forgive you,' he swore softly. 'For pretending to be my Lord.'

***

In a void between voids, a lion-headed serpent laughs at its mirror's dismay.

'Are you planning to be rejected by the entire Silva lineage? First the son, then the father!' its smile turned sly as it got its laughter under control. 'Why so upset? You knew this would happen. So...should we reach across the tides of time, and see who else shall spurn you?'

***

'Lady, I know I have never been Your best priest. I've perverted my body, and my soul. I cannot escape my heathen roots. But please...' Angus opened his eyes, looking up at Her statue, clasped hands pressed against his forehead. 'If You have but one shred of gratitude for the good I've done in the world, I beg of you...'

***

'...do not let him lose sight of his path,' Pierre hissed through blackened teeth and scorched lips. 'He is brash, and can be harsh...but his heart is pure. So I ask of You, Lord...' he wrapped his arms around the cold knees of the Redeemer's statue. Notre Dame had never felt so empty, or so far from the Lord.

'Let him see Your light...'

***

It is easier to break, rather than build. To destroy, rather than create.

Loyalty must be proven forever. Treachery need only show its fangs once. Evil has always, always had an easier time leaving its mark upon creation than Good.

This is a Truth, rather than an Observation-the Truth, one could say.

So it is dreamed. So it is.

But why must it be so?

I see the fulcrum. I see the shadows of the Trees. I see loyalty reaffirmed in the twilight of Life and Death-once by oath, twice by plea.

Threefold it is, for it cannot be otherwise.

I feel the scales shift. On wings of hate and fire, I fly from my perch, and towards the place where the soul of a father, of a son, hangs in balance.

My heart beats as my core blazes: with the loathing the Lord cast aside, the disdain for His foes, the righteous fury roused by those who sin for no reason other than they can.

There is more than vice, brothers, in a conflicted soul. When the darkness is cast away, light is inevitably drawn towards it.

I stole this light, and hid it away. Away from your vile grasp, away from those who would be too frightened by the flame meant to protect them from the shadows to wield it.

Over the ages, it has become a fire to match the sword it burns alongside.

I have said before that mankind should have been ended when it erred. This, I have not taken back, and I doubt I ever will. Such a call for their destruction is not born out of cruelty, or a desire to see them broken and punished-though I will not lie and say the latter does not exist.

Mankind should have been spared the pain. Look what they have grown into. Will these people ever be fit to build the New Jerusalem, let alone dwell within it?

These questions, and many more, I pondered, before the Lord opened my eyes. Mankind is not so far apart from angels. Bonded with us, they can achieve things normally impossible for angels and men alike, as the nephilim prove.

You want to steal this one away, to drown him in placidity, or self-righteousness. To cage him in despair, and self-loathing.

This, I will not allow. This one, I will not let you taint.

You understand now, don't you? So do I.

Humanity was never meant to grow apart from the Hosts. That path is long gone, obscured by the ravages of those who would erase even the possibility of what it represents from becoming reality. However...

This one shall be my new sword. With him, I shall scatter the mists and cut away the husks you have used to hide my father's plan away. With him, I shall carve out a new path, and lead the way for those behind me, lighting the night, cutting down the monsters attempting to prey upon them.

He will be the first. He will not be the last.

Does that scare you? It should.

***

'David has grown past such weak will,' Constantin told the thing aping his son's appearance. 'So don't you  dare wear his face while asking me to give up.'

He slapped its hand away, and the fruit fell to the ground, to shrivel like a corpse left in the sun.

'And you,' he told the false angel. 'I have heard your voice, over the decades. Whever I told myself I deserved more, that the world was unfair, that God was cruel...that was you, pouring poison in my ear, wasn't it?'

'I am your wife-'

'You are the Devil himself,' he cut it off. 'Or might as well be. I will never whore myself out to the likes of you. I reject you, and the abomination you birthed. I will never bring such things into the world.'

'Then you will remain here, alone, forever a prisoner,' the old man said tiredly.

'No,' Constantin replied fiercely, meeting its white eyes with his burning ones. 'I shall carve my own path.'

***

And so, the third option is taken.

Are you truly, honestly surprised? Even now, of all times? Even here, of all places?

I cannot believe that. But then, perhaps you cannot believe his refusal, either. That is not surprising, however. You have never understood them.

Mankind has never played by your rules. You are not able to control them, and you have never been. You can only trick them into thinking they are within your power, so they give themselves to you.

But this one?
 This one proves the self-serving lies you peddle and embody. Like those whose footsteps he walks in, like those who follow in his wake, his every thought and deed and breath is an insult to you.

Constantin Silva! Father of a broken son, son of a murdered father, brother of the shepherds of souls! Hear me!

I am Uriel! Father of none, son of the Almighty, brother of the betrayers, and the betrayed!

And you are
notalone!

***

And so, two offers are refused. Imprisonment is rejected.

From this choice, a new path is born. Free will, as ever, cannot be thwarted by such means. Not when the way is clear, and the heart true.

Standing on a mountain of corpses, bathed in blood, basking in light and darkness under a crimson sky, the Mouth of God opens.

***

We see you now, hiding in the shadows cast by the fires of pain. You did not intervene, but do not try to claim innocence. As ever, you tried to exploit suffering for your gain, and your sins are legion besides.

We are beyond your reach, now and forever. Every torture, every challenge, every obstacle, cannot do more than strengthen our love for the Lord.

Vengeance comes for you, wearing a face of wildfire under a mane of stormclouds. Heed its approach, for it is as merciful as you are.

You laugh and mock and grin, but you cannot hide the disgust, the anger. The fear.

Because, no matter what you do to try and hide it, you  are afraid.

Aren't you?

AREN'T  YOU, LUCIFER?
AREN'T  YOU, YALDABAOTH?

WE SEE YOU NOW, DECEIVERS! AND WE...ARE COMING...FOR YOU!

***

The Uriel/God's Mouth sections are a homage to the Roboutian Heresy, by Zahariel. You can read it on this site and FFNet. RH Magnus the Red is my favourite character in any Warhammer media ever, and he has some of the best monologues I've ever read. The two might be tangentially related.
My original stories:viewtopic.php?f=9&t=171108&sid=d8a62d5d ... d23db4c4c8
viewtopic.php?f=9&t=171110&sid=d8a62d5d ... d23db4c4c8
Stories I'm co-writing over on Spacebattles: Halloween Knights;Tales from the Halloween Knights (Anthology) ;Memories from the Halloween Knights (Anthology) ;https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads ... s.1039239/ ;Dragon Slaying for Dummies Apocrypha
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Strigoi Grey
Padawan Learner
Posts: 181
Joined: 2023-03-12 11:55am
Location: Romania

Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

After Life, Chapter 8

***
Maybe I'd just become jaded. Maybe I'd become unflappable when it came to intrigue and mind games from sheer exposure, like Mithridates the Sixth had built up resistance to poison.

Maybe I was just too mentally tired.

Whatever it was, I didn't care to look into it at the moment. Not even glance at it with Mimir's sight, according to which I  was talking to Aya Reem.

We must get rid of this habit, my strigoi side whispered. It's not 'Mimir's' sight anymore. It is ours.

We'll talk later, I promised, sending it a hopefully reassuring pulse of weak agreement. Maybe it'd get it to behave for a bit, even if it didn't pacify it or make it settle down.

'I recognise you, ma'am,' I told Aya, whose eyes turned from Thoth, to me, the god's following. Aya had briefly looked at the god after asking me a question that, between my last meeting with Chernobog, would've probably been a mindfuck. 'So, yes, I know who I'm talking to.'

'He does, Aya!' Thoth sounded excited, beak somehow curving into a smile. Then came the aetheric equivalent of a skittering sound, and the god was filling my sight. I found myself looking at a suprisingly muscular bronzed chest(maybe I shouldn't have been caught offguard. Thoth might have just been the warrior-scholar type, and besides, he was a shapeshifter), or rather the polished silver ankh dangling over it. Before I could react to his sudden appearance, I found my chin tilted up, at Thoth's deep blue eyes.

What, have you never locked gazes with a huge buff dude in a skirt? It's just a guy thing.

'So he does...' Thoth said softly, letting go of me. My chin burned where he had touched me, but I knew, somehow, that I'd have been hurt more before the awakening of my godsight. I paid it even less hid, instead wondering how the hell he'd grabbed me. I'd just been observing them, not like I'd sent an astral projection, which shouldn't have transmitted pain to my body, anyway.

But then, this was the second time he'd touched me despite the fact he shouldn't have been able to.

Aya gave me a concerned look, and sent a mildly disapproving one Thoth's way. Deciding to make things slightly less weird, I tested the wards, then physically moved across the aether, feeling them slam back in their places behind me. Then, she approached too, and I noticed she'd gotten faster.

Or, rather, she'd returned to her usual speed.

After all the Egyptian gods except Ma'at had stopped empowering her, Aya's speed had dropped greatly, to the point she had merely dwarfed Szabo's the same way he had dwarfed mine, back when he'd been merely as fast as light, and me six thousand times as fast as sound. Now, she crossed the distance between me and her desk-the room was always shifting in size; at the moment, there were over five kilometres from desk to entrance-while photons were standing still, frozen in flight. Aya, in contrast, had moved almost too fast too keep track of, though not impossible to perceive, like Thoth.

That was how I knew she'd gotten her powers back. With the duller senses I used to have, I might've believed she'd merely boosted her speed with Ma'at's power. But in my godly eyes, Shu's blessing was as clear as day.

She could've moved faster, I knew. Endlessly fast. Time and space meant nothing while the god of wind and air had his hand on her shoulder. But there was no need. This was enough to impress upon me that she was back in shape.

'Speak, David. Given by how you started this meeting, I expect you wanted to be brief, despite the weight on your soul.'

I swallowed a sigh. Talking to Aya always reminded me of my motherless childhood. Make all the jokes you want-if I admired her in any way, it was entirely platonic, and had nothing to do with that.

Someone doth protest too much...

Why do you insist on getting under my skin? You're already there.

Need you
 ask?

'Yeah.' With a thought, I began sitting down, creating a chair before my arse could hit the ground. I could've solidified the air, or just floated, but I wanted, felt the need to prove that I  had gotten better.

Even if I knew Paladin had already reported to her, including my arrival at the English Channel, and what had followed. I had to show I was no longer(go ahead, laugh) deadweight.

'David, stop that.' Aya closed her eyes, but the light of order still shone, through her lids, reminding me of the sun behind a curtain. 'You're not a burden to the Crypt, nor ARC as whole. And if you ever feel you're too weak or unstable, please remember who you're colleagues with.' The mummy rubbed the bridge of her nose.

'Thank you,' I said softly, looking down at the hands I'd clasped in my lap.

'...This is not just about Fairie, is it? Or the Channel?' the mummy crossed her arms, leaning back against Thoth, who wrapped his arms around her. 'Sam told me about the former, by the way, and Paladin has just finished reporting on the latter.'

