《Those That Do Not Yet Exist》


 Not A Dog

    Alamota, Kansas - July 17, 2020


    In Kansas, corn isn''t just common. It''s an intrinsic part of the landscape, an endless horizon of waving gold fading into the peripheral vision of pickup truck drivers and farmers. Planted in coarse dirt that''s been tilled and plowed a hundred times over, and will be tilled and plowed a hundred times again into the future. Swaying in the mild breeze produced by miles and miles of flat ground.


    Above a certain massive field of yellow stalks, a tear opened and an invisible something fell out of it. The something dissipated the moment it encountered the air and dispersed throughout the corn. The corn, naturally, didn''t care. It just grew, albeit very slowly.


    With agonizingly tedious movements, desperate and impassive at the same time, the something pulled itself together. Faint strands of nothing tugging and weaving between green pillars to collect in a wavering gray shape.


    There is no form.


    The something decided to identify itself as a being, and as such realized that a form was needed to survive, to live, toobserve in this world. Forms were difficult to make, to say nothing of all the unusual rules they were required to follow in this unusual realm. Three dimensions were much harder to move around in if you were used to... well, more than three.


    It paused, considering its options with the all-powerful might of logic. Above it was nearly empty space, occupied by copious amounts of nitrogen and tinges of oxygen, along with a variety of other elements. To its sides (an interesting concept) was a lot of green life. The green didn''t seem very helpful, but it memorized its makeup regardless. Only one direction left to go...


    Cautiously extending its self into the ground, it searched for a suitable format, an old blueprint that it might be able to use for itself. It was doubtful that it would find one so easily, but options were options, and it only had one left.


    To its mild surprise, it found an extremely complex format nearby. It was a quadruped, carbon-based and decomposing. Carnivorous, if the teeth were to be believed, and well-suited for dealing with multiple environments. A sleek, powerful form when properly operated, but it was presently inactive, so whatever had previously used it would hopefully not be missed.


    Over the course of the next few minutes, the being slowly invaded the body, carefully identifying what was necessary and smoothing over the things that seemed to be missing. It was soothing, the relaxing process of fixing something that needed fixing. Filling in the cracks and gaps, the being continued its cautious operation until the format was as close to perfect as it could manage.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The corn was disturbed as dirt upheaved, stringy weeds and stray patches of grass rising up from the crumbling earth. A lean, gray form emerged.


    The timber wolf blinked, pure black eyes dilating and shrinking in rapid, disconcerted movements as the being asserted its control over the unfamiliar body. Its gray shape seemed to fade at the edges, blurring slightly as it experimentally moved around, as if there was an afterimage following it. Swaying its thick, furry tail and stretching its muscular limbs, the timber wolf calmly rotated every joint in its body with a crack.


    The being winced inwardly. It hadn''t been aware that these creatures had such strict limits on which bits could and couldn''t turn around, and it berated itself. Certainly, it could have examined its body a little closer, paying more attention to the literal as opposed to the technical.


    Shaking its head with a ragged ring of not-dust orbiting its neck, the timber wolf took a step forward and slammed onto its jaw. Annoyed, the wolf wondered what it had done wrong. All of the muscles were working at the same time - wasn''t that how creatures worked?


    Several moderately frustrating moments later, the wolf realized that it had to use specific muscles at specific intervals to enact specific actions. They all had to follow one another in tandem, or else the entire action would fail. The whole process was needlessly complicated, and it resolved to find a more efficient way of operating while using the wolf''s form.


    Tentatively, with a sore jaw rapidly repairing itself, the wolf took a trembling step forward, and then another. Its tail began wagging from some unconscious instinct buried in the format''s inner coding, and the wolf began pacing through the corn, facets of its shape blurring and shifting at impossible angles as it shoved parts around to make room.


    All things considered, creatures were quite a pain to maintain, but a necessary one. Its form had an extremely difficult time existing in three dimensions and would easily dissipate if left unfocused, which was why formats were so helpful. In this case, it had already learned quite a significant amount regarding the denizens of the universe.


