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Rain fell in endless sheets, drowning the ruins of what had once been a thriving downtown. Broken skyscrapers jutted from the earth like jagged teeth, their windows shattered and their frames consumed by rust. The streets were rivers of blackened water, and the air carried a foul stench of decay. Somewhere in the distance, the faint groan of shifting metal echoed—a haunting sound that mingled with the relentless patter of rain.

Alaric tightened his grip on the cracked lantern in his hand, its faint, flickering flame barely cutting through the oppressive darkness. Each step he took sent ripples through the water pooling around his boots, the chill seeping into his bones. His other hand rested on the hilt of his rusted machete, a weapon barely holding together after weeks of use and neglect.

“How far is it?” came a voice behind him. Nadia, her voice trembling with exhaustion, struggled to keep up. Her scarf, soaked and fraying, clung to her neck as she cradled a makeshift rifle wrapped in plastic to protect it from the rain. Her eyes darted nervously to the shadows stretching between the skeletal remains of cars and buildings.

“Not far,” Alaric replied, though he wasn’t certain. The map he had scavenged was incomplete, half its markings smudged by time and water. He had a vague sense of their destination: a church rumored to house a fragment of the First Light, a relic said to restore Spirit and stave off corruption. If the rumors were true, it might be their only hope.

Behind Nadia, Elias trudged silently, his breath labored. His heavy cloak dragged through the water, its weight slowing him down. He carried a satchel filled with what little supplies they had left—a few cans of food, a bottle of contaminated water, and a small bundle of cloth bandages. The man’s face was pale, his Spirit clearly fraying. He’d barely spoken since the last encounter with… it.

The memory of the encounter still burned in Alaric’s mind. The wraithlike figure had emerged from the darkness, its hollow eyes filled with a malice that clawed at their very souls. It had taken two of their group before they managed to drive it off with invocation and fire. The price had been high—too high.

“Stop,” Alaric whispered, raising his hand. The others froze, their breaths visible in the cold, wet air. Ahead, a low, guttural growl echoed from a collapsed parking structure. The shadows there seemed to ripple unnaturally, as though alive.

“Wolves?” Nadia whispered, her fingers tightening around the rifle.

“No,” Alaric said, his voice grim. “Not wolves.”

From the darkness emerged a creature that had once been human. Its flesh was pallid and stretched tight over a gaunt frame, and its eyes glowed faintly with an unholy light. Blackened veins spiderwebbed across its skin, pulsing with corruption. It moved with unnatural speed, its clawed hands digging into the wet asphalt as it advanced.

“Light the circle!” Alaric barked, shoving the lantern into Nadia’s hands.

Elias dropped to his knees, fumbling with a vial of powdered chalk from his satchel. His hands shook as he began to trace a protective circle on the ground. The rain fought against him, threatening to wash away his work before he could finish.

The creature snarled and lunged, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Alaric stepped forward, his machete swinging in a wide arc. The blade bit into the creature’s shoulder, but the rusted edge caught on bone and failed to sever it. The creature’s claws raked across Alaric’s arm, tearing through his coat and drawing blood.

“Hurry!” Nadia shouted, raising the rifle and firing. The shot rang out, the sound deafening in the rain-soaked silence. The bullet struck the creature’s chest, staggering it but not stopping its advance.

Elias completed the circle just as the creature lunged again. Light flared to life, emanating from the lantern Nadia placed at the center. The creature screeched, its movements faltering as it clawed at its face. The light from the circle burned its corrupted flesh, forcing it back into the shadows.

Alaric collapsed to one knee, clutching his bleeding arm. Nadia rushed to his side, pulling a strip of cloth from her bag to staunch the wound. Elias sat back, his chest heaving as he stared at the flickering light of the lantern.

“It’ll come back,” he muttered. “They always come back.”

“Then we keep moving,” Alaric said, his voice firm despite the pain. “The church isn’t far. If the relic is there… we might still have a chance.”

Nadia helped him to his feet, and the three of them pressed on, the faint glow of the lantern guiding their way through the endless rain and darkness. The road ahead was uncertain, but as long as the light burned, hope remained—however fragile.

Halon adjusted the seals on his respirator, the hiss of compressed air a sharp reminder of how thin the margin for error was out here. The Anoxic Tract stretched before him, a desolate expanse of cracked, glassy earth bathed in shimmering waves of heat. Above, the sky glowed a pale orange, choked with particles that turned sunlight into a hazy blur.

He checked his oxygen gauge—a third full. Enough to finish the job, if he moved quickly. Halon had been hired to recover a lost drone, a sleek prototype that had veered off course during a survey and vanished into this hostile wasteland. The pay was good, better than usual, but the risks matched the reward. Few ventured into the Tract, and even fewer returned.

The air was poison, thick with metallic dust that corroded flesh and machinery alike. His suit, patched together with scavenged materials, hissed faintly with each step. The respirator filter was jury-rigged, its performance more a matter of hope than confidence. Halon gripped the shard cutter strapped to his side, its blade glowing faintly in the oppressive light. Out here, even the land itself could be dangerous.

The drone’s signal was faint but steady, pulsing on the cracked screen of his wrist-mounted tracker. It was close—two clicks east. He quickened his pace, the ground crunching beneath his boots. Every sound felt amplified in the emptiness, his breath loud in his ears.

The Tract had its own rhythm, a silence broken only by the occasional groan of distant geothermal vents or the soft crackle of settling debris. Halon kept his eyes on the horizon, scanning for movement. The Tract was supposed to be lifeless, but rumors persisted—of creatures born from the Growths or anomalies left behind by the shattered Seleos.

He reached the edge of a ravine, the drone’s signal pulsing stronger now. Peering down, he spotted it—a sleek black frame half-buried in the glassy sediment. Relief washed over him. The job was almost done.

Descending the ravine was slower than he’d hoped. The terrain was slick, the sharp edges of fractured rock threatening to tear his suit. He slid the last few feet, landing in a crouch next to the drone. Its casing was scorched, one of its rotors snapped clean off, but it was intact enough to be valuable. He activated the retrieval beacon and prepared to secure it for transport.

That’s when he felt it—a vibration in the ground, faint but growing. He froze, his hand hovering over the drone. The tremor deepened, a low, rhythmic pulse that resonated in his chest. It wasn’t natural.

Halon’s grip tightened on the shard cutter as he scanned the ravine. A shadow shifted on the far side, moving against the light. It wasn’t human. The figure that emerged was tall and angular, its body encased in what looked like organic armor. Its movements were fluid, almost graceful, but its form was alien—spines protruding from its back, its limbs too long to be natural.

The stories were true.

The creature tilted its head, its glowing eyes locking onto Halon. He didn’t wait for it to make the first move. Swinging the shard cutter, he activated its pulse edge, the blade humming with energy. The creature moved faster than he expected, dodging the strike with inhuman speed. It lashed out, claws raking the air where he’d stood moments before.

Halon stumbled back, narrowly avoiding its attack. His oxygen gauge blinked red—time was running out. The creature lunged again, and this time he met its charge, the shard cutter slicing through one of its spines. The creature screeched, a sound that reverberated through the ravine like a shockwave.

The drone. He couldn’t leave without it.

Halon grabbed the drone with his free hand, slinging it onto his back as the creature circled him. He needed to get out—now. He activated the shard cutter’s pulse charge, slamming it into the ground. The resulting shockwave knocked the creature back, giving him the opening he needed to climb the ravine.

He didn’t look back as he scrambled to the top, his lungs burning from exertion and the dwindling oxygen. The creature’s screeches faded behind him, but he knew it wouldn’t stop. Nothing ever did in the Anoxic Tract.

When he finally stumbled back into the safe zone, collapsing onto the cracked earth of Aechelis’s outer perimeter, he let himself breathe for the first time in what felt like hours. The drone was intact. The job was done.

But as he stared at the faint glow on the horizon, where the Tract met the Growths, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something out there had followed him.

The creature emerged from a jagged fissure in the cracked terrain, its segmented body flexing as it tested the air. The surface of the Anoxic Tract was treacherous and unyielding, a landscape of glassy rock and scattered debris left behind by millennia of tectonic upheaval. Thin plumes of vapor rose from geothermal vents, carrying with them the acrid tang of sulfur and minerals. The creature’s exoskeleton shimmered faintly, a blend of matte black and iridescent green, designed to absorb both heat and trace elements from the hostile environment.

Its legs, six in total, each ended in barbed hooks that clicked softly against the uneven ground. These appendages served dual purposes—traction in the slippery terrain and defense against predators. The creature’s thorax bore a series of narrow spiracles, shielded by overlapping chitin plates, which filtered toxins from the air and harvested trace oxygen. The creature’s design was not accidental; it had evolved—or perhaps been altered—to survive where no other life should thrive.

The horizon was a perpetual haze, the light of Solare diffused through layers of particulate matter suspended in the atmosphere. Shattered fragments of Seleos drifted far above, their faint glow visible even in the daylight, a fractured celestial dome that seemed to watch over this wasteland. The creature’s compound eyes caught and refracted the pale light, creating a kaleidoscopic effect as it scanned its surroundings. Movement could mean many things: food, danger, or the rare opportunity to scavenge something useful.

Its antennae extended, trembling as they sampled the faint vibrations in the ground. The signals were weak but distinct, a low-frequency hum that suggested something alive—or dying—nearby. The creature moved cautiously, its bioluminescent nodules dimming to reduce visibility. The glow was both a tool and a risk; it allowed communication with others of its kind but also attracted predators. Here in the Tract, even light could be a liability.

The vibrations grew stronger as the creature crept toward a shallow basin surrounded by crystalline formations. These jagged structures jutted from the ground like frozen explosions, their edges sharp enough to carve through flesh and exoskeleton alike. The creature paused at the edge of the basin, its antennae weaving through the air. The chemical signature was unmistakable—an organic scent, warm and rich. Food.

Nestled within the crystalline shards was a smaller organism, coiled tightly in what appeared to be a defensive posture. Its glossy exoskeleton reflected the dim light, creating fractured patterns that blended it with the surrounding crystals. To an untrained observer, it might have been mistaken for another shard. But the creature was not so easily deceived.

It circled the basin, keeping a careful distance from the coiled form. The Anoxic Tract was home to many such ambushers, creatures that relied on patience and camouflage to ensnare prey. The vibrations in the ground were faint but continuous—a telltale sign of a predator waiting for its moment. The creature’s barbed forelimbs flexed, ready to strike. It tested the edge of the basin with one limb, tapping lightly to gauge the reaction.

The coiled organism remained still. Too still.

The creature adjusted its approach, climbing onto a protruding crystal to gain a better vantage point. From this angle, it noticed subtle details—the faint quiver of the ambusher’s hooks, the slight rise and fall of its thorax as it breathed. It was alive, but barely. Perhaps injured, or conserving energy. A dangerous combination.

Before the creature could decide its next move, the ground beneath the crystalline cluster shifted. A hidden cavity opened, and from within emerged a writhing mass of tendrils, each lined with fine barbs. The ambusher unfurled, its spindly limbs snapping outward as it lunged. Its mandibles clacked loudly, releasing a burst of pheromones meant to paralyze prey.

The creature leapt back, its movements precise and deliberate. The ambusher’s claws missed by mere inches, raking across the crystal and leaving deep gouges. The two creatures circled each other now, locked in a silent standoff. The ambusher’s tendrils twitched erratically, a clear sign of its desperation.

The first strike came from the ambusher, a wild swipe of its hooked limb. The creature dodged, countering with a swing of its barbed forelimb. The impact sent a crackle of energy through the ambusher’s body, a defensive mechanism built into the creature’s biology. The ambusher recoiled, its movements sluggish as the electrical charge disrupted its coordination.

Seizing the opportunity, the creature lunged forward, driving its forelimbs into the ambusher’s thorax. The chitin cracked, releasing a hiss of pressurized fluid. The ambusher spasmed violently, its limbs flailing in a final, futile attempt to fight back. When it fell still, the creature stepped back, antennae weaving through the air to confirm the absence of further threats.

The feeding began quickly, methodically. The creature’s mandibles worked with precision, cutting through the exoskeleton to reach the nutrient-rich fluids within. It avoided the tendrils and hooks, which carried paralytic toxins even after death. The fluid was warm and viscous, filled with the minerals and proteins the creature needed to sustain itself in this unforgiving environment.

As it fed, the bioluminescent nodules along its crest began to brighten, a natural response to the influx of energy. The light pulsed in slow, deliberate patterns, signaling to others of its kind that food had been found. But the Anoxic Tract was vast and empty, and no others came.

The creature consumed only what it needed, leaving the rest of the carcass untouched. Its survival was not a matter of greed but of balance; to take more than necessary was to invite retaliation from the ecosystem itself. It retreated to the edge of the basin, its nodules dimming once more as it disappeared into the shadows of the fissures.

Above, the fragments of Seleos cast faint, shifting patterns of light over the wasteland. The Anoxic Tract remained silent, save for the distant groan of geothermal vents and the occasional whisper of shifting sands. The creature moved on, leaving behind only the broken remains of its meal—a fleeting reminder that even in the harshest places, life endured.

Background Info

This is set in a friend’s setting, not my own. I wrote the story, the characters, and events, however the setting, concepts, and locations are based on the world of Killboy Powerhead by [PSYEUDOMEN NOT YET DECIDED].

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Prologue: The Demon of hudson bay

The water pressed against the ruins like a slow, eternal heartbeat, muffled and ominous. What had once been a thriving district of Ottawa now slumbered beneath layers of brackish currents, its skeletal remains stretching upward toward the dim light filtering through the surface. Jagged spires of collapsed skyscrapers jutted at unnatural angles, their shattered windows glinting like the teeth of a drowned predator. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional groan of shifting metal or the distant thrum of a filtration pump.

A cluster of scavengers, seven in all, moved like ghosts through the submerged ruins. Their suits, patched-together assemblages of diving gear and exoskeletal tech, hissed softly as oxygen cycled through their helmets. Lights attached to their helmets cut thin, nervous paths through the darkness, illuminating graffiti-scrawled walls, rusting vehicles half-sunk into the muck, and the faint outlines of what had once been a playground, but they weren’t here for nostalgia.

“This haul better be worth it,” one of them muttered, his voice crackling over the shared comms. He was stocky and impatient, his gloved hands gripping a crowbar as he wedged it into the side of a rusted storage unit.

“It’s worth it,” came the sharp reply from a figure near the back of the group, her silhouette lean and authoritative. “The corp’ wants samples. These old buildings are laced with contaminants from the Third Era. Something about particle reactions or whatever. We pull enough scrap and core samples, they pay us double.”

“Double, huh?” The stocky scavenger grunted, hauling the storage unit open with a screech that echoed unnaturally. “Hope that includes hazard pay. This place gives me the creeps.”

“It’s just buildings, Rork. Nothing’s alive down here anymore. Damn phenoms ensured that with their last fight.”

Rork hesitated, glancing over his shoulder toward the distant surface light shimmering faintly above. He adjusted the small blade strapped to his thigh, a pathetic thing that felt more like a talisman than a weapon. “Yeah. That’s what makes it worse.”

The group pressed on, descending deeper into the ruins. The leader, who called herself Sayer, consulted a flickering holomap projected onto her wrist. “We’re close,” she said, her voice tight with focus. “There’s a mainframe about fifty meters ahead. If it’s intact, we can rip the cores and sell them for triple.”

“Triple now? You’re full of good news today,” joked another scavenger, his voice edged with false bravado. He was wiry and quick, his movements jittery as he scanned the shadows. “What about the stories, though? That this place—”

“Shut up, Fen,” Sayer snapped. “We don’t have time for—”

A sound cut her off. A low, resonant groan, deep enough to vibrate through their suits. It came from somewhere below, where the ruins gave way to a chasm of darkness.

“What was that?” Fen whispered, his voice tight.

“Pressure shift,” Sayer replied immediately, her tone dismissive. “Keep moving.”

But Rork had stopped. He was staring at something—no, someone—just at the edge of his helmet’s light. A figure, motionless and half-concealed behind a collapsed wall. The figure wore what looked like old armor, the kind used by underwater engineers decades ago, but its helmet was missing, and its head was tilted unnaturally to one side.

“Hey, uh, Sayer,” Rork said, his voice trembling. “There’s someone here—”

The figure moved.

It didn’t step forward or turn its head. It moved all at once, a blur of motion so fast that Rork stumbled backward, his helmet light swinging wildly. When the beam settled, the figure was gone.

“Rork, what the hell are you doing?” Sayer barked.

“There was someone—right there!” Rork pointed, his breath coming fast.

“No one’s here,” Sayer snapped, her frustration mounting. “It’s your nerves. Now pull it together, or—”

The groan came again, louder this time, and unmistakably closer. The group froze. In the periphery of their helmet lights, shapes seemed to shift in the water. Shadows danced where there should have been none.

“Did the map say anything about automated defenses?” Fen asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Shut up,” Sayer hissed, her eyes darting to the holomap as though it could offer reassurance. “Just keep moving. We’re almost there.”

They pressed on, but the atmosphere had changed. The ruins felt alive now, watching them with a thousand unseen eyes. The scavengers walked faster, their lights sweeping frantically over the crumbling walls and waterlogged debris.

Behind them, something moved again, silent and deliberate.

The scavengers spun around, their helmet lights darting through the murky water like frantic fireflies. Fen’s breathing quickened, sharp and audible over the comms. “I swear I saw something. It wasn’t just a shadow this time.”

“Focus up,” Sayer snapped, though her own voice wavered. “Whatever’s out there, it bleeds like anything else.”

“Assuming it bleeds,” Rork muttered, his knuckles whitening on his crowbar.

The group tightened their formation, shoulder lights overlapping to push back the encroaching dark. The ruins pressed closer now, jagged steel and shattered concrete forming claustrophobic corridors that seemed to funnel them deeper. The groaning sound returned, long and resonant, like a predator’s growl reverberating through an empty stomach.

Ahead, the holomap pinged softly, indicating their destination was mere meters away. The scavengers moved quickly, drawn to the faint promise of safety or at least a barrier between themselves and the dark. Sayer reached the front of the group, her gloved hand brushing against the twisted remains of a doorframe.

“This is it,” she said. Her voice was steadier now, the leader’s mask slipping back into place. “Rork, Fen, get the cutting tools. Everyone else, set up a perimeter.”

“Perimeter?” Fen laughed nervously, his hands fumbling to unpack a plasma cutter. “We’re underwater, boss. Not exactly a—”

A hand yanked him backward.

No, not a hand—something worse. It was pale and glistening in the dim light, its fingers long and unnaturally segmented, like the limbs of some grotesque marine predator. It wrapped around Fen’s leg and pulled with terrifying force, dragging him into the shadows.

Fen screamed, his voice echoing through the comms like a blade scraping metal. The others shouted in confusion, their lights converging on the spot where he had been. All they found was a broken plasma cutter, drifting slowly in the water, and a faint trail of disturbed silt.

“What the hell was that?” Rork yelled, his voice shaking.

Sayer didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the darkness ahead, where the faint shimmer of movement caught the edge of her light. “Keep your eyes up,” she said, gripping a compact pulse rifle slung over her shoulder. “It’s toying with us.”

The groan came again, louder and closer, resonating like the toll of a massive bell. The water itself seemed to vibrate, sending ripples through the beams of their lights. Shapes moved in the periphery—blurred, indistinct, and impossibly fast.

Rork swung his crowbar in a wide arc, teeth clenched. “This isn’t worth it, Sayer. Double, triple pay—none of it’s worth this.”

“Shut up and hold the line,” Sayer hissed. “We’re not leaving without those cores.”

The words barely left her mouth before something burst out of the dark. It moved too quickly to see, a streak of white and black that struck with the force of a wrecking ball. Rork went flying, his body smashing against a nearby wall with a sickening crunch. His helmet light flickered, then died, leaving him slumped and motionless.

The remaining scavengers opened fire, bright pulses of energy slicing through the water. Their lights illuminated the figure for the briefest moment: humanoid, yet unmistakably monstrous. Its skin was smooth and dark, lined with faint, bioluminescent patterns that pulsed like a heartbeat. It wore what might have once been clothing—woven textures resembling a thick velvet blubber, now reinforced with metallic plates and sleek, functional designs. But it was the face that froze them.

Eyes like reflective moonlight stared back, unblinking and cold. The faint glow of its veins traced an eerie map of purpose and resolve. This was no scavenger, no wandering wraith.

This was Tuaq Kalvik, the Demon of Hudson Bay.

He moved again, vanishing into the shadows with a single, fluid motion. The scavengers fired wildly, their beams catching only swirling debris and the faint ripple of his passage.

“Regroup!” Sayer barked, her voice cracking as she tried to regain control. “Regroup, damn it!”

Another groan, this time from above. One of the scavengers looked up just in time to see Tuaq descending, his arm swinging in a vicious arc. The force sent the man tumbling into a rusted structure, where a jagged beam impaled him with a wet smack that rippled through the water. Blood blossomed like ink in the water.

Sayer cursed, her finger tight on the trigger as she fired again and again, her shots tearing through the ruins in blinding bursts. “You want us?” she screamed into the abyss. “Come and get us!”

For a moment, there was silence. The water seemed to still, as if holding its breath.

Then a voice came, low and resonant, cutting through the comms like a blade. “You don’t belong here.”

Sayer froze. The voice wasn’t human—it was too deep, too calm, carrying the weight of something ancient and unforgiving.

“Turn back,” the voice continued. “Or I’ll finish what you started.”

The last scavenger motioned forward, his pulse rifle raised, the barrel glowing with barely restrained energy. His name tag, still visible on his battered suit, read Drelk. He wasn’t like the others. His movements were steadier, his breathing controlled, and there was a fire in his eyes that didn’t waver under the oppressive shadows.

“Looks like you’ve got me,” Drelk said, his voice low and laced with tension. “But you don’t scare me, tread.”

Tuaq’s moonlit eyes fixed on him, unblinking. His voice rumbled through the comms again, calm and deliberate. “You’re not afraid… Yet.”

With a roar, Drelk fired his pulse rifle, the bolt of energy cutting through the water like a spear of light. Tuaq twisted, the beam grazing his side and scorching his armor. He moved with inhuman speed, closing the distance between them in an instant. His hand shot out, grabbing the barrel of the rifle and wrenching it aside.

Drelk didn’t let go. He swung the weapon like a club, catching Tuaq across the jaw with a brutal snap. The blow sent Tuaq reeling, but only for a moment. He recovered faster than seemed possible, his expression unreadable as he surged forward again.

The two clashed, their strikes sending shockwaves through the water. Tuaq’s blows were methodical, every strike aimed to incapacitate, while Drelk fought with raw desperation, his enhanced strength barely keeping him alive.

Then Drelk saw his opportunity. With a feint and a quick twist, he fired his rifle again, not at Tuaq but at a sealed doorway behind him. The shot hit dead center, shattering the corroded lock. The ancient door groaned as the pressure difference took hold.

Tuaq’s eyes widened in realization, but it was too late.

The door exploded inward, releasing a torrent of air and debris. The sudden shift in pressure yanked both men through the opening, spinning them into the dark chamber beyond. Tuaq instinctively twisted his body, controlling his descent, but Drelk crashed hard against the far wall, coughing as he landed in a heap.

The chamber was vast and eerie, filled with machinery long since consumed by rust. The air was thick, stale, and heavy with the smell of decay, mildew, and a stagnation. Dim emergency lights flickered overhead, casting long red shadows across the room. A trickle of water began to seep in through the door, quickly escalating to a steady flow.

For the first time, Tuaq stood fully in the light. The pale glow of his bioluminescent veins faded, his body adapting to the dry environment. Without the water’s murky filter, he looked disarmingly human. His skin, a pale bronze, glistened with moisture. His expression was calm, almost serene, though his eyes still held the intensity of the bay’s depths.

Drelk stared at him, his breath catching. “You’re… you’re just a man,” he said, his voice hoarse with disbelief as he ripped his helmet off.

Tuaq didn’t answer. He stepped forward, his bare feet splashing in the rising water. “You shouldn’t have opened that door,” he said quietly.

Drelk’s shock turned to anger. He forced himself to his feet, raising his pulse rifle again. “I’ve taken down bigger than you, Burnout!”

The fight resumed, but this time, the dynamic shifted. Drelk’s strength gave him the edge in the confined space, his strikes forcing Tuaq to stay on the defensive. Tuaq moved with precision, dodging and parrying, but the space limited his agility, and the water rising around their ankles began to flood the room.

The rifle fired again, and Tuaq ducked, the bolt scorching the wall behind him. He lunged, grabbing the weapon and twisting it out of Drelk’s grip. The rifle clattered to the floor as the water reached their knees.

“Stay down,” Tuaq said, his voice sharp.

Drelk roared in defiance, throwing a punch that Tuaq caught effortlessly. With a twist of his wrist, Tuaq forced Drelk to his knees, holding him in place as the water climbed higher.

“You don’t belong here,” Tuaq said, his tone unyielding. “Your greed poisons what little is left.”

“Better greed than whatever self-righteous nonsense you’re peddling,” Drelk spat, struggling against Tuaq’s grip. “This place is dead, just like you’re about to be.”

The chamber groaned ominously as the water reached waist height. Tuaq glanced around, his expression hardening. “You won’t drown,” he said. “But you’ll wish you had.”