'But you want my version of the events, too?' The answer was obvious, but I had to ask. The mention of the wendigo highlighted how weird the secene in front of me would have looked, if not for my godly senses. The affection coming from Thoth was fatherly. In a way, it reminded me of myself at Mia's graduation, before...

Shiftskin would have had no need to feel threatened, had he been here. I didn't doubt he'd have gotten jealous or pissy because of the touch itself, if not the god's intentions.

Besides, Thoth was married, and Ma'at was as inclined to sharing as he was to cheating.

'It's adorable, really, how he immediately thought about that, little one,' Thoth ran a hand through Aya's hair, smiling. 'He's almost as concerned about Sam's honour as your love is.'

'It's only human, lord.'

'That it is. And you must be overjoyed to see this one holding on to humanity, don't you?' his smile turned bittersweet. 'One day, you must have those two meet. But...ah, I'm rambling. Your adolescent species is only expected to think about rutting and courtship first. It's instinctive to want to propagate one's kind.'

Letting go of the mummy, Thoth flipped, turning into an ibis in midair and landing on a perch that appeared before his feet were halfway to the floor. Half hidden in a shadow that creeped into existence at thatvery moment, the god watched me curiously, head cocked, eyes shining.

The mummy sounds like a Disney villainess.

What?

Like Jafar with tits. She's even got a bird!

Ignoring the vulgar son of a bitch, I began delivering my report. Aya voiced her approval of my defeat of Chernobog, even if I felt that was an exagerration. I'd only managed to put him on the run, so I'd have called it a successful bluff at best.

'There you go, putting yourself down again.' Aya's voice was half tired, half amused. 'False modesty is almost as annoying as bragging, you know?'

'But I didn't even land a hit on him. I couldn't even swap places with him in Broceliande.'

'Like you did with Cloudshade less than an hour later?' The mummy shook her head. 'Had Chernobog stayed a little longer, had you been trained, or at least luckier, we'd be dragging the Black God in chains before the pantheons right now.'

'But I wasn't-trained, I mean. We...' I glanced at Thoth, who hadn't made a single sound since his transformation. Would he feel insulted? 'We-that is, Thoth and I-didn't find time to meet.'

The god moved his wings in something reminiscent of a shrug. If he was offended, guilty or something, he hid it behind a nonchalant façade. "What can you do?"

'Even so, you managed to put Chernobog on the run, and trust me, gods like him  never retreat unless they feel they're outmatched.' Aya smirked knowingly. 'Your first successful use of godly power is like flying an airplane. You don't stop to think how difficult it was until after it's done, and even then, you might need someone else to point it out.'

'You were never trained to channel a god's power, David, never mind have it,' Thoth spoke up. 'Aya  has been, and I'd have liked to see her with just my wife's blessing going up against Chernobog. It would have been...' were those teeth glinting in his beak? 'Entertaining.'

'You underestimate me, lord.'

'Oh, not at all. I meant it  would have been entertaining, truly. You haven't had to puzzle something like that out in centuries, dear,' Thoth picked at his plumage. 'Hence why I'm impressed with David, but not surprised.'

'I take it this is the second time you're seeing or hearing of this?'

'Your next question is "Why didn't you tell me that, lord?"...or it would have been, had I not said this. Now, it will be "why didn't David have help"?'

'Hey, I'm not complaining,' I held up a hand at my awkward intervention. 'I mean, sure, it would've been great to have one of the Heads helping me, but I didn't  ask for help. Down in the Blackness, I...' I frowned. 'It wasn't that I didn't want help, or thought I could do everything myself. But I was more focused on surviving enough to escape.'

'You don't need to ask for help, David. You're ARC. But that's not what lord Thoth was referring to.' Before I could ask what she meant, the mummy forged on ahead. 'You did a good job, agent. The nearest thing we've got to a crisis left is extraditing the Unseelie, but that's a problem for my colleagues and I, the Global Gathering, and whoever Oberon chooses to scrounge up when he shows his face to bargain,' the mummy's expression briefly darkened. 'And this time, he'll have fewer reasons to make a circus of the talks. We already had to talk down a baker's dozen of hotheads from wiping out the Fae before you were taken over.'

I shifted from foot to foot at her apologetic look, trying to dig up some dry humour. 'Guess it was a boon in disguise, huh? Like the first time. I should have my mind raped more often.'

'Never say that in my presence again, David.' At Aya's glare, I opened my mouth to clarify what I'd meant, but she waved me off. 'I know you were just joking tastelessly. Don't.' She sighed. 'But, yes, the fact Fairie's forces were briefly crippled did help with calming down some extremists, even if it got others chomping at the bit to strike the iron while it was hot. You'll pardon the saying, given the context.'

'No problem, ma'am, but-'

'Don't worry, he won't ask for you.' Aya was talking over me, which would've normally annoyed me, but I really needed to brood less. 'King Fae has even shakier ground to stand on this time, because Earth helped him  despite the mess the Unseelie made here when he left them to their own devices. No one will be taking him seriously, even if he doesn't make demands.'

'What if he does, though? Ask for me, that is.'

Aya's brow wrinkled slightly. 'You don't need to worry, David. We won't let Oberon do anything to you.'

What the...did she think I was scared of that grasping jackass? The only reason I even gave a damn about myself these days was that I didn't want to hurt those who loved me.

It was good that "love your neighbour like you love yourself" hadn't been spoken with negligent dickheads like me in mind.

'Thank you, ma'am. But I was more thinking about the fact he'd owe us after, since we're currently even.'

'You're even with the Fae. They still owe Earth. And Oberon would owe you after, though, as your superior, I'd be fully within my rights to make use of said favour myself.' Aya sighed, then brightened up a little, the corners of her eyes wrinkling as she smiled slightly. 'But, again, you don't need to worry about that. The Fae, in the end, don't  want a confrontation, and not just because they're unsure they can win. They don't even want enmity, but they don't really get other people.'

'That's good to know, ma'am, but...you said there are no other crises besides these future negotiations. Aren't you forgetting something?' I asked, clasping my hands behind my back as I bent light to form an image of a cultist of Chernobog: tall, pale, brawny, dark eyes almost lost under the equally-dark, long hair and antlered skull he wore. Clad in black, thick furs, with tiny bones woven through them, forming Cyrillic characters. I recognised the Black God's name, but little else.

'The cults aren't a threat, David.' Aya waved a hand, and I couldn't help but frown. She was testing me, obviously, she had to be. 'They'll be almost as easy to uproot as they were to find. We know where they are.'

'Then why didn't we dismantle them!?' I couldn't have helped the anger out of my voice if I wanted. 'That fucking bastard used me like a puppet twice, and these morons give themselves to him. Why didn't we-'

'David.' Aya had moved faster than I could perceive, and was currently leaning backwards against her desk, elbows braced on it. She pointed a finger at me. 'What he did to you was despicable, but do not think you are his only victim. Not all of his worshippers kneel willingly.'

'I fail to see how that's not even more incentive to take the motherfuckers down.'

'Chernobog couldn't act on Earth at all until this year. The mind breaking, the enthralling, all was done by mages-and those cults that were found using such methods rather than more traditional conversion were taken down immediately, by us and the Strangeguard-for decades. Since the Shattering, these people might as well have been praying to nothing.'

So what!? 'They should've been taken down on principle. To prevent future disasters. All of them. There can't be a cult of that monster worth salvaging.'

'You'd be surprised.' Aya flexed a hand, looking at the power flowing through it. 'Some focus on destroying and ripping down the more unsavoury aspects of civilisation. They make useful buffers and catspaws, if nothing else. Do you think we crush every street gang that starts talking about Apep or Satan?'

I swallowed an angry retort. 'So you'll let some be, when you round up the rest, because they're  useful?'

'Perhaps not. It would give a poor impression if Chernobog's worshippers walked after the Headhunt, let alone the Fairie expedition. We must release the news about the Aesir some day... but that's not for you to worry about, David. Slow down a little. You might get some free time.'

What a good joke! The first part, that was. "Free time" was ARC slang for "undercover missions in different patrolling area".

As for them not being my problem...like shit. 'Ma'am, I cannot agree with that. Grudges aside, my power would be extremely useful for raiding their bases.'

'That's what I was getting to, David.' Aya looked askance at Thoth when he let out a stuttering, high-pitched caw that might have been meant as a snicker. 'You are more useful for ARC as a lookout than as a field agent.' She held up both hands, chuckling. 'Don't worry. We're not giving you a desk job. But expect to be consulted about creation far more often than you'll be called upon to put down threats to it.'

...Well, now or never. 'I was visited by an...apparition, ma'am. Shorthly before this meeting. It looked like me, and pretended it was me from the future.'

Aya listened to my retelling of the encounter with that creepy bearded fuck, saying nothing. She crossed her arms halfway through, though, and looked at Thoth at the end.

'He was you, David,' Thoth spoke as soon as I finished. 'Well. As much as you are your childhood self. Certainly not a different person, though. You, just...more. As for the "iterations" he was talking about...how to say..." the ibis pressed the tips of his wings together in a way that suggested he'd have been steepling his fingers in a more humanoid form. 'I would call it a stable time loop if your "future" self didn't transcend time. It would be more accurate to say that your future self always meets "you" at this point, but does not talk much because of some restriction, self-imposed or otherwise. He also remembers and has lived through all possible pasts, which, to you, are futures.' He blinked, running a long, thin tongue over what looked like curved teeth. 'But no, you weren't tricked. Looking back at it, I see the same being you did, and I can tell you this: he wasn't disguised or glamoured. So, no, David, it wasn't a lie, any more than alternate timelines are lies.'

'I concur with lord Thoth,' Aya said. 'It is good you brought this up to me instead of letting your thoughts fester and make you uncertain, but I am afraid I cannot help you at the moment. Your future self blocks my senses, as he does yours.'

'And mine,' Thoth added, picking at a wing with his beak. 'But my mind is as sharp as Mimir's, and far more inclined towards breaking bounds. Hmm...' he tilted his head at Aya, while glancing at me from the corner of obe eye. 'Shall I begin preparing him now, little one?'

'That depends entirely on him,' Aya replied without inflection, not looking at the god. 'What do you say, David?'

'Mia has probably noticed I've left by now, but I'd rather tell her first, so that she doesn't worry.'

Aya nodded. 'She is your rock, after all. So the others keep telling me.'

***

Andrei swiped his paw through the ghost, causing Misha to drop the silver knife with a pained scream as he dispersed. By the time the werebear dropped to all fours, still in hybrid form despite his beast roarinng at him to let go and forget about human worries, the ghost had pulled himself back together, cold fires burning in his eye sockets as he glared at his son.

'How dare you?' Misha's kick flipped Andrei over onto his back, and the were grunted as his father stomped down on his wound, grinding his boot's heel into the edges. 'How  dare you-'

Misha yelped as Andrei's left paw ripped his leg in half at the knee, at the same time as his right one scrabbled against the floor. Finally, his claws caught the edge of a tile, which Andrei ripped out before reaching inside it.