    One, that they were primarily material and composed of atoms, as opposed to quarks and the spaces between space. A detriment to their potential overall, but allowed quite a lot more interaction with reality on a physical scale. While uncomfortable, it would likely become familiar in a small amount of time. Or at least, it hopefully would.


    Two, that the living green sticks rising from the ground were the dominant species, albeit not the most intelligent one. It had no doubt that the green could easily overwhelm any physical creature without an issue, simply through sheer numbers. Even as it concentrated on walking on new legs through the thin creatures, avoiding coming into contact with them, it could only detect a massive spread of the entities extending for as far as its senses allowed.


    Wait, that wasn''t quite true. In a large, square construction some distance away, two living formats were wandering around, performing tasks that it couldn''t quite understand the purpose of. Perhaps they were the dominant species'' assistants?


    It resolved to see what they were, and confidently took a step in that direction.


    One fall later, it also resolved to make walking a habit.

 Tenth

    Jamison Barnes stepped out of the armored limousine into the light drizzle of rain, thick hands pulling at his black tie, which was starkly outlined against his white dress shirt and black suit. Having fixed his tie, he swept his black hair back and focused, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.


    He was a heavyset man of average height. Based on the thick jaw, deeply sunken brown eyes, and handsome overall appearance, you''d guess he was a movie star or perhaps a director. Maybe the CEO of some up-and-coming business. Glancing around constantly in a perpetual attempt to discern any and all threats, Jamison breathed deeply, settling his frayed nerves.


    This deal was not a small one, and while it was supposed to have been private, the news had somehow leaked, and now everyone under the ground knew that he was going to be cooperating with none other than the infamous Alex Effex.


    Alex was a lanky man with flexible, always-moving fingers and a skeletal grin. He was well-known for being a thief and a cutthroat, and he''d spent a lot of time and effort building that image. Alex was quite confident in his pickpocketing abilities and was brazen in his public movements. Not quite enough that it caught the attention of any major powers or even the police, but more than enough for the media to pay attention. They''d blamed more than a few crimes on him, and he made no move to disperse those rumors. He''d be willing to do anything to make his reputation as big and as scary as possible.


    Jamison wasn''t that kind of man at all. He preferred a quiet deal, a behind-the-barn shooting if necessary here and there. His Henchmen were as tough as they came, often built like an apartment building - stocky and solid, but not very much in the decoration department, to put it lightly. They had a well-earned reputation of getting the job done without any excess finesse or complications. While Jamison himself possessed spine-snapping strength of his own, he preferred not to use his strength more often than not - messes, ironically enough, were entirely too messy for him.


    His personal retinue pulled up close behind, exiting their matte-black SUVs in similar suits and ties. Toting suspicious briefcases and tinted sunglasses, they were hardly subtly in their general thug-like appearance. Well, they were thugs, after all.


    He took a good look at the unassuming warehouse in front of him, knowing the interior was likely lined with stolen decadence, and sighed. This was a bad idea. Who knew what sort of higher powers were keeping an eye on this meeting?


    It wasn''t really optional anymore. It was a matter of personal honor on his part that any deal struck would be followed through, and while he hadn''t technically written any signatures, he doubted that he was going to walk away empty-handed. Regardless, he had a bad feeling that someone was going to crash the party, and his gut was right more often than it was wrong.


    Turning to his Henchman, he instructed them in his stunningly smooth voice, "Guard the lobby. Anyone comes in, gun ''em down. But use the silencers, all right?"


    They nodded, opening their briefcases and removing the Imp P18s inside. Custom pistols - semiautomatic, a magazine of twenty-four, and armor-piercing rounds complimented a sleek silver appearance and professionally effective silencers. Not easy to come by unless you either had connections or money, and Jamison had both in spades.


    He tried to relax, attempting to convince himself that this was just another meeting. What could go wrong?