With a final, fluid motion, Tuaq kicked Drelk against the wall, knocking him unconscious. He stood over the scavenger’s limp form as the water continued to rise, now surging through the open door in a torrent. It was only as Drelk skid across the water between him and the wall that he noticed the blinking light from the man’s waist. Before he could turn back and retreat, what was left in the dry portion of the room was obliterated as the rest of the building shattered and began to crumble further into the sea.

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Chapter 1: The Numbers

The door clanged shut behind him with a finality that rattled through the marrow of his bones. The air outside the prison gates was dry and biting, the kind of cold that gnawed at skin but never sank deep enough to numb. The man known only by his prisoner designation—0-9-2-7—stood motionless, taking in the grim, towering skyline of the Onwatta district for the first time in years. The prison uniform, a drab gray jumpsuit stamped with his numbers across the chest, hung loose on his lean frame. He hadn’t grown soft in prison, but time had still worn him down, carving lines into his face that weren’t there when he went in.

A car waited just beyond the gate—a sleek, black vehicle with sharp angles and tinted windows that glinted like polished obsidian. It hummed softly, the engine almost a whisper against the distant drone of the city. Beside the car stood a man, tall and athletic, with a face that looked like it had been chisled out of old leather and left to weather. His posture was casual, but his eyes carried the weight of someone who’d seen things worth keeping quiet about.

“Hey, there, big guy,” the man called, his voice carrying a faint lilt that hinted at a long-dead Prairie City twang. “You must be O’Nine-Twenty Seven. Or do ya prefer somethin’ friendlier? Got a nickname, maybe?”

“Numbers are fine,” 0-9-2-7 replied, his voice low and gravelly from years of disuse. He adjusted the frayed cuffs of his uniform and started walking toward the car. The ground beneath his boots was cracked and uneven, littered with fragments of pavement and frost-rimed debris.

The man grinned, revealing a chipped tooth. “Suit yourself. I’m Kace. You’ve got yourself a ride, courtesy of one mister Vyr Tetsuji.”

That name gave 0-9-2-7 pause. He’d heard it before, even inside the prison’s concrete tomb. Everyone knew the name Vyr—if not the man himself, then the sprawling empire he commanded. VyrTech wasn’t just a company; it was an institution, a cornerstone of the technological dominion that held the world together. And now the man at its head had paid for his bail?

“Why?” 0-9-2-7 asked, his tone flat but edged with suspicion.

Kace shrugged, opening the car door and gesturing for him to get in. “Beats me, pal. I’m just the driver. He wants to meet ya, though. Figured that’d be worth the trouble of gettin’ you out of this dump.”

The prisoner glanced back at the looming gates of the penitentiary, a grim fortress that had held him for far too long. He wasn’t in a rush to go back, but the thought of walking into a situation he didn’t control rubbed him the wrong way.

Still, curiosity had always been his undoing.

He slid into the car, the seat cool against his back. The interior was as sleek and quiet as the exterior suggested, with a faint blue glow emanating from an embedded console. Kace climbed into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut and tapping the dashboard. The car hummed to life, rising smoothly on its magnetic chassis.

“Don’t worry,” Kace said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “You’re not the first guy to get picked up by someone like Vyr. High rollers like him? They’ve always got their reasons.”

“And you don’t know his?” 0-9-2-7 asked.

Kace smirked. “I don’t get paid to ask questions, bud. Just to drive and keep ya outta trouble.”

The car eased onto the main road, merging seamlessly into the endless flow of vehicles that zipped along the elevated highways. Through the tinted windows, the city loomed like a mechanical behemoth, its towering scrapers and endless rows of neon lights casting long shadows over the streets below.

0-9-2-7 leaned back in the seat, his hands resting on his knees. “What if I say no?”

Kace chuckled, the sound dry and humorless. “Oh, you could say no. Could hop out right now, take your chances out there. Ain’t like anyone’s gonna stop ya.”

“But?”

“But,” Kace continued, his grin widening, “somethin’ tells me a guy like you doesn’t have a lotta options. Might as well hear the man out, yeah? Worst case, you walk outta there with nothin’. Best case…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

0-9-2-7 didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the cityscape ahead. He didn’t trust this setup—hell, he didn’t trust anyone—but for now, he’d go along with it. Not because Kace was right, but because he didn’t have much to lose.

The car picked up speed, gliding effortlessly along the elevated roadway. Behind them, the prison gates disappeared into the haze of the city, a distant nightmare receding into memory.

The city stretched out in jagged, towering silhouettes that pierced the smog-laden sky. Onwatta district was a labyrinth of glass and steel, a place where towering megastructures loomed over decaying remnants of older eras. Elevated highways twisted like serpents between the buildings, their shimmering surfaces illuminated by neon signs that pulsed with aggressive energy. The air was thick with the hum of electric engines, distant sirens, and the faint, almost imperceptible vibration of drones zipping through the skyline.

0-9-2-7 sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the city beyond the tinted window. He’d spent years inside the prison’s lifeless walls, but the world outside didn’t feel any more alive. The streets below were packed with people—tiny dots scurrying under the shadows of corporate billboards that lit up the haze with slogans, promises, and lies. Your Life, Upgraded, one said, a smiling woman holding a sleek implant. VyrTech: The Future is Yours.

“You’re not much of a talker, eh?” Kace asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “Figures. Spent how long in that hole? Five years? Six?”

“Seven,” 0-9-2-7 said curtly.

“Seven years locked up,” Kace whistled, shaking his head. “Bet the city feels like a whole new beast, huh? Guessin’ you don’t recognize half of this district.”

He wasn’t wrong. Onwatta had evolved while 0-9-2-7 had been away. The buildings were taller, their reflective surfaces warped into avant-garde curves, and the streets were more congested than ever. The familiar graffiti tags of street gangs had been replaced with sleek corporate AR holograms, shimmering over walls like shimmering scars. The world had moved on without him, but it strangely was the exact same from when he was a kid.

“Don’t miss much,” 0-9-2-7 said flatly.

Kace chuckled. “Can’t say I blame ya. Whole damn place’s gone to shit. Course, it’s always been that way, eh? Just wrapped up prettier now.”

The car dipped lower, leaving the main artery of the elevated highway and merging onto a narrower road that snaked through the heart of the district. Here, the megastructures pressed closer together, their undersides a tangle of exposed piping and blinking maintenance lights. Overhead, enormous drones hovered like silent sentinels, their cameras swiveling to scan the traffic below.

Inside the car, a faint voice crackled through the radio. Kace reached for the dial, twisting it to clear the signal.

“—Kalvik, once again proving why he’s Ottawa’s shining star—”

That caught 0-9-2-7’s attention. His eyes shifted to the small screen on the dashboard, where a grainy news broadcast played. A reporter, her face framed by perfectly coifed hair, stood in front of a holographic map of Hudson Bay.

“Tuaq Kalvik successfully thwarted a terrorist cell earlier today,” the reporter announced. “The group, identified as scavengers, was discovered tampering with the Echo Scraper—a remnant of the 3rd Era known for its dangerous residual particle activity. Kalvik, known for his unparalleled combat skills, neutralized the threat with minimal collateral damage.”

The screen shifted to show distant footage of the scraper. The structure rose from the bay like a twisted relic of another world, its skeletal frame warped and blackened from centuries of exposure to toxic water and corrosive air. The news drone footage flickered, cutting to blurry glimpses of floating bodies, their forms limp and lifeless.

“Minimal damage,” Kace muttered under his breath. “Don’t think the dead’d agree with ya, eh?”

0-9-2-7 didn’t respond. He watched the broadcast in silence, his eyes narrowing slightly as the footage shifted to Kalvik himself. The man stood on the deck of a sleek transport vessel, his bioluminescent veins dimmed in the sunlight but still faintly visible against his bronze skin. He spoke into a microphone, his voice calm and measured.

“The Ancestral Scraper is more than just a relic,” Kalvik said, his eyes piercing through the lens. “It’s a reminder of who we were and what we must protect. Those who desecrate it desecrate our history.”

The broadcast ended abruptly, replaced by a barrage of ads promising life-altering implants and eternal youth in exchange for credits.

“Kalvik, eh?” Kace said, glancing at 0-9-2-7. “Bet you’re glad ya never ran into that one. Guy’s a real piece of work—got the whole city eating outta his hand, though.”

0-9-2-7’s gaze returned to the window. He didn’t say anything, but his jaw tightened slightly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Kace continued, undeterred by the silence. “Guy’s a hero an’ all, sure, but he’s the kinda hero the corps love. Flashy. Clean. Never gotta get his hands dirty unless there’s cameras around, eh?”

“Sounds familiar,” 0-9-2-7 muttered under his breath.

Kace’s grin widened, but he said nothing. The car banked to the right, ascending a private ramp that spiraled upward into the skeleton of a towering skyscraper. As they climbed higher, the sounds of the city began to fade, replaced by the low hum of the car’s engine and the faint whistle of wind through the metal beams.

“You’re gonna wanna brace yourself, pal,” Kace said, his tone shifting to something almost serious. “You’re about to see how the other half lives.”

The car passed through a set of automated gates, their edges glowing with blue light as they slid open. Beyond them lay the private garage of one Vyr Tetsuji, its polished floors and sleek vehicles a sharp contrast to the grime and chaos of the city below.

Humming up the private ramp, the noise barely audible over the faint whir of unseen mechanisms. The smooth curve of the incline was bordered by glowing panels embedded in the walls, pulsating with a soft, sterile blue light. The entire ramp seemed to float, suspended in the hollow skeleton of the towering building above. Beyond the sleek surface, massive screens projected serene landscapes—rolling hills, cascading waterfalls, and dense forests—all in dazzling clarity. They were simulations, perfect to the untrained eye but too pristine to fool someone like 0-9-2-7.

“Guessin’ you don’t see ramps like this too often, eh?” Kace quipped from the driver’s seat, his grin a flash in the rearview mirror. “Welcome to the big leagues. This guy? He don’t just live above the clouds. He owns ’em.”

0-9-2-7 didn’t respond. His eyes tracked the imagery on the walls, flickering from one idyllic scene to the next. It was too clean, too perfect, a jarring contrast to the grim sprawl he’d left behind. It unsettled him more than the grime of Onwatta ever had.

The car glided into the garage—a cavernous space with a polished white floor that gleamed like a mirror. It stretched wide, lined with angular vehicles in muted metallic tones, each one more futuristic than the last. In the center of the space, a single translucent elevator pod descended from an unseen height, its occupant obscured by the glow of the shaft’s interior lights.

Kace parked and stepped out, motioning for 0-9-2-7 to follow. “Stay close, big guy. Wouldn’t wanna get lost in a place like this.”

As they walked toward the elevator, the doors slid open, and a voice—calm and artificial—spoke. “Welcome. Please wait in the atrium. Mr. Tetsuji will join you shortly.”

The atrium was unlike anything 0-9-2-7 had ever seen. A dome of glass stretched overhead, revealing the endless sprawl of the city below and the distant smog-veiled horizon. Inside, the space was a bizarre mockery of nature. Fake trees with rubbery leaves stood in artificial soil that crunched unnaturally underfoot. A babbling brook of clear liquid snaked through the room, its surface too smooth, too perfect, reflecting the overhead lights like polished chrome.

“Is this…” 0-9-2-7 murmured, trailing off as his gaze swept over the scene.

“Wild, huh?” Kace said, lounging casually by the elevator. “They call this ‘biomimicry.’ Supposed to make ya feel like you’re outside, back when the outside had… well, stuff like this. What’s the word—trees? Grass? Dunno what half of it is, but Mr. Tetsuji’s got a thing for it.”

0-9-2-7 stepped closer to a cluster of low bushes, their leaves shimmering faintly in the artificial light. As he crouched, something small and mechanical scuttled across the dirt—a creature with spindly legs, segmented like an insect but with an elongated, featureless body.

“What the hell is that?”

Kace smirked. “That? That’s a ‘pathfinder.’ Meant to keep the ‘ecosystem’ running. Cute, eh? Wait ’til ya see the big ones. He’s got a whole menagerie of ’em somewhere.”

Before 0-9-2-7 could respond, a soft whir drew his attention upward. A figure descended from an elevated desk encased in a clear, glass platform. The man who stepped into view was immaculate, his suit a precise balance of minimalist design and technological flair. His hair, silvery blonde streaked with dark black highlights, caught the light in a way that seemed deliberate, as if engineered.

“Mr. Tetsuji,” Kace said with a slight bow. “Your guest.”

Vyr Tetsuji smiled faintly, his eyes sharp and calculating despite the warmth of his tone. “Thank you, Kace. That will be all.”

Kace gave a small salute before retreating to the elevator, leaving 0-9-2-7 standing alone in the strange artificial wilderness.

“You must be Kunjor,” Vyr said as he approached, his voice smooth and measured. He extended a hand, his movements deliberate.

0-9-2-7 hesitated, then shook his hand briefly. “I don’t go by that name.”

Vyr’s smile widened slightly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “No, you don’t look like a ‘Kunjor.’” He gestured toward the desk, where a holographic display flickered to life, projecting a digital file. The image of a woman appeared—a Black woman with short, curly hair and a hard-set jaw. “This is the Kunjor tied to the crime you were convicted of. A bank heist gone wrong. Innocent lives lost.”

Vyr circled him slowly, hands clasped behind his back. “So why, I wonder, would you agree to take her place?”

0-9-2-7’s face remained unreadable, his voice steady. “Didn’t have nothing better to do.”

“Interesting.” Vyr tilted his head, scrutinizing him. “You know, when I had you released, I expected someone… different. The file paints a much smaller picture—a man of modest intelligence and questionable motives. But the way you carry yourself? The way you speak? It tells me there’s more to you than what’s in these records.”

“Maybe you’re reading too much into it,” 0-9-2-7 replied.

“Perhaps.” Vyr tapped the holographic file, dismissing it. “Or perhaps you’re exactly what I’m looking for. You see, I have a habit of collecting unusual pieces for very specific purposes. And you, 0-9-2-7, are… unique.”

0-9-2-7’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not the first person to call me that. What’s your point?”

Vyr smiled again, stepping closer, his tone dipping to something almost conspiratorial. “My point is that every puzzle has its place. The question is whether you’re ready to find yours.”

“Depends on the puzzle,” 0-9-2-7 said, his tone sharp. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “And what it’s missing.”

Vyr chuckled lightly, turning toward a nearby mechanical drone perched on a synthetic branch. The creature rotating its propellers once, a jittery, unnatural motion. “This world,” Vyr began, gesturing faintly around the atrium, “is filled with chaos. Phenoms fighting each other, gangs carving up districts, corporations playing gods. And through it all, what do you see?”

0-9-2-7 said nothing, letting the silence answer for him.

“You see waste,” Vyr continued, his voice calm but deliberate. “Potential squandered. Strength without purpose. But I believe that with the right guidance…” He trailed off, running a finger along the edge of the drone, as if petting it. It chirped, a metallic sound that echoed softly. “Even chaos can be sculpted into something… enduring.”

“Guidance,” 0-9-2-7 repeated, his tone skeptical. “Is that what you call it?”

Vyr turned back to him, his expression unreadable. “You’re a man who values clarity, I’d imagine. So let me be clear: I don’t care about the idealism Phenoms cling to. I care about results. And I suspect you do, too.”

0-9-2-7’s gaze flickered to the drone, then back to Vyr. “So what’s the result you’re after?”

Vyr smiled faintly, stepping closer. “Balance,” he said simply. “And perhaps a little… redemption. For all of us.”

Vyr smiled faintly, stepping closer. “Balance,” he said simply. “And perhaps a little… redemption. For all of us.”

0-9-2-7’s brow furrowed, his arms still crossed as he studied Vyr. “Redemption? You think I’m looking for that?”

“I think,” Vyr replied, tilting his head slightly, “that you’re looking for something more than survival. The way you’ve carried yourself—the choices you’ve made—they don’t speak of a man content to simply exist.”

0-9-2-7 gave a low, humorless chuckle. “You’re reading too much into things again. All I want is to be left alone.”

Vyr’s gaze remained steady, his expression patient. “And yet you’re here. You didn’t refuse the car. You didn’t walk away. That tells me there’s a part of you that’s curious. A part that wonders if there’s more.” He gestured faintly to the surrounding room. “Tell me… does this look like the home of a man whose content with mediocrity?”

“Mediocrity,” 0-9-2-7 repeated, the word sharp on his tongue. “You think I care about your synthetic paradise?”

Vyr’s faint smile didn’t falter. “I think you care about purpose, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.”

0-9-2-7’s eyes narrowed. “You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t said anything.”

“Fair,” Vyr acknowledged with a slight nod. “Then let me be blunt. I can give you what you want most.”

0-9-2-7 snorted, a dry, bitter sound. “What I want? You’ve got no idea what I want. Hell, I don’t even know.”

For the first time, Vyr’s smile widened, just enough to reveal a flicker of satisfaction. “A life worth dying for,” he said simply.

The words landed heavily, hanging in the air between them. 0-9-2-7’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted, a tension coiling through his frame.

“What makes you think that’s what I want?” 0-9-2-7 asked, his voice low.

Vyr stepped back slightly, giving him space. “Because a man like you doesn’t accept confinement for the sake of survival. You don’t sit in a cell for seven years, biding your time, unless you’re waiting for something… something worth the risk.”

0-9-2-7 didn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the polished floor. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, edged with something he couldn’t quite place. “And what exactly are you offering?”

Vyr turned back to his drone, still perched on the plastic branch, its head tilting as if it were listening. “A chance,” he said, his tone as measured as ever. “To find out. To see if there’s something left in this world that’s worth it.” He glanced back at 0-9-2-7. “That’s what I’m offering.”

---

Chapter 2: The Watcher in Blue

N/A

---

Chapter 3: A New pattern

The room was dimly illuminated, its subdued lighting reflecting off holographic displays that shimmered with ghostly precision. At the center of the sterile chamber stood 0-9-2-7, stripped of his prison-issued garb and clad in an advanced matte-black bodysuit. The suit, a feat of engineering, adhered to his form like a second skin, crafted from interlocking layers of adaptive armor that offered both flexibility and silent efficiency. Every contour of the suit exuded an intimidating blend of functionality and menace. It was not merely protection—it was a statement, a symbol of purpose reclaimed.

Leaning against a nearby console was Kace, his demeanor nonchalant but his eyes betraying a sharpness honed by years of experience. A toothpick hung from the corner of his mouth as he gestured lazily toward the array of gear spread across the table. “Well, O-Nine, you clean up nice,” he remarked with a wry grin. “Vyr’s pulled out the good stuff for this one.”

0-9-2-7’s gaze settled on the centerpiece of the ensemble: a sleek, minimalist helmet resting on the table. Its surface was unmarred by ornamentation, save for a faintly glowing visor slit that exuded a cold, sterile light. He picked it up, his fingers tracing its contours with deliberate curiosity. The helmet seemed unnervingly impersonal, yet its design suggested an attention to detail that bordered on obsessive.

“Helmet’s got all the bells and whistles,” Kace began, stepping forward to tap a few controls on the adjacent console. “Infrared vision, comms integration, heads-up display—the whole package. You’ll see better through that than you ever could on your own.”

Sliding the helmet over his head, 0-9-2-7 felt the interior adjust seamlessly to his skull. A soft hum resonated as the system activated, and his field of vision transformed. Shades of red, orange, and blue painted the room in gradients of heat signatures, while the outlines of Kace’s figure stood in sharp contrast against the cooler hues of the background. The HUD flickered to life, providing readouts of temperature, distance, and a faint directional compass that hovered at the edge of his vision. For a moment, he simply stood, letting the display reframe his perception of the room.

“Functional,” 0-9-2-7 muttered, his voice filtered through the helmet’s modulator with a faint mechanical timbre. It lent his words an air of detachment, though his mind was anything but.

Kace smirked, folding his arms. “Functional doesn’t even begin to cover it. Wait until you see the rest.”

With a flick of his wrist, Kace activated a holographic map that materialized midair, casting a detailed representation of Onwatta’s northern districts. The digital landscape was grim: towering tenements, derelict industrial zones, and a labyrinthine network of alleys dominated the projection. The northern section glowed faintly red, indicating the Frostfangs’ territory.

“The Frostfangs,” Kace announced, gesturing toward a highlighted cluster on the map. “Small-time gang with big-time ambition. They’ve been crawling their way up through northern Onwatta—shakedowns, extortion, the usual garbage—but they’re starting to overreach.”

“What’s their angle?” 0-9-2-7 asked, his attention fixed on the holographic display. His voice carried a note of skepticism, a soldier assessing the battlefield rather than a man invested in its morality.

Kace shrugged, his grin fading. “No real strategy, as far as we can tell. No firearms, either. They stick to melee weapons—junk metal turned into makeshift blades and clubs. But they’ve got numbers, and whispers about a couple of Phenoms among their ranks have Vyr paying attention.”

“And the district?” 0-9-2-7’s tone hardened, distaste evident even through the helmet’s filter.

“A cesspool,” Kace replied bluntly. “Crime’s not just rampant; it’s institutional. The cops down there are no better than the thugs they’re supposed to police. Hell, they’ll arrest a guy for speaking out against a crime before they’ll touch the bastard who committed it. It’s every shade of rotten you can imagine.” He paused, his grin returning faintly. “Perfect for someone like you to make an impression.”

0-9-2-7’s jaw tightened beneath the helmet, his silence heavy with unspoken thoughts. “What’s the plan?”

Kace stepped aside, revealing another piece of equipment: a pair of sleek, high-tech boots with faintly glowing panels embedded along their sides. Their design was almost elegant, the faint blue light pulsing rhythmically as if alive. “Jet and grav. Limited flight capabilities, hover functionality, and the ability to cling to most surfaces. But don’t push ‘em too hard. They’re not built for marathons.”

Bending down, 0-9-2-7 slipped on the boots and flexed his feet experimentally. A faint hum resonated through the soles, their systems syncing effortlessly with the bodysuit. He took a step forward, the boots responding with uncanny precision, amplifying his movements without resistance. He lifted one foot, testing its magnetic grip on the steel floor, and felt the almost imperceptible pull of the system engaging.

“Drones?” 0-9-2-7 asked without looking up.

“Two recon models,” Kace replied. “Fast, quiet, and armed with basic stunners. Think of ‘em as your eyes in the back of your head.”

The holographic map zoomed in on a dilapidated tenement complex surrounded by graffiti-stained walls and makeshift barricades. “That’s their base,” Kace explained. “Big enough to hide their numbers but small enough for you to handle solo. Go in quiet, get the lay of the land, and make sure they don’t get the chance to regroup.”

0-9-2-7 straightened, his frame imposing in the tactical gear. “And if quiet doesn’t work?”

Kace’s grin returned, sharp and knowing. “Then you do what you think best. Just don’t leave too much of a mess. Vyr likes his table tidy.”

Adjusting the helmet, 0-9-2-7 turned toward the door, his footsteps echoing softly in the sterile chamber. For the first time in years, the oppressive weight of stagnation seemed to lift. He wasn’t deluded enough to call it hope, but it was movement—a direction. Movement, after all, was the first step toward purpose.

As the door hissed open, Kace called after him, his tone light but edged with sincerity. “Good luck out there, O-Nine. And hey, try not to enjoy it too much.”

0-9-2-7 stepped into the cool evening air, the northern part of Onwatta looming in the distance lika jagged, decayed monument. The city’s towering scrapers stretched high, their glass-and-metal surfaces tarnished with streaks of grime and graffiti that seemed to seep into the soul of the district itself. Public transport stations were dotted along the streets, crowded with weary commuters waiting for their sluggish pods to arrive, but 0-9-2-7 had no intention of blending in. Speed was essential, and the boots on his feet hummed with anticipation.

He scanned the area, the helmet’s HUD highlighting paths and obstacles. Heat signatures flickered in the distance—figures moving, working, existing in the chaotic sprawl—but none registered as a threat. With a calculated step forward, he activated the boots’ hover mode, propelling himself upward onto a rusted overhang.

The city unfolded before him, a tangle of broken bridges, rusted railways, and deteriorating infrastructure that carved its own treacherous path. His movements were swift but deliberate, leaping from ledge to ledge, the boots’ magnetic grip anchoring him firmly even on surfaces caked with debris. The system’s stabilization ensured that each landing was smooth, the faint hum of the tech barely audible over the urban din.

As he moved through the labyrinthine rooftops, he passed through areas that bore the scars of neglect: collapsed balconies, shattered windows, and entire blocks where the lights had been extinguished for years. Beneath him, the streets teemed with the dregs of Onwatta’s forgotten—people huddled around makeshift fires, bartering scraps for survival. This was the reality of the district, a stark contrast to the synthetic opulence of Vyr’s domain.

A flicker of movement caught his attention. Two figures stood at the edge of a dimly lit alley, engaged in a heated exchange. One wore a tattered jacket, the other brandished a makeshift weapon. 0-9-2-7’s helmet tagged them automatically, identifying them as non-lethal threats. He hesitated, then shifted his trajectory, leaping over the alley and landing on a rooftop beyond.

Further ahead, he spotted an open-air market, its stalls illuminated by flickering neon signs and LED strips. The area was crowded, but not enough to deter him. Descending quietly, he maneuvered through the outskirts of the market, weaving between stacks of crates and half-empty stalls. A pile of discarded clothes caught his eye. Among the rags was a faded coat, its oversized hood still intact. Without breaking stride, he grabbed it and slung it over his shoulders, concealing the bulk of his tactical gear. The hood cast a shadow over the helmet, masking its faint glow.