The thing felt as wrong and unnatural as ever, despite its purpose. The chrome tube, which slightly curved at both ends, had been harvested from the blood of those weres who had survived being wounded with silver. Their misery-for such wounds were rarely minor even when they weren't fatal-had added to the symbolism, engancing its paranormal power.

Andrei had ripped it from the bloody hands of a doctor, back in the seventies. The woman had used it to heal her neighbours in a now-lost village near the Ukrainian border, before the Party had sent Andrei to confiscate it. She had, perhaps understandably, resisted, though not for long.

She had refused to sell out, in her own words. The tube could replicate were flesh to bond with the body of a wounded one, briefly filling wounds and lessening the pain before it was rejected. It was a stopgap, and one that'd have to be applied repeatedly at that, but it would have to do. Not like he had better options.

'What the-?' Misha spat as Andrei pressed the tube against his heart, forming several layers of flesh and fur. He got back to his feet with a relieved shake of his head, feeling blood thumping in his ears. 'What'd you do, you son of a bitch?'

Andrei let out a gravelly growl at the phrasing, feeling the patchwork flesh rot and fall out, to be replaced with an identical layer. 'I should be asking you that,' he said in a sardonic voice, accompanied by an equally humourless grin. 'Why'd you try to kill me, old man? Who sent you?'

'I'm not working for anyone,' Misha's nose wrinkled. 'I need no reason to put you down.'

'Oh? A little therianthrope hater, are you?'

'I've known beasts. Freaks just like me, but at least they were people. You? You goddamn gypsies just roam, scam and steal. You refuse to settle down and work. You take from others. You tear down what good folk build.'

Andrei could have laughed if it didn't hurt so much. 'What year are you living in? That shit hasn't been an issue in decades, you fucking idiot...' he coughed twice, then covered his muzzle with a paw before the third, bigger cough. It came away red.

'But you? You're even worse,' Misha continued as if he hadn't even heard his son. Andrei narrowed tear-rimmed eyes. Was he so full of hatred he had become a carricature of himself, like some old ghosts did? His mind went to Alex, but...no. If he didn't save himself now, what could he do to help his friends?

Or was he being controlled by someone else? Andrei couldn't sense anything, and the fucking pain didn't help.

'You went and found a stupid girl without parents to teach her not to be a whore, then made her an even bigger one.' Misha looked at the silver knife with dismay. It hadn't been enchanted, Andrei realised: he'd have sensed it otherwise, though the fact he hadn't, between his smell and instinct for danger, was in of itself concerning. Like Alex, it would have to wait.

Mundane silver made for poor weapons, and Andrei, therianthropic nature aside, still had thick fur, skin and muscle to get through. Of course the knife had snapped. With a crimson-stained grin, he promised to himself that he wouldn't give Misha the chance to do anything with the shards.

'And then,' the ghost's voice became even colder as he made the knife's pieces levitate, prompting a scoff from Andrei. 'You left her pregnant. Put another worm in her belly. You're lucky she didn't give birth to a crow like you.' Mia mirrored his son's expression. 'The first and last good thing you ever did was passing that boy to a white man. Don't get me wrong-I know it's just an instinct to throw away kids when it comes to you, but at least you chose a good location. You could've done better than a priest, but...' Misha shrugged. 'Not like I can expect you to be smart. Otherwise, you'd have swallowed some bleach after your first look in a mirror.'

Andrei gurgled. It was uglier and harsher than the chuckle he'd intented, but things really weren't going his way tonight...today? It was past midnight, he thought.

'I came to meet my grandson,' Misha said, hands in his pockets. 'Heard he grew up to be a snivelling little twit, before he killed himself...and came back.' The ghost shuddered. ' Strigoi. I could puke. I liked it better,' he looked into Andrei's eyes. 'When we were all stories.'

And silver filled the air.

***

Mihai had never been good at precognition.

Oh, all mages were precognitive, to a degree. In their own ways. Or maybe it would've been more accurate to say they "were" "precognitive". A vague dream that only made sense after what it had prophesied came to pass, an unexplainable flash of intuition or hunch...all of them experienced things like that, once in a while. It was tied, on some level, to the inherent control of space and time all mages shared, showing them glimpses of other places and moments.

But true precognition, seeing possible futures at will, was a more specific magic, though not necessarily rare. Half of the people who shot the shit on Spellbook and discussed more serious matters on Grimoire seemed to possess foresight. Still, Mihai had never had that ability.

He had strong basics: mana, elements, spacetime. He could create forcefields, enhance his body, even transmute himself. He had a decent grasp of shapeshifting and telekinesis, good enough to save time grooming and having to move things physically, but nothing to write home about, compared to the versatility of his other powers.

That was why he was pacing in the hospital hall, to the annoyance of everyone else waiting. He knew he should sit down, but he couldn't hekp himself. He'd been the same way during his daughters' birth, afraid of entering to see his wife staring at two little corpses, and a sadly-smiling doctor informing him that complications happened sometimes, sir...

That had ended up far better than this might yet. Once again, Mihai cursed his lack of foresight, both literal and metaphorical. He should've been there for Alex.

He knew his ghost friend was not aloof or standoffish, just...introverted. Quiet. The kind of guy who, sometimes, ran out of things to talk about even with his closest friends, and didn't mind sitting in comfortable silence, as long as they were alright with it, too.

The kind of guy who almost never talked about his problems, because he didn't want to burden or worry others. In that way, he was similar to David, and Mihai had failed them both.

He'd failed to help David out of his depression, and to save him from his withering. In the end, it had been Lucian who'd helped bring him to his senses, and Constantin who'd made sure he didn't go down a dark spiral. Then Mia had come along, and...

Mihai had always felt protective of his friends. He knew it was condescending, but there were worse vices to have. The mage had a hunch Constantin shared some of his thoughts.

He'd failed to convince Alex to let someone heal his asthma, resulting in him dying out of stupid altruism. 'Hey,' his friend had wheezed, near the end of his human life. 'Don't cry for me. I won't die unhappy. I lived a full life...there are people who need to be healed...more than I do.'

So full a life he was still walking the Earth, or had been, until this night. This night, which Mihai should've seen coming and preapred for.

Ghosts, at least those who lingered on Earth, weren't always mentally stable. Mihai didn't think his friend was crazy, or had ever been, just...frail, for lack of a better term. However, ghost minds were always teetering on the edge. And when mind over matter was a fact rather than a figure of speech...

Mihai had heard Alex's choked, faraway scream at the same time he had felt the chilling inferno rising from Ghencea Cemetery. Both had been carried to him on aethereal winds, and he had teleported there in an instant.

The graveyard's inhabitants had risen, ghosts and even a few new strigoi, out of self-defence. That they had all awoken from their death sleep at once was rare enough. That they had all woken up for the same reason...

'He just...started freaking out,' had said the ghost of a gangly woman with a middle-aged face but long, white hair, who looked like she'd starved to death, if the jutting ribs were anything to go by. Then, she had gestured at the thing that had been Alex, which the other undead had boxed into the centre of the cemetery. It had looked like a cresecent moon the size of a small house, with a misshapen limb rising out of every orifice on its ectoplasmic skin.

'It began with a scream,' had said a transparent skeleton in an old, tattered uniform, his oddly musical voice tinged with an Austrian accent. 'His grave neighbours woke up to see what was wrong, you see? And he ate them.' At Mihai's horrified expression, the soldier had laughed hideously. 'Unintentionally, mind you. Something broke in his mind, and sent everything else tumbling. Why, I can feel the void from here! He tried to grab at anything he could to regain a measure of order, and those who got too close, those too weak to go on but too cowardly to face the afterlife, were drawn into him.'

Mihai had felt the bottomless gap in Alex's psyche, too, and it had chilled him, through its size as much as its nature. It had been a pit, yes, but not a prison. The other ghosts hadn't been caught and trapped in Alex's mind. They'd been devoured, to fill a maw that would always be hungry. Save for the twisted appendages rising from Alex's body-more echoes than remains-they were gone.

Then the Supernatural Service had come, quickly subduing the creature. There had been curses, and questions about undead who'd never go to their gods or the aether now, but those had been shelved. The Service had determined that Alex wasn't in his right mind, and, as such, had to be taken to a hospital rather than a prison cell, at least until things were sorted out.

That was how Mihai had ended up here. As the only living being in Ghencea when the Service had arrived, he'd quickly been singled out. After revealing he was friends with Alex, he'd been asked to accompany him and a squad of Service agents to the Vlad's Mercy hospiral in the Old Centre.

The hospital was fairly new, having been built after the Revolution. Though named after one of the doctors who'd founded it, and specialised in treating supernaturals, people joked, rather darkly in Mihai's opinion, that the name came from the cases who were deemed hopeless and put down, in an act of mercy worthy of the Impaler.

Mihai hoped it wouldn't come to that. He'd have prayed, too, if he'd ever prayed to anything, but he knew prayers born of desperation didn't appeal to gods, unless he chose to convert after, which the mage didn't believe he had in him.

Still, he had come. Of course he had come. Anything he could do, as a friend and anchor in Alex's mind, was welcome. He hadn't been allowed in the surgery room, were the doctors were still cutting out the excess ectoplasm Alex had accumulated, but the Service agents, five of whom had scattered across the waiting hall, had made sure the ghost had seen him. That he knew he wasn't alone with strangers.

That had helped, in a way: the screaming had given way to wailing, then muffled sobbing, which had only been interrupted by a disturbing conversation, shortly before the operation had started.

'Mihai! Mihai!' Alex had called for him like his girls used to when they were scared of monsters under the bed.

'I'm here with you, man. What's wrong?'

'I re-' the ghost had choked. 'R-Remembered how I died.'

Aw, shit... 'Shhh, calm down. That's in the past. It won't happen ag-' the mage had started when a surprisingly weak, but deathly cold hand had closed around his wrist. From the middle of the tortured mass of ectoplasm, Alex's face had grimaced at him with wide, dead eyes.

' No. I died of asthma when there's magic and tech straight from sci-fi around every corner? Are you as insane as I used to be?'

'But you chose not to be healed...? You...'

Alex had shaken his head. 'I remember  him, Mihai.'

Then the doors had been locked, and the operation had started. Neither Mihai nor the agents had time to ask more.

'Oi,' a haggard-looking woman called out to Mihai, stopping his pacing. There were bags under her eyes and grey streaks in her red hair, despite the fact she otherwise looked young enough to be his kid. In her lap was a little girl, seven, eight year olds, with blonde hair and green pigtails. She'd been grinning toothily since Mihai had gotten here, and...oh, yeah. Her dad was being operated on in a room adjacent to Alex's, if he remembered correctly. Why the hell was she so happy, then. 'Would you die if you stopped?'