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    ''Wrong'' went by the name of Kappa, approximately twenty thousand feet above, in the cargo bay of a massive dual-bladed helicopter. Everything about him screamed ''wrong'', from the thin limbs and eye-catching height to his tired gray eyes and the bags under them. Flicking an errant lock of tousled brown hair out of his eyes, he sighed, fixing his attention once more on the militant man in front of him. He tried to focus on his words, but he was just too tired...


    "KAPPA! Wake up, already!"


    He snapped back into wakefulness, dragged out of his perpetual sleepiness. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he squinted at him. "What is it?"


    Colonel Major Anderson was a name that fit the man in front of him perfectly, down to the buzz cut and shining array of medals proudly displayed across his left breast. Ice-blue eyes intensely staring at Kappa, Anderson told him irritably, "Why are you always so carking tired? If you can''t work past that you''ll never make it!"


    Kappa nodded, dozing slightly. He wasn''t entirely sure what it was about him that made him so tired, only that it was always ready to steal his consciousness away. He could barely even remember where he was most days.


    Anderson leaned down, making an attempt to grab the handle of the nine-foot stainless steel briefcase near Kappa''s feet with a sigh. "Kappa, you''ve got to take better-" He was intercepted by a steel grip on his wrist. Startled, he looked up at Kappa''s steel-gray eyes. There was no sleepiness in them at the moment.


    Quietly, clearly, enunciating his words carefully, Kappa said, "Don''t touch my sword."


    Anderson swallowed, backing off. He outranked the younger man in every sense of the word. He''d run more successful operations than any colonel major before him. He''d stared down terrorists in the eye and accepted their fanatical madness without a blink.


    As for the lanky person in front of him?


    He knew which battles he wanted to fight.


    Standing, Kappa picked up the briefcase, sending one more glare at Anderson before opening it. A wide smile crossed his face, though he wasn''t aware of it. One-handed, he reached inside and removed the sword inside.


    Eight feet in length, the glittering blade featured a simple leatherbound two-handed handle and a basic bronze hilt. It measured a full fourteen inches in breadth and an inch thick. It was otherwise featureless but obviously powerful. Even if it was dull (and it was anything but), its sheer weight would be a formidable factor in any fight.


    Kappa lovingly ran a finger across the flat back edge of it, placing it side-down on his lap. Most of his colleagues had thought him extremely strange for giving it a name, but Second Half was an accurate name for it. He would have slept with the blade if he''d been allowed to, but his superiors had flatly refused. They''d partially relented and let him keep it in its briefcase in the bed with him.


    Anderson sighed, stepping backward. Kappa had a freakish obsession with that sword, but the technicians had told Anderson that unexpected attachments to objects or pets was a fully expected side effect of what they''d put Kappa through. Either way, it was weird and Anderson didn''t like it.


    As he pushed a large red button, a massive door slid down, a thick window of glass the only way for him to see Kappa. While he watched, Kappa slung a bandolier of several grenades and flashbangs on. Hooking a strap through a loop on the hilt of his sword and a hole bored through the back of the blade, he easily pulled it onto his back. It was too long for him to walk without the edge scraping on the ground, which meant he had to hunch in order to walk normally.


    Kappa pressed a switch near him, and the back end of the chopper slowly opened, air screaming at the edges and howling into the cargo bay. Wincing from the noise, he approached the tip of the door and gazed down at the city far below, namely, at the warehouse he was supposed to be invading.


    Anderson attempted to shout over the roaring wind. "Remember! Get in, get out, and make sure you come back safe! We literally can''t afford another loss!"


    Kappa glanced back at him and shrugged. "I''ll do my job. You do yours." With the snide remark, he gently hopped out of the helicopter.


    Behind him, Anderson sighed again, putting a hand to his lower back. That guy took years from his lifespan just by talking.