The stolen coat offered little warmth, but it served its purpose. Blending into the crowd as much as his imposing frame allowed, 0-9-2-7 pressed onward, his eyes scanning for the fastest route out of the congested zone. A path emerged: a narrow alley that sloped upward, leading toward the dilapidated rooftops once more. He took it without hesitation, the soles of his boots gripping the uneven ground as he ascended.

Finally, the northern part of the district came into view. The Frostfangs’ territory was unmistakable—a cluster of ruined tenements encircled by makeshift barricades and adorned with crude emblems spray-painted in bright, jagged strokes. He stopped at the edge of a rooftop, crouching low as his HUD began to map the area. The drones detached from his belt, their small forms whirring to life as they zipped forward, scanning the perimeter. Their tiny frames moved with eerie precision, their sensors casting faint beams that illuminated the edges of the Frostfangs’ territory. From his vantage point, 0-9-2-7 crouched low, watching as the drones’ feeds began to stream directly to his helmet. The HUD flickered with a growing network of outlined structures and heat signatures.

The gang’s hideout was a decrepit tenement complex, its facade layered with years of grime and crude graffiti. Makeshift barricades—broken vehicles, rusted beams, and scrap metal—lined the perimeter. Small clusters of gang members loitered near barrels emitting faintly flickering flames, their laughter and voices carrying over the night. Weapons glinted faintly in the firelight—improvised blades, studded bats, and jagged pieces of pipe.

0-9-2-7 scanned the layout carefully. Two main entrances, both heavily guarded, with several smaller breaches along the crumbling walls that could serve as potential entry points. The drones marked these with soft blue overlays, while heat signatures—some stationary, others pacing—pulsed in faint red. A small cluster on the second floor indicated a meeting, judging by the overlapping heat sources and subtle movements.

Good. The leaders are up top.

He activated the helmet’s comm link. “Kace, you reading this?”

Kace’s voice crackled in his ear, tinged with his usual casual drawl. “Loud and clear, O-Nine. Looks cozy down there. You going through the front door, or we taking bets on you breaking a few ribs first?”

“Not my ribs,” 0-9-2-7 replied dryly. “I’ll stick to the shadows.”

“Smart call. Just remember—Vyr doesn’t want the place leveled. Too much noise brings the wrong kind of attention.”

0-9-2-7 ignored the comment and moved. The boots’ grav capabilities engaged silently as he leapt across the gap to a neighboring rooftop, landing without a sound. He crept along the edge, descending the side of the building to ground level. The drones hovered nearby, their stunners armed but inactive, awaiting his signal.

He circled to the side of the complex, where a portion of the wall had crumbled into rubble. A lone sentry stood nearby, leaning lazily against a broken doorframe, his attention divided between the glowing screen of a handheld device and the occasional glance at his surroundings.

With surgical precision, 0-9-2-7 approached. The helmet outlined the sentry’s vital points, but he didn’t need it. He closed the gap in a single, fluid motion, one hand clamping over the man’s mouth while the other wrenched his arm behind his back. A sharp twist elicited a muffled cry, followed by the faint crack of bone. The sentry crumpled, blood escaping his orifices as he hit the ground.

He dragged the body into the shadows, securing it out of sight before slipping through the breach. The interior was dim, lit by flickering bulbs and the faint glow of neon signs patched into the walls. Trash littered the floor, and the air reeked of stale sweat, burned plastic, and something sour he didn’t care to identify.

Focus.

Voices echoed faintly from deeper inside. He moved with care, his steps silent on the cracked tiles as he navigated the corridors. The drones trailed behind, one sweeping ahead while the other lingered near his shoulder, its feed updating his HUD in real-time. Each turn revealed more of the gang’s operation: makeshift workshops where stolen goods were dismantled and repurposed, a storeroom packed with crates of dubious origin, and a crude barracks lined with filthy mattresses and scattered belongings.

Ahead, a pair of voices grew louder. Two gang members stood near a stairwell, arguing over their next move.

“I’m telling you, they’re pushing us too hard,” one of them said, his tone edged with frustration. “We’re not ready to hit another sector.”

“We don’t get a say,” the other replied, his grip tightening on a rusted blade. “Boss says we move, we move. You wanna argue? Take it up with him.”

“Yeah, sure. And end up like Rix?”

The first man’s nervous laugh barely masked the tension. 0-9-2-7 didn’t wait for more. He stepped from the shadows, his silhouette framed by the flickering light. Before they could react, he closed the distance, one hand lashing out to wrench the blade from its owner while the other drove a sharp elbow into the man’s temple. The second swung a crowbar in a desperate arc, but 0-9-2-7 caught it mid-swing, twisting it free before planting a knee into the attacker’s gut. Both collapsed in a heap, groaning softly.

He adjusted his stance, stepping over the unconscious forms as the drones moved ahead to scout the stairwell. The feed revealed a clear path to the second floor, where the cluster of heat signatures remained. He followed, ascending with careful steps. The closer he drew, the clearer the voices became—a heated discussion punctuated by the occasional outburst.

The Frostfangs’ leaders were gathered in what had once been an office. The room was cluttered with mismatched furniture and dimly lit by a series of buzzing overhead lights. At the center stood three figures around a cracked table, their postures tense. One of them, a tall man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, gestured emphatically, his voice carrying over the others.

“We’re spread too thin,” he growled. “If we don’t consolidate, we’re gonna get picked off.”

“And if we don’t expand, we’ll lose what little ground we’ve got,” another argued. She was smaller, bony, but her tone was sharp. “You want to wait for someone else to come in and finish us?”

The third figure, seated at the far end of the table, remained silent. His presence alone seemed to command respect; the others glanced his way as if awaiting his verdict. His features were obscured by a hood, but the faint glow of cybernetic implants beneath his skin betrayed him as a Phenom.

0-9-2-7 crouched low, observing through the gap in the doorway. The gang’s dynamics were clear—a volatile mix of ambition and desperation, with their leader keeping the fragile balance in check. He activated the drones’ stunners, preparing for the next move.

Time to make an impression.

“Intruder!” a guard bellowed, his voice ricocheting through the decrepit walls, most likely having stumbled upon one of the bodies. The sound galvanized the gang members into action, their disorganized shouts merging into a chaotic clamor. The Frostfangs’ leaders exchanged sharp glances, their arguments forgotten as they reached for weapons. The Phenom at the table stood slowly, his hood falling back to reveal cold, augmented eyes that glinted faintly in the dim light.

0-9-2-7 wasted no time. Bursting through the doorway, he moved with calculated precision, his first strike aimed at the tall, scarred man closest to him. The gang leader barely had time to raise his weapon before 0-9-2-7’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling into the table. A follow-up kick sent the table skidding across the room, scattering papers and cracked glass as it slammed into the wiry woman.

“You!” she snarled, scrambling to her feet with a knife in hand. She lunged at him, her movements quick but unrefined. 0-9-2-7 sidestepped effortlessly, grabbing her wrist and twisting it sharply. The blade clattered to the floor as she cried out in pain, her body following the momentum of his throw as she crashed into the wall.

The third leader, the Phenom, stood unmoved by the chaos. His gaze locked onto 0-9-2-7 with eerie calm, his augmented arms flexing as blades extended from beneath the synthetic skin. He said nothing, but the tension in the room thickened as he took a step forward.

Before the Phenom could act, a shout erupted from the hallway as the rest of the gang poured into the room. Armed with makeshift weapons, they surged forward, a tide of rage and desperation. 0-9-2-7 met them head-on, his movements fluid and efficient. He ducked under a swung pipe, countering with a devastating elbow that crumpled the attacker. A bat-wielding thug charged at him, only to be disarmed with a sharp twist and dropped with a knee to the chest.

The room devolved into chaos as 0-9-2-7 dismantled the gang with brutal efficiency. Each strike was calculated to incapacitate, his strength and reflexes honed to perfection. One by one, the Frostfangs fell, their makeshift arsenal no match for the precision of his training.

But then the room shifted again.

The Phenom leader struck without warning, his bladed arm arcing toward 0-9-2-7’s throat. The attack was fast, faster than the gang’s clumsy swings, and forced 0-9-2-7 to backpedal. The blade missed by inches, slicing through a rusted pipe instead and bisecting one of his men, the hiss of escaping steam filling the air. 0-9-2-7 retaliated, his fist connecting with the Phenom’s augmented torso, but the strike barely staggered him.

“Strong,” the Phenom muttered, his voice metallic and hollow. “But not strong enough.”

Before 0-9-2-7 could reply, two more figures entered the fray. The first was a towering brute, his skin mottled with unnatural patterns that hinted at reinforced durability. The second was wiry and quick, her eyes glowing faintly as she darted across the room with unnatural speed.

The odds had shifted. 0-9-2-7 adjusted his stance, his HUD analyzing the new threats and providing potential strategies. He didn’t hesitate. With a flick of his wrist, he activated his cloning ability. In an instant, three identical copies of himself materialized, their forms shimmering faintly before solidifying.

The Phenom leader’s calm faltered, replaced by a flicker of surprise. “Cloner,” he hissed, his blades gleaming as he prepared to strike.

The clones moved as one, their actions synchronized with 0-9-2-7’s own. They divided the battlefield, each taking on one of the Phenoms. The original faced the leader, their strikes and counters a deadly dance of steel and precision. One clone tackled the brute, their clash shaking the floor as raw strength met calculated technique. The third clone engaged the speedster, their movements a blur as they dodged and countered her rapid strikes.

The fight escalated, the room devolving into a maelstrom of violence. Sparks flew as blades clashed against armor, and the air filled with the sounds of grunts, impacts, and the occasional burst of static as damaged augments faltered. The Frostfangs who had remained conscious scrambled to escape, their confidence shattered by the spectacle.

The Phenom leader seemed to sense the tide turning and roared with guttural fury. His blades became a blur as he struck out, one slicing through a desk and another catching one of 0-9-2-7’s clones across the chest. The clone flickered and dissolved, its energy returning to the original, who staggered slightly under the feedback.

“Impressive,” the leader sneered, his augmented voice carrying an edge of mockery. “But how long can you keep this up?”

“Longer than you,” 0-9-2-7 retorted, feinting to the left before delivering a powerful uppercut that sent the leader reeling. As he pressed the attack, his remaining clones coordinated their strikes, weaving through the room with precision. The brute, despite his size and strength, began to falter under the relentless assault of one clone, his reinforced skin showing cracks as the blows landed. The speedster, meanwhile, found herself outmaneuvered by the clone she faced, her rapid strikes becoming increasingly desperate.

The chaos reached its peak when the leader, his movements growing erratic, activated a hidden mechanism in his arm. A low, ominous hum began to build, and 0-9-2-7’s HUD flashed a warning: Explosive charge detected.

“You’re insane,” one of the clones said, echoing 0-9-2-7’s thoughts. The leader only grinned, his augmented eyes blazing with reckless resolve.

“If I go down, I’m taking you with me, I’m taking all of you with me,” the Phenom snarled, his voice a distorted growl.

The original 0-9-2-7 broke away from the fight, his clones holding the line as he sprinted toward the panel. He tore it open, his hands moving with desperate speed as he scanned the wiring. The charge was already armed, its countdown ticking down with merciless precision.

“Twenty seconds,” Kace’s voice crackled in his ear. “You better move, O-Nine.”

“I’m not leaving until I finish this,” 0-9-2-7 growled. His hands worked quickly, severing wires and rerouting connections in a blur of motion. The clones continued to fight, holding the Phenoms at bay, but the leader’s grin widened as the hum grew louder.

With a final, desperate pull, 0-9-2-7 yanked the core of the charge free. The hum ceased, replaced by a high-pitched whine that signaled instability.

“Shit,” he muttered, turning to his clones. “Collapse.”

The clones shimmered and vanished, their energy returning to him as he sprinted toward the exit, vanishing mid run after a moment. The Phenoms, momentarily stunned by the sudden shift, had no time to react as the charge detonated. The explosion tore through the building, flames and debris consuming everything in their path.

The dust settled slowly, blanketing the ruined landscape in a choking haze of ash and debris. The remnants of the Frostfangs’ hideout were an unrecognizable wasteland of twisted metal and shattered concrete, blood and dust coated various debris, illuminated only by the flickering red and blue of emergency lights from police drones hovering in the distance. The faint crackle of smoldering flames punctuated the otherwise eerie silence.

A figure emerged from the haze, his silhouette cutting through the chaos with a steady, unrelenting stride. 0-9-2-7’s suit was scorched, patches of the stolen hood melted and peeling away to reveal the reinforced armored suit beneath. The faint glow of his helmet’s visor was visible through the smoke, a piercing, otherworldly light that seemed to bore into everything it faced.

“Stop right there!” a voice barked, sharp and authoritative. Two police officers stepped forward, their riot armor coated in ash. One raised a baton charged with static energy, while the other gripped a compact accelerator rifle. “Hands where we can see them!”

0-9-2-7 didn’t break his stride. His movements were unhurried, almost indifferent, as if the command had never been issued. The officers exchanged a glance, uncertainty flickering between them before the one with the rifle raised his weapon.

“I said stop!”

Still, 0-9-2-7 walked forward, his gaze locked ahead as if the two officers didn’t exist. The one with the rifle took a step back, his fingers tightening on the trigger.

“Don’t,” his partner warned, his voice low. “He’s got them damn superpowers…”

“We can’t just let him walk away!” the officer snapped, but his voice wavered. The weight of his own hesitation dragged his aim lower as 0-9-2-7 passed between them, his presence commanding an unspoken gravity that froze them both in place.

Behind him, the wreckage groaned and shifted as the fire continued to consume what little remained. The officers stood there, their weapons slack in their hands, as the figure disappeared into the thickening smoke.

Closer to the edge of the wreckage, a small crowd had gathered, their faces illuminated by the cold glow of camera drones that hovered above them like predatory birds. Among the onlookers was a reporter, her round features partially obscured by a thin layer of dust. She held a sleek microphone in one hand, her other gesturing urgently to her drone operator.

“Get a clear shot on him,” she hissed. “Now.”

The drone complied, zipping forward to position itself in front of 0-9-2-7 as he emerged from the rubble. The reporter hurried to intercept him, her boots crunching against the debris-strewn ground.

“Excuse me!” she called, her voice sharp and insistent. “Excuse me, sir! Can you comment on what just happened here?”

0-9-2-7 paused, his helmet tilting slightly as the drone’s lens focused on him. The faint hum of its camera filled the silence as the crowd’s murmurs fell away, every eye locked on the towering figure standing amidst the ruins. The reporter stepped closer, undeterred by the imposing presence before her, raising the mic up close to his helmet.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly despite her practiced professionalism. “What should the people of Onwatta know about this?”

For a moment, 0-9-2-7 said nothing. The glow of his visor dimmed slightly, as if considering the weight of her questions. Then, his voice came, low and distorted through the helmet’s modulator—a voice that carried the weight of both finality and beginning.

“The start of a new paradigm.”

With that, he turned and walked away, the crowd parting instinctively to let him pass. The reporter stood frozen, her microphone still raised, as the drone’s feed captured the image of his retreating figure silhouetted against the smoldering wreckage. The faint murmurs of the crowd swelled again, voices tinged with equal parts awe and unease.

Above, the emergency lights cast long shadows over the ruins, the blinking red and blue reflecting off the smoke like distant warnings. Somewhere in the crowd, someone whispered the word “Paradigm,” the name spreading like a spark through dry grass.

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Chapter 4: Anchor and Burden

N/A

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Chapter 5: A Symbol of Fear

N/A

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Chapter 6: Order at Any Cost

N/A

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Chapter 7: Apex Paradigm

Paradigm stood at the edge of the opulent boardroom, his broad frame cloaked in a perfectly tailored black suit. The material felt foreign against his skin, too smooth and precise, as if designed more for appearance than utility. It was a far cry from the armor he had worn just days ago—armor that felt honest, that served a purpose beyond posturing.

Around him, the air buzzed with clipped conversations, the low murmur of corporate elites slipping into their seats. The boardroom itself was a glass-and-steel marvel suspended high above Onwatta’s sprawling skyline. The walls gleamed with faint projections of charts, data streams, and rotating corporate logos that shifted subtly with the conversations. Above, a lattice of polished metal spiraled into an atrium of artificial daylight, as though mocking the smog-choked city below.

The people filing into the room were dressed in expensive fabrics that shimmered faintly with embedded tech. Their jewelry—more for function than fashion—flickered with holographic displays, constantly updating them on stock movements, global trade, and personal metrics. They moved like a school of entitled fish, their voices a mix of cultured disdain and calculated charm.

“He’s late,” one of them muttered, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a pinched expression. His voice carried the sharpness of someone used to giving orders, not waiting for others. “Typical Vyr. Loves the dramatics.”

“If he weren’t so damn effective, I’d say we replace him,” another said, a woman whose eyes darted nervously to Paradigm before settling on her neighbor. She adjusted the intricate lattice of chains that draped over her shoulders, the faint glow of their embedded screens reflecting her restlessness.

“Replace him? With who?” a third scoffed, leaning back in his seat. He was younger than the others, his suit sharp but gaudy in its excess. “Face it, without Tetsuji, none of us would even be here. He keeps the district profitable.”

Paradigm listened without comment, his gaze steady behind the dark tint of a pair of luxurious glasses. They were smart glasses, giving him a near exray scan of the individuals, allowing him to see who held guns, what jewlry they wore, rather or not they had undergarments. Vyr insisted he wear them in formal meetings to give face of being a simple guard and to help blend into the top exects. The quiet hum of his presence was enough to keep most of the executives from meeting his gaze. The weight of his silence seemed to unnerve them, though none dared acknowledge it outright.

He scanned the room, observing the body language of each person who entered. Nervous adjustments to ties and cuffs. Glances exchanged that said more than words. Their voices were loud, but their movements betrayed them: the small hesitations, the way their hands lingered too long on the backs of chairs, the shallow breaths they took as they settled in. They might have been powerful in their circles, but here, surrounded by their peers and shadowed by Paradigm’s imposing presence, they were something else entirely. Vulnerable.

“What’s he even called us here for?” someone else grumbled, a wrinkled woman with steel-gray hair pulled into an immaculate bun. “The district’s already stretched thin with the Frostfangs and the cleanup from Paradigm’s recent… activities. I hope this isn’t another one of his ego-driven projects.”

“Careful,” another voice warned, low and smooth. “You’ll talk yourself out of an alliance. Or worse.”

The murmurs quieted as more chairs filled. The tension in the room grew palpable, an unspoken acknowledgment that Vyr Tetsuji’s lateness was not simply a matter of poor timekeeping. Everything about the man was deliberate, from his words to his silences, and his absence was no exception.

Paradigm shifted his weight subtly, his gaze moving to the end of the room where a single, empty chair waited at the head of the table. The only thing marking it as different was its material: polished chrome with intricate geometric engravings that seemed to pulse faintly with light. Vyr’s chair. The only seat no one dared to touch.

The voices around Paradigm continued to rise and fall, snippets of conversations blending into a tapestry of ambition and paranoia.

“Profits are dipping.”

“Have you seen the projections?”

“And what about this Paradigm project? Why not just stick to drone enforcement?”

“You don’t understand—Tetsuji’s obsessed with symbols. He thinks it’ll work.”

“Symbols won’t pay dividends.”

Paradigm didn’t react. He had no place in their world of words. His role here, like everything else, had been dictated by Vyr. He was an instrument of purpose, and until Vyr arrived, there was no purpose to enact.

The last seat filled, and the room settled into a restless silence. A clock embedded into the table’s surface ticked faintly, marking each second as it passed. For a moment, the room held its collective breath, waiting.

Then, the door at the far end of the room slid open with a soft hiss.

Paradigm didn’t move, but his focus sharpened. The air seemed to shift as Vyr Tetsuji entered, his presence washing over the room like a cold wind. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, heads turned, and the hum of unseen machinery seemed to grow quieter, as if even the room itself acknowledged the arrival of its master.

The polished floor reflected every calculated step Vyr Tetsuji took as he crossed the room. His movements were deliberate, almost hypnotic, like the pendulum of a clock ticking away at a secret countdown. The faint, sterilized scent of the room—a mix of synthetic pine and whatever chemical cocktail pulsed through the building’s ventilation—seemed to intensify in his presence. He wore his signature suit, charcoal black with subtle silver accents that shimmered as he moved. Every detail of his appearance—from the precise fold of his pocket square to the gleaming cufflinks etched with the VyrTech insignia—radiated power and control.

“Apologies for the delay,” Vyr said, his voice calm but weighted. The faintest trace of amusement curled at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve found that anticipation tends to sharpen focus.”

Several executives exchanged glances, their expressions a blend of irritation and forced deference. One of them, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and an air of barely contained impatience, cleared his throat. “We’re all very focused, Tetsuji. Perhaps we can skip the theatrics and get to the point.”

Vyr’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew colder. He moved to his seat at the head of the table, his fingers brushing the back of the chair before he turned to face the room.

“Of course, Mr. Drayton,” Vyr said smoothly. “Let’s not waste time.”

He didn’t sit. Instead, he rested his hands lightly on the chair, his gaze sweeping across the room. The faint hum of the holographic projections seemed to sync with his presence, casting faint shadows that danced across the walls.

“You are all here,” he began, his voice cutting cleanly through the silence, “because you represent the pillars of Onwatta’s corporate infrastructure. Each of you, in your own way, shapes the rhythm of this city—its markets, its systems, its people. And yet…”

He paused, letting the word hang in the air like an unspoken accusation. The tension was palpable, and even Paradigm, stationed silently at the edge of the room, noted the subtle shifts in posture among the executives.

“And yet,” Vyr continued, stepping away from the chair and beginning to pace, “despite all our efforts, despite our resources and influence, we find ourselves at a crossroads. The Phenoms run unchecked. The so-called government is a hollow shell. The people cling to their vices and distractions, blind to the decay around them.”

Several executives shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Paradigm, standing motionless at the edge of the room, felt the subtle shift in the atmosphere. Vyr’s words weren’t just rhetoric; they were a scalpel, cutting through the room’s thin veneer of civility.

“This,” Vyr said, stopping at the center of the table, “is where Paradigm comes in.”

All eyes turned to the silent figure at the edge of the room. Paradigm remained still, his visor dimmed but present, an ever-watchful sentinel.

“Paradigm is not merely a man,” Vyr said, his tone gaining a subtle intensity. “He is an idea. A symbol. And symbols… have power.”

“Symbols,” a woman to Vyr’s left said with a slight sneer, “don’t pay dividends.”

Vyr’s head turned slightly, his gaze locking onto hers. The air seemed to chill. “Symbols,” he replied, his voice measured, “shape perception. And perception, Ms. Wrynn, drives markets.”

“Drive markets? You want us to sell fear?” another executive, a man with sharp features and an even sharper tongue, interjected. “Fear doesn’t sell subscriptions, Tetsuji. It undermines consumer trust.”

“And trust,” Vyr said smoothly, “is the currency of control. Fear doesn’t diminish trust—it redirects it. People trust what they fear, as long as it offers stability. Stability breeds loyalty. Loyalty breeds profit.”

He turned back to the room, gesturing toward Paradigm. “Imagine this: a unified entity. Not one man, but a collective. Paradigm is the beginning of a movement—a force that can be embodied by multiple individuals, trained and outfitted to maintain order. They don’t even have to be Phenoms. What matters is that the people believe. That they see something—someone—to fear, to respect, to follow.”

A ripple of unease spread through the room. Whispers broke out, some murmuring agreement, others shaking their heads in disbelief. One man leaned forward, his brows furrowed. “You’re proposing we weaponize Paradigm as a brand?”

“Not a brand,” Vyr corrected, his tone sharp. “A hierarchy. A single, dominant entity that places itself above all others. A model of strength and control that suppresses rogue Phenoms and dismantles competitors. A symbol that commands absolute loyalty… or fear.”

“And through this entity,” another executive interjected, “we’d eliminate rivals? What are you suggesting, Tetsuji? A corporate war?”

Vyr’s expression didn’t waver. “Call it what you like. The fact remains: Onwatta’s current model is unsustainable. This district—this city—requires order. And order demands an apex.”

“An apex?” Wrynn scoffed. “You’re asking us to rewrite the rules entirely. Do you have any idea what that would cost? The logistics alone—”

“You’re worried about logistics?” Drayton snapped, cutting her off. “This isn’t logistics, Wrynn. It’s suicide. Tetsuji wants to dismantle the very systems that built this room. You really think the people will just go along with it? They’ll riot.”

Vyr raised a hand, silencing the growing din. His gaze swept over the room, cold and calculating. “Humanity,” he said, his voice low but resonant, “has already lost its sense of self. We’ve spent centuries erasing culture, history, identity. We told ourselves it was for the greater good—to unify, to progress. But look at what we’ve created. A species that doesn’t know where it came from or why it exists. Hollowed husks, barely functioning beyond their base instincts.”

The room fell into a tense silence, his words striking a chord that no one wanted to acknowledge.

“And yet,” Vyr continued, his tone sharpening, “even in this hollow state, humanity craves structure. It clings to the illusion of order because the alternative is chaos. Paradigm offers more than order. It offers purpose. It offers direction. And if we control that purpose, we control everything.”

“This is madness,” Drayton snapped, slamming a hand on the table. “You didn’t build this company, Tetsuji. You inherited it. Don’t pretend you’ve earned the right to play god.”

Vyr’s gaze sharpened, but his voice remained calm. “And you, Drayton? Did you build yours? Or did you climb the ladder on the backs of others, inheriting their work and calling it your own? None of us built this society. We exist within it, exploiting its flaws and perpetuating its cycles. And look where that has brought us.”