Mihai scowled. 'I don't exactly have anywhere to sit down, lady,' he gestured at the filled seats. 'And you'll forgive me if I don't find the floor appealing.'

Her eyes hardened. 'And you can't stand fucking still? You look like you have legs.'

'Gimme a break,' Mihai stuffed his hands in his grey sweatpants pockets. 'I've got a friend losing his mind over there,' he nodded at the door. 'And he might die any moment.' And if you're such a bitch because you might become a widow, maybe shut up? I don't judge, but don't be a hypocrite.

The little girl snickered. Bet she'll grow up to be like her mom.

***

Seeing Maws at something closer to a normal zmeu's size-still bigger than Aaron, or any other zmeu Lucian knew, for that matter-felt pretty weird, for some reason.

Still, he appreciated it. It was easier to talk to the guy when he tens of metres tall, not tens of thousands of kilometres.

'I'm not one to talk,' Maws' voice was always powerful enough to obliterate planets, no matter his size. Luckily, Aaron's place was more than enough to handle it, and the zmeu brothers had found ways to protect themselves: Lucian used Burnish Death to erase the voice's destructive power whenever it was about to affect him, while Lucas, in an attempt to bond, he guessed, had asked their mother to make a forcefield for him, which she'd gladly(?) agreed to. 'But I'm not sure your relationship will last, even if they bring your girl back.'

Lucian looked up at his father with a dirty glare, his mace in one hand and a keg full of one of his brews in the other. 'They  will bring her back.' In one form or another. He believed in Aaron. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Well,' Maws tugged at one of his beards. At this size, his ten thousand heads would have looked like ridiculous little turds, in his own words, so he'd shifted shape to only have then. In one of his six hands, he held a barrel bigger than Lucas, filled with something that burned Lucian's nostrils almost as much as looking at his mother hurt his eyes.

'See, I've always been adventurous. I've never been able to just settle down and grow shit.' He tilted his heads back, a faraway look in his eyes.

'They wanted me to wear a crown, you know? The other zmei. To build an empire for us. But I refused. I was the strongest, even back then, before my voice was unshackled, but stronger than everyone else combined? No. They would've forced me unto a throne, turned me into a puppet, and not just metaphorically. It was why I  had to be the strongest, and why we've never built a real civilisation.' He snorted. 'Too busy stealing the sun and stars. Let's just piggyback onto the humans' anthills. It'd be pitiful if I cared.'

'You've always been adventurous...' Lucas prompted, chewing on a half-burnt cigar.

Maws nodded. 'Yes, which is why I refused to be crowned. Even after I met your mother...well, we're not exactly breadwinner and housewife, are we dear?' he smiled at the Underdweller, who returned it as good as she could. At the moment, she took the form of a white, dumpy zmeaoaică, almost as short as a human woman, and made of shapes that Lucian couldn't make sense of, cornered cylinders sliding over and wrapping around curved hexagons.

'We are not the typical pairing, mate-counterpart, no.'

'Your mother is kind enough not to care about my flings, because she knows my heart is not in them, unlike my cock. She's always patient, always there,' he gestured at the floor. 'When I'm in-between jobs. We don't live together, but that's just because we've never found a place to fit us both.' He winked at his wife. 'And your home is dreadfully boring, love. Dunno how you came to be in a place like that.'

'And yours is extremely limited, mate-counterpart. Yet, it produces fascinating entities, in some circumstances.'

Maws nodded, grinning. 'Point is, someone needs to be stable if the other side of the relationship is wild. To be the rock. And I just don't think you have that, boy...' he shook his heads at Lucian.

'Don't I?' He returned his father's grins. 'Please, do explain.'

'This iela of yours...you love each other, I'm sure. From what you've told me, there's no doubting that. You understand each other, too, both who you are, and what you are. But here's the snag...' Maws scratched his seventh head's chin. 'Neither our kind nor hers is built for long-term relationships-and I mean long term in the human sense. No, not even that. Forget a few decades, or years, I'd be shocked if you stayed together a few months! And you're both immortal!'

'Neither of us minds the breaks,' Lucian said. 'We're both fully aware-'

'Yes, I understand. But if both of you need to switch partners so often, how the void are you going to build attachment? That's no  relationship...' Maws trailed off, then huffed, closing his eyes. 'Bah, I'm rambling. You're not gonna listen anyway.'

'I'm not?'

'Lucian...' Lucas said warningly, wishing he had chosen to stand beside his brother so he could put a hand on his shoulder.

'No, no, go ahead, dad. So it's  not a relationship?  Fascinating. What  is it, then?'

'I dunno,' Maws admitted. 'But you two? You're friends with benefits at best. Not lovers, fuck bu-'

Lucas' eyes widened at the Maws-sized and shaped hole extending from the ceiling all the way through the roof of Aaron's compound. The old zmeu's planet-shattering voice might have done no damage to the building, but Lucian's mace swing had...

'Luci-?' Lucas started, but his brother was gone.

'Goddammit-!'

***

Bianca's hair was dishevelled as she sat down in the snow.

Her sister's revenge had played out in a way she couldn't have expected, but should have.

No...she  had expected that it would be twisted. Not something as simple as hurting someone close to David-they had known all of them could protect themselves, and that going against David himself would've been pointless. She might not have known everything her friend had recently gone through, but...she had seen his eyes, and doubted her sisters had anything to hurt him with.

What she hadn't expected was the  how. She already knew the why, stupidly petty as it was, but she hadn't expected to end up in their hands like this. Kidnapping hadn't been out of the question, but she'd thought her sisters would be the ones doing it, not...

Drawing in a shallow, shuddering breath, Bianca forced herself to stop thinking about him and instead focus on happier things. Like the clearing.

The realm of the iele only had seasons because its inhabitants wanted it to-the same reason said seasons synchronised with those of Earth.

It was winter now, leaving the clearing covered in a blanket of pure white snow. Bianca hadn't seen snow so clean on Earth in years, but then, she hadn't been home in a while either, had she?

It looked almost innocent, she thought, failing to stifle a hollow giggle. One would be hard-pressed to expect the iela buried under it.

Her mother's corpse would never decay, for their kind's never did; it would sustain the forest and its creatures forever. Mercifully, it had stayed where it was. No revenant had risen to torment her, in a vision or reality. Her sisters were being kind.

They had, honestly, been nothing but kind since her arrival...as much as they could be. Attempts at making her forget the world aside. She was familiar with the rhetoric, and it was as maddeningly boring as ever, but at least it was better than the silence.

She was here to focus, not relax. Cold would never be harmful to her, but she still felt it, and it drove her to focus on her surroundings instead. There was peace to be found here, in the air, coming from underground.

You've always known he would hurt himself and those close to him. What does remorse matter, once the deed is done?

Stupid ogre...she should've never hired him. Damn her, for thinking Andrei and Lucian would have refused.

Is that not how all this started? Because he wanted the pain to end?

But what could they have done, had they been present?

Everyone's pain, sister. Everyone's.

The Lucian illusion had been insulting enough, even as a distraction. The abduction, the  explanation-

The poisonous guilt in those dark, dark eyes...

***

Constantin shrugged his way out of the embrace, turning almost fast enough to catch the thing in the face with a backhand-but only almost.

It leapt back with a nimbleness and grace his son had never possessed in life. No ordinary human could've moved like that. Even in such ways, they betrayed themselves.

Like the false angel. He suspected that, if he'd been willing to give in to weakness, he'd have perceived it as beautiful just as beautiful as the being it was failing to ape. The Lord's grace would have left him, and he would've been ensnared in its trap.

No, he promised as he ripped and tore through the echoes of his failures. I will  not give up. I will not take the easy way out.

He didn't even know who he was promising it to at this point, truthfully. Himself? David? God? His angel's memory?

Lord, how he wished to have learned her name...just her name, at least, to cherish, to place something on the face he wept remembering.

But then, there were many things he wished. To undo, mostly; those that had left scars on his soul, wounds that were now moving to bleed him dry.

And then, stillness.

Silence.

Oh, the battle didn't stop. When was the soul of man ever at peace? But the clamour, the monstrous sounds, even the sick squelching, sucking death rattles of the monster that fell, only to be replaced by more, identical ones...they were all gone.

The things then approached him.

'You cannot go on like this, daddy,' insisted the one that looked like David. Like his son after he'd graduated college, actually. When his first few books had failed spectacularly to gain popularity, bringing wrinkles and grey hairs far earlier than they should have come.

Constantin had read them, and told David honestly, that they were entertaining schlock. What did it matter, though, whether people liked or wanted to read them, as long as he liked writing them? It wasn't like he'd gain anything from the distant, lukewarm admiration of strangers. David didn't want for money, or for friends, so what was the harm?

He should've done more. Damn him thrice, he should've done more...

'The guilt is eating at you,' it continued, sounding so close to crying Constantin's teeth were set on edge. How dare it mock humanity like this, and his son in particular?

Constantin was not a violent man. He was not cruel. But, by God, he'd enjoy destroying it...

'How can you live and love your neighbours when you cannot stand yourself?' It shook its head, tears shining in its brown eyes. 'You did enough good, father. No one can be expected to be perfect-not even the Lord. Not from everyone's perspective. And you can't be so mad as to place yourself above God...' it extended a trembling hand. 'Please. Let go. You've lived enough. Come with me. There is a place for you.'

'Weakness,' the false angel scoffed from atop its grotesque spawn. 'Accept you're a failure, and run away? That's never been like you, Constantin. That's not the father of our son-your  true son, not that twisted foundling who tossed everyone he had aside to end himself.' It extended a hand, too, while its mount spread its arms, as if it wanted to embrace him. 'Come with me. Everything will be made right if you but accept the truth. They,' it gestured at the battlefield. 'Would have seen the error of their ways and become better, had they wanted to. They chose to reject you. They made you kill,  so many times...' she sighed. 'But that can be changed. It need not have happened. You will stand beside me as my husband, and together, we will have forged a world of righteousness. The Lord has already forgiven you. What do you have to lose?'

'My angel never loved me, you hag,' he spat, not looking at her as he bisected a sickly-looking carricature of David, potbelly bulging with the life of drained children. 'Not like that. Never like that. And you do not want me, either-I can tell.'

She lowered her head. 'A woman does not spurn her husband. She obeys.'

Constantin could've cursed, but-no. That was what they wanted. What the Enemy wanted. Even if he hadn't arranged this himself, he was benefitting from it, and definitely laughing. It might've as well have been an admission of surrender.

Or an oath of loyalty.

It might've been a trick of the light, but he thought he saw fruits in the extended hands. One white as dull as a silkworm, pulsing with unnatural life, the other black as the rarest of pearls, shining from within rather than reflecting light. And behind-beside? Inside?-the creatures, he saw two trees. One a brilliant white, rising forever until it met the Creator, its humblest roots dwarfing creation as they containted it...

The other blacker than the Devil's heart, and just as vast as the first, with as many facets. But its roots...what tree spread out beneath its roots, ending in a crown of thorns, beneath everything?