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    The air whistling past his ears, Kappa squinted at the rapidly approaching roof of the warehouse. He hadn''t been given a time limit on the mission, which was new. On most of his tests, which usually involved a deserted island and a frankly ridiculous number of armed guards, he was only given so much time to work his way through and to his target within. Really, the only reason he could think of for them not giving him a handicap was that this was actually a real mission and not a training exercise.


    The bullets were probably still real, in that case.


    Flipping forward, Kappa oriented himself feet down, arms akimbo as he carefully adjusted to the ever-changing air currents. The rain was annoying, but wouldn''t affect his performance at all since he would likely be primarily fighting inside.


    Speaking of fighting, he pulled Second Half from his back and aimed downwards. Bracing his feet for the impact, he closed his eyes and tensed.


    The brick ceiling imploded inwards as he crashed through it, Second Half punching through the concrete floor. Kappa''s feet slammed into the ground, and his knees snapped. Grunting, he spent a small amount of his precious reserves to immediately fix them. He couldn''t be impaired this early in the mission.


    Looking around, he appraised the situation with a single glance. There were four targets armed with pistols, which had a laughably low rate of fire when compared against the fully automatic assault rifles he was used to. The targets looked remarkably hefty, however. He was probably going to have to use lethal force, which he usually tried to avoid. It got Second Half dirty.


    The targets were swift to get their senses back and aimed. Kappa''s eyes narrowed as he predicted the path of their guns, carefully and rapidly assessing the angle of their pistols, the grip they were using, and the intentness of their eyes. You could learn a lot about where a man was aiming by his eyes, although you''d have to rely on the barrel to be certain.


    Luckily, Kappa had more than enough experience when it came to predicting bullet paths. He leaned backward sharply, angling his body oddly and raising Second Half.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    They all fired simultaneously. One bullet went under his knee. One went just above his torso, nearly nicking a grenade, and one missed entirely. The final bullet impacted Second Half''s side and pinged off, spinning crazily.


    Not that Kappa was paying attention to the bullets anymore. The moment they''d failed to hit him, his priorities had changed. Pushing off the ground with one foot, Kappa launched himself in a clean backflip, ending it with a bone-crushing kick to the head of the man behind him. Spinning Second Half''s side across his forearm, he deflected another bullet away and launched forward.


    Bringing his sword up with a powerful grunt, Kappa sliced through the concrete, the man''s gun, and the man himself. The air itself hissed as Second Half whipped upwards, and he halted its movement with a muscle-tearing wrench. Throwing himself to his knees, he avoided two more shots and swung Second Half towards his opponents, back edge first.


    It impacted the third target''s skull, and his neck tilted with a snap. The fourth man recovered his senses, aimed, and fired.


    Keeping a careful eye on the bullet''s predicted path, Kappa deliberately allowed it to hit him. It sliced through the back of his neck, carving a trench through it. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he fixed it immediately. Despite the pain, the bullet had served its purpose. With that out of the way, he folded Second Half under his arm and unleashed a straight kick into the man''s chest. With a sickening crack, the man was hurled away, globules of blood flying out of his mouth.


    Kappa paused for a moment, appreciating the sudden silence and sheathing Second Half across his back. Popping his neck, he rubbed his eyes. To the room, he complained, "Why can''t I just sleep in peace for once?"


    The fight might have been over, but he had a feeling that alarms had been raised by his incursion, and he had no intention of allowing his enemies to come to him. If he was going to fight, he was going to take the fight to them.


    Granting only a passing glance to the fancy (and now dusty) paintings leaning in carefully placed positions against wooden crates, Kappa searched around for a moment. Rapping his knuckles against crates and various other, less obvious containers, he moved around the room until he heard a hollow clang.


    Standing back, he grinned at the refrigerator in front of him. Fridges were supposed to be hollow and metallic, but the opportunity was too good to miss. "Well," he said to no one in particular. "that''s one place to hide a hideout. I guess that''s why they call them hideouts."