“Exactly,” another voice chimed in. “And now you want to tear it all down? Replace it with… what? A symbol?”

“Not just a symbol,” Vyr said, his tone icy. “A cornerstone. The foundation of a new order. One that ensures our survival—and our dominance.”

The room erupted into argument. Voices clashed, some in favor, others vehemently opposed. Paradigm watched silently, his gaze drifting between the faces as their masks of civility cracked. The chaos was palpable, a cacophony of greed, fear, and ambition laid bare.

Vyr let the noise wash over him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he raised a hand, the motion as deliberate as it was commanding. The room quieted, the arguments fading into an uneasy hush.

“Paradigm,” he said finally, his voice low but resonant, “is not about me. It is not about any one of us. It is about survival. Order. Control. And whether you agree or not… it is happening.”

He turned toward Paradigm, nodding once. The silent figure stepped forward, the faint hum of his presence filling the void left by Vyr’s words.

“I’ve shown you the path,” Vyr said, addressing the room once more. “Now it’s up to you to decide whether you walk it… or get left behind.”

Vyr’s words had been the match to an already unstable powder keg. Executives leaned forward in their seats, voices raised in a chaotic chorus of indignation, fear, and thinly veiled hostility. The elegant façade of professionalism began to crack under the weight of clashing egos and self-preservation.

“This is absurd!” barked a man in a deep green suit, his face reddening as he slammed a fist onto the table. “You’re asking us to gamble our resources, our reputations, on some abstract idea of control? And for what? So you can play emperor?”

“Emperor? Hah,” sneered another, a woman with sharp features and a voice that carried like a blade. “He’s proposing the eradication of individuality in favor of a glorified mascot! The people want variety, competition. You can’t sell conformity, Vyr.”

“Conformity?” Vyr’s voice sliced through the din, measured and calm. “What I’m offering is not conformity but stability. A foundation upon which we can build something lasting.”

“Lasting?” scoffed another executive, his tone dripping with disdain. “This entire city thrives on instability. It’s what keeps the people distracted. Keeps them spending.”

“And keeps us profitable,” added Ms. Wrynn with a cold smile. “You’d destabilize the entire model for what? Some idealized version of humanity that doesn’t exist?”

Paradigm, silent and still as a statue, watched as the room devolved into factions. A few murmured cautious agreement with Vyr, their voices subdued but present. Others spat venomous retorts, their words ricocheting off one another like shrapnel.

“The entire premise is flawed,” growled Mr. Drayton, leaning back in his chair with a smug expression. “You speak of control and order, but you’re forgetting the most important element: the consumer doesn’t want order. They want chaos they can control. Give them a brand they can wear, a narrative they can buy into, and let them believe they’re the ones choosing it. This?” He gestured dismissively toward Paradigm. “This will never work.”

Vyr’s gaze settled on Drayton, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the room quieted, the weight of that silence pressing down like a held breath. When Vyr finally spoke, his voice was soft but carried the edge of tempered steel.

“And yet, Drayton, what have you built?”

Drayton frowned, his smugness faltering. “What?”

“What have any of you built?” Vyr’s gaze swept the room, his hands resting lightly on the table as he leaned forward. “This society doesn’t allow for true creation. It doesn’t nurture innovation or individuality. We exist within a system designed to perpetuate itself, stripping humanity of its essence and leaving behind husks that barely recognize the concept of reality.”

A ripple of discomfort passed through the room, some executives shifting in their seats while others glared at Vyr with barely concealed contempt.

“We’ve lost our sense of self,” Vyr continued, his voice gaining momentum. “Our culture, our history, our identity—all erased, rewritten, and sold back to us in fragments. You call this progress? I call it decay. And yet you cling to it, desperately holding onto your illusions of power, because you’ve known nothing else.”

“Careful, Vyr,” Ms. Wrynn interjected with a sardonic grin. “You’re starting to sound like one of those idealistic Phenoms you hate so much.”

“Oh, I loathe Phenoms,” Vyr said, his gaze locking onto her with icy precision. “Not for their power, but for their squandered potential. They represent what humanity could have been, had we not let greed and fear dictate our evolution. They’re a reminder of everything we’ve lost.”

“Spare us the philosophy,” snapped Drayton, his voice rising. “This is about control, isn’t it? You want to position yourself as the savior of a system you despise, all while reaping its benefits. Don’t act like you’re any different from the rest of us. You inherited your empire just like we did.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, emboldening Drayton. He leaned forward, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. “Tell me, Vyr. What have you built?”

Vyr’s smile returned, faint and chilling. “What have I built?” he repeated softly. “I’ve built the illusion of choice. I’ve built the very system you so eagerly exploit. And now, I will build its replacement.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Vyr’s words settling over the gathered executives like a shroud. For a moment, even the most vocal dissenters seemed unsure of how to respond. It was Paradigm who broke the stillness, stepping forward with measured precision. His presence, quiet but commanding, drew every eye in the room.

“You asked what he’s built,” Paradigm said, his voice a low rumble. “Look around. You’re standing in it.”

The statement hung in the air, unchallenged. Vyr straightened, his gaze sweeping the room one final time.

“This is not a request,” he said, his tone as unyielding as stone. “This is your opportunity to adapt. To evolve. To survive. If you cannot see that, then you’ve already been left behind.”

The tension was palpable as Vyr took his seat, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The room remained silent, the weight of his challenge pressing down on every executive present. Some exchanged uneasy glances, their resolve faltering. Others stared at Vyr with barely concealed hatred, their silence a testament to their inability to refute him.

In the corner of the room, Paradigm stood watch, his glint faintly in the sterile light. To him, this was not a debate. It was a reckoning and for a moment, no one moved. The dissenting executives sat rigid, their faces painted with varying degrees of disdain, disbelief, and unease. The hum of the building’s ventilation system was the only sound, a faint, rhythmic whisper that seemed to amplify the weight of the silence.

It was Mr. Drayton who broke first. Pushing back his chair with a scrape that echoed through the chamber, he rose to his feet, his face flushed with anger. “This is preposterous,” he spat, his voice trembling with barely contained fury. “You’ve lost your mind, Vyr. This—this fantasy of yours will bring us nothing but ruin.”

He gestured wildly toward Paradigm, his movements erratic, as if trying to expel his frustration through sheer force of will. “A mascot? A weapon? Is that what you think we need? You’re a fool, Tetsuji. A delusional, power-hungry fool!”

Drayton’s tirade was cut short by a sudden, hacking cough. He doubled over, clutching at his chest as the fit overtook him. The sound was wet and guttural, a grotesque symphony that filled the room with unease. He struggled to straighten, his face contorted with both anger and confusion.

Before anyone could respond, his personal guard stepped forward, a broad-shouldered man with the kind of presence that usually deterred conflict. He placed a steadying hand on Drayton’s arm, his other hand hovering near the holster on his belt. “Sir, let’s get you out of here,” the guard said firmly, his eyes darting warily toward Vyr.

Drayton tried to speak again but was interrupted by another violent coughing fit. He stumbled toward the door, his desperation evident.

Paradigm moved.

With a single, fluid step, he blocked Drayton’s path, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the struggling executive. The room seemed to hold its breath as Paradigm stood there, silent and unyielding.

“Out of my way,” Drayton rasped, his voice weak but venomous. “You think you can intimidate me? I’ll have you dismantled, you…” His words dissolved into another fit of coughing, his body trembling with the effort.

The guard’s patience snapped. “Move,” he barked, stepping forward to shove Paradigm aside. His hand barely made contact.

Paradigm reacted with surgical precision. His hand shot out, seizing the guard’s wrist in an iron grip. The room filled with a sharp crack as the bone snapped, the guard’s scream slicing through the air. Paradigm followed through with a swift motion, his other hand gripping the man’s neck. With a soundless efficiency that was almost mechanical, he twisted. The guard’s body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

The room was silent except for the faint whir of Paradigm’s smart glasses, the ticking of the clock in the table, and Drayton’s ragged breaths. The remaining executives stared, frozen in varying states of horror and disbelief.

Vyr rose slowly from his seat, his movements unhurried, as if the chaos unfolding before him were nothing more than an expected inevitability. He adjusted his cuffs and approached Drayton, his expression calm but unyielding.

“Do you feel it yet?” Vyr asked, his voice low and measured. “That heaviness in your chest, the weakness in your limbs?” He gestured toward the sleek vents embedded in the walls. “It’s not just humidified air you’ve been breathing. The chemicals… subtle, harmless in small doses, but enough to remind you of your own fragility.”

Drayton’s eyes widened in terror. He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. His knees buckled, and he collapsed into an extra chair, gasping like a fish pulled from water.

“You poisoned us,” one of the other executives whispered, her voice trembling. She gripped the edges of the table as if it might anchor her to reality. “You’re insane.”

“No,” Vyr replied, his gaze sweeping the room. “I’m merely illustrating a point. Humanity has grown comfortable—apathetic. You’ve convinced yourselves you’re untouchable, insulated from consequence by your wealth and influence. But in truth, you’re just as vulnerable as the people you exploit. And I am here to remind you of that.”

He turned to Paradigm, who stood motionless, his glasses glowing faintly. “This is what you’ve feared all along,” Vyr continued, addressing the room. “Not Phenoms, not the collapse of your monopolies. You’ve feared change. Because change means relinquishing control. And control is all you have left.”

Another executive attempted to rise, her movements shaky. “You can’t… you can’t just kill us all,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. “This won’t end the way you think it will.”

Vyr smiled faintly, his expression unreadable. “Who said anything about killing you all?” He gestured toward Drayton, who was now slumped entirely in the chair, his coughing subsiding but his breaths shallow. “The chemicals are not lethal—merely debilitating when you’re all worked up. A lesson, if you will.”

His tone darkened. “But those who refuse to evolve will find themselves replaced.”

As if on cue, Paradigm stepped forward, his presence a silent promise of violence. The remaining guards in the room shifted uneasily, their hands hovering near their weapons but not daring to draw them. The air was thick with tension, a fragile wire pulled taut and ready to snap.

Vyr turned to leave, his movements unhurried. “Let this be a reminder,” he said over his shoulder. “The era of complacency is over. Adapt, or be forgotten.” He paused at the door, glancing back at the room. His smile returned, faint and chilling. “Ensure they understand that we’re forging a new paradigm.”

Paradigm inclined his head slightly, the gesture almost imperceptible. As Vyr exited, his footsteps echoing down the hall, the room descended into chaos immediately. The executives erupted into panic, some scrambling for their comms to summon backup, others simply sitting in stunned disbelief. The guards who had accompanied them snapped to attention, their hands going to weapons as they glanced uneasily at Paradigm.

Paradigm, however, remained motionless, his glasses glowing faintly as he assessed the scene. His presence was like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive, a reminder of the violence that could erupt at any moment. The air felt charged, as if the room itself held its breath, waiting.

One of the braver executives, a lengthy man, only person there taller than Paradigm, with thinning hair and a sneer that masked his fear, pushed himself to his feet. “You can’t seriously think this is going to work,” he spat, pointing a trembling finger at Paradigm. “Do you even understand what you’re a part of? What he’s trying to do? This will unravel everything!”

“Sit down, Wershal,” another executive hissed, her voice sharp and clipped. Her pale face was drawn tight, her knuckles white as she gripped the table. “You’re just making yourself a target.”

Wershal ignored her. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” he continued, addressing Paradigm directly. “But you’re nothing more than a glorified pawn in his little game. You think you’re making a difference? You’re just another tool. And when he’s done with you—”

He didn’t get to finish. Paradigm moved faster than the eye could follow, his form blurring for an instant as he appeared behind Wershal. A sickening crunch followed, and Wershal collapsed to the floor, his body limp and lifeless. The room erupted into screams.

“Oh my god!” one of the executives shrieked, her chair tipping over as she stumbled backward. “He’s killing us! Someone stop him!”

The guards reacted, raising their weapons, but Paradigm’s clones materialized in bursts of shimmering light. They spread out with terrifying precision, each one a perfect replica of the original. The guards hesitated, their eyes darting between the duplicates, unsure of which one to target.

“Fire!” one of them barked, his voice shaking.

The room erupted into a cacophony of gunfire and chaos. Paradigm and his clones moved like phantoms, teleporting from one side of the room to the other in flashes of blue light. The sound of bone breaking and the dull thud of bodies hitting the floor punctuated the chaos as one guard after another fell. Paradigm’s movements were methodical, each strike precise and lethal.

An executive tried to flee, scrambling toward the door, but a clone intercepted her. She let out a strangled cry as his hand closed around her throat, lifting her off the ground with ease. Her struggles grew weaker as the light in her eyes dimmed, before he quickly slammed her into the edge of the table, snapping her spine around the shoulders.

Another guard charged at one of the clones, swinging a baton with all his strength. The clone caught the weapon mid-swing, the impact reverberating through the room. With a single, fluid motion, the clone twisted the baton free and drove it into the guard’s chest, sending him sprawling backward. The clone dissipated immediately after, its purpose fulfilled.

The remaining executives who had voiced their opposition scrambled to take cover, their earlier arrogance replaced by sheer terror. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a deep voice, tried to reason with Paradigm. “Wait! Please! You don’t have to do this! We’ll—we’ll support the plan! Just stop this madness!”

Paradigm turned to face him, his glasses glinting ominously. He said nothing, but the message was clear: it was too late for second chances.

The man’s words dissolved into a panicked scream as Paradigm closed the distance between them in an instant. A single, brutal strike sent the executive crashing through the table, his body crumpling amid the shattered glass and spilled documents.

Across the room, one of the guards let out a guttural roar, his body shimmering as he activated his own powers. His arms transformed, elongating into grotesque, blade-like appendages that glinted menacingly under the sterile light.

“Finally,” Paradigm muttered, his voice distorted and cold through his boredom. He teleported directly in front of the Phenom guard, meeting his charge head-on. Their clash was a whirlwind of motion, the Phenom’s blades slicing through the air with lethal precision. Paradigm’s clones joined the fray, flanking the Phenom and forcing him onto the defensive.

The fight spilled toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the room, the city’s smog-veiled skyline visible beyond. One of Paradigm’s clones feinted left, drawing the Phenom’s attention, while another struck from the right, driving him back toward the glass.

With a deafening crash, the Phenom’s body shattered the window, the shards sparkling like falling stars as he plummeted into the abyss. One of Paradigm’s clones followed, teleporting mid-fall to deliver a final, devastating blow that sent the Phenom spiraling into the depths below. The clone dissipated just before impact, leaving nothing but the echo of the fight behind.

The room was eerily silent in the aftermath, the only sounds the faint hum of Paradigm’s suit which they now realized he kept on under the formal attire and the ragged breaths of the few remaining executives. Those who had agreed with Vyr’s plan were alive, though visibly shaken, their eyes wide with horror as they took in the carnage around them.

Paradigm turned to face them, his presence overwhelming. “Consider this a warning,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Resistance can not be tolerated.”

One of the survivors, a woman with a streak of gray in her otherwise dark hair, forced herself to speak. “What about the… chemicals? Are we going to…”

“You’ll live,” Paradigm replied curtly with a small cough of his own. “The poison was meant to weaken, not kill. You’ll recover in a few days.”

Without another word, Paradigm turned and strode toward the exit, his boots crunching on broken glass. The survivors watched him go, their silence heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. Above them, the faint hum of the ventilation system continued, a cold and detached reminder of the control Vyr wielded over them all.

Paradigm’s boots echoed against the polished floor as he moved down the hallway, his steps deliberate yet swift. The bloodshed upstairs had barely settled, the stench of ozone and iron still clinging faintly to him. He wasn’t winded, but the grim weight of what had transpired lingered in his chest. He rounded a corner and descended a sleek stairwell, the blue lights embedded in the walls casting sterile reflections across his visor.

When he entered the lower level, he found Vyr standing at the center of a room that was both ornate and utilitarian. The walls were lined with displays of live surveillance feeds, each showing different parts of the city: bustling streets, high-rise corporate offices, and the smoky outskirts of the industrial zones. Vyr’s back was to him, his fingers dancing across a holographic console as he issued commands in rapid succession.

“Initiate deployment,” Vyr said curtly. “The ‘Doppelgangers’ are to be stationed at the designated facilities within the hour. Ensure their profiles are synced with the public comm-net.” His tone was calm, almost casual, as if he were organizing a routine meeting and not the aftermath of a massacre.

Paradigm’s presence didn’t seem to faze him. Without turning, Vyr continued, “I see you handled the situation upstairs efficiently. Impressive work, as always.”

“It’s done,” Paradigm said, his voice without a wave. “The ones who agreed with you are alive. The rest…”

“Dead,” Vyr finished, finally turning to face him. His expression was serene, though his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a plan executed perfectly. “Good. We’ll ensure their deaths are more useful than their lives ever were.”

Paradigm tilted his head slightly, his glasses glinting under the room’s cold light. “And the replacements?”

Vyr gestured toward a nearby side door, which slid open to reveal a small group of individuals standing in a stark, dimly lit chamber. Each of them wore crisp suits and eerily identical masks—perfect replicas of the executives who had just met their end. Their movements were unnaturally precise, and Paradigm’s HUD immediately registered the faint hum of neural implants beneath their skulls.

“The Doppelgangers,” Vyr explained, motioning for them to step forward. They moved in unison, their postures stiff and practiced. “They’ve been prepared for this contingency for months. Every mannerism, every vocal inflection, even the smallest quirks—all replicated with precision. To the public, they are the executives.”

Paradigm’s gaze shifted to the masked figures, studying their movements with muted curiosity. “How long will they last?”

“Long enough to ensure stability,” Vyr replied. “Their purpose isn’t permanence; it’s transition. The original bodies will be incinerated, and their ashes scattered in the industrial waste reclamation plants. Meanwhile, the Doppelgangers will handle the day-to-day operations and ensure compliance with my directives. When the time comes, the corporate heirs of each company will be contacted. They’ll be given two options: align themselves with the goal or meet the same fate as their predecessors.”

Paradigm crossed his arms, his posture unyielding. “And if they refuse?”

“They won’t,” Vyr said with quiet confidence. “The world has stripped humanity of its unity, its purpose. What remains are empty shells clinging to fractured illusions of power. They’ll fall in line because they fear what little they have left slipping away.”

Paradigm’s eyes caught the edge of a surveillance feed displaying the aftermath of the meeting room. Emergency response drones hovered over the carnage, their mechanical arms already scanning for survivors. The scene was chaos incarnate, yet Vyr had moved on with unnerving ease.

“The news,” Paradigm said. “They’ll report this?”

Vyr nodded. “Over the coming weeks, each death will be announced as though it occurred under unrelated circumstances. An ‘accident’ here, a ‘health complication’ there. Carefully staged, of course, to avoid suspicion. The public will mourn briefly, as they’ve been conditioned to do, and then forget. The transitions will be seamless.”

Paradigm’s voice carried a faint edge of disdain. “And you think this will work?”

Vyr stepped closer, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “I know it will. Humanity’s greatest strength has always been its ability to adapt. But that adaptability has been perverted. We’ve traded progress for stagnation, individuality for conformity, and unity for apathy. This plan—our plan—isn’t just about control. It’s about giving them a purpose. A hierarchy they can believe in, even if it’s born of fear.”

He paused, his voice lowering slightly. “This isn’t just a consolidation of power, Paradigm. It’s a reclamation of identity. And for that, sacrifices are necessary.”

Paradigm remained silent for a long moment, his glasses reflecting the cold glow of the surveillance feeds. Finally, he spoke, his tone measured. “And what happens when they realize the cost?”

Vyr’s lips curved into a faint smile. “By then, it will no longer matter. They’ll be too happy remembering what a culture feels like to care about the stains of a world that enslaved them.”

He turned back to the console, issuing another series of commands. The Doppelgangers filed out of the room in eerie synchronization, their presence like shadows dissipating into the void. Paradigm watched them go, his thoughts veiled behind his expressionless default expression.

“Come,” Vyr said without looking back. “There’s still much to prepare.”

Paradigm followed him out, the sterile hum of the surveillance room fading behind them as they descended deeper into the labyrinthine structure. The weight of their actions hung heavy in the air, but neither man faltered. For better or worse, the paradigm was already shifting.

---

Chapter 8: The Hero’s March

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Chapter 9: The News Cycle

Opening theme music plays, upbeat and energetic. The camera pans over a sleek news studio with brightly lit panels. The host, a polished woman in her late thirties, smiles warmly at the camera.

“Good evening, Onwatta. Tonight, we bring you yet another story of the mysterious figure now being called Paradigm. This enigmatic vigilante has taken down another gang terrorizing the streets, this time in the southern blocks. Reports indicate the gang was responsible for a string of armed robberies and assaults, but Paradigm left them scattered—bruised, battered, and ready for the authorities to clean up.”

A split-screen image appears, showing footage of a gang being handcuffed by law enforcement, juxtaposed with a blurry shot of Paradigm walking away from a smoking building.

“While many see Paradigm as a savior bringing justice to the overlooked parts of the city, questions remain about his methods. Is this truly the hero Onwatta needs, or is he simply another wildcard adding to the chaos?” The camera cuts back to the host, Mara Lin, who leans forward with an earnest expression. “What do you think, viewers? Text us your thoughts at, 97777 and let us know: Hero or menace?”

Suddenly, the screen turns to static as a different news network appears. The tone is somber, the studio lit in cool blues and grays. A younger female host with sharp features sits behind the desk, her expression neutral but curious.

“In breaking news, another confrontation between Paradigm and law enforcement has made headlines. Earlier today, reports emerged of a standoff in District 4, where Paradigm allegedly intervened in a high-stakes drug exchange. Police were already on the scene and claimed Paradigm’s actions escalated the situation, leading to injuries on both sides.”

A clip plays, showing Paradigm leaping across rooftops before jumping and activating the jets on his boots, pursued by drones. Officers shout orders in the background, while the feed cuts abruptly as a camera drone is knocked offline as Paradigm throws something at it.

“The question on everyone’s minds is this: Why are law enforcement and Paradigm at odds? Isn’t he doing their job by taking out the scum of our streets? Or does his defiance of authority make him just as dangerous?” The camera zooms in slightly as Alina Dray’s voice softens, tinged with skepticism. “Who is Paradigm really fighting for? And how long before this uneasy tension between him and the law explodes into something irreversible?”

The screen cuts to a different channel again, where a stern-looking male host—mid-40s with a salt-and-pepper beard—sits in a no-nonsense set adorned with the station’s red and black branding. His tone is curt, almost accusatory as his holographic name dances before him, spelling Marcus Vell.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear: Paradigm is no hero. He’s a vigilante, plain and simple. And in this city, we have laws. Laws that apply to everyone.”

The screen shifts to a video of Paradigm taking down armed thugs in an alley, his movements precise and brutal.

“Sure, he’s cleaning up gang violence. But at what cost? Paradigm’s defiance undermines the authority of law enforcement and creates a precedent for anarchy. This is a man who operates outside the system, and that makes him a criminal.” The screen returns to Marcus, his eyes narrowing as he leans forward. “Mark my words. It’s the police’s job to not just send him to jail, but to ensure he never poses a threat again. Vigilantes like Paradigm don’t belong on our streets—they belong behind bars, or, if I can be honest, worse.”

A softer tone returns as a polished female host sits in a sleek studio as the channel changes once more, the warm glow of a digital fireplace behind her. She smiles thoughtfully at the camera. Vivian Cay.

“While the city buzzes with debates over Paradigm’s actions, one question lingers: Why the name Paradigm? What does it mean?”

A graphic appears on the screen, displaying the dictionary definition of the word: “Paradigm: A model or example that represents a significant change in perception or action.”

“Is Paradigm trying to tell us something? That his actions mark the beginning of a new era? Or is it a critique of the status quo—a challenge to the very systems that have governed Onwatta for generations?” The screen shifts to blurry footage of Paradigm standing amidst rubble, his visor glowing faintly. “Whatever the case may be, one thing is clear: Paradigm is more than just a name. It’s a statement, one the people of Onwatta are still trying to decipher.”

Finally the tv cuts off, showing a reflection of a cozy apartment with dim lighting and a faint hum of background music. Kace reclines on a battered couch, a grin on his face as he watches the footage of Paradigm on a wall-mounted screen. His boyfriend, a scrawny man with a mischievous smile, hands him a drink and plops down beside him.

“Your guy’s making waves, huh? Everyone’s talking about him.”

With a chuckle, Kace replies. “Damn right, they are. Boss is a genius. Knew this guy had it in him.”

“What, just plucked him outta nowhere?” Kace’s boyfriend questioned as he leaned against his lover.

“Not exactly nowhere. Boss’s been watching him for years. Studying his every move, testing his limits without him even knowing it.” Pausing to take a sip of his newly acquired drink, Kace gives a wide grin, continuing. “You don’t just stumble on someone like Paradigm. You groom them, shape them. And now? He’s exactly what this district needs: a star. The people eat that shit up.”

With a snicker and a soft smile, the lover lays his head on Kace’s chest. “You sound like you’re running a reality show.”

“Maybe we are. But trust me, this is bigger than TV. Paradigm’s gonna change everything.”

The screen flickers, showing another news segment dissecting Paradigm’s recent actions. Kace leans back, his laughter echoing through the room.