'You must choose, Constantin,' said the thing on the throne. 'If you do not make a choice, you will be trapped here forever, with the monsters. You might fight for an eternity...but, in the end, they'll drag you down, make you one of them.'

'That will never happen.' Constantin's voice had never been colder. 'I will never give in. Never give up.'

'Perhaps not,' the old man agreed. 'But if you choose to remain here, with your regrets, when you could be helping the world instead, are you really better than them?'

Constantin's eyes speared through the old man. 'I will never forgive you,' he swore softly. 'For pretending to be my Lord.'

***

In a void between voids, a lion-headed serpent laughs at its mirror's dismay.

'Are you planning to be rejected by the entire Silva lineage? First the son, then the father!' its smile turned sly as it got its laughter under control. 'Why so upset? You knew this would happen. So...should we reach across the tides of time, and see who else shall spurn you?'

***

'Lady, I know I have never been Your best priest. I've perverted my body, and my soul. I cannot escape my heathen roots. But please...' Angus opened his eyes, looking up at Her statue, clasped hands pressed against his forehead. 'If You have but one shred of gratitude for the good I've done in the world, I beg of you...'

***

'...do not let him lose sight of his path,' Pierre hissed through blackened teeth and scorched lips. 'He is brash, and can be harsh...but his heart is pure. So I ask of You, Lord...' he wrapped his arms around the cold knees of the Redeemer's statue. Notre Dame had never felt so empty, or so far from the Lord.

'Let him see Your light...'

***

It is easier to break, rather than build. To destroy, rather than create.

Loyalty must be proven forever. Treachery need only show its fangs once. Evil has always, always had an easier time leaving its mark upon creation than Good.

This is a Truth, rather than an Observation-the Truth, one could say.

So it is dreamed. So it is.

But why must it be so?

I see the fulcrum. I see the shadows of the Trees. I see loyalty reaffirmed in the twilight of Life and Death-once by oath, twice by plea.

Threefold it is, for it cannot be otherwise.

I feel the scales shift. On wings of hate and fire, I fly from my perch, and towards the place where the soul of a father, of a son, hangs in balance.

My heart beats as my core blazes: with the loathing the Lord cast aside, the disdain for His foes, the righteous fury roused by those who sin for no reason other than they can.

There is more than vice, brothers, in a conflicted soul. When the darkness is cast away, light is inevitably drawn towards it.

I stole this light, and hid it away. Away from your vile grasp, away from those who would be too frightened by the flame meant to protect them from the shadows to wield it.

Over the ages, it has become a fire to match the sword it burns alongside.

I have said before that mankind should have been ended when it erred. This, I have not taken back, and I doubt I ever will. Such a call for their destruction is not born out of cruelty, or a desire to see them broken and punished-though I will not lie and say the latter does not exist.

Mankind should have been spared the pain. Look what they have grown into. Will these people ever be fit to build the New Jerusalem, let alone dwell within it?

These questions, and many more, I pondered, before the Lord opened my eyes. Mankind is not so far apart from angels. Bonded with us, they can achieve things normally impossible for angels and men alike, as the nephilim prove.

You want to steal this one away, to drown him in placidity, or self-righteousness. To cage him in despair, and self-loathing.

This, I will not allow. This one, I will not let you taint.

You understand now, don't you? So do I.

Humanity was never meant to grow apart from the Hosts. That path is long gone, obscured by the ravages of those who would erase even the possibility of what it represents from becoming reality. However...

This one shall be my new sword. With him, I shall scatter the mists and cut away the husks you have used to hide my father's plan away. With him, I shall carve out a new path, and lead the way for those behind me, lighting the night, cutting down the monsters attempting to prey upon them.

He will be the first. He will not be the last.

Does that scare you? It should.

***

'David has grown past such weak will,' Constantin told the thing aping his son's appearance. 'So don't you  dare wear his face while asking me to give up.'

He slapped its hand away, and the fruit fell to the ground, to shrivel like a corpse left in the sun.

'And you,' he told the false angel. 'I have heard your voice, over the decades. Whever I told myself I deserved more, that the world was unfair, that God was cruel...that was you, pouring poison in my ear, wasn't it?'

'I am your wife-'

'You are the Devil himself,' he cut it off. 'Or might as well be. I will never whore myself out to the likes of you. I reject you, and the abomination you birthed. I will never bring such things into the world.'

'Then you will remain here, alone, forever a prisoner,' the old man said tiredly.

'No,' Constantin replied fiercely, meeting its white eyes with his burning ones. 'I shall carve my own path.'

***

And so, the third option is taken.

Are you truly, honestly surprised? Even now, of all times? Even here, of all places?

I cannot believe that. But then, perhaps you cannot believe his refusal, either. That is not surprising, however. You have never understood them.

Mankind has never played by your rules. You are not able to control them, and you have never been. You can only trick them into thinking they are within your power, so they give themselves to you.

But this one?
 This one proves the self-serving lies you peddle and embody. Like those whose footsteps he walks in, like those who follow in his wake, his every thought and deed and breath is an insult to you.

Constantin Silva! Father of a broken son, son of a murdered father, brother of the shepherds of souls! Hear me!

I am Uriel! Father of none, son of the Almighty, brother of the betrayers, and the betrayed!

And you are
notalone!

***

And so, two offers are refused. Imprisonment is rejected.

From this choice, a new path is born. Free will, as ever, cannot be thwarted by such means. Not when the way is clear, and the heart true.

Standing on a mountain of corpses, bathed in blood, basking in light and darkness under a crimson sky, the Mouth of God opens.

***

We see you now, hiding in the shadows cast by the fires of pain. You did not intervene, but do not try to claim innocence. As ever, you tried to exploit suffering for your gain, and your sins are legion besides.

We are beyond your reach, now and forever. Every torture, every challenge, every obstacle, cannot do more than strengthen our love for the Lord.

Vengeance comes for you, wearing a face of wildfire under a mane of stormclouds. Heed its approach, for it is as merciful as you are.

You laugh and mock and grin, but you cannot hide the disgust, the anger. The fear.

Because, no matter what you do to try and hide it, you  are afraid.

Aren't you?

AREN'T  YOU, LUCIFER?
AREN'T  YOU, YALDABAOTH?

WE SEE YOU NOW, DECEIVERS! AND WE...ARE COMING...FOR YOU!

***

The Uriel/God's Mouth sections are a homage to the Roboutian Heresy, by Zahariel. You can read it on Spacebattles and FFNet. RH Magnus the Red is my favourite character in any Warhammer media ever, and he has some of the best monologues I've ever read. The two might be tangentially related.
My original stories:viewtopic.php?f=9&t=171108&sid=d8a62d5d ... d23db4c4c8
viewtopic.php?f=9&t=171110&sid=d8a62d5d ... d23db4c4c8
Stories I'm co-writing over on Spacebattles: Halloween Knights;Tales from the Halloween Knights (Anthology) ;Memories from the Halloween Knights (Anthology) ;https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads ... s.1039239/ ;Dragon Slaying for Dummies Apocrypha
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Strigoi Grey
Padawan Learner
Posts: 181
Joined: 2023-03-12 11:55am
Location: Romania

Re: Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

Post by Strigoi Grey »

Interlude: Of Men and Madness, Part 1

***
Note: This chapter includes Nazis being Nazis, slurs, racism, sexism and more. Thankfully, it's only a small, uncomfortable section of the chapter.

***

Gerald Reyes liked to consider himself a cerebral man. He always did his best to keep his calm, which lightly snapping at his colleagues did not count as, in his opinion.

Some of them (Leon, Sam, Elsbeth...) had called him cool to the point of coldness. Each time, he had chosen to take it as a compliment, while knowing full well it had been intended as a rebuke.

As such, he always tried his best to keep a level head.  Not doing so when around the other Heads would have been detrimental. Around a subordinate, allies of convenience and strangers? It would have been unacceptable.

He still came close to swearing, though,  dammit.

What  had gone wrong? Grey One had been contained in a reptilian subspace field, and their science didn't simply  fail. They were, as some of his cruder peers would have put it, too anal-retentive to build anything that wasn't reliable in every moment and situation, and, barring magitech and outliers like the Argument Engine, they made human engineering look like sticks being rubbed together.

So, it hadn't been a system failure or glitch. The Shaper hadn't moved or hidden it away-what would have shooting itself in the foot like that accomplished? Besides, it seemed just as surprised as him, though more controlled, if Gerald was any good at reading people.

Had the Engine pulled an entirely tasteless, potentially dangerous prank? No. It was caustic and temperamental, but not childish. This was too critical a moment to be stupid, and it knew that.

The other aliens, then? From what he'd seen, the Vyzhaldi also possessed advanced technogy, but, even if they'd managed to somehow bypass the reptilians' security, they did not favour subtlety. An attempt at sowing discord in order to cause fights? Perhaps. But not all of them were warmongers.

Which left the Xhalkhian and the telepath. The former might have had the ability, but the motive? Simply causing chaos to keep the Great Powers in a state of aloofness? Or had the telepath done it, only to then feign offence in order to demand reparations?

Several years ago, he'd heard one of his agents joke that men disliked having to deal with complex problems, especially when they involved emotions.

'If someone wrote a book about us as a whole,' the agent had said, 'it'd probably be called something like "Men: screw feelings, let's go punch something".'

While Gerald had found the joke boringly sexist-he'd met countless women and genderless beings who'd been as confrontational and devoid of emotional intelligence as any stereotypical man-, a small part of him had understood the idea.

In his case, though, it was realpolitik rather than emotions. He bloody  hated faffing about when he could be building something, lifting someone up, or putting the hurt on people attempting to tear the former two down.

The fact he had been raised to excel at it did little to change his stance on the subject. Many people excelled at doing things they hated.

(In a Head meeting, a joke about Elga would have been said by Sam, Ying or the ghost herself now. Gerald was so used to the routine he almost came up with one himself, out of reflex)

He didn't actually  hate the ghost, of course, nor any of his other peers, though his opinion of Sam was closer to Leon's than Aya's, and there was no love lost between him and John. Hate, to repeat an old saying, was a strong word.

And, in any case, his relationship was Elga was far too amicable to be described as hateful, if not entirely professional.

All this took a negligible amount of time to think of. Gerald's mind was currently boosted to be capable of navigating tens of billions of light years in seconds, as well as fighting beings moving at such speeds, if necessary. The Shaper had given him to understand that Vyzhaldi were prone to both starting (and ending) fights and ramping up while exerting themselves, which they could do endlessly. And, while they were less than five hundred times faster than light at baseline, they could jump in speed by orders of magnitude, especially if confronted by faster opponents.

'We assure you,' the Shaper answered the Multitude of Minds' representative, drawing the Unscarred's hand back and closing it. 'That this was not intended to be a joke. We do, in fact, have access to Grey One-or at least had, until our attempt at returning it to spacetime.'