    A slice from Second Half neatly separated the top and the bottom of the fridge from each other, and he leaned over it. Looking down into the dark passage before him, a metal ladder his only access, he whistled quietly. A skill that had taken him weeks to pick up from his handlers. "Here we go."


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    Kappa was incredibly bored.


    Walking through the spacious white tunnels beneath the warehouse was boring. Knocking out the odd guard was only slightly less boring. Hiding their bodies was extremely dull, not to mention tedious. What he wanted was either action or a good place to sleep, and he had a feeling that there weren''t any decent beds down here, leaving him with the initial option.


    Fighting was what he was made for, quite literally. He couldn''t remember all that much from his years in a laboratory, kept in a twenty by twenty room with a bed and a toilet. What he could recall was the fighting tests, the electrotherapy, the experimental mutation process, and the resulting agony that shortly ensued, the crippling loneliness...


    He snapped out of it with a shake of his head. He wasn''t here for self-reflection or meditation, he was here to stop bad guys from making a potentially very bad deal.


    Turning a corner, he entered a massive space, faint lights visible on the ceiling a hundred feet up. Walking into the gigantic storage space (who puts a warehouseunder another warehouse?), he warily removed Second Half from his back.


    All things considered, he should have heard the blow coming well before it actually hit him. Despite the fact that heshould have, he didn''t.


    Either way, a metal fist larger than that fake fridge hit him in the side, sending him cartwheeling across the cement floor. Ideally, he would have hit the distant wall and recovered, or perhaps slid to a stop while righting himself and coming to a cool, composed fighting stance.


    Instead, he slammed into a metal supporting pillar, and his spine snapped.


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    "As you can see, my mechs can take out even a human, even a highly mutated one, in one hit! Certainly, you''d like to acquire one or two of these?" Alex leaned out of the cockpit of the forty-foot mech, throwing the glass hatch upwards with a grin that split his face.


    Jamison observed the gigantic mech with an appraising eye. It was a genuinely powerful machine, hunched forward on its powerful front limbs like a gorilla. It was an appropriate comparison, all things considered - from the camera room''s vantage point, Jamison had watched in increasing shock as this single human and his absurdly disproportionately huge sword had torn through his men with all the trained practice of an actor in a movie. It had almost seemed preplanned - choreographed even! - barring that moment where he was injured in the neck, but even then the weird human had regenerated it faster than any mutant Jamison had ever seen.


    Regardless of the power the human had displayed, the gorilla mech had killed the opponent in one hit. It was a terrifying display of power, and Jamison had a feeling that he was going to need one of those if he wanted to take out some of the more powerful heroes. Sure, the concept of superpowers was a relatively understated one - as opposed to the supernatural weather-changing powers shown in the Iron Age comics, the abilities that mutated humans possessed were more... ordinary, for lack of a better word.


    Of course, it wasn''t normal in any sense of the word for people to turn their bodies into clay, or drip lava from their wrists, or have a sense of smell that could pick up specific scents from miles away, but it was far from the weightless flight or faster-than-light sprinting seen in fiction.


    Jamison approached Alex thoughtfully. "Well, I''ve got to give it to you, that''s an impressive machine. And you''re sure this thing can be piloted by anyone?"


    Alex leaned on the controls casually, a conniving grin spreading across his face. "Well, not anyone. It takes quite a bit of training to operate one, although I''d be happy to supply myown men for hire."


    Jamison''s forehead creased. That wasn''t going to work. If Alex''s goons were the only ones who could use the mechs, then he was practically going to be running a skeleton crew. If the mechs were as effective as he''d seen just now, his own Henchmen were essentially going to be unneeded. In other words...


    He tucked a hand into his dress shirt, eyes narrowing. "What are you playing at, Effex?"


    Alex tilted forward with a split grin. "All I''m offering is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to purchase some top-of-the-line mechs, along with their pilots. Of course, if you''re not interested, I''m sure that the Fool''s Parade would be more than happy to acquire one or two..." He trailed the sentence off, allowing it to remain unfinished.