---

Chapter 10: Opposing Force

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Chapter 11: Agents of Fear

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Chapter 12: Breaking the Anchor

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Chapter 13: Shadows of Doubt

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Chapter 14: Protector and the Protected

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Chapter 15: Chains of Control

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Chapter 16: A Hero’s Doubt

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Chapter 17: Breaking the Chains

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Chapter 18: Clash of Titans

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Chapter 19: The Shield of Order

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Chapter 20: Death of Fear

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“Fair!? You fucking people took away fair! With your magic and disgusting biological mutations! I don’t work for you. I work for humans, you fuckin’ phenoms are a mockery.” – Vyr to Superheroes.

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Chapter 21: Echos of Fear

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Chapter 22: Lover’s Revenge

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Chapter 23: Origins

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Chapter 24: Crumble of the Apex

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Chapter 25: The Paradigm Shift

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The Piper

The stench of death clings to everything. It’s in the air, thick and sour, making each breath a battle. It’s in the dirt, soaked deep from the rain that fell too late to wash the sickness away. Even the rats reek of it, their fur matted and oily as they scuttle over the corpses they helped create. They’re everywhere now, bold and unafraid, like an invading army that’s already won.

I sit near what’s left of the barn, though it’s hardly a barn anymore. Just a skeleton of wood and ash, brittle and blackened. My knees are pulled to my chest, my breath curling in faint clouds before disappearing into the cold. I haven’t eaten in days. The last loaf went moldy before I could bring myself to choke it down, and the sight of it turned my stomach. But hunger doesn’t matter much anymore. Nothing does.

They’re all gone. Ma, Pa, even little Annette. She was first last, her tiny body limp and hot with fever, her eyes dull as she looked at me for the final time. I couldn’t even bury her. The ground’s too hard, and the rats come no matter how deep you dig.

The others in the village don’t fare much better. We’re all waiting—for death, for salvation, for something to end this. It’s been weeks since the last priest fled, his robes flapping like a crow’s wings as he disappeared down the road. He didn’t even leave his crucifix. Just a prayer whispered too fast to mean anything.

“God help us,” the elders mutter when they’re not coughing. But God’s not here. If He was, the rats wouldn’t be.

Then I see him.

It starts with the sound, soft at first, like a bird’s song carried on the wind. A melody so gentle it barely registers against the howling in my head. But it grows louder, more intricate, weaving through the air like thread through a needle. My body tenses, my gaze snapping to the road.

He’s coming up the hill, a figure so out of place it makes my eyes ache. He’s dressed in bright colors, reds and yellows that shimmer even in the pale, sickly light. His hat is wide-brimmed and tilted, a long feather bobbing with every step. He’s playing a flute—a small, wooden thing that seems too plain to make such enchanting music. As the flute touches his lips, I catch a glimpse of his beard, coiled and dark, curling unnaturally like vines growing in fast motion. His nails, long and sharp, glint faintly as his fingers dance over the instrument, their movements unnervingly precise.

The villagers notice him too. Faces peek from behind broken shutters, their eyes hollow and suspicious. No one moves, not even the dogs, though they usually bark at anything that’s not starving like the rest of us. The music reaches us all, a ripple in the still, fetid air, and for a moment, the rats seem to freeze.

“It’s him,” someone whispers, though I don’t see who. The words spread like wildfire.

“The Piper.”

“They hired him.”

“The knights brought him to save us.”

I’ve heard the stories. A man from a faraway land, summoned by nobles and kings to drive out the rats. He’s said to have rid whole cities of them, his music a magic that bends even nature to his will. But stories are just stories, and I’ve learned not to trust them. Still, I can’t look away.

He reaches the center of the village and stops, lowering the flute. His face is half-hidden by a mask, jester-like with sharp edges and painted eyes that don’t blink. The real ones beneath are dark, unreadable, glinting faintly in a way that makes my stomach churn. He surveys us, his gaze sweeping over the ruins, the filth, the people clinging to what’s left of their lives.

“Who hired him?” someone finally asks, their voice trembling.

“The knights,” another replies. “They’re paying him with the king’s coin.”

“Will it work?”

The Piper doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. He lifts the flute to his lips and begins to play again, the melody different now. It’s livelier, more intricate, winding through the air like ivy climbing a wall. The rats stir. At first, just a few, their noses twitching as if caught by an invisible scent. Then more, until the streets seem alive with their movement. They’re coming out of the shadows, the alleys, the holes they’ve gnawed into our homes. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

The music changes again, faster, sharper, and the rats follow. They swarm toward the Piper, their beady eyes glinting in the dim light. My chest tightens as I watch, a strange mix of hope and dread clawing at me. He starts to walk, his steps deliberate, the rats flowing around his boots like a living river.

“Where is he taking them?” I ask aloud, though no one answers. The villagers stand frozen, their faces masks of fear and awe. The Piper leads the rats away, down the road and out of sight, the music fading with every step.

When the last note vanishes, the silence crashes down like a wave. For the first time in weeks, I hear the wind again, the creak of wood, the distant cry of a crow. But the hope doesn’t last. The Piper will come back, they say. He always does. And he always asks for payment.

I wonder what we have left to give.

---

The Payment

It has been only days since the Piper saved the kingdom. The rats are gone, swept away like a foul tide, leaving the streets eerily clean. The air no longer carries the rancid stench of decay, but something else—an emptiness that feels heavier than the plague ever did. People whisper about him now, huddled in their doorways, eyes darting nervously toward the castle. The Piper has returned, they say, to speak with the king. To collect what he is owed.

The scene at the castle unfolds like a play performed behind closed curtains, but the rumors are louder than any herald’s horn. The Piper, with his bright colors and strange mask, stood before the throne, his voice calm and measured, demanding payment. The king, they say, refused, his gaunt face impassive as he waved a dismissive hand. It was the knights who broke the tension, their laughter echoing through the halls like the clash of steel. They had tricked him, they boasted. Made him work for free. A charlatan like him didn’t deserve the king’s gold.

The Piper’s departure was not quiet. He stormed from the castle, his footsteps sharp against the stone, his presence radiating an anger so thick it clung to the air long after he was gone. The knights laughed still, their voices booming like thunder as they drank to their cleverness. The Piper’s colorful figure disappeared into the horizon, swallowed by the distant snow-capped mountains. By nightfall, the village was silent again, though the unease lingered like a shadow.

I was asleep when the music began. It started faint, threading through my dreams like a warm river. A melody so soft it felt like a whisper, pulling me from the depths of my slumber. My eyes opened to the dark, my body heavy with sleep, but the music kept playing, growing louder and richer, winding through the air like smoke.

I sat up, my breath misting in the cold. The room was quiet but for the faint, haunting tune drifting through the cracks in the walls. It filled me, not with fear, but with an overwhelming sense of calm. My feet touched the floor before I realized I had moved, the rough wood cool against my skin. The music tugged at me, gentle but insistent, like a mother’s hand guiding a wayward child.

Outside, the village was alive with motion. Shadows flitted between houses, small and silent. Children, dozens of them, moving as though caught in the same spell. Some crawled, others stumbled, their movements clumsy yet determined. I joined them, my legs carrying me forward without thought. The air was cold, biting at my cheeks, but the music wrapped around me like a cloak, soothing and sweet.

I saw faces I recognized—Thomas, who always begged at the market; little Agnes, her doll dragging in the snow; even Jonah, who had cried for days when his sister was taken by the plague. None of them spoke. None of us did. We didn’t need to. The music filled the spaces where words would have been, weaving us together into something larger, something inescapable.

We passed the gates of the village, left ajar as if waiting for us. The guards were nowhere to be seen, their posts abandoned. Beyond the walls, the road stretched into the dark, lined with frost-covered trees that seemed to shimmer in the moonlight. We followed the music, our footsteps soft against the frozen ground, our breaths a collective mist that hung in the air like ghostly chains.

I didn’t know where we were going. None of us did. But the music pulled us onward, its melody twisting and turning like a winding path. My thoughts felt distant, hazy, as though they belonged to someone else. All I knew was that I couldn’t stop. None of us could.

The kingdom fell away behind us, its walls and towers fading into the black. The music grew louder, richer, as though it was leading us into the heart of something vast and ancient.

The dark road ahead shifted, the straight path dissolving into a maze of tangled roots and twisted branches. The trees seemed to grow taller with each step, their skeletal arms weaving together overhead to block out the moonlight. Shadows danced across the snow, though no wind stirred to move them, and the air hung still and heavy, suffocating even the faintest sound. Every breath felt as if it carried weight, a sensation that pressed down on my chest, turning the simple act of living into a labor.

At the center of it all stood the Piper. He didn’t look back, but the music guided us like an unseen hand, pulling us forward. His colors burned unnaturally bright in the darkness, the red and yellow of his clothes shimmering as though lit from within. The mask, sharp and painted, caught the light of the moon whenever it broke through the canopy, its hollow eyes glinting like a predator’s gaze, emotionless and unrelenting. His figure seemed less human with every step, the sharp edges of his mask blending with the darkness, as if he were an extension of the forest itself.

Shapes moved in the corners of my vision, things I couldn’t fully see but knew were there. Creatures crouched on low branches, their forms spindly and wrong, their eyes too many and too wide. Some clung to the trunks of the trees, their fingers long and knotted like vines, their faces split by mouths that gaped in silent song. Others skittered across the forest floor, their legs moving too quickly, their bodies barely brushing the ground. The air crackled with their presence, a hum just below the music’s melody, sharp and electric, as if the forest itself was vibrating with life and malice. There were whispers too, faint and indistinct, carried by a breeze that didn’t stir the branches above.

The further we walked, the more the world changed. Snow melted into soft moss beneath our feet, and the cold air grew heavy and damp, clinging to my skin like a second layer. The trees thickened, their bark glistening with moisture, their roots curling above the ground like the ribs of some great beast. The forest seemed alive, its groans and creaks blending with the Piper’s tune, a harmony both beautiful and dreadful. Even the moss seemed to pulse faintly beneath our steps, as if it shared the music’s rhythm, its soft glow casting faint light on the path ahead.

We passed under archways of woven branches, their ends bound together with glistening strands that shone like silk but reeked of something sour, acrid like burnt hair. Pools of water reflected the Piper’s figure, though they showed nothing of the children trailing behind him. I saw shapes in the water, faces that rippled and disappeared before I could understand them—faces too human to belong there, yet too twisted to be real. At times, the reflections seemed to move before we did, distorted versions of ourselves walking ahead of the Piper, lost in a realm between reality and nightmare.

The others walked without hesitation, their eyes blank and unfocused, their steps sure even as the ground turned slick and uneven. I stumbled, catching myself on the jagged edge of a stone that jutted from the earth like a broken tooth. The stones grew more frequent, their surfaces etched with grooves that spiraled and twisted, the patterns making my head throb if I stared too long. The air grew warmer, the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves filling my nose, a stark contrast to the crisp cold we’d left behind. Each breath felt heavier, as if the forest were pressing against my lungs, sapping strength with every step. My legs ached, and the soles of my feet stung, but the music pulled me forward without mercy.

The labyrinth deepened, each turn revealing new impossibilities. A tree split down its middle like a gaping wound, its insides glowing with a faint, sickly light. A creature perched on a low boulder, its shape obscured by a shifting cloak of feathers that seemed to melt into its surroundings. Another crouched beside a shallow stream, its limbs impossibly thin, its face featureless but for a single, unblinking eye that tracked us as we passed. Beneath the stream’s surface, glimmers of movement betrayed something serpentine that twisted and coiled in perfect rhythm with the Piper’s tune. The sound of the stream wasn’t natural; it was hollow, metallic, as if the water were running through pipes deep beneath the ground.

The Piper led us onward, his figure weaving through the narrowing path, his music never faltering. Stones gave way to water, shallow pools spreading out into a glistening mire. The ground sucked at my feet, the moss replaced by slick mud that clung to my boots and squelched with every step. The air was thick now, humid and heavy, each breath a struggle. The mud seemed alive, clinging and tugging at us like unseen hands, slow but unyielding. In the deeper pools, shapes glided just below the surface, their outlines faint but unmistakably wrong—too large, too angular, their eyes glowing faintly before disappearing into the murk.

The forest no longer resembled the world I had known. The snowy hamlet with its walls and towers felt like a distant memory, a dream fading into the haze of the swamp. Here, the trees loomed impossibly high, their trunks gnarled and dripping with green-black slime. The water mirrored the sky, an endless expanse of gray broken only by the faint glow of something moving beneath the surface. Strange shapes hovered just below, their outlines murky, their movements deliberate, sending ripples that distorted the reflection of the canopy above. The occasional splash echoed, and with each one, my heart seized, though the music never faltered.

Still, we followed. The music compelled us, its melody shifting as the forest did, growing darker, heavier, until it felt as though it was pulling us into the earth itself. My thoughts were a fog, the edges of my mind fraying with each step. I no longer knew how long we had been walking or how far we had gone. All I knew was the Piper, the music, and the endless, twisting forest swallowing us whole. Behind me, the children moved in unison, their small, pale faces bathed in the strange light of the swamp. Ahead, the Piper’s mask glinted once more, a beacon leading us into a world that was no longer ours. The world I had known was gone, swallowed by this new one where the rules felt rewritten, and even the stars above seemed foreign, their faint light twisted into unfamiliar constellations.

The music stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on the grove like a physical weight. The children, once moving in perfect unison, came to an abrupt halt, their wide eyes blinking slowly as if waking from a deep dream. I felt the fog in my mind begin to lift, though the air around us was thick with something far heavier than humidity. It was as if the grove itself was holding its breath, watching, waiting to see what would unfold next.

The space was unlike anything I had ever seen, both awe-inspiring and unnerving. We stood in a hollow encircled by towering reeds that swayed without wind, their tips shimmering faintly as though catching a light that didn’t exist. Massive rocks jutted out from the ground, their surfaces etched with spiraling grooves that glowed faintly with a pale, silvery light. Trees unlike any I’d known loomed overhead, their gnarled branches twisting together in unnatural patterns, forming a canopy of leaves that shimmered like molten gold and cast an otherworldly glow. The ground beneath my feet was soft, a carpet of moss that seemed to pulse faintly with each step, alive with an energy I could feel but not understand.

At the center of it all stood the Piper. For the first time, he turned to face us fully. The mask, its painted eyes hollow and unfeeling, seemed almost human in comparison to the grove around him. He stood there, silent, his head cocked slightly as if considering his audience. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and removed the mask.

The face beneath was not a face at all, at least not one that belonged to any man. His skin was a mottled brown, coarse and textured like bark. His eyes, black as a starless void, seemed to swallow the light around them, pulling it into their depths. His nose was broad and flat, his nostrils flaring as if tasting the air. His mouth was wide, too wide, with lips that curled back to reveal sharp, uneven teeth. Horns spiraled out from his forehead, curling like the branches of the trees that surrounded him, their surfaces rough and glistening with a sheen of something wet and unnatural.

He shrugged off his bright clothes, letting them fall to the mossy ground without care. What remained was something neither man nor beast. His torso was powerful, his chest broad and covered in coarse, wiry hair that grew thicker as it descended. His legs were bent, the joints oddly angled, and his feet ended in cloven hooves that struck the moss with a dull thud as he stepped forward. Every movement was fluid yet unnervingly deliberate, like a predator savoring its prey. The way his muscles coiled beneath his skin as he moved made him seem more animal than human, more ancient than either.

When he spoke, the sound was not a voice but a force. It rumbled through the grove, a low, guttural vibration that seemed to rise from the earth itself. My knees buckled as the sound washed over me, my body trembling with a fear I couldn’t name. The children around me whimpered, some falling to the ground, their hands covering their ears as if that could block it out. But the sound was everywhere, inside and outside, a presence that could not be escaped, seeping into the very marrow of my bones.

“You have come,” he said, though the words were more felt than heard. They resonated in my bones, each syllable like the tolling of a great bell. “You have followed, as all do. And now you are mine.”

He raised his hands, his fingers long and clawed, and gestured to the grove around him. The reeds swayed more violently, their tips glowing brighter, and the trees seemed to lean closer, their branches creaking as they moved. The rocks hummed with a low vibration, the grooves on their surfaces shifting and spiraling in patterns that made my head ache to look at. The air thickened further, heavy with a charge that prickled my skin, as though the grove itself were alive and responding to his presence.

The children did not speak. They stood frozen, their faces blank and pale, their eyes fixed on him with a mixture of awe and terror. I wanted to scream, to run, to do anything but stand there, but my body refused to obey. The weight of his presence was too much, pinning me in place like an insect under glass. My breath hitched, my chest tightening as though the air itself had turned against me, crushing and unyielding.

“Long have I waited,” he continued, his voice a rumble that made the ground beneath us tremble. “Long have I called. And now you are here.”

He stepped closer, his hooves sinking into the moss with each step. The grove seemed to shiver around him, the air growing thicker, heavier, until it felt as though I was breathing through water. His gaze swept over us, lingering on each child in turn, his lips curling into something that might have been a smile but held no warmth. When his eyes met mine, I felt my chest tighten, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. There was no escape from those eyes, no reprieve from the cold certainty they carried.

“You will give,” he said, his voice softer now but no less terrible. “You will give, as all must.”

The grove fell silent again, the only sound the faint rustle of the reeds and the shallow, panicked breaths of the children. He stood there, towering over us, a creature of ancient power and unrelenting malice, and for the first time, I understood that we were never meant to leave. The grove was not a sanctuary; it was a prison, and he, its warden.

The first child stepped forward without hesitation. His face was blank, his movements slow and mechanical, as though the music still controlled him even though it had ceased. The Piper—no, the thing that had been the Piper—stood waiting, its black eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory light. It beckoned with one long, clawed finger, and the child obeyed, moving toward him with an eerie calm that made my stomach churn.

I couldn’t watch, but I couldn’t look away either. My legs felt as though they were rooted in the moss, my body paralyzed by a fear so profound it stole even the will to scream. The grove seemed to close in around us, the reeds swaying violently, the trees groaning as if they were alive and straining against their own twisted forms. The air was thick with an oppressive heat that made it hard to breathe, each gulp of it clinging to my throat like smoke.

The creature’s claws moved with a precision that was almost tender as it stripped the child of his clothes, exposing pale, trembling flesh to the humid air. The child made no sound, his head tilted upward as though in a trance. Then came the sound—a low, guttural wail that rose into a scream so raw and piercing it seemed to split the very air. I turned away, my stomach lurching as bile rose in my throat. The scream didn’t stop. It only grew louder, joined by the wet, sickening sounds of flesh and bone meeting an unrelenting force.

Another child moved forward. Then another. The procession was slow but relentless, like a macabre ritual unfolding before my unwilling eyes. Each time, the same thing: the blank stares, the trembling, the screams that tore through the grove and echoed back in distorted fragments. I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to block it out, but the sound seeped through, crawling into my skull like a living thing.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but the images were burned there, vivid and unrelenting. The thing’s claws glinting in the pale light. The children’s vacant expressions breaking into terror as the spell shattered in their final moments. The moss beneath them growing darker, slick with something that glistened and pulsed like the grove itself was feeding on their pain.

“You will give,” the creature’s voice rumbled, the words reverberating through my soul. “As all must.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. My legs, heavy as they were, began to move. I stumbled backward, my boots slipping on the slick moss. I turned my gaze away from the horror before me, focusing on the towering reeds that surrounded the grove. They swayed violently, their tips glowing with an unnatural light, but beyond them, I thought I could see darkness—a vast, impenetrable black that seemed to stretch on forever.

I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to go. I had to leave this place, even if it meant running into the unknown. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat like a drum driving me forward. The screams behind me grew louder, more desperate, but I forced myself not to look back. I couldn’t. If I did, I knew I would never move again.

The reeds were like iron bars, their stalks unyielding as I shoved against them. They cut at my skin, their edges sharp as blades, drawing blood that trickled down my arms and legs. My breath came in ragged gasps, each one filling my lungs with the thick, humid air that reeked of decay. My hands clawed at the reeds, pulling and tearing and splintering, the pain in my fingers a small price to pay for the hope of escape.

The grove resisted. The ground beneath me shifted and buckled, as though it were alive and trying to pull me back. My boots sank into the moss, now a viscous sludge that clung to my feet and tried to hold me in place. The reeds seemed to grow taller, their tips curling downward as if to trap me in their embrace. The light from the glowing grooves in the rocks pulsed faster, their patterns shifting in ways that made my head spin.

Still, I pushed on. My mind was a haze of fear and determination, each step a battle against the grove itself. The screams faded behind me, or perhaps I had moved far enough that they could no longer reach my ears. My hands bled freely, the cuts stinging as I tore at the reeds with renewed desperation. Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard the creature’s voice, low and rumbling, but I couldn’t make out the words. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t let it stop me.

The darkness beyond the reeds seemed closer now, the black expanse stretching out like an endless sea. My vision blurred with tears and exhaustion, but I kept moving, my body screaming in protest. The grove fought me every step of the way, but I refused to stop. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

My fingers finally broke through the last of the reeds, their sharp edges slicing deep into my palms as I pushed forward. The ground beneath me shifted again, harder and more solid than the moss and sludge I had been trudging through. The air was different, cooler and thinner, and I gasped as it filled my lungs. I didn’t know where I was or if I had truly escaped, but for the first time, I dared to hope.

The air here was cool, crisp, and lighter than the oppressive weight of the grove. My legs wobbled beneath me, and my hands stung where the reeds had torn them, but I was free. I could feel it in my bones. The nightmare was behind me.

Then I heard it—the faint, high-pitched tinkling of bells. At first, it was distant, almost gentle, but it grew louder, sharper, like shards of glass tumbling together. It wasn’t music. It was something wrong, something alive. I froze, my breath catching in my throat, every muscle in my body screaming to move. Before I could decide what to do, it was on me.

The creature struck like a shadow, flitting from the darkness so quickly I barely had time to react. It wasn’t much bigger than a babe, but its form was grotesque, a mockery of human shape. Its limbs were too long and thin, its fingers ending in curved claws that gleamed in the faint light. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, and stretched tightly over its bones, giving it the appearance of a living corpse. Wings sprouted from its back, but they were tattered and veined like a dead leaf caught in autumn wind. Its face was the worst of all—hollow, gaunt, with wide, lidless eyes that glowed faintly, held dark black bulges around them and a mouth filled with jagged, needle-like teeth. Its smile was a twisted thing, too wide for its face, revealing gums blackened and glistening as it hissed with delight.

It moved with impossible speed, its claws slashing through the air. I stumbled backward, raising my arms to shield myself, but it was no use. The claws ripped through my sleeve, slicing deep into my forearm. I cried out in pain, falling to my knees as blood dripped onto the cold wet ground. The creature’s laughter was high-pitched and grating, like metal scraping against stone, and it circled me with a predatory grace. Its wings flared, though they barely seemed capable of flight, propelling it forward with misproportioned efficiency.

I scrambled to my feet, clutching my injured arm, and swung wildly at it with my free hand. My fist connected with its bony shoulder, and it hissed, recoiling slightly. But it wasn’t enough. It darted forward again, its claws raking across my chest and sending me sprawling to the ground. I gasped for air, the pain sharp and searing, as the creature loomed over me, its wings twitching erratically. Its glowing eyes bore into me, full of cruel amusement, as though it savored the chase.

“No escapes from Pan,” it said, its voice a chilling whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The words sent a shiver down my spine, and I forced myself to roll away just as its claws plunged into the dirt where my head had been. I scrambled backward, my hands and feet slipping on the uneven ground, as it advanced with slow, deliberate steps. The ground seemed to thrum beneath its feet, as if the forest itself acknowledged its presence.

I grabbed a rock from the ground and hurled it at the creature, striking it squarely in the chest. It let out a shriek of rage, its glowing eyes narrowing as it lunged at me again. This time, I managed to dodge, the claws narrowly missing my face. I grabbed a thick branch, swinging it wildly in an attempt to keep the creature at bay. The makeshift weapon struck its side, and it let out a screech, stumbling slightly before regaining its balance. But the force of my swing jarred my already trembling hands, and the branch slipped from my grip, leaving me defenseless once more.

The scuffle felt endless, a desperate struggle for survival against a being far stronger and faster than I could ever hope to be. It slashed at me again and again, its claws carving deep gashes into my arms and legs. Blood soaked my clothes, and my vision blurred with pain and exhaustion. My breath came in ragged gasps, the taste of iron and sweat thick on my tongue. I knew I couldn’t keep this up much longer.

Then it struck the final blow. Its claws sliced through my wrist with a force that made my entire arm go numb. I stared in horror as my hand fell to the ground, blood spurting from the stump. A scream tore from my throat, raw and broken, as I fell to my knees. The creature loomed over me, its jagged teeth bared in a triumphant grin, twitching. Its wings spread wide, casting pale shadows that danced like specters around us.

“No escapes from Pan,” it repeated, raising its claws for the killing strike. Its voice was a mocking echo, the final toll of a death knell that reverberated through my very soul.

But the blow never came. There was a blur of movement behind the creature, and suddenly, it froze. A low, guttural gasp escaped its throat as a stone dagger pierced through its chest, the blade glinting with a dull, ancient light. The creature’s wings flared out, twitching violently, before it collapsed to the ground in a heap. Its glowing eyes dimmed, the cruel light within them extinguished as its body convulsed one final time.

I looked up, my vision swimming, to see a man standing over the creature’s body. He was tall and lean, his face shadowed beneath a makeshift hood. His clothes were rough and travel-worn, and his eyes burned with a fierce intensity as he looked down at me. He pulled the dagger from the creature’s body, the blade slick with black ichor, and crouched beside me. His presence was a stark contrast to the chaos of the fight—a solid, grounding force in the shifting madness around us.