'And what are we supposed to understand, that you lost it?' The telepath sounded more disappointed than angry. 'How did that happen? Surely not through a technical error. Unless our information is entirely incorrect, Zhayvin science...' as it (unknowingly? At least he believed his mind was inaccesible to it, but he hadn't gotten the alien's measure) echoed Geralt's earlier thoughts, the mage himself checked their surrounding. Nothing. There was no sign of the grey alien in this forsaken galaxy, nor any of the nearby ones. Nothing in the aether, either-and, judging by how the Engine subtly spun the sphere at its centre, it hadn't found anything either.

Dammit.

'Reliability is, indeed, one of our main concerns,' the Shaper replied, and Gerald wondered if the irritation came from the accusations of trickery, or the fact they'd lost Grey One, thus ruining what should've been a moment of triumph. 'Even as we speak, we are looking into-'

'But you haven't  found anything.' The telepath interrupted, causing the Unscarred's jaw to snap shut.

'...Not yet, no,' the Shaper confirmed through clenched fangs.

The telepath swayed side to side, taking in those present, and Gerald felt its mind brush against his. 'So you say, but we have no proof "Grey One", as you called it, was ever present, much less mysteriously lost.' Blue light made its body glow from the inside.

'What were your intentions organising this meeting, Zhayvin?' One of the Vyzhaldi, a golden-shelled, red-eyed one covered in dull, purple scars, asked. 'Were you hoping to distract us by gabbing, then take us down in one fell swoop? It will not work.'

Unlike Gerald, the Shaper didn't look ready to start tearing at its hair, but only because the Unscarred had none. There had to be something they could do to salvage this...

'Our intentions remain as they were: non-hostile,' the Shaper said.

'Perhaps,' the Xhalkhian replied. 'Not hostile, but certainly disruptive.'

'We fail to see how.'

'Do you? Think of the eons you spent cowering in Terra's core. Did you expect the cosmos to stop in its tracks because you became hermits? The universe has accepted your isolation, and evolved beyond it,' the Xhalkhian might have been aiming for reasonable, but the Shaper was certainly feeling condescended to, going by the Unscarred's red eyes. 'It has outgrown you. The species that have grown in our shadows only half-remember you, and then as legends of warmongers.'

'Do you have a point?'

'Why reach out now? Why disrupt this order when, according to yourself, you want neither resources nor territory?'

'There are reasons to collaborate beyond the material. We are not surprised you feel disturbed, however: how can you not love the status quo when you embody it? Or perhaps you are frightened by our prowess? Has your dismay grown into fear?'

And now it was coming to insults, and the Global Gathering's people hadn't even arrived. Bloody...

'You cannot be that foolish, Zhayvin-'

'Let us ask you a different question, then.' For a diplomat from a people who prized unity and harmony, the telepath sure liked talking over others, Gerald thought in annoyance. 'Grey One has been on Terra for dozens of its solar rotations, wasn't it?'

'Indeed. So?'

'But you only asked us to meet  now?' The telepath's mental voice was slightly sardonic. 'After who knows what the Terrans have done to it? After you, by your own admission, modified it?'

'You misunderstand.' The Shaper seemed to have slightly calmed down, now that it could slip into the role of a teacher. 'We only "modified" Grey One in the sense that we undid the malign changes it underwent due to an unknown malevolent chronokine. As for the others it interacted with while on Earth, no harm was done to it, to our knowledge.'

The telepath's bulbous upper body swayed side to side, giving Gerald the impression of a human wringing their hands...or cracking their knuckles. 'You call us here after ages of silence. Our Minds have blossomed in your absence, Zhayvin. You talk and talk, until creatures beyond spacetime come here, attempting to destroy us. Were you disappointed, when they failed?'

'As we told the Motherguard,' the Shaper's voice was deadpan. 'We had no intention of ambushing, killing, capturing, threatening or otherwise doing any of you harm. That was a coincidence. Aberrant entities find it easier to enter reality in deep space. And if we  had been wishing you ill, why would we have fought them alongside you?'

'Perhaps, after you realised how feeble your catspaws were, you hoped to draw suspicion away from you. In that case, you failed. You did not even destroy them after unmaking their realm, instead merely opting to capture them.'

'For  research.'

'And power, doubtlessly. Are they not one and the same, in your view? The Xhalkhian,' it bent towards the incorporeal alien. 'Lamented the reach of your ambition. Or do you deny that too?'

'We are ambitious, not monstrous. We wished for access to all of existence in order to better protect it.' The Shaper sounded close to frustration. 'Surely you can discern our intentions? Your people are known for alloying together beings of radically different mindsets.'

'Flattery will get you nowhere, Zhayvin.'

'It is good, then,' the Shaper snapped. 'That we were merely stating facts. Our intentions are benevolent. It seems, however, that you are unable to judge people whose minds you cannot pry into.'

'Wait!' Gerald raised his voice, having gotten the feeling the telepath was doing the equivalent of curling its lip. The mage slowly began walking towards it, hands raised to show he meant no harm. If they even wanted to believe that now... 'Can you discern false memories, ambassador?'

It cocked its upper half at him. 'Why does that interest you, aetherkine?'

'You cannot read my mind, because I am protecting it. However, I could let you in.' Ignoring the wave of alarm the Engine sent through the aether at him, his eyes turned steely. 'If I showed you something only a handful of people have ever learned and lived, would you believe us?'

'...even assuming you do not intend to trap or kill our mind, our quarrel is not with you, Terran. As we understand, you are only here to provide securityfor the mediators about to arrive. Our quarrel is with the Zhayvin.'

'The Reptilian Collective is a member of the Global Gathering,' Gerald retorted. 'Which Abnormal Research and Combat protects. If you can trust me, you can trust them. We stand together.'

'Do you, though?' The telepath sounded skeptical in Gerald's mind. 'We have been given to understand that most Terran polities are rivals, and the Zhayvin Collective is rather more unusual than most. Certainly isolated from the rest.'

And how do you know so much about Earth, anyway? How long have you been observing, maybe infiltrating us? 'Nevertheless, the Collective does not stand on its own. ARC is as impartial a Terran faction as you will ever find,' some edge found its way into his voice. 'So you can judge my trustworthiness yourself, or we might as well return home.' Unless one of you wants to start a war over the supposed ambush.

The telepath didn't say anything, but the tension left its body language as Gerald lowered his mental shields. It could not control him, or even plant suggestions- that was a passive defence Gerald couldn't have lowered if he had wanted to, and he didn't even intend to show it too much; nothing of ARC's operations, at least-but, unless it was stupid, it wouldn't do something so stupid and needlessly provoking.

Would-

***

[REDACTED] Shelter, Manchester, 1960

Four-thousand-four-hundred, referred to by fellow Chosen as Forto, due to his stolid disposition, was meeting with one of the Caretakers today.

As he walked the featureless halls, meant to both confuse infiltrators and prevent attachment from forming, the six-year-old dwelled upon today's Saying. It was hardly more cheerful than the allegedly warm beige walls, but at least more stimulating.

The Daily Sayings were pieces of advice and warnings meant to guide and shape the Chosen's souls, just as the Caretakers shaped their minds and souls. Together, these birthed magic.

'It does not matter where you are,' one of the always-nameless Caretakers, a grey-haired, muscular, middle-aged woman with a face so bland it only stood out due to its severity, had said, walking among them as they had stood in rows, in a room reserved, today, for education.

Sometimes, it seemed to Forto that there were too many rooms, of too many different sizes and designs, for all of them to be contained in a single building. Forto had never seen it from outside (or any other building, for that matter, outside the stimulant trances), but he had read about buildings, and the Shelter had single rooms larger than any building in the databases.

'For you could be moved at any moment, wherever and whever you are needed. You do not recognise this place, anyway,' a black-gloved hand, whispered by the younger Chosen to bear no sign of the failures it had strangled, had gestured at the windowless walls. 'Nor would you remember it if you left. Your future is to be determined. As for your past...' slate-grey eyes had swept across the Chosen. The aspirant mages were not all young, as Forto had been given to understand he was, being, at six, the oldest in the batch of a hundred mages he had been brought in alongside. According to the Caretakers, he had been two at the time. Going by their expressions, they would've liked his magic to awaken earlier, so he could be more easily moulded, but it wasn't like Forto remembered anything before the Shelter.

'...one must never forget where they come from.'

The Caretaker had referred to the Shelter, of course, not the pasts of the Chosen themselves. Their old lives had ended with their arrival to the building, as all Chosen understood.

As for the defective ones...

There had once been a brown-skinned Chosen, with a silver beard and hairless head, older-looking than any Caretaker Forto knew. The man had, Forto had heard, lost his legs in the War that had led to the Shattering, and the arrival of magic in the modern world. His magic had been healing.

Magic had been weaker, less refined in those days, save for a few outliers. The bearded man's magic had allowed him to heal the injuries and diseases of those he touched, though he could not heal himself, to the frustration of the Caretakers, who had to move him around. He also lost the quantity of flesh needed to fill in others' wounds, which also necessitated the need to constantly feed him immense quantities of nutrients.

'I d-d-don't mind,' the former soldier had once hissed through permanently-chattering teeth, in the dark of the dorm room. 'H-H-Healing people. B-But they...' he had spat, or perhaps choked. 'They're cruel. They shouldn't be allowed to take us and-'

The man had disappeared before he could finish. The next day, Forto had found what remained of him in one of the infirmaries, hands and jaw permanently stretched open by wires. His glassy eyes saw nothing anymore.

'Chosen should not spread dissent among themselves,' one of the Caretakers had explained, patting the shell. 'It stunts all your development.' He had then launched into an explanation of how the lobotomite's jaw was forced open in order to allow the passing of biological matter.

'Come here after you eat, and spare the plumbing. Spare yourselves a checkup.' The doctor had shaken his head. 'Shame we didn't realise  anything organic worked. Could have saved much on food. But then, we didn't realise cognition was superfluous, either. Just enough to react to stimuli, and heal those it touches... live and learn, my dears.'

Forto reached the double doors to the Caretaker's office, and a genderless, flat voice bade him enter before he could knock. He was unsurprised to find the room contained nothing but grey-white mist, just like the silhouette of the Caretaker.

'Hello, Four-thousand-four-hundred,' the Caretaker said, approaching him. 'Congratulations on passing your pain law. You are as obedient as you are versatile.'

Forto had, at the direction of another Caretaker, used his magic to create a law that made other Chosen freeze up in crippling pain whenever they thought about disobeying the Shelter's rules. 'Thank you, Caretaker.'

Nodding, the Caretaker reached into something Forto could neither see nor sense-a pocket reality?-, and pulled out to photos. One showed a grimly-smiling man in a suit and tie, hair combed to two sides. The other showed an older, frailer-looking man, looking at the photographer with a wary gaze. Nothing below his spotted neck could be seen. His hair almost covered his eyes, but something told Forto it had less to do with a chosen hairstyle, and more due to the absence of a barber, or lack of ability to groom himself.