    Jamison nervously placed a hand on the custom handgun in his shirt, swearing internally. Of course, Alex had rigged the deal. The Fool''s Parade was the Henchmen''s biggest rival, full of mutants, and he literally couldn''t afford to let them get those mechs.


    It was a moment before he realized his teeth were grinding together. It was an unfortunate habit, one built up from his dad. That old man had a mutation that let him eat just about anything - namely, gigantic metal teeth. He''d picked it up at some point and didn''t really know how to get rid of it.


    Back to the point. "What are you planning?"


    Alex smirked. "Well, I''m well aware of your deep pockets and wanted to give you first pick. Are you in or not?"


    Jamison sighed. In the end, there was only one way this could go. He shrugged, trying to make it look noncommital. "Fine, you win. I''ll take the-" He was distracted by movement in the corner of his peripheral vision, and glanced over. "What the..."


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    It took a considerable amount of Kappa''s reserves to fix his spine, and he stood up with a groan, using Second Half as a temporary crutch. "That hurt." He mumbled the words to himself irritably. There was only so much that he had in reserve before he''d end up unable to mend himself, and he really didn''t want that to happen, for obvious reasons.


    "I''m sorry, but shouldn''t you be dead?" Alex sounded annoyed, and Kappa chuckled to himself. He should have died more than a few times during the ridiculous training regimen he''d been put through. A broken spine, despite the incredible agony and temporary paralysis, was an easy fix compared to partial disintegration. Sure, it used up almost half of his overall reserves, but now that he was aware of the danger, he was reasonably sure he could counteract against it.


    Kappa wanted to go to sleep.


    Inevitably, the experiments run on him to produce the near-unstoppable juggernaut of strength, speed, and reflexes that he''d become put too much of a drain on him. It was impossible for him to go a full day without at least a good power nap, but he could deal with that afterward. Right now, he was suitably focused for a good fight, and this machine definitely qualified.


    Rolling the joints in his neck, Kappa readied his Second Half, lowering his center of gravity and extending the blade. Settling into a better position, he muttered quietly, "All right, let''s get this over with."


    Alex began manipulating the controls with an unexpectedly intense expression of frustration. The mech lunged forward in a screaming mass of metal, one gigantic fist thrusting forward. Sidestepping, Kappa braced Second Half against it, and the fist grated across the side, sparks flying.


    Yanking Second Half back into a better position, he stabbed it into the steel arm and held on tightly. As Alex attempted to retract the arm, he ended up yanking Kappa towards him. Carefully orienting himself midair and tearing his sword out of the arm, Kappa rotated and brought Second Half in a crushing downward slice.


    Eyes widening, Alex slammed a button and was promptly ejected backward. The majority of the cockpit was launched away, and just in time. The enormous sword sheared through the metal and left an enormous gash in the center of the machine, and a variety of important-looking circuits sparked. Red lights began strobing the interior of the mech, and it slowly keeled forwards, collapsing on top of its own limbs.


    It was several quiet moments before Kappa extricated himself from the wreckage, shoving a limb off with some effort. Looking around, he sighed in annoyance. Neither Jamison nor Alex was visible. He suspected Jamison had made a run for it the moment Kappa had stood back up, and who knew how many secret exits and contingencies Alex had.


    "Kappa? Did you succeed? Is everything alright?"


    Kappa winced as the scratchy voice of Colonel Major Anderson spoke into his ear. He waggled a finger in his ear and felt a tiny metal cylinder, faint threads piercing into the sides of his ear. Well, time to accelerate the plan a bit.


    Placing his thumb and index finger on the sides of the cylinder, he gritted his teeth and began pulling. "Sorry about this, Anderson," he grumbled, "but I''m not going to beyour hero." Ignoring the Colonel''s furious shouting, he yanked the earpiece out and crushed it between his fingers. Hefting Second Half on his shoulder, he began making his way to the surface, deciding he''d get a nap just as soon as he escaped the search radius.