“You’re lucky,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the weight of someone who had seen far too much. “Few survive the fair ones.”

The world spun around me, my strength fading rapidly. The man’s face blurred as darkness crept into the edges of my vision. The last thing I saw was the dagger, its surface etched with intricate symbols that glowed faintly in the dim light, before everything went black. The faint ringing of the bells lingered in my ears, a haunting echo that promised this wasn’t over.

---

The Cost

It has been years since the day I stumbled out of Pan’s grove, bleeding and broken, into the arms of the man who saved me. His name was never spoken, not by him nor anyone else, but he was the one who brought me to the Lost Boys. They were not a band of heroes, but survivors, like me, pulled from the brink of death and taught to navigate the nightmare that was Pan’s forest by the survivors before them.

The forest is ever-changing. Its trees always twisting and growing, their gnarled branches stretching endlessly into a canopy that chokes out even the faintest light. The streams flow with waters that seem to hum, as though alive, their ripples forming patterns that shift when no one is looking. The air is heavy with the cloying scent of decay, a constant reminder that nothing truly thrives here. I have grown older in this place, though time feels irrelevant. Days and nights bleed together under the oppressive sky, and even my memories of a life before Pan’s forest feel like fragments of someone else’s dream. I’ve learned to live off the land, though nothing here is safe. Each bite of fruit is bitter and foreign, its juices leaving an aftertaste that lingers too long. The animals are lean and wary, their eyes too intelligent, their movements unnatural. Every hunt feels like a challenge to the forest itself, a test of whether it will allow me to continue.

The Lost Boys saved my life, though their methods were far from gentle. They stopped the bleeding, their hands rough and practiced, and stitched my wounds with threads pulled from the reeds that grow near Pan’s grove. They fed me, their food barely more than scraps scavenged from the forest floor, and nursed me back to strength. When they saw the stump where my hand had been, they forged a replacement from the black stones that glisten in the forest streams. The hook they crafted is sharp and jagged, its surface rough and unpolished. It is not elegant, but it is strong, a tool as much as a weapon. It has become an extension of me, a symbol of what I lost and what I have become.

The man who saved me never explained much. He didn’t need to. The Lost Boys’ stories are all the same. Children drawn into the grove by Pan’s flute, lured by its haunting melody, only to be devoured by the monster who wears the mask. Those who escape are the lucky few, but even they are forever changed. The forest is relentless, its horrors unyielding, its dangers constant. Girls rarely make it to our camp. They are too small, too fragile to survive the grove’s trials. Most are claimed by Pan before they can even begin to run. The girls who manage to escape Pan rarely survive long; they are used by the boys in ways I will not describe. It is a truth we do not speak of, one buried beneath the weight of our collective shame. It is an unspoken rule among us: some truths are better left buried.

There are whispers among the Lost Boys about what lies beyond the forest. Some say there is nothing, that this place stretches forever in all directions, a closed world where Pan reigns supreme. Others believe the forest is a labyrinth, its boundaries twisted and reshaped by Pan’s will, trapping us in an endless loop. No one has found proof. No one has returned with tales of escape. I have dreamed of home, of the village I left behind, but even those memories feel faded and unreal, like the remnants of a long-forgotten story.

We call this place Neverland. The name started as a bitter joke among the older boys, whispered in the dark as we huddled around our campfires. “We’ll never leave, we’ll never grow old, and we’ll never know anything beyond these cursed trees,” they’d say, their laughter brittle and hollow. But the name stuck. It fit too well, this place where time spirals endlessly, where the sun never rises high enough to banish the shadows, and where hope is a thing you bury deep to avoid its sting.

Here, the forest is its own world, boundless and unyielding, with its labyrinth of reeds, streams, and ancient trees that seem to watch your every move. The name feels like both a mockery and a warning. Neverland. Never out. Never free. Never safe.

Within Neverland, the Lost Boys have taught me to survive, to fight, to endure. We move in silence through the forest, hunting what we can, avoiding the creatures that stalk the shadows. The fairy that took my hand was not the only one of its kind. They flit through the trees, their glowing eyes watching, their laughter echoing in the dark. The reeds near the grove still sway without wind, their tips glowing faintly, a constant reminder of the place where Pan waits. Each time I see them, a chill runs down my spine, and I tighten my grip on my hook.

Tonight, as I sit by the dim glow of our campfire, I hear it again. The sound of the flute. It drifts through the trees, faint but unmistakable, its melody weaving through the forest like a thread pulling at my mind. The others hear it too. Their faces grow tight, their movements sharp. We all know what it means. Another group of children has been lured into the forest.

I grip the hilt of my hook, the jagged edge biting into my palm. My heart pounds as the familiar dread rises within me. The flute’s melody is softer now, almost gentle, but I know better. I know what lies at the end of that sound. I know what waits for those children. My chest tightens as memories flood back, sharp and painful, but I push them aside. There is no room for weakness here.

We move as one, silent and swift, slipping through the shadows of the forest. The flute grows louder, its notes winding through the trees, pulling us forward. I can see their shapes now, small figures stumbling through the underbrush, their faces slack, their eyes wide and empty. The grove looms in the distance, its glowing reeds swaying, its twisted trees reaching out like skeletal hands.

We will try to save them. We always do. Some we manage to pull back, to break from the trance and bring into our fold. But most… most never make it out. Pan always gets what he wants.

The melody crescendos, the grove glowing brighter as we draw near. My hook gleams faintly in the dim light, a cruel reflection of the man I have become. Each step feels heavier, the weight of countless failures pressing down on me, but I keep moving. I have to. The children’s faces, pale and frightened, blur together with those I could not save before. I clench my jaw, pushing back the despair. This time will be different. It has to be.

The flute plays on, its song echoing through the endless, ancient forest. The grove comes into view, its reeds swaying in time with the melody, its twisted branches forming an ominous awning. The children are close now, their small, fragile forms illuminated by the faint glow of the grove. My breath catches in my throat as I step into the shadows, the hook in my hand gleaming like a sliver of hope in the encroaching darkness.

The forest watches, silent and unyielding, as we prepare to face Pan once more as we listen to that damned flute.

Sui Ito’s room was a graveyard of pages, a sprawling mausoleum of ink-stained ghosts. The tatami floor, once pristine, was buried beneath mountains of discarded sketches, their edges curling like brittle autumn leaves. Shelves sagged under the weight of half-filled notebooks and plastic containers brimming with shattered pencils. The walls were an oppressive gallery, plastered with unfinished manga panels—splash pages of jagged battles, weeping heroines, and monstrous villains, all frozen in perpetual stasis. The single window was choked by blackout curtains, letting in only the faintest whisper of light, and the air was heavy with the sour tang of sweat and stale instant noodles.

Sui sat hunched over his desk, his silhouette a dark smear against the glow of his desk lamp. His pen moved in feverish jerks, scratching lines that bled into shapes, shapes that twisted into forms. Tonight, he was working on something darker—a story about a man haunted by his own shadow. The idea had gnawed at him all day, a mosquito trapped inside his skull, its incessant buzzing pushing him deeper into his cocoon.

“Another failure,” he muttered, crumpling the page and tossing it over his shoulder. The ball of paper bounced off a stack of sketchbooks and landed near the door, where dozens of its brethren lay in quiet judgment.

He turned back to his desk, rubbing his temples. That’s when he saw them. Again.

On the edge of his desk stood a tiny figure, no taller than a cigarette lighter. It was one of his characters—a samurai with a tattered haori and a scarred face, holding a blade that shimmered like polished obsidian. The miniature samurai stared at Sui with unblinking eyes, its tiny chest rising and falling as if it were alive.

“Go away,” Sui whispered, his voice trembling.

The samurai didn’t move. Behind it, others began to emerge. A crimson-haired schoolgirl with a baseball bat. A grotesque demon with twisting horns and a grin like a butcher’s knife. A robotic dog with glowing eyes that flickered like dying stars. They crawled out from the debris of his room, clambering over crumpled pages and plastic containers, their movements unnervingly fluid.

Sui squeezed his eyes shut. They’re not real. They’re not real.

When he opened his eyes, the samurai was closer. Its blade was raised now, the edge gleaming with an impossible light. The others circled around Sui’s desk, their tiny voices a cacophony of whispers. He couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was unmistakable: accusation.

“You’re just figments,” Sui said, his voice cracking. “You’re my creations. You can’t—”

A sharp pain blossomed in his fingertip. He recoiled, staring at a tiny bead of blood welling up from a fresh cut. The samurai’s blade was red at the tip.

Sui’s breath hitched. His chest felt tight, as though the walls of the room were pressing inward, suffocating him in a tomb of his own making. He staggered to his feet, sending piles of sketches cascading to the floor.

“What do you want from me?” he shouted, his voice reverberating off the cluttered walls.

The figures didn’t answer. Instead, they began to climb—up the desk, onto the shelves, across the walls. Their numbers multiplied, spilling out from the cracks in his psyche. The room swirled with motion, a kaleidoscope of his own nightmares brought to life. The robotic dog’s eyes burned like embers. The schoolgirl’s bat dripped with an inky substance that splattered onto the floor.

Sui stumbled back, tripping over a stack of books and landing hard on the tatami. Above him, the characters loomed, their tiny faces twisted into masks of disdain. The whispers grew louder, sharper, like shards of glass grinding together.

In the chaos, one voice rose above the rest. It was his mother, shouting through the thin walls.

“Sui! Turn off that damn light and get to sleep! You’re thirty years old! Do something with your life!”

Her words cut deeper than the samurai’s blade. Sui’s hands trembled as he looked around the room. The characters were gone, vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. The walls were still, the floor littered only with paper and broken pencils.

He crawled to his desk, his knees digging into the scattered debris. His latest sketch lay there, half-finished. The man and his shadow. But now, the shadow had changed. It was no longer a vague, amorphous shape. It had a face. His face.

Sui tore the page from his notebook and stared at it, his reflection warped in the glossy ink. For the first time in years, he felt the weight of his existence crushing him, a black hole collapsing in on itself.

He burned the page that night, the flames licking hungrily at the ink until nothing remained but ash. But no matter how much he burned, no matter how much he destroyed, the figures always returned. Tiny, persistent reminders of the stories he could never escape.

And every morning, without fail, a new sketchbook would appear on his desk, its pages blank, waiting to be filled.