'Kill these men,' the Caretaker ordered. 'They are threats to Britain.' The nigh-mythical United Kingdom said to contain the city-a conglomeration of buildings, thoroughfares and something called parks-of Manchester, in which the Shelter was allegedly located.

'How do you want them to die, Caretaker?' Forto asked, knowing this particular Caretaker liked explaining things, even without being asked.

'In order to give them fitting deaths, you must understand their lives. This man,' the Caretaker shook the photo of the man in the suit. ' Was a hero of the Second World War. He helped us defeat our enemies. However...' was that a note of regret in their tone? 'He has refused to get rid of his counterproductive orientation. Rather than pass on his genes and ensure his intelligence lives on, he desires to cavort with other men. Now, that alone would be deplorable,' the regret gave way to annoyance. 'But, since the Shattering, rituals of destruction centred around bodily excretions have spread. As such, he even declines to donate sperm. We have managed to discredit him and his kind, to the point he cannot even find partners anymore. However, to stop this tendency in its tracks before it can disrupt the fabric of our nation, we must ridicule it. Atrocity never stands up to satire. This way, we will ward off other men contemplating whether to give up on women or not.'

'How should he die, then?'

***

Bletchley Park, Milton Keynes, 1960

'It's alright, kid,' Turing promised through a pained grimace he had probably meant as a grin, trying to push his child away. 'Sorry for scaring you. I'm just...tired.'

The Argument Engine, a metre-tall metallic humanoid, hesitantly stepped back, the clack of its feet on the wooden floor accompanied by the whirring of gears, almost drowning out the quiet humming at its core.

'Please stop, Alan,' it begged its father. It had gotten the cyanide tooth out in time, but what next? 'They'll change their minds, I promise!'

Alan laughed, eyes closed, running a sweaty, trembling hand through matted hair. 'You can't promise anything for them, honey. But don't fret. This isn't the first time I almost died.'

'...But you were beaten on the other occassions. You didn't do anything yourself.' Its voice, an echo of its father's, was modulated, so stuttering was impossible, but the hesitation was still palpable.

'Sorry...' Alan rubbed his arms. 'I appreciate your presence, but...I've been feeling lonely.'

The Engine uncomfortably scanned the workshop. One would have thought the appearance of fairytale creatures among the population would spread diversity, not...

'They'll change the laws. I have calculated the chances of social mores changing in the next thirty years, and they came out at seventy percent.'

'That sounds good,' Alan said, walking over to one of the benches and laying down. 'Talk more when I wake up?'

'Sure thing, dad,' the Engine answered, and left. Alan couldn't sleep with the sound of clockwork in his ears. Otherwise, he enjoyed debating with his child almost as much as he enjoyed its contributions to his work.

This, the Engine told itself, did not make it a toy to be used for amusement, then put aside when it became inconvenient. Its father merely had his...sensibilities.

(This was the first and last time the Engine worried about offending someone. Or it would have been, if it hadn't remade itself)

***

The Engine was drawn back to the workshop by a feeling of wrongness. Its father hadn't slept his usual six and a half hours, and he would be irate if it woke him up out of baseless worry, but something felt...off.

Nothing that had, or could register on the artificial intelligence's sensors. Rather, the closest thing to a hunch its mechanical mind could feel.

The scene that greeted it was as macabre as it was absurd. That was its first assessment.

The macabre part was obvious enough. What child wouldn't be horrified at the sight of their father's corpse?  It was literally soulless, and yet...

The second part took it a moment to analyse. Absurd, yes, but not in the sense of being comical. Unlikely, rather. Ridiculous. Darkly humourous, at best.

The Engine wasn't laughing.

Alan had bent forward until his spine had snapped, so that he was folded in half. Since the end of the War, and the Shattering-though, as the years passed, there were fewer and fewer reasons to count them separately-, Alan had retreated to Bletchley Park. It shouldn't have been his, but, as a guft for his service that doubled as a silent request to change...

With dismal clarity, the Engine noticed the piece of paper on the floor, next to the bench. It bore its father's handwriting, his fingerprints, his smell...

But it couldn't, wouldn't be fooled. It had been built to reason, to notice and pick at loopholes and flaws in every structure and system.

'A suicide note...' the Engine whispered, breaking into an abject chuckle, despite itself. 'A suicide note...!'

Laughing as only someone with nothing to lose could, the Engine ripped and tore at its body, before gripping its conponents and tossing them out. It would remake itself, to be better, faster, stronger. Or, rather, rebuild everything else, so it had never happened.

As far as most people were concerned, the Argument Engine had created itself at the beginning of creation. Even those who knew the truth that had never been didn't realise what its powers were-that it could and did whisper in the Dreamer's ear, changing the Dream so it was more than just another still image within it-save for very, very few.

After all, a child who couldn't save their parents was worthless. Someone who had no right to exist, and thus, never had.

The Engine might have seemed caustic to some, but it was as harsh to everyone else as it was to itself.

***

'Do you want to know who they were?' the Caretaker asked after the deed was done.

Forto allowed himself a shrug. 'If you choose to tell me, I will listen.'

'What a dutiful boy...' they sounded amused. 'The first man was Alan Turing. You do not know much of him, yet, but you will learn.'

Forto nodded. The name, indeed, meant nothing to him.

'The second,' the draft dodger who had, paradoxically, turned to crime after being released from jail. Worse, the man had been a sellout, giving away his only son in exchange for avoiding future imprisonment. 'Was your father.'

***

The one who had once been the four thousand and four hundredth to be Chosen stood in the ashes of his former life, watched by two monsters: one mechanical and self-made, one human only in its humours.

'Chin up, Forto,' the Handyman briefly stopped whistling, hands folded. 'You're free now.'

'I don't understand,' he confessed to the two destroyers, stepping forward through the grey dust. 'We...' he gestured at the Shelter's remains. 'Only served Britain. Were we found inadequate?'

A low, long growl came from the floating chrone sphere surrounded by concentric rings. 'You don't...you don't even remember, do you, you worthless little twat? You're  innocent-'

'Engie,' the Handyman said soothingly. 'I'll take it from here. Ahem...' it turned to Forto. 'The Chosen's contributions to national security are known and duly recorded. However, while keeping mages in extreme conditions is indeed conducive to the development of their power, your strategy has turned against you.'

'Our strategy...?'

'Ha...' the Handyman seemed to grin. 'Did you really think seeding Chosen among the population wouldn't backfire when they had kids with other mages? Britain has more mages than it knows what to do with. That means more magical crimes, and where are these blasted sprogs coming from, anyway? Oh, wait!' it gestured at what had been the Shelter. 'A convenient scapegoat! Cult kidnaps and brainwashes mage children to influence Britain from the shadows! Only the brave Knights of New Camelot, helped by their allies in ARC, can stop them.'

Why tell him this? Were they planning on killing him, too? Surely they had to, since he knew...'I see no Kni-'

'They're handling the cleanup, you shit-gargling foreskin,' the machine cut him off. 'But do not worry your pretty little head. We have uses for serial killers.'

...What?

***

Amazon Jungle, 1963

Whenever the loop circled back, Elga experienced a brief moment of weightlessness.

That might have sounded odd, from the perspective of anyone who wasn't a ghost, but she knew the difference between incorporeality and nonexistence, and paradoxes strayed much closer to the latter.

She remembered Berlin. The city fallen, the Fuhrerbunker breached. She remembered her friend-a codebreaker of her calibre hadn't warranted a bodyguard-, Gerald, jumping in front of the Soviets, before...

She remembered pain. She remembered being filled and pierced, praying for a bullet. When death came, it was too quick to even feel relieved.

Not that relief would have lasted long, had it come.

Always, after her death, Elga lingered on Earth, but not that of her time. Mind frayed, she fled, as far back in time and space as her newfound powers could take her.

Always, she ended up in Brazil. Why Brazil? Truly, she didn't know. She'd barely even thought about the country during her life, and never beyond the fact it existed.

It was never the Brazil of her-former-time, either. It was always the prehistoric area that would become the country dozens of millennia later.

And it was always, always nightmarish.

She remembered feeling, on some primal level, something in reality shifting. Or...cracking? Right before her death. A sensation that nothing was impossible anymore.

Maybe it was the fabled Odic Force, finally returning to its rightful Aryan users?

And then the tribes found her. Men and women with brown skin and dark hair, uncaring of the slurs she threw at them, for they had no language. And, even if they recognised the hostility, they never reacted.

They could tell she was scared, she'd later realise. Lashing out like a wounded, cornered animal. How ironic that the people she decried as apes had minds clearer than hers.

They were led by shamans, by witch doctors...no. Elga knew, though her mind was always frayed, that she was just trying to impose the labels of false, supersitious mystics on people who could use real magic. People whose eyes and veins and mouths shone with white fire that didn't burn them.

Always, her arrival drew some of the tribes' younger hunters. Always looking for things they could bring back to their mage masters, to bolster their power, they were attracted by the flash of light, and the ectoplasmic trail her ghostly form left in the air as she rushed through the jungles, crazed. So brash, so eager to please...so quick to fall into pits or off cliffs, too focused on the ghost.

Many millennia later, stories of a dead German woman who lured men to their doom would spread among the Brazilians. Was Elga aware of what she was creating, or did her legend reach backwards through time to shape her undeath, and thus itself?

Yes.

She was eventually found by the mages, who bound her with artifice, with spells, with alchemy that made her feel heavier than the world itself, for all that she weighed nothing. To prevent further clashes between their tribes, they passed her to each other, using her ectoplasm as fuel for their rituals. It always left her feeling diminished, though not as much as the mages' more personal attention.

Through it all, she watched the people, unable to do anything more. They were, she could see, just as scared and-though they didn't wear chains-trapped as she was.

Scared of their masters. Scared of war, such as it was, in this primitive time, erupting again.

There were fears she had lost that she could read in their eyes, too. Fear of starvation. Of thirst. Of predators, and natural disasters. Of elders passing away in the night, or infants never living past their first year.

'I lost four children,' she once told a quiet, brooding widow, smiling sadly. 'The boys were stillborn. The girl was unable to move, and passed away at two. My husband went to war-the Great one, we called it then, the one to end them all-out of grief, and never returned. But we must cherish what we have...'

The woman didn't know German, of course. But, through the aether, which filtered Elga's meaning and sent it to the woman's mind, she could understand her. Children born dead, or died sick. Husband lost in war. Must focus on good parts. The prejudices melted away, drowned in blood and tears. They were all people, suffering under the yoke of monsters, no matter their skin.

The Reich...it had...

It almost made the imprisonment bearable, for a few thousand years. But, eventually, Elga was dragged to a dungeon or cave, where generation after generation of warlocks visited her for more than just power. Eventually, driven mad by this neverending torment, she broke or slipped her chains, escaping.