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    Anderson placed his fingers on the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Every time. Everycarking time they sent one of the experiments out, this happened.


    The technician waiting next to him looked at him expectantly. "Sir, you know how this works."


    Anderson nodded irritably. "I know, I know. I''m just annoyed, is all. I was really hoping this guy would be the one, you know what I mean?" He received a shrug from the technician.


    He grabbed a glass-covered switch from the nearby table grumpily. After the chopper had landed in a discreet location some distance away, he''d been listening to the whole thing. He''d made out the bone-chilling snap, and the disconcerting silence that followed, and had assumed that was it, but he could only stay quiet for so long.


    Sliding the glass aside, he pressed the button.


    In the warehouse Kappa had invaded, a small metal device exploded, having been shot out of Kappa''s neck by what had looked like a stray bullet. According to the technician''s devices, Kappa was officially terminated. Unfortunate, but necessary. They couldn''t afford to leave any loose ends hanging around.


    He''d been the tenth artificial hero.


    He''d been the first success.

 Giant Murdering Centipedes (In Space!)

    ¡°Brian Jennings, you are requested to come up to the bridge. I repeat, Brian Jennings, you are requested to come up to the bridge. Please access the nearest intercom and confirm.¡±


    Someone was talking in Brian¡¯s ear. Someone with a clear, female voice, nonplussed and unconcerned. She sounded like she was a nice person.


    Despite her potential niceness, he lifted his pillow, stuck his brown-haired head under it, and put its cool underside on his cheek, pinning his head between it and his springy mattress. Wiggling into the small niche he¡¯d made overnight, he settled in and sighed comfortably, closing his eyes once again.


    ¡°Brian Jennings. You are requested to come to the-¡±


    ¡°Oh, shove off. Give me that!¡±


    He opened his dark eyes irritably as someone else interrupted the nice lady, someone with a much gruffer and more irritated voice. Still, it didn¡¯t especially concern him, since-


    ¡°BRIAN JENNINGS!¡±


    Brian fell out of bed with a yelp, dragging his thick comforter with him and landing on the hard floor rump-first. Tangled in the heavy blanket, he struggled for a moment, sitting up and looking around blearily.


    ¡°Get up to the bridge right this carking instant or I¡¯ll shove you out an airlock and watch you suffocate!¡±


    Rubbing his eyes, Brian yawned, picked his glasses up from the nightstand next to his bunk, and put them on, blinking tiredly. Slowly getting to his feet, he pulled the comforter up and started tucking the edges under the mattress, frowning at the small puddle of drool by his pillow. Was that really all me?


    In his defense, he was quite tired. He¡¯d been up until the second hour of the daily cycle writing a thesis on trans-galactic sentient species and culture exchanges, talking excitedly to crew members that weren¡¯t listening and drawing diagrams on a holoboard that made less sense than chicken scratch.


    Thankfully, the information finally seeped into his brain, and his eyes widened with a shock. Leaving the bed half-made, he checked the clock (10:97) and sprinted for the door. Throwing it open, he paused, remembering something, and lunged for the nightstand. Yanking drawers open, he rummaged through them in a frantic panic before finding what he was looking for. Seizing his worn datapad, he tucked it under his arm, pivoted on one foot, and slipped on the corner of his blanket, which was draped along the floor. His foot went up and he crashed to the floor. He lay there for a moment, tears rising to his eyes as he tried to get his breath back, then pulled himself to his feet. Shaking it off, he ran for the hallway and skidded into it.


    Crew members of various species watched him with amused expressions as he ran full tilt through the halls, hurling himself into the hovervator. The ¡®vator righted his movement into an upright position, and he waited anxiously for it to take him to the bridge, fingers drumming on his datapad¡¯s top edge.