Original Draft

The low rumble of three motorcycles broke the stillness of the Wisconsin countryside, cutting through the air like an old, familiar tune. Highway 2 stretched ahead of them, bordered by dense forests on one side and glimpses of Lake Michigan on the other, where the water shimmered beneath the fading light of early evening. The trio had been riding for hours, the miles slipping by in a shared silence that spoke of years of friendship rather than distance.
Trump led the pack, his broad frame leaning into the curves of the road with the ease of someone who had spent more time on two wheels than four. His bike was an old Harley, beaten but reliable, much like the man himself. Trump was the steady one, with a stubborn streak that matched his iron grip on the handlebars. His long, graying beard flapped in the wind, and his eyes were always scanning ahead, calculating the next move. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, people listened. In a lot of ways, he was the heart of the group—unshakable, grounded.
Behind him rode Bushe, smaller and quicker on his custom Triumph. His bike darted like he did—always ready to swerve, never quite still. He had a wiry energy that matched his frame, with shaggy hair that seemed perpetually windswept, even when his helmet was on. Bushe was the joker, the one who could turn a tense situation into something light with just a few well-placed words. But beneath that was someone who had been through the grinder a few times and came out rougher, but not broken. He was sharp, unpredictable, but you always knew he had your back.
Cue rode alongside them, their silent third companion. They didn’t need to say much—they never had to. The bond between the three went back farther than any of them liked to admit, forged in years of riding, late-night campfires, and shared memories both good and bad. No one could pinpoint exactly when this annual trip started, but it became a tradition, a ritual almost. A few days out on the road, no plans, just the open sky and whatever lay ahead.
This trip felt different, though. None of them had said it, but they all knew it. Maybe it was because life had started pulling them in different directions—careers, family, obligations that made trips like this harder to plan. Or maybe it was just the way the wind had shifted, a subtle reminder that nothing lasts forever. This year, they all knew, was likely their last time out together like this. But they kept that to themselves, riding on in comfortable silence, letting the hum of the engines do the talking.
As the sun dipped lower, they veered off Highway 2 just outside of Manistique, pulling over to set up camp. It was something they’d done dozens of times before—find a spot, set up the tents, crack open a few beers, and let the night settle in around them. The woods were thick here, and the highway quieted down as the last few cars passed, leaving just the distant sound of the waves crashing against the lake and the chirping of crickets.
Trump:Trump pulled off his helmet, shaking out his hair as he looked around. “Looks like as good a place as any,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. Bushe grinned, already hopping off his bike and starting to unpack.
Cue:He had pulled to the side, stepping off of his old cruiser, the lost momento he had from his dad. He slipped his helmet off and took a look around, enjoying the crisp, cool air and distant sounds. Being away from it all was just what he needed, and before he even walked over to the others, he just enjoyed the stillness, the nothingness even, of the moment
The three friends moved like clockwork, each knowing what to do without needing to ask. It was a routine they’d perfected over the years, but this time, there was an unspoken weight to it—a feeling that lingered in the air, as thick as the approaching dusk. They all felt it. This trip was different, but none of them could say why. Maybe it was just life. Maybe it was something more.
As they set up their tents, the wind shifted again, a cold breeze coming in off the lake. The woods stood still, dark and quiet, as if waiting for something.
Cue:After his tent was set up, he stopped and looked around the woods, a chill not only running through the air, but his bones. He hadn’t felt this way in some time, and he wished he never felt it again. A paranoiac sense washed over him, not sure about this spot for a moment… but he trusted Trump’s judgement well enough. He went to pull out his chair and, getting ready for the impending campfire
Bushe:As the camp slowly came together, Bushe was already darting around like a squirrel on too much coffee. He tossed his helmet onto the ground and started rummaging through his saddlebags, grumbling to himself as he searched for his lighter. “Always forget where I put the damn thing,” he muttered, glancing over at Trump. “Hey, you think if I throw my jacket on the fire, it’ll burn long enough to heat up dinner?”
Trump:Trump chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled out a small hatchet from his own gear. “That jacket’s seen worse, Bushe. Doubt even fire could put it out of its misery.” His gravelly voice carried a calm weight to it as he began chopping small pieces of wood for the fire. “But hey, give it a try. Might finally put you outta your misery while you’re at it.”
Bushe:Bushe snorted, shaking his head as he finally found the lighter and sparked up a cigarette instead. “I’ll pass, but thanks for the thought. You just focus on not chopping your foot off, old man.” He shot a glance over to Cue, a grin forming on his face. “So, what’s your plan, Cue? Gonna sit there like a monk or join in on the festivities?”
Cue:He looked over at Bushe, and stared at him for a moment… before saying, “Yea, hold on.” He set his chair down, and began looking for a spot to clear out for the camp fire… going ahead and clearing all floor debris and litter out of the water
way*
Bushe:Bushe paused mid-drag, watching Cue with a raised brow as he got up to start clearing a spot for the fire. “Well, look at that,” he smirked, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “Cue’s actually helping for once. I was starting to think you were just gonna meditate over there.”
Trump:Trump glanced over with a chuckle, still focused on chopping the last of the wood. “Yeah, careful, Cue. Keep this up, and we might start expectin’ you to pull your weight every trip.”
Cue:”I should have.” He said, getting the spot clear, “Got a lot on my mind.” He then looked over at Trump, and gave a smirk, “Well, could be worse I suppose.” He thought, {If there is a next trip…} Before he shook his head, “Job is done.”
Bushe:Bushe stretched, leaning back against his bike. “Alright, alright. I’ll give it to you. You make a mean fire pit, Cue.” He grinned again, throwing a wink Trump’s way. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”
Cue:”I will.” He said, grabbing hi chair and pulling it over, “Not the first pit I made. Hopefully not the last.”
his*
Trump:Trump grinned, his eyes fixed on Bushe as he set his hatchet aside. “With your luck, Bushe, you’ll end up burning the whole forest down before we get this fire going.”
Cue:{Good.} He thought, looking around the woods
Bushe:Bushe chuckled, leaning back comfortably. “Hey, if we’re gonna go out, might as well be with a blaze, right?” He shot a quick glance at Cue, still working on the fire pit. “So, what’s it gonna be, Cue? You gonna let me take all the credit for this one, or you wanna split the glory when the flames start kicking up?”
Taking note of Cue’s demeanor, as Trump plumps himself onto the dirt, snapping a root under his weight, he scratches his beard with a knife as sweat glistens his skin. “So, Cue, what’s been up with you? Bushe hasn’t stopped talking about his family leaving him for the last two days, but what’s been happening your end?”
Trump:Taking note of Cue’s demeanor, as Trump plumps himself onto the dirt, snapping a root under his weight, he scratches his beard with a knife as sweat glistens his skin. “So, Cue, what’s been up with you? Bushe hasn’t stopped talking about his family leaving him for the last two days, but what’s been happening your end?”
Cue:”We all do our part.” He said in response to Bushe, before looking to Trump. “Not much to it. Just been reflecting a lot on the past while, had a lot on my mind. These trips let me unwind, and was taking the time to do that.”
Bushe:He raises his hands in a defeated motion of Trump’s comment
“Fuck me, I guess.”
Bushe gives a nod as Cue speaks, questioning quickly before Trump can reply
“What got you wound up tight enough you need to un?”
Cue:”Reminiscing on a few things. Both my dad and my time in the can, and how I wasn’t able to see him one last time because of it.” He took a moment before shaking his head, “It’s nothing, just comes to mind sometimes.”
Trump:”Yeah, shit affects us, brother.”
Trump says with a huff.
Cue:He nods, “I know you two ain’t got it easy, either.”
Bushe:Bushe looks over to Trump “It’s a good thing you ain’t back in there, what with Donny T being pres. Would have gotten your ass stomped.”
Trump:”Hey, for your information, convicts love Trump.”
Cue:He was just about to say that, but Trump beat him to it
Bushe:”Oh, I’m sure they did.”
As the fire crackled and the conversation dwindled into the comfortable silence of old friends, the night slowly wrapped itself around them. The distant chirping of crickets and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze filled the gaps where their words had once been. One by one, they settled into their tents, the warmth of the dying fire flickering against the shadows of the trees. The night stretched on, quiet and still, save for the occasional shuffle of someone turning in their sleep. The moon hung high in the sky, casting long, silvery shadows over their camp as time seemed to slow, the peaceful hum of the forest lulling them deeper into rest.
As morning broke, the sun rose Cue from his sleep, he realized quickly his tent had been left open, though he recalled having zipped it as he prepared to sleep.
Cue:He muttered to himself, on one hand thinking he just left it open when he went out to pee at some point in the night, but on the other hand… {Who the fuck got in my goddamnt tent?!} He lied there briefly, before sitting up and peering around outside
Bushe:As Cue peered out of his tent, he noticed Trump laying outside of his tent, having dragged his sleeping bag out to sleep below the stars, a usual thing for him, but Bushe’s tent seemed off, from the shadows of the inside, it appeared like two or four bubbles were floating around, striking Cue for peculiar, Bushe was never one for bubbles. Cue:”Fuckin’ bubbles?” He just stares at Bushe’s tent for a moment As Cue stands. watching what he assumes are bubbles, he hears a noise as from underneath Trump, a loud squeak appears as he rolls over before he suddenly starts to yell and spas out, cursing and calling. Trump:”What the fuck!?” “AHAUH!” As Cue watches Trump fight for his life on the ground, a bit taken aback by the scene of the occasional Mall Santa, finally Trump breaks his sleeping bag open and rolls over, with Cue hearing several crunching sounds Cue:”The hell?!” He goes to step out of his tent and begin towards him Trump:Just as Cue steps out of his tent fully, he sees a stranger standing behind his tent, watching the scene as Trump finally stops rolling, now covered in dirt, leaves, and twigs, falling from, his natted unkempt hair.
Huffing and puffing, Trump slams both fist into the ground a few more times with a roar as he has finally won. Raising from under him, a small ground hog that had somehow gotten trapped in his sleeping bag and bitten him, waking him up
“Litter fuckers!!”
Cue:He glances over and rises an eyebrow, “Who the hell are you?” Ranger: “I’m the law.” Thge man says with an odd smirk. It’s finally now that Cue notices his outfit being one of a park ranger “And you sir, just killed an endangered Diamondback Dog.” Trump:”That’s…” With a few huffs, Trump looks at the dead animal in his hands for a seconds before snorting and saying with a glance back to the ranger “You made that up.” Cue:”Startled the hell out of me man…” He said, a bit annoyed… {Ain’t no damn ranger. Look at him.} Ranger: “We’re gonna need to see some identification.” Cue:”We’re?” He looks around Ranger: “What are you boy’s doing up in m-” He looks around with Cue before pausing “Yeah, we. Myself and the law of the nature of Wisconsin.” Trump:Trump peers to Cue, confused Cue:”…” {What in the fuck…} He looks to Trump too, looking annoyed Trump:Struggling to get to his feet, Trump finally does so, tossing the carcass behind himself. “Now, Officer, let’s just talk about this.” “Actually, nagh,. let’s think about this.” As he is saying this, he gets closer and closer to the Ranger, giving Cue to cue to move to the side, pincer-like “You were just here, just now.” “You watchjed what happened, sir.” Cue:He notices and does slowly begin moving towards the side himself Trump:”You saw the dog had attacked me.” “Out of nowhere, and I had to…” “Defend myself from this v-vi-viscious little prairy.” Ranger: The ranger raises a hand, not paying attention to Cue as he tells Trump to stop and looks back towards the poor doggo, questioning with a stern and serious face “Have you ever heard the bark of one of those little pups?” Trump:”O-…Of a… A ground hog?” Ranger: “Let me see some iD.” Trump:Trump looks back to Cue for a second, all the more confused “Alright, alright.” “It’s in my saddle, on my ride.” “Let me grab it.” Dick swinging free and his hairy chest covered by a long sleeve shirt, Trump walks past the Ranger, giving him a shoulder check to cause the Ranger to turn his back on Cue, and occupying him with an immediate and obviously fake apology Cue:He quickly swipes a rock off the ground and goes to step up behind the fake ass ranger Uses Sneak = (50) He then swings the rock at the back of his head Attacks = (42) Ranger: The Ranger gets knocked upside the head, causing him to lower his head and step to the side, grabbing at his revolver however being stunned for a moment, allowing Cue a second attack
Trump:”AUH Waht the hella!”
Cue:”TRUUUUUUUUUUUUUMP!”
Attacks = (82)
He goes to bring it down onto the side of his head
Ranger: As the rock slams against the side of the rangers head, he seizes up, the gun going off just as he gets it out but hitting nothing but the dirt between them as Trump tackles the ranger onto the ground, sounding like the Ranger’s back snapped as he slams against the ground.
Trump:”I gotcha, Clint!”
“I gotcha!”
Standing from the Ranger, completely unconscious, his eyes moving rapidly and his arms locked in handlebars
The Trumpster stands for a second huffing and puffing before looking back to Cue and saying with a squished face*
“I… I think we may have went to far, Clint.”
“Over a damned hog!?”
Trump:”This ain’t worth it.”
Cue:He goes to kneel on the ‘ranger’s’ neck and look back up at Trump, “Yea… but no. This bastard ain’t no ranger. No way.”
“Just standing outside my tent like a stalker… I had a weird feeling all night.”
“Must have been watching us.”
Bushe:It’s finally now that Bushe appears, running up, in complete opposite attire as Trump, with no shirt but pants on.
“Waht the fuck is happening out here fellas!?”
“I was schmoking my hooka and a gunshot and…”
“Is..”
Stopping he stares at Cue and the body under himd
“Is that a man?”
Bushe:”Did…”
“Did you mother fuckers kill someone?”
“Who the fuck?”
“How?”
“How did they even find us?”
Cue:”Before he killed us.”
Bushe:Bushe gives a face of complete confusion, going through fifty completely different emotions in the span of a second
Cue:He himself feels like he’s about to throw up
Trump:”Nah, he’s right, Bushe.”
“Him or us.”
“I klilled a diamondback.”
Bushe:”A fuckin’ rattlesnake?!”
Cue:”Other kind.”
Trump:”A sweet lil priariy, Bushe.”
Bushe:”Excuse me?”
Bushe shakes his head and takes a step back, his eyes dilating as he examines the situation
Cue:”Look, listen!”
Bushe:”Well… What’s the ID on the fool?”
Cue:”It all went down in a few seconds… but, fuck, something was wrong!”
Trump:”He was the law.”
Cue:”I woke up, my damn tent door was open. I know I didn’t open it!”
Bushe:”A cop!?”
Cue:”I step out of my tent, he’s just standing there.”
“He ain’t announce his presence, didn’t show no badge, started accusing Trump of killing an imaginary animal… actin’ weird!”
“I had this weird ass feeling since last night, and then this shit!”
“Hell no!”
Bushe:”…”
Bushe nods for a second listening
“So….”
“A man… Appearing out of no where…”
“You killed him because he… Because you didn’t feel right?”
Trump:”You wasn’t here, Bushe.”
Bushe:”Can it, Hagrid.”
Cue:”We’re in the middle of the woods, this guy has a revolver, and he’s trying to make us think he got authority over us and starts accusing us of breaking the law.”
Bushe:”Alright… Well, check his poickets.”
“Let’s make sure there ain’t no… Badge.”
“Let’s hope your intuition and gut fuckin’ feeling is right, Cue.”
Cue:He keeps him pinned down and nods, “Yea…” He slowly reaches for a pocket
Trump:”Cue ain’t never stirred us wrong, Bushe.”
Bushe:He nods as Cue pulls discovers nothing in the man’s breast pocket… And then nothing his his right pant’s pocket…” And then nothing in his left pants pocket “Well? What do we have?” Cue:”Nothin’… ain’t nothin’ in any of his pockets.” Bushe:”Fuck… Is… Yeah, that’s weird?” Cue:”Yea, I mean… ain’t nothin’?” As Cue continues to search the man’s pockets, a howl, unknown to any of the three comes from the inner woods, as Trump whispers just loud enough for them to hear Trump:”Howler?” Cue:”The fuck?!” He whisper-yells, the hairs on his neck standing up on end Bushe:”Ain’t no god damn North American monkeys but the negros, Trump.” Trump:Covering his dick with one hand and his ass with the other, Trump runs back to his tent, for which Cue and Bushe can assume to get dressed Bushe:”Alright, Cue…” “The copp-er not-cop.” “Is he dead?” “Dead dead or just…” “Not moving?” Cue:He presses his knee in harder, “I think he ain’t here anymore.” Bushe:”Okay, he had a gun, right?” Cue:”Oh yea.” Bushe:”I’ll get the camp shit, you take his shit! Take that fuckin’ shirt that says ranger and bury it.” “Throw it in a tree or something.” “Trump! Get your fat ass out to the bikes and get them started.” Cue:”Fuck! We should burn that fucking thing! But… FUCK!” Bushe:”I don’t know what that fuckin’ scream was but I ain’t fuckin’ with a moose.” Cue:He doubles over, his stomach in nuts… still clutching the bloody rock knots
The crew quickly gathers everything together, doing their parts and before they can think are back on the road, driving as fast as they can, not thinking of the fuel they’re burning, nor the speed they’re taking turns, simply trying to get as far away from the scene as they can, continuing further down the planned route with Bushe, typically in back, now taking lead*
Bushe:After an unknown amount of time, but at least half an hour, they find themselves pulling over to the side, with Bushe looking back to the other two
“Alright, what… Now tell me…”
“One more… We need to get the story straight?”
Cue:He had had the scene replaying in his mind over and over again… but as they pull over, he shakes his head and tries to collect himself for the conversation, “Right…”
Trump:”I sell unlicensed porn and make meth. I ain’t no cop killer, Cue.”
Cue:”That wasn’t no cop.”
“I’m telling you, listen. If he was, he would have had ID. He would have announced himself before he walked up. He wouldn’t have acted like that.”
“I’m serious, he was standing behind my tent, just standing there. He was right behind it. He was just standing there.”
Bushe:Bushe nods, kicking his bike’s stand out and getting off, looking over the creak that ran alongside the road they were on.
Cue:He did the same, walking over, “I had… I-I had a weird fuckin’ feeling that night.”
Bushe:”Alright, let me see the gun.”
Cue:He went to hand it over
Bushe:Taking the gun, he examines it, and removes the shot shell, tossing it into the running water before stuffing the gun into his saddle.
“Alright, let’s just…”
“I didn’t see any jeep or truck or whatever.”
“Didn’t even see lights.”
Cue:”Yea!”
“No vehicle.”
“No badge.”
“Not even a normal ID.”
“Nothin’ on him but that gun.”
Bushe:”Except the shirt which read ‘Ranger’.”
“But hell, that could have been a fuckin’ howl-o-ring shit.”
Cue:”Yea, you can fuckin’… buy FBI jackets online. Doesn’t make you a fed.”
Trump:”I’ve killed people, that ain’t no problem, but FBI? That’s a whole different level of manhunt, fellas.”
“I mean, I vote red but I believe in the blue line.”
Bushe:Bushe shakes his head.
“Alright… So let’s just…”
“Let’s put the cop thing on pause.”
“No lights… No announcement.. Just a man.. Standing at the camp.”
“Watching us?”
“Maybe the land owner?”
Cue:”I don’t know… you’d think he’d still say something before he just walking up.”
“And there’s still the issue of my tent door being open when I woke up.”
Bushe:”He put on the cop outfit to scare kids and vandits and shit.”
Cue:”Trust me, I don’t leave it open.”
“And maybe… but then… like…”
“Wouldn’t he just tell us to leave?”
Bushe:”This is fuckin’ weird.”
Trump:As Bushe swats at his own head, Trump nods, saying
“Wrong Turn mother fuckers.”
Cue:”Some weird shit… I think he was watching us for some time, if I had to guess.”
Bushe:”Watching us for what/”
“Why?”
Cue:”People do crazy shit sometimes. I knew motherfuckers in prison who carved people up… for the hell of it.”
Bushe:Bushe nods
Trump:”Mexicans>”
Cue:”Who knows what he wanted… but it wasn’t anything good- Those too.”
Bushe:”Alright, well.. Let’s just.. Get the fuck out of here.”
“Get back to a main road and get to a town.”
“Actually.”
“We ain’t far from a town.”
“I saw on the map, we’re pretty close to Brevert, saw a short cut.”
Cue:”Alright… yea, sounds like a plan. Better than being out here.”
Bushe:Getting back on his bike, the three start their engines and race off down the road, slowing down only to turn down a dirt road that enters into the forest, steering north
Trump:As they drive, having to go slower so as to not damage their bikes, Trump rides up beside Cue, and questions
“Why are we heading into the forest?”
Cue:”I guess this is the shortcut…” He says, looking around a bit… before, suddenly, another paranoiac bout sets in, {He kept the gun…}
Desc: nearly two hours pass as the three slowly make their way loudly further and further into the forest, hardly any animals or signs of life to be seen as the atmosphere builds tension onto Cue’s already apparent paranoia.
nearly two hours pass as the three slowly make their way loudly further and further into the forest, hardly any animals or signs of life to be seen as the atmosphere builds tension onto Cue’s already apparent paranoia.
Cue:He grips the handlebars hard, trying to keep his breathing steady… having trouble. He keeps glancing around, not sure what, but just feeling like something was coming… any moment now…
{Fuck… not thinking straight… how long has it even been?}
Trump:”Alright, now that’s enough!”
Trump called as he stopped his chopper
Bushe:Unable to hear, Bushe continued to push forward
Trump:”Bushe!”
Cue:He stops, looking between them… before calling out himself, “Bushe!”
Trump:Bushe continues still, his bike revving as Trump shakes his head and turns his engine off, setting up the stand
Cue:”Fuck… I’ll try to go get him, alright?” He says to Trump
Trump:Trump nods as he reaches into his satchel
Cue:He revs up again, and takes off, trying to catch up to Bashe
Bushe*
Bushe:Revving up, Cue is able to catch up to Bushe fairly quickly, however as he does he gets a strange feeling once again, as if they’re being watched. The sense that their surroundings aren’t as safe as they thought
Cue:His hairs stand up on the back of his neck, as he cursed to himself before saying, “Bushe! Bushe! Turn back!”
Bushe:Finally Bushe hears and stops, turning back to Cue
“What!?” He calls, unable to hear the bald friend
Cue:He stops and says, “Trump stopped back there!” He points behind him with his thumb, “C’mon.”
Bushe:”Oh, god da- Fat fuckin’ lazy piece of shit, we’re on bikes and he still can’t keep up.”
Bushe begins to rant, almost catching Cue off guard, something he’d normally not do, though the situation is strange, and perhaps the tension is getting to him. After all, he was never that great in stressful scenes back home… Was he?
Cue:{This isn’t the fucking time… shit… fucking hell…} He quickly glances around, before saying, “Tell him that when we catch up to him… come on!”
Trump:”Clint!”
Cue hears from Trump’s direction before a quieter
“Help!”
Cue:”Fuck! COME ON!” He quickly revs up and goes to turn around and fly in Trump’s direction
Bushe:Bushe, not seeming to have heard it, slowly turns around, taking his time, not in the same rush as Cue, eventually follows soon after
Cue:”TRUUUUUUMMPP!”
Trump:As Cue speeds his bike, beating it as his pelvis, feeling every rock, stick, and bump, he quickly makes it back to his friend where he finds Trump look up suddenly to him as Cue screams. Trump seems simply fine, nothing wrong as he sat on his bike, a large printed out map of the states in his hand as he stares confused, a hatchet in hand*
“What!?” He questions, jumping and backing up, becoming startled
Cue:He pulls to an abrupt stop, nearly falling off the bike as he kicks the stand down and hops off, “What happened?!”
Trump:”I… I don’t know!? What do you mean you’re the one yelling!”
“Where is Bushe!?”
“Everything alright?”
Cue:”What?! No! No! I… I heard you yell for me, when I… yea, I… I got Bushe to stop, and was telling him to come back, when I heard you call for me…”
{No… this place is fucking haunted…}
Trump:”I didn’t say shit, brother, I swear.”
Cue:”…” He looks around
Bushe:Bushe rolls up, walking his bike up slowly, having turned it off as he questions
“Why the fuck have we stopped?”
“It’s about mid day, guys, we’re almost there.”
Trump:Trump ignores Bushe for the moment, annoyed by his attitude of the situation and instead focuses on Cue
“Listen, brother, you said you heard me?”
“Was it maybe a bird?”
“And you just thought it was me?”
Cue:”Bird… no, there’s… I heard it clearly. ‘Clint’…. ‘help’…”
“There’s something fucking wrong with this place. Deeply wrong. And…”
{I didn’t feel it until I got close to him…}
“How long have we been riding?”
Bushe:Bushe shrugs and says
“Well… Clint, I’ll be honest, I think you’re in shock, man.”
“Like.. Killing a cop is a bad thing.”
“And maybe you’re just… Not feeling okay, and that’s okay.”
Cue:”… That wasn’t a cop.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
Bushe:”Alright, well, then… A not a cop. Still, you killed someone.”
Cue:”Rangers aren– Okay. Bushe.”
“I may not be well right now, but look…”
“We’ve been taking this shortcut for fuckin’… hours!”
“What kinda shortcut?!”
“And alright, I didn’t say nothing… but fuck…”
“What was the hell UP with those BUBBLES?!”
Bushe:Bushe looks tired through Cue’s whole rant until the bubbles were brought up and then was forcced to do a taken aback double take
“B-… Bubbles?”
Cue:”This morning, your tent.”
“Before I stepped out, I looked at your tent. There were the shadows of bubbles, through the outline of the tent.”
“And I heard what you said about the hookah… you ain’t ever smoked a hookah!”
“You’ve always been a drinker, not a smoker!”
Bushe:”A dr-.. Alright, yeah, that’s.. Just something I picked up over the past year, alright…”
“I..”
“Look.”
“Clint… Trump…”
“I had to put down the beer. I.. My kidney failed… And I was in the hospital for about a month.”
“Alright… So… I haven’t been drinking.”
Cue:Uses Perception = (41)
Bushe:”The hookah is something I’ve recently started.”
“And like… C’mon.. Who doesn’t love bubbles!?”
“You can check my pack, I have two kits of bubble blowers.”
Cue:”…” He’s still on edge, but loosens up a bit, “Bushe… bubbles?”
Bushe:”Yeah, man.. Look, I know I’ve always been a hard ass but… C’mon… bubbles.”
Sayin bubbles in a weird voice, Trump gives the two a weird eye as Bushe continues with a wide toothy grin
“Look, Cue.”
“Don’t you remember?”
“When we were kids, back before all the shit in Detroit?”
“We were on bikes, and the niggers found me with my bubbles, started calling me gay and shit.”
Bushe:”Who had my back?”
Cue:Uses Perception = (101)
Uses Perception = (40)
Bushe:As Bushe continues to talk, Cue seems to recall something about a bunch of black kids mocking and making fun of Bushe, but it wasn’t in Detroit, in fact, he’s never been to Michigan.
Cue:”… Detroit?”
Bushe:”Yeah, man!”
“They fuckin’ called me faggot and shit and was about to…”
Bushe leans in and motions as if Cue knows what he’s talking about
Cue:He rubs his head a bit, the memory lingering… but it was conflicted in his head, {Fuckin’… Detroit?}
Uses Perception = (81)
Uses Luck = (91)
Bushe:The more Bushe talks about this situation the more it becomes foggy, muddled in his mind, he remembers a kid being bullies… But was it by blacks over bubbles? Was.. Was it even Bushe? Did… Did you even know Bushe that long?
Cue:{… What in the fuck…}
Trump:”Alright, what the fuck ever about your god damn bubbles!!”
Trump yelled, reentering the conversation
“Listen!”
Cue:He steps back a bit, snapped out of it by Trump
Trump:”Where the fuck do you have us going, Bushe?”
“Brevort was not even fifteen minutes from where we turned?”
Bushe:”What? No, man, it’s just ahead, a little further!”
Trump:”Further my ass, I felt weird when we turned and finally, after following you through these fuckin’ marshes and woods for an hour, running down my fuckin’ gas.”
“Look at here, fucker!”
Cue:”FUCK! The gas!”
{Goddammit! I was so caught up with my fucking paranoia, I didn’t even think about the goddamn gas!}
Trump:Trump shifts the map so the two can look and sure enough, the town wasn’t but a few more minutes down the road from the turn Bushe had them go
“So what’s the play, here?”
Cue:His stomach sinks as he looks at that
Bushe:Bushe grabs the map tightly and stares intently at it
“What?!”
“How the fuck? No… No, dude, I had this whole fucking route memorized. I knew every turn and shit in case you fuckers were trying to kill me!”
“No, there is no fucking way that is right!”
Bushe seems to go into a mumbling loop to himself as he looking around the map, frantically, hoping Trump was just looking at the wrong town
Cue:He steps back a bit and puts his hand over his stomach, trying to hold it in… {This is fucked… goddammit, I can’t believe it…}
Trump:”We’re in the middle of the fuckin’ woods and ain’t no one around us now, when we were this fuckin’ close!”
“God damn retard, and I’m just as stupid for following you even though I knew something was off.”
“Gimme back my fuckin’ map, we’re getting out of here.”
Bushe:”Fuck you, Trump! I didn’t hear you say shit when I took the lead after you two fuckin went awol on a god damn deputy!”
“I was the one with a reasonable mind and… I don’t… I must have got it mixed up.”
Cue:”He wasn’t a fucking deputy, and that isn’t what awol means!”
Uses Perception = (87)
Bushe:Bushe looks over to Cue with eyes of hate, and for a brief moment, he a misty red glow within his friend’s irises
Cue:He stops, his heart skipping a fucking beat
Trump:Snatching the map from Bushe’s hands, Trump folds it back up and stuffs it in his pants
“Well, you’re back in the rear, brother.”
“No more leadin’.”
Cue:”… No.”
“No, I think he should lead us still.”
Trump:Trump stops and looks at Cue as if he’s gone bat shit insane
“Clint.” He says, somewhat disappointment*
Cue:”Look… I know he dragged us out here. But he means well.”
“Trust me, I ain’t stirred us wrong before.”
Uses Speechcraft = (96)
Trump:Trump stops and stares before looking back to Bushe and shaking his head
“God….Damn it..”
“This ain’t right, Clint..,. I’m telling you.”
“But fine.”
“But I’m keeping the map!”
Cue:”It is your map.”
Trump:”You two done gone full blown wacko on me.”
Bushe:”I know we’re close to the town, it’s just up ahead.”
“Fuck what that map says.”
Cue:He nods and goes to get back on his bike
Bushe:Bushe says with a nod towards Cue
Starting up his bike again, the three, with Trump taking rear, continues down the path
Cue:He begins cruising behind Bushe too with Trump… slowly dropping his speed over time, until he was next to Trump… Trump:With Bushe not recognizing this, Trump looks over to Cue and shakes his head, motioning as if asking ‘what is happening?’ Cue:He looks to Trump, and then points behind him… before slowly drawing to a stop Trump:Stump stops too, unsure what is happening, but trusting in Cue’s actions Cue:He doesn’t say much, just, “Trump, I’ve never been to Michigan.” Stump:He stops and stares at Cue. “Okay?” “It’s a shit hole, trust me.” Cue:”I’ve never been to Detroit.” “There was no black kids, there was no bubbles.” Stump:”….” Stump takes a moment before realizing what Cue is saying With his eyes widening, he nods and mouths “Ouhhhhh” Looking back fowards towards Bushe as he slowly fades behinds trees “So what? What’s that mean, Cue?” “You saying Bushe is… Hit his head? Lost memory?” Cue:”That ain’t Bushe.” “I can tell you more later, but we gotta get out of here.” Stump:Cue can see the colour vanish as he says this, with Stump entering a state of near-shock, almost like he has done seen a ghost “What happened to our boy, Cue?” Cue:”I don’t know. But that ain’t him.” Stump:”Ain’t him like… Like he’s possessed?” Cue:”I don’t know…” Stump:”Ooohhhh, fuck this, Clint, I don’t do demones and shit.” Cue:”Me neither.” “I already got enough shit with people.” “Alright, look, we gotta get out of here quick, but we’re low on gas.” “We siphon what’s left in my tank and share a ride.” Stump:Stump looks between the two, recognizing his is bigger, he grows a small selfish smirk, knowing he doesn’t have to leave his ride. “Alright.” Turning off his ride, he opens the gas tank and waits for Cue Cue:He sighs, and stands, “Fuck…” He begins running through, {Alright… now, how are we gonna siphon this shit?!} “Fuck…” He looks to the bike, turning it off for one last time… “It hurts to do this.” He goes to find a hose he can use Uses Driving = (-3.7) degree(s) of success! Uses Mechanics = (0.3) degree(s) of success! Stump:Cue gets the gas going and after a moment, while Stump held the hose and Cue moved most of what they could carry on the bike without overloading it, they finally set off, following the path they had been going down. Cue:Uses Geography = (2.2) degree(s) of success! As they set off, he gives one last look back to the old bike… a wistful expression set upon his face, as he once again had to say goodbye to his father… Stump:Very quickly Stump loses the trail and finds himself having to be guided by Cue most of the way through Cue:After his goodbye, he focuses on guiding Trump through these backwoods paths Uses Geography = (-5.8) degree(s) of success! Stump:As they travel through the path, Cue quickly finds himself questioning his own directions and before the two know it, they find themselves lost in the middle of the woods, without any idea of which direction was which. Their only compass in the satchel bags of Bushe “Where the fuck!? Where the fuck?! FUCK! Where?!” “Where are we at!? God damn it!” Cue:He wants to scream, but he can’t. He can’t even speak right now Stump:”Cue! We should have been back at the road… At least seen it!” Cue:He hangs his head for a moment… gives a nod… and then says, “Yea… we should have.” Bushe:”Clint.” Cue hears from behind him, almost feeling the breath on his neck Cue:”…” {This is it.} “I fuckin’… I knew it.” Stump:Suddenly, Cue hears the howl again, this time Stump hears it as well causing him to take off, screaming himself, shaking, though he isn’t sure if it’s from the vibrations of the bike or his own fear. Cue:Uses Strength = (80) Stump:Cue tightens his grip on Stump as the two begins speeding through the hills and trees and sticks and rocks, losing all control before finding themselves in the air as the front wheel dipped into an indent and the bike flipped, sending them rolling with their supplies down a small hill before Stump stops in a small mud patch Cue:He simply screams, unable to even form words in this moment Stump:After a moment of rolling back and forth, he lifts up and wipes the mud and dirt from his face and mouth and struggles back to his feet, Cue watches as Stump begins to freak out, frantically waving his arms around and turning and twisting, as if trying to find something that is constantly beside or behind him, however seeing nothing himself “AHUHA! Get the fuck out of here!” Cue:He stumbles around a bit, trying to gather his footage, as he calls out, “Trump! Wh-…w -whwat the FUCK is going on?!” Stump:”You don’t hear them!?” Stump calls before falling his knee and letting out a gasp and blood curdling scream Cue:”No!” He says, sloshing through the mud over to him Stump:After a bit of fighting, Cue gets to his friend, who he finds has fallen onto his own hatchet, with his impaling the back of his hamstring and thigh, leaving him to cry in pain Bushe:Whispers appear next to Clint, as he hears “Help me… Me.,.. Help… Help… You…. Dieeeeeeee.” Cue:He clamps his eyes shut tightly for a moment, shaking his head… before letting out a deep snort, “Fuck it.” He reaches over and grabs the hatchet, opening his eyes back up, “Sorry buddy… just hold on.” He then goes to try and yank the hatchet out Stump:”AUAHAUH!!!” Stump let’s out the worse cry Cue has ever heard, so sad that it twists his stomach Cue:Uses Strength = (117) Stump:Through the adrenaline, Cue suddenly yanks the blade from Stump’s leg, leading blood to begin to gush and squirt out, and Stump screams. Screams and more screams, mix as Stump’s is no longer the only voice that Cue can hear, others, women, men, even the cries of children seem to bleed from the surrounding forest as the blood rushes from his leg and is absorbed into the ground Cue:He shakes intensely, a slurry of fear, anger, and sorrow coursing through him, as he grips the blooded hatched tightly, looking all around… the emotions rushing through him apparent as he calls out, “Come on! COME ON!” Unknown: Suddenly, Cue sees a face he had only seen once before. Ranger: A man with a Ranger shirt appears from behind a tree and looks at him intently His head still bleeding from the side where Cue had knocked him earlier Cue:A bewildered look appears on his own face Ranger: “Clint…. You killed me.” Cue:”I’ll do it again!” Stump:”FUuUuUuuuUuUUUCK!!!” Ranger: “You could try.” Cue:He glances to Stump, his voice cracking a bit as he mutters, “Shit…” Before looking to the Ranger, gripping the hatchet tightly Ranger: “That measly man made tool won’t do anything to me, Clint.” The Ranger says with a small smirk, his voice low and calm, almost inviting Cue:”A rock did just fine before…” He said, taking a step forward, but circling off tot he side a bit Ranger: “If you think so.” As he says this, Cue watches as the blood from the ranger’s shoulder and arm trickle upward and return to his head as his head wound slowly seems to heal Stump:Stump appears to be in and out of consciousness, likely entering shock, or possibly even having a heart attack. Cue:He falters briefly, noticing that… glancing back to Stump again, and then thinking… {He was fighting shadows. Hold on…} He focuses on the environment, trying to sus out anything he can Uses Perception = (67) Ranger: As Cue looks around, he notices that the legs of the Ranger, just before his vision is cut off from the hill, are not only transparent but seem to hold a wave-like effect. Then he begins to notice a tree just to his left, now between him and Stump also has this save wave-like effect on it’s bark. “What are you thinking, Clint? Tell me, I want to know.” “Call me curious.” Cue:He shakes his head, “I don’t know… I can’t… I can’t think straight…” He leans over, going to press himself against that tree to his left a bit Ranger: “Yes?” The Ranger questions as he leans closer and Cue notices the same red mist-like glow from Bushe’s eyes appear behind the Ranger’s glasses as he smiles widely, and eerily similar to the one Bushe had given just before
“You don’t know what’s happening, do you? I can hear your heart, smell your blood… It’s so fast, Clint.”
Cue:”I can’t even see straight, I can’t stand… I got whiplash from that crash, probably a concussion, I…” He leaned up against the tree and slumped a bit
“So no, I got no fucking clue what’s happening! Is that what you want to hear?!”
Stump:As he gets closer to the tree, Cue presses against it only to find it disappear beneath his body as he seems to simply phase through it, with no feeling, almost like a hologram
Cue:He stops and stumbles, “Fuck! I can’t keep my goddamn balance even!”
Ranger: “That’s exactly what I want…”
The man raises his hand and removes his glasses, upon doing so his face seems to morph smoothly and immediately into that of Bushe’s*
Bushe:Raising the gun before, the wide smile still across his face, he questions
“What’s my name, Clint?”
Cue:He looks up at him, a ragged look on his face as he said, “I don’t know… you didn’t have a badge.”
Bushe:Bushe pulls the trigger and Cue hears a loud bang with a flash blinding his vision
Cue:He just shuts his eyes closed in response
Suddenly, Cue shoots up, back in his tent from that morning, hearing as Stump wrangles the diamondback ground hog*
Cue:”… No.”
His tent is open like it was this morning and everything appears the exact same, bubbles and all… Just no Ranger this time.
Stump:”AUHHA!”
Stump brings his hands down onto the lil priary puppy, finishing it.
Cue:He stumbles around, shocked… gawking, before looking back… letting Stump have his battle as he rushed over to Bushe’s tent
Stump:”My gawd..”
Bushe:As Cue rushed to the tent, he opened it to find Bushe’s body split open and guts and blood everywhere, as if he was ravaged by a wild animal, with a whistling and wheezing sound escaping him. Despite the gory seem, his eyes shift towards Cue as he appears to be surprised by Cue’s sudden entrance
Cue:”FUCK!”
Bushe:A low gutteral growl escapes the tent as a smell worse than any sewer or dead animal hits Cue, forcing out vomit
Stump:Stump looks over
“Them lil fuckers get you too?”
Cue:He doubles over and just starts heaving and vomiting
Stump:”Bastard damn near bit my tip, brother.”
Stump says, huffing and puffing
He looks over at Cue as he vomits
“Wh- Waht the hell is the matter with you?”
“You look and see Bushe wacken his bush?”
As he says this he gives a light chuckle
Cue:He shakes his head… slowly getting back to his feet and stumbling, “Oh my fucking god… no…”
Stump:Straightening himself and stretching, Stump tosses the hog away, like he did before, and starts walking over to see what is the matter
“Calm down, what’s the matter with Bushe?”
Cue:”… I can’t… I…” His voice cracks again, as the memories of the dream wash over him, intermixed with what he saw in the tent
Stump: Stump gives a shake of his head as Cue hears something that nearly makes his knees buckle.
Bushe:”You okay, Clint? Jesus, I ain’t a looker but throwing up?”
Walking out of the tent, he looks over to Stump with absolute confusion
Cue:”…” He stops, slowly turning around and looking at him
Bushe:Both of his friends stare at him, worried by his state
“You need me to get the phone out, call an ambulance or something?”
Stump:”Maybe you were bitten by a diamondback, I heard there are snakes around here!”
Cue:He just leans over and throws up again
Stump:”Alright, look, Bushe, you’re already dressed, take Clint into town, there should be one just up the road!”
“I’ll pack up here and call the police!”
Bushe:Bushe nods and rushes to get the bike started
“Right!”
Cue:”Police?” He says as he leans back up, “Why?”
Stump:”Well, animal control, something, something is obviously wrong with you, brother.”
Stump rushes over to him, dick clapping his legs, and kneels down, grabbing onto Cue’s shoulder to try and hold onto him
Cue:He doesn’t even fight it. {Fuck it… alright. Let’s just see where this leads. No, let’s go. Really, no, let’s do this. Seriously. No, come on. Really. Yea, no. Let’s go. Come on. Come on.} He continues this train of thought in his head, electing to get onto Bushe’s bike and let him take him down the road
Stump:Stump appears genuinely worried as Cue is placed on the bike and strapped to Bushe, waving gently at his friend as he rides away while taking out a satellite phone
Bushe:As they ride down the road, Bushe calls back to Cue
“Hey, buddy, you doing okay back there!?”
“Don’t go throwing up on my back… Or my bike! You’ll regret it!”
Cue:He looks up at Bushe, with bags under the bags under his eyes, blinking… and he just stares at him for a moment, before hanging his head again
Bushe:”Hey, Clint, you with me buddy!?”
Bushe calls as he speeds down the highway
Cue:”Maybe.” Is all he’s able to get himself to say
Bushe:”Well, let’s keep you talking, alright! Let’s make sure you know where you’re at, what’s happening!”
“Alright?”
“Clint… What’s my name?”
Cue:He instantly perks up and looks at him, a scowl fixed upon his face, not saying anything, just staring him down
Bushe:”Clint, you still with me!? C’mon, buddy, when did we meet?”
“How old were we!?”
Cue:Uses Perception = (74)
Bushe:As Clint starts to think, his memories become more and more foggy, images of Clint, or who was supposedly Clint appear in various memories but never seem to stick, he goes in and out, but just doesn’t seem to stick.
Cue:”… It… no. No.”
Bushe:”Clint, remember when that cop had pulled us over!? Yeah, and I had all that fuckin’ coke on me!? You talked us out of the situation, right!?”
Cue:Uses Perception = (44)
Bushe:This wasn’t a cop at all, it was a park ranger, during one of their first ever cross country spring rides, before they started bringing Trump
Cue:”That was… that was a ranger…”
Bushe:”Yeah, yeah, or that tattoo, you remember, my first ever tattoo!? What was it, buddy? You were there!”
Cue:Uses Perception = (94)
Bushe:It wasn’t anything. You’ve never been anywhere with a man to get his first tattoo, that’s gay. As a matter of a fact this makes Clint realize… He actually never had a friend named Bushe. In all of his cross country trips, there was only him and Stump.
Cue:”I don’t know.” He said, a bitter inflection of anger in his voice, “Let’s get you a new one.” With that, he hugged his arms tightly around ‘Bushe’, and went to yank back
Grapples = (129)
Bushe:The last thing Cue sees as he uses strength he didn’t realize he had, is ‘Bushe’s head fly off as he decapitates him with nothing but his own arm before flying from the motorcycle as it was going nearly 100 down the highway.