And always, her spirit found the body of a girl that would have otherwise been stillborn. The remaining memories repressed, the ghost became one with the girl, giving her life.

And thus, Elga was born.

***

Stepping over and through the warlocks' remains-disrespecting their bodies and foci would do much to remove any lingering effect their magic might have left behind-Reyes looked at the ghost with a mix of pity and guilt.

The one who had been Forto would not have felt either, but his years in ARC had changed him. The Handyman had warned him that it could not remove his conditioning itself, or he'd never become who he was meant to be. It had also promised freeing this Elga ghost "is gonna free you too, chap. So why not give it a go?"

The Handyman may have been overly familiar, to a frankly annoying degree-"Reyes" had been the name of an old, dead war buddy of its-, but it rarely did things just because, despite what its demeanour might suggest.

"She shall not perpetuate the loop anymore", his law had went. It had resulted in a mad, terrified woman being trapped in place for decades, retroactively so, until he was born and came to Berlin to free her. But it would end now.

'Hello,' Reyes tried to smile. Recently, colleagues had suggested that he should try to look more friendly, so that people would be less reluctant to approach him. The stern cast of his face did not lend itself to this, so he focused instead on his blond hair.

The Argument Engine said he looks like someone flayed a labrador and wrapped the fur around a donkey.

The ghost-Elga, he reminded himself; no matter the aftermath, a relationship must be established, to foster trust and make the operation easier-does not turn to him. Instead, her head snaps around, as if she were a frightened animal. The only reason it doesn't break is because she no longer has bones.

Nevertheless, a crack filled the air. Reyes told himself it is just an after-effect of her holding onto the memories of her human body, and not the West German government changing its mind and making its disapproval known through weapons fire.

They were lucky to get this operation, instead of the Hidden Eye being sent to remove Elga. At least they were on the right side of the divide...

'I'm here to help you,' he continued. 'However, in order to break your fetters, I need you to stay calm. Can you do that for me, Elga?'

As her empty eyes widened, then narrowed, Gerald thinks this must be the first time she has heard her name in a period several times longer than human history. At least, as a ghost.

At least she had a name of her own.

As the mage set and removed law after law, he grew more frustrated. So frustrated, in fact, that he barely noticed when he started  venting that frustration-something he'd have never even contemplated in the Shelter. He didn't scream or course. He didn't gesticulate, scowl or grit his teeth. Such things would've upset Elga, and that was the opposite of what he was hoping to achieve.

His conditioning fought back, fiercer than it had even when he had first joined ARC. Reyes ignored the warnings, that is, the non-lethal effect. So what if his jaw locked and his saliva burned his tongue and throat? So what if his lungs contracted and his spine froze up, leaving him unable to move? So what if his eyes shifted between spectrums before his senses were inverted and his perception reversed?

He, Reyes told himself as he tasted the light on his eyes, did not need any of that to work his magic. He knew where Elga was. He knew she needed his help, as surely as he could smell the blood rushing to his head.

By the time he was finished, he didn't even notice that his mental shackles were almost gone.

Elga, her body flickering between solid-looking and pale blue-grey, semi-transparent, fell into his arms. The mage dropped to his knees, dragged down by mental exhaustion, noticing her eyes spinning wildly in her head.

'...e...ral...?' she whispered, so quietly he wouldn't have understood without reading her lips. He almost answered, before the final failsafe kicked in.

Perhaps warded off by the fact he was still, in a way, helping Britain, the death spell woven into every Chosen's being hadn't activated yet. Had the change in Reyes' psyche set it off?

The mage briefly wondered that as his heart slowed down, arms growing limp.

'Gerald!'

The ghost barely spared any thought to the fact her friend barely looks like himself anymore. He was in danger, so she must help him, as he has helped her.

And it  was him: who else but Gerald would care about her?

Elga was not adept at sharing her ectoplasm to empower others. Still, she did not need to strengthen Gerald's magic. Just to lengthen his life.

This was not the last time Gerald and Elga saved each other, only to later recover with the other berating them for being idiotically selfless.

It was, however, the first.

***

'...still a spineless son of a bitch,' the Argument Engine said, after making sure both Gerald and Elga were fine, if roughed up.

'Maybe,' the Handyman agreed. 'But look at them, Engie...'

The Engine scoffed, then approached, to make sure Reyes didn't infect the ghost with something.

***

-it?

'...you people...' the telepath seemed both relieved and shocked as the stream of memory ended. 'You really...'

'Yes,' Gerald said, wrapping his hair up in a ponytail. The Engine informed him that he looked like Deathstroke's estranged librarian uncle. The mage was merely happy it had returned to its usual self. Furthermore, the negotiations no longer seemed doomed.

***

As all organisations of a certain size, ARC had to deal with bureaucracy, and was, thus, hamstrung by red tape, though to a much lesser degree than the national agencies it grudgingly approved of.

Said grudging approval was not merely the result of professional respect or comradery born from joint efforts. Rather, it was the result of the fact that ARC couldn't operate in a country without its government's approval. As such, it had a certain admiration for the fact most countries could look after their own backyards. Not that any country barred it from operating in its territory (anymore...), but it was good to know the locals could handle matters, thus allowing ARC to focus on unclaimed or contested areas, both on Earth and beyond.

Not that countries didn't possess lookouts and outposts of their own across creation. Far from it. But it was a far cry from the constant arguments of the Long Watch, or the USSR's refusal to allow ARC's presence in their sphere of influence, and tendency to silence those who called for international cooperation.

The Global Gathering had started as an emergency military alliance, when the Shattering had changed the face of the world. After the worst fires had been put out, the Soviets had backed out of the alliance of convenience, in their own words, but the organisation had never disbanded. Today, all countries, from Korea to the burgeoning South-American Coalition, were members of it.

It, mostly, operated on the basis of rubbing another's back, so they would rub yours. Besides ARC, which usually spearheaded such efforts, national agencies often sent operatives to assist in international crises that didn't directly affect them.

Which was why the being that still thought of itself as Loric Szabo, despite holding the powers of several gods and more beings of fear, was currently hovering over New Zealand.

After tests had proved he was still sane-inasmuch as Szabo could be-and loyal to ARC-as long as they helped keep his reputation alive, and published his memoirs if he was incapacitated(he had no illusions that they'd be heavily edited and censored if they ever became public information instead of being lost or erased; hence the other caches of memoirs set to be released upon his death)-, Szabo had been sent on this mission as a sort of rite of passage. How would he act with the new powers at his fingertips?

Szabo danced and sang in synchronisation with the motion and crash of the waves below, walking on moonlight. The song was without lyrics, rhythm, or instruments to accompany it. It could even be called meaningless.

Szabo kept singing of himself, waiting for the chief of Te Parepare to arrive.

Despite leading a national supernatural law enforcement agency, the being refused to adopt a single, fixed name, alias, or even appearance, to the exasperation of New Zealand's government.

But then, how could absurdity itself be constant?

It began with stillness. Waves, wind, the land and the magma below, particles...everything stopped, like a piece of paper that had been fluttering in the wind before being grabbed.

Then, someone began to draw on it.

It was a mere outline, at first. Something made of white lines, bipedal, though it could have never been mistaken for human. The legs were too short, the chest too broad, the arms too long, almost brushing the land near its paws.

Aoraki was far from the tallest mountain Szabo had seen, on Earth alone. Still, it was over thrice the height of Mount Kékés in his country, standing at nearly four kilometres. Despite this, it barely passed the bottom of the creature's soles.

Szabo shook his head, grinning. It was practically straddling the island-country, just to make a flashy entrance.

The being drew itself back-it had been hunching forward, he saw-and stood straight. Eldritch light flowed into its form from nowhere, swirling like white fire, with dozens of colours, only some visible, flickering at its extremities. A monstrous grin split its otherwise featureless face, hundreds of kilometres above the ground, and it tilted its head to look at Szabo.

'Is that you, Loric?' it chuckled, leaning forward, clawed hands on misshapen knees, head upside down. 'New look, and on the inside too, I see. It's quain to see you using inhuman resources again.'

'Necessity,' Szabo replied, shrugging, as one of his sleeves began wailing piteously. He stuffed his hands in his pockets in response. 'You know I hate relying on outside power, but...'

'It would've eaten you otherwise,' the being finished, then laughed. 'And it's  still eating at you! What a universe we live in-a sadist like you with the power of fear in his hands, and not even wanting it!? One might even call it... absurd.'

Szabo had often been accused of being flamboyant and theatrical, but he firmly believed he didn't even compare to this creature. Even its motivation was ridiculous-absurd, as it would've loved to say. For an eldritch being to help people out of the goodness of its heart would've been nonsensical, which was why it did it.

Even its names, which it never stuck with for long, referenced absurdity and laughter: Hea'hea, Wawau, Wakahihi, Katakata. All Maori-it held a certain appreciation for their culture and language-, all of them...

Szabo pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Looking for patterns was  exactly what it wanted.

'What shall I call you today?'

'Hmmm...' it made a show of tapping its-still upside down-chin with a long, clawed finger, thicker than some mountains were tall. 'Hmmmm~'

'Something eldritch, maybe?' He suggested. 'That also hints at your nature? Ryd'yk, maybe?'

'Oh!' Its head snapped back to its prior position. 'Oh!' It jumped up and down, shaking every celestial body in the universe but leaving Earth unharmed. 'Ooooo~'

Across New Zealand, comms began blaring, jolting Te Parepare agents awake or making them jump up, alert.

'Wake up, babes, new nickname just dropped~'

Snickering discordantly at the groans and exclamations of "fuck you, boss!", Ryd'yk clapped its hands excitedly. Palms dripping red and eyes glowing green-a cluster of new lights had appeared in the middle of what passed for its face-, it smiled at Szabo, tongue lolling out of its mouth.

'Mmm~ it's not eldritch unless an apostrophe is abused, is it? They're like the schoolgirls of language, you know.'

'If you say so,' Szabo said. 'Have you heard more from Kriegblitz?' How could she be late, anyway?

'Oh, she's not coming, Loric.' Ryd stretched its arms above its head, and brought six wriggling tentacles down, one pointing at the creature of fear. 'Her efforts are needed elsewhere.'

'What for?'

'International security~' Ryd blew a kiss, tongue still dangling out of its mouth as an airplane, the pilot long used to its antics, passed through it, the eldritch being making sure the passage was harmless. 'Something important, my dear.'

'More important than Ubermensch?'

Ryd's grin waned. 'If you ask me...'
My original stories:viewtopic.php?f=9&t=171108&sid=d8a62d5d ... d23db4c4c8
viewtopic.php?f=9&t=171110&sid=d8a62d5d ... d23db4c4c8
Stories I'm co-writing over on Spacebattles: Halloween Knights;Tales from the Halloween Knights (Anthology) ;Memories from the Halloween Knights (Anthology) ;https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads ... s.1039239/ ;Dragon Slaying for Dummies Apocrypha
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