The year was 26 D.E., nearly three decades into Deagon’s Eclipse. The sky had long since cleared from the ash and fire of that apocalyptic backlash, but the scars of the magical lord’s reign were etched into the world. Cities rebuilt from ruins bore the weight of a tenuous peace between the Muggies and the magically inclined, but trust was a commodity in short supply. For Nicholas Abernathy, life in the United North American States was little more than a quiet existence marred by fear. America’s “kill on sight” decree for mages had ensured that those like him lived in shadows, their magic hidden behind locked doors and whispers.

The small, isolated cabin where he’d taken refuge wasn’t much, just a one-room shack on the outskirts of nowhere. Its creaking floorboards and draughty windows were a poor barrier against the outside world, but it offered solitude—and, for now, safety. It had been a week since the letter arrived, an envelope black as night with a deep purple seal of a setting sun framed by dragon wings. It seemed to hum faintly when he touched it, as if alive with the whispers of forgotten magic.

The letter itself was an enigma. Its script was written in flowing German, incomprehensible to Nicholas, but his curiosity outweighed his caution. Within the envelope, he found a ring, simple yet alluring in its craftsmanship. Against better judgment, he slid it onto his finger. A faint, tingling warmth spread up his arm, and as his eyes returned to the page, the text began to shift, the German curling into words he could understand.

“Nicholas Abernathy, you are hereby accepted into Nuemberg Arkane Akademie. Prepare yourself. A guide will arrive in one week’s time to escort you to our halls in the European Alps. Do not stray. Do not disobey. Your future awaits.”

It was signed with an intricate flourish, a name he didn’t recognize but knew instinctively was ancient.

The week passed slowly, a liminal stretch between the life he knew and the unknown that loomed ahead. His mother had said her goodbyes before leaving for work in the city. Nicholas hadn’t told her about the letter, knowing she’d beg him to stay. He’d already made his decision. When the moment came, he’d go. There was no future here—not for someone like him.

That night, as the wind howled against the thin walls of the cabin, Nicholas sat by the window, watching shadows stretch and sway beneath the silver light of the moon. His meager belongings—a bag, a cane, and the small ornate dagger hidden in his boot—were packed and ready. He twirled the ring absentmindedly, its presence both comforting and disconcerting.

Then, without warning, the shadows outside shifted. A figure emerged from the darkness, tall and imposing, with a silhouette that seemed to blur against the night. Beside him stood a massive dog, its glowing eyes fixed on the cabin. Nicholas’s breath caught as he watched the man raise a gloved hand and knock, the sound a sharp, deliberate echo.

This was it. His guide had arrived.

The knock lingered in the silence of the cabin. Nicholas hesitated, his hand tightening around the cane leaning against his chair. His pulse quickened, and he glanced down at the ring once more as if it might offer some kind of reassurance. Instead, its faint warmth seemed to mock him—you’ve already chosen.

He rose, shoulders tense, and approached the door. With one last glance at the bare room behind him, he opened it, squinting into the night.

The figure before him was both unsettling and magnetic. The man was dressed impeccably in a dark, high-collared coat, his sharp features partially obscured by glasses that glinted in the faint light. A top hat perched neatly atop his head, and his expression was one of cold calculation mixed with faint amusement. At his side, the dog—no, hound—sat with an unnatural stillness, its dark fur rippling as if alive.

“Greetings, young Nicholas.” The man spoke with a thick, rolling German accent, his voice deep and resonant. He removed his hat, holding it to his chest as he offered a slight bow. “I am Alfred Von Henrich, your appointed guide. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The hound rose, stepping forward with a grace that belied its size. Its molten gold eyes locked on Nicholas, and for a moment, he felt as though it could see through him.

“This,” Alfred continued, gesturing toward the creature, “is Vulk, my loyal companion. Do not mind him; he is merely curious.”

Nicholas swallowed, gripping his cane a little tighter. “H-hello, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”

Alfred straightened, his piercing gaze appraising the boy. “Have you gathered all you wish to bring? Once we leave, there is no returning.”

“I’ve got everything,” Nicholas replied, stepping onto the porch. His bag hung over his shoulder, the weight of his dagger a small comfort against his ankle.

“Excellent.” Alfred gave a nod, his smile widening just slightly. “The faster we move, the better. The United States, I’m afraid, is not… hospitable to our kind. I would rather avoid any unfortunate encounters.”

As he spoke, he extended his arm. From his sleeve, a polished wooden cane slid smoothly into his hand, tapping once against the ground. With a whispered incantation, a faint glow enveloped Vulk, and the hound began to grow. Its limbs stretched, muscles rippling beneath its coat as it transformed into a creature the size of a horse. A leather saddle materialized in Alfred’s hands, and with practiced ease, he strapped it securely onto Vulk’s back.

“Climb on,” Alfred instructed, extending a hand to help Nicholas. “And hold tightly. If you fall, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

Nicholas hesitated, staring at the now-massive hound. “Are you serious?”

“Quite,” Alfred replied, his tone making it clear he did not intend to entertain arguments. “Now, up you go.”

With a deep breath, Nicholas accepted the hand and swung himself onto the saddle. The hound’s movements were unnervingly smooth, its body warm beneath him. Alfred joined him, settling in with an elegance that made Nicholas feel clumsy in comparison.

“Now then,” Alfred said, gripping the reins. “Vulk, Lauffen!”

At the command, the hound surged forward, its powerful limbs devouring the ground beneath them. Nicholas clung to the saddle for dear life, the rush of wind stealing his breath as they accelerated faster than any car he’d ever seen. He tried to focus on the horizon, but the sensation of movement was overwhelming.

Just as he thought it couldn’t get any more surreal, Alfred spoke another incantation. The saddle glowed, and Vulk’s feet left the ground. Nicholas’s stomach lurched as they rose into the air, the landscape falling away below them.

“If you are afraid of heights,” Alfred called over the wind, “I suggest you close your eyes. We will be flying for several hours.”

Nicholas didn’t answer. He was too busy gripping the saddle and praying he wouldn’t slip. Despite his initial terror, a small, traitorous part of him marveled at the sight of the world below, bathed in silver moonlight. For the first time in his life, the idea of magic felt less like a curse and more like… freedom.

They soared through the night, the wind carrying them toward a new horizon. Nicholas didn’t know what awaited him in Europe, but one thing was certain—his world had already changed forever.

---

The flight stretched on, the cold wind biting at Nicholas’s face despite the magical warmth emanating from Vulk. The lights of distant cities sparkled below, fading into darkened wilderness as they crossed state lines, then coastlines. Hours passed in near silence, save for the rush of air and the occasional whispered command from Alfred to Vulk.

Finally, the hound began to descend, its massive form gliding smoothly through the air. Nicholas’s muscles ached from clinging to the saddle, and he exhaled in relief when Vulk’s paws touched solid ground. The landing was surprisingly soft, the hound slowing to a trot before coming to a complete stop in a clearing surrounded by dense forest. The air smelled of salt and damp earth—a sign that they had reached the coast.

Alfred dismounted first, his movements as fluid as ever. He turned and extended a hand to Nicholas. “Come, we have a bit of a walk ahead of us.”

Nicholas slid awkwardly off the saddle, his legs wobbly from the ride. “A walk? I thought we were flying all the way.”

Alfred smirked. “Unfortunately, the Americans have ways of detecting magic in their airspace, particularly along the coast. We will travel the rest of the way by sea.”

With a wave of his cane and a muttered incantation, Alfred removed the saddle from Vulk’s back and shrank the hound back to its original size. Vulk padded silently to Alfred’s side, its form disappearing into the man’s shadow as though it were being absorbed.

Nicholas stared. “I’m never going to get used to that.”

“I hope you do,” Alfred replied. “You’ll see far stranger things at Nuemberg.” He gestured for Nicholas to follow. “Now, come along. The ship won’t wait.”

The two made their way through the forest, the moonlight filtering through the trees casting long, flickering shadows. Nicholas kept close to Alfred, the older man’s presence both reassuring and unsettling. Despite his polished demeanor, there was something dangerous about Alfred—an edge that hinted at a past filled with violence and power.

After what felt like half an hour, they emerged onto a rocky beach. The ocean stretched before them, vast and endless, its surface shimmering under the pale light of the moon. Anchored a short distance from the shore was a peculiar ship, its design both ancient and otherworldly. The hull was rounded and sleek, glowing faintly with runes etched into its wood. It floated as though the water barely touched it, a ghostly presence against the dark waves.

“This,” Alfred announced, “is our vessel. It will take us across the Atlantic and into the heart of Europe.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “Looks like something out of a pirate story.”

Alfred chuckled. “Oh, it’s much older than that. Come, the ladder is this way.”

They climbed aboard via a rope ladder, Alfred leading the way with practiced ease. The ship’s deck was illuminated by softly glowing lanterns, their light casting an otherworldly blue hue. Other figures moved about the ship, some human, others… less so. Nicholas caught sight of a towering figure with broad shoulders and unnaturally long arms—a half-giant, perhaps. Nearby, a cloaked individual leaned over the railing, the moonlight briefly illuminating their pale, angular features.

“Passengers,” Alfred said casually. “Some are students like yourself. Others are returning from missions or business. All are magical in one way or another.”

“Even him?” Nicholas nodded toward the half-giant, who was now tying a rope to a large crate.

“Indeed. And I suggest you keep your curiosity to yourself. Some aboard this ship are not as friendly as I am.” Alfred’s eyes glinted behind his glasses as he guided Nicholas below deck.

The interior of the ship was just as strange as the exterior. The walls pulsed faintly with a soft, rhythmic light, and the air was thick with the scent of salt and old wood. Nicholas followed Alfred down a narrow corridor until they reached a small cabin.

“This will be your quarters for the journey,” Alfred said, opening the door to reveal a modest room with a single bed, a small desk, and a round porthole offering a view of the ocean. “You’ll find it more comfortable than the saddle, I imagine.”

Nicholas nodded, his body already longing for rest. “Thanks. How long until we reach Europe?”

“About eight hours,” Alfred replied. “The ship moves quickly, but the Atlantic is vast. Get some rest or explore the ship—it’s up to you. Breakfast will be served at dawn.” He tipped his hat and turned to leave. “Oh, and one more thing. Do not stray too far below deck. Some areas are… less than hospitable.”

Before Nicholas could ask what he meant, Alfred disappeared into the corridor, leaving him alone.

---

Unable to shake his curiosity, Nicholas decided to explore before settling in for the night. The ship was alive with quiet activity, the passengers moving about with purpose. Some lingered in the dining area, chatting over strange, glowing drinks. Others vanished into rooms that Nicholas swore weren’t there a moment before.

As he wandered, he noticed a pair of sisters sitting at a table in the dining area. They seemed around his age, their features strikingly similar—one bright and lively, the other brooding and reserved. Gathering his nerve, Nicholas approached.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice steadier than he expected. “I’m new to all this. Do either of you have any tips for when we land?”

The more cheerful of the two looked up, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “You’re from the States, aren’t you?”

Nicholas nodded. “That obvious?”

She grinned. “A little. I’m Stella, and this is my sister, Savana. As for tips… well, first thing, you’ll need to get your supplies—catalysts, robes, books, all that good stuff. Then, we’ll head to the academy and get sorted into houses.”

“Houses?” Nicholas asked, intrigued.

Savana, the quieter of the two, chimed in. “Think of them like teams. They compete for glory and prizes, but they’re also your family while you’re at the academy. There are four houses, split into two groups: Vertebrates and Invertebrates.”

Stella nodded. “You’ll be assigned based on your strengths and weaknesses. It’s meant to help you grow, though some of us”—she shot a playful glance at her sister—“don’t think much of the system.”

Nicholas listened intently, a mix of anticipation and unease settling over him. The ship groaned softly beneath his feet, as if echoing the weight of his thoughts. Whatever awaited him in Europe, he knew one thing for certain—this was only the beginning.

---

The hours aboard the ship passed in a blur. After a restless sleep interrupted by strange dreams of thrones and whispers, Nicholas woke to the faint sound of bells and the gentle creak of the vessel. His cabin glowed with soft morning light streaming through the porthole. The ship was surfacing, the water around it parting in shimmering ripples as it rose to the surface.

When Nicholas emerged on deck, he was greeted by the sight of Europe’s coastline. The sprawling docks of the Great Hisperian Federated Republic stretched out ahead, their towering spires and bustling activity a stark contrast to the quiet isolation of the cabin he had left behind. Massive magical wards shimmered faintly in the air, visible only to those with the Sight, and the air buzzed with energy Nicholas could almost taste.

Alfred was already waiting by the gangplank, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. “Come, Nicholas. Our journey is far from over.”

The next few hours were a whirlwind of movement. Nicholas was guided through a labyrinth of checkpoints and bustling marketplaces, the crowd a mix of magical and mundane. Muggies moved with wary glances, their expressions a blend of fear and awe as they skirted around wizards in resplendent robes. Merchants hawked wares ranging from enchanted trinkets to bottled storms, their voices rising above the din.

Alfred moved with purpose, his presence cutting through the chaos like a knife. Nicholas followed closely, taking in every detail he could. By the time they reached the foot of the Alps, his mind was spinning with questions he didn’t know how to ask.

The final leg of the journey was by lift, a massive, enchanted platform that creaked and groaned as it ascended the mountain. Nicholas clung to the railing, his heart pounding as the ground fell away beneath them. The air grew colder with each passing moment, the wind biting against his skin despite the thick cloak Alfred had handed him.

Then, as the lift crested the ridge, Nicholas saw it.

Nuemberg Arkane Akademie was carved into the mountainside, its spires reaching high into the sky like claws. The structure seemed to hum with magic, its stone walls pulsing faintly with light. Waterfalls cascaded from the heights above, their streams forming shimmering runes as they flowed into a vast lake below. The air was alive with the sound of chanting, laughter, and the occasional burst of magical energy.

Alfred turned to Nicholas, his expression unreadable. “Welcome to your new home.”

---

The lift carried them to the base of the academy, where a bustling village nestled against the mountain’s edge. Zevera was alive with activity, its narrow streets lined with shops and stalls catering to the needs of the academy’s students. Alfred led Nicholas through the winding paths, pausing occasionally to gesture toward notable landmarks.

“This is where you’ll gather your supplies,” Alfred said as they stopped in front of a weathered shop with a sign that read Jorgen’s Catalyst Emporium. “Your catalyst will be the most important tool in your arsenal. Choose wisely.”

Inside, the shop was a treasure trove of magical artifacts. Shelves lined with wands, staffs, and other implements of magic glimmered under soft candlelight. Jorgen, a stout man with sharp eyes and a perpetual scowl, greeted them with a curt nod.

“Another student, eh?” he grunted, sizing Nicholas up. “Well, let’s see what fits.”

After several minutes of experimentation, Nicholas found himself drawn to a gladius, its blade short but perfectly balanced. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, a wave of warmth spread through him, and the blade emitted a faint glow.

“Interesting choice,” Jorgen murmured, his tone betraying a hint of surprise. “Swords are rare among casters. You’re an anomaly, boy.”

Nicholas grinned, his grip tightening on the hilt. “Good. I like standing out.”

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity as Nicholas gathered his robes, books, and other essentials. By the time they reached the academy’s gates, the sun was beginning to set, casting the mountain in hues of gold and crimson.

A large dining hall awaited them, filled with rows of long tables and a raised platform at the far end where the faculty sat. The new students were ushered to the front, their gazes drawn to the centerpiece of the room: a throne of dark, twisting wood, its surface etched with glowing runes.

As the headmaster, Zeinreich Von Valereich, delivered his speech, Nicholas’s attention lingered on the throne. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching him, its runes shifting subtly as though alive.

One by one, the students were called to sit on the throne. Each time, the runes enveloped the student, forming a wooden cocoon that cracked open moments later to reveal their assigned house. Cheers and jeers erupted from the tables as colors and symbols marked the new arrivals.

When his name was called, Nicholas stepped forward, his heart pounding. He gripped the hilt of his gladius for comfort as he sat on the throne. The wood creaked and groaned as it closed around him, plunging him into darkness.

A voice, soft and serpentine, whispered in his mind. “What do you desire?”

Nicholas’s response was quiet but firm. “To carve my own path. To prove that I’m more than a shadow of the past.”

The voice chuckled. “Interesting. Let us see.”

Visions flooded his mind: a burning house, his mother’s death, a throne of gold surrounded by bowing wizards. He felt anger, grief, power, and ambition in equal measure, but he did not lose himself to any of them. The scenes faded, and the voice spoke once more.

“You are stubborn, ambitious, and braver than you realize. You will find your home among the invertebrates. House Hartn’kreatur.”

The cocoon shattered, and Nicholas stood, his new robes shimmering with purple and black. The room erupted in applause and laughter, the sound washing over him as he made his way to his new house’s table.

Savana, already seated among the Geltunmig students, caught his eye and gave him a nod. He returned the gesture, his grip on his gladius tightening.

---

The feast that followed the Sorting Ceremony was unlike anything Nicholas had ever experienced. Platters of roasted meats, shimmering fruits, and goblets filled with enchanted drinks that changed flavor with every sip appeared before them, seemingly endless in supply. The hall was alive with laughter and chatter, students leaning over the tables to meet their new housemates and reconnect with old friends.

Nicholas sat among his new housemates, still adjusting to the weight of his new robes and the gladius at his side. The purple-and-black insignia of the Yeti Slug adorned his chest—a symbol he still found both amusing and oddly fitting. His tablemates were a mix of personalities, ranging from boisterous pranksters to quiet, calculating types. Despite their differences, they shared an air of unshakable confidence, a kind of thick-skinned resilience that made Nicholas feel like he belonged.

A boy with wild, dark hair and a scar running down his cheek leaned over to him. “First time seeing a magical feast?”

Nicholas nodded, his mouth half-full of spiced lamb. “Yeah, it’s… a lot.”

The boy chuckled, thumping his chest. “You’ll get used to it. Name’s Felix, by the way. You’re the sword caster, right?”

“That’s me,” Nicholas replied, wiping his hands on a napkin. “What about you?”

Felix grinned, pulling a jagged staff from beneath the table. It was made of dark wood and wrapped in silver wire that pulsed faintly with energy. “Staff caster. Pretty standard, but it gets the job done.”

Another student, a girl with short, spiky hair and piercing blue eyes, chimed in. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s top of the dueling charts for our house. If you’re planning to challenge him, you’d better be ready.”

Felix waved her off with a laugh. “Ignore Iris. She just likes to hype people up.”

Nicholas smirked. “Noted. I’ll stick to practicing with my gladius for now.”

The conversation flowed easily after that, and for the first time since leaving home, Nicholas felt a sense of camaraderie. He glanced over at the Geltunmig table, where Savana was deep in conversation with a group of her housemates. She caught his eye and gave him a small smile, which he returned.

---

The next morning, Nicholas found himself in the Combat Magic 101 classroom, an expansive space dominated by a sunken fighting ring. The desks and seats were arranged in tiers around the pit, ensuring everyone had a clear view of the action. At the center of it all stood Professor Victoria Heimdale, her imposing figure framed by floating orbs of light that cast shifting shadows across her face.

She didn’t waste time on introductions. “Magic is not just a tool,” she began, her voice sharp and commanding. “It is a weapon. It is life and death. And in this class, you will learn to wield it as such.”

Nicholas leaned forward in his seat, his curiosity piqued. Around him, students whispered to one another, their excitement palpable.

“Pay attention,” Heimdale snapped, silencing the murmurs. “This is not a place for the weak-willed or the inattentive. If you fail to keep up, you will fall behind, and in the real world, falling behind means death.”

She raised her dagger-like wand, and with a flick of her wrist, summoned a creature from the shadows. The spectral figure that emerged was hunched and grotesque, its hollow eyes scanning the room with predatory intent.

“This,” Heimdale said, gesturing to the creature, “is a Spectral Shadow. A parasite of fear that preys on the weak. They are drawn to hesitation, to doubt. But they are also fragile.”

With another flick of her wand, she muttered an incantation, and a burst of light erupted from the tip. The Spectral Shadow froze in place, its form rippling as though in pain. Heimdale didn’t stop there—she followed up with a jet of fire that consumed the creature entirely, leaving only a pile of ash in its wake.

“Light binds them. Fire destroys them. Remember that,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Tomorrow, you will face your own Spectral Shadows. I suggest you prepare.”

Nicholas exchanged a glance with Felix, who gave him a knowing smirk. “Welcome to the big leagues,” Felix whispered.

---

After class, Nicholas wandered the twisting halls of the academy, the layout still a confusing maze of shifting rooms and endless corridors. He found himself in a quieter part of the building, the walls lined with portraits of past headmasters and founders. Their eyes seemed to follow him as he walked, their expressions ranging from stern to outright disapproving.

As he turned a corner, he nearly collided with a figure coming the other way. It was a girl, tall and pale, with long black hair that shimmered faintly as though woven with starlight. She regarded him with a piercing gaze, her silver eyes unreadable.

“You’re the sword caster,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

Nicholas blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. That’s me. And you are…?”

“Calla,” she replied. “House Kaiserheim.”

Her robes of red and gold confirmed it, the emblem of the Golden Eagle standing out proudly on her chest. She studied him for a moment before nodding. “You’ll do well here, I think. Just… don’t get too comfortable.”

“Is that a warning?” Nicholas asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A reminder,” Calla said cryptically. “The academy isn’t just a school. It’s a crucible. Some come out stronger. Others… don’t.”

Before he could respond, she turned and disappeared down the hall, her footsteps eerily silent. Nicholas stared after her, unease prickling at the back of his neck.

---

Later that evening, as Nicholas settled into his dorm room, he couldn’t shake Calla’s words. The academy was a crucible, and it was clear that he’d only just begun to feel its heat. His gladius rested on the desk, the faint glow of its blade a quiet reminder of the path he had chosen.