    The United Galactic Colonies, or U.G.C. for short, were the owners, proprietors, and designers of the Glory Days. It was a ten-kilometer flagship cruiser, armed with state-of-the-art kinetic cannons and tracking plasma missiles. It was shaped, for lack of a better term, like an upside-down shoe. The bridge was located at what would be the heel of the ¡®shoe¡¯, a sweeping view of glass windows revealing the cold expanse of space they traveled through. Ion-propelled repair drones swarmed the outside, busily maintaining and updating the exterior of the ship and ensuring everything worked in full order at all times. Its gravity production and Aegis engine were top-of-the-line, beaten only by the most private (and expensive) of corvettes.


    The hovervator deposited him at the floor he needed, and he ran onto the bridge, clutching his glasses to make sure they didn¡¯t fall off one-handed and fumbling with his datapad with the other. Slowing to a hurried walk, he sped across the glass floor, multiple technicians and operators busily working underneath him on an impressive array of holographic screens.


    The man he was looking for was standing at the peak of the bridge, hands folded behind the small of his back as he faced outside, a complex board of controls at his fingertips to maneuver the Glory Days at his whim, not that Captain Evan Brahms would ever perform a non-approved course of action. With an impressive crimson duster coat, the edges gold-lined and rippling in the moderated air conditioning, he made for an impressive figure. Turning to see Brian hurrying towards him, the man¡¯s flawlessly maintained eyebrows raised in mild amusement. His hair was excellently groomed, his uniform wrinkle-free. Every inch of him screamed of authority.


    ¡°Mr. Jennings. I take it you were in bed?¡±


    He gestured to him, and Brian took a look at his clothing, realizing with abject horror that he was still wearing his baby-blue pencil-themed pajamas. A flush of red crawling into his cheeks, he stammered, ¡°Uh, sorry. Should I¡­¡± He trailed off, unsure of how to end the sentence.


    Captain Brahms waved it away. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. More importantly, you¡¯re the expert on all species not under the U.G.C¡¯s domain, correct?¡±


    Brian held his hand in a so-so gesture. ¡°Well, technically speaking, I¡¯m an intern at Xophos Intergalactic University with a major in trans-universal sentient species, so I¡¯m not really an expert, per se. I¡¯m more of a-¡±


    Brahms cut him off. ¡°You were recommended into the university with stellar grades and literally rewrote the policy on encounters with aliens, you graduated high school at fourteen, you¡¯ve discovered two separate species and assisted in writing the treaties for both of them - I¡¯d say you¡¯re an expert.¡±


    Brian awkwardly tried for a smile. ¡°Oh, well thank you very much. That¡¯s high praise coming from-¡±


    The captain interrupted him again. ¡°Regardless, I wanted to ask you if you knew anything about this ship.¡± He gestured to the window, and Brian fixed his glasses, squinting.


    The spaceship hovering a good two hundred kilometers away looked¡­ organic, for lack of a better word. A single flaring column, probably about two kilometers long, made up the spine of the ship, two misshapen bulks attached to the side. There didn¡¯t appear to be any visible propulsion, and small holes pockmarked the underside. Ten long, jointed rods protruded from the bottom, curling inwards. Strangely, at least a dozen gigantic red semi-transparent orbs dotted the forward tip of the ship, set above two giant hooked spurs.


    Brian frowned. ¡°It looks like an insect.¡±


    Brahms resisted rolling his eyes. ¡°We¡¯re aware of that, Mr. Jennings. What we want to know is if you recognize it, or possibly who made it if nothing else.¡±


    Brian thought out loud, musing quietly. ¡°Well, I¡¯ve never seen anything like it, honestly. It was clearly built with purpose, but I can¡¯t imagine what. It¡¯s indicative of a more carapetic species, not unlike the Kazik, but its design is more reminiscent of the original Formo ships, before the industrial revolution from¡­ what, two hundred years ago?¡±The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Brahms didn¡¯t like it when people talked rubbish as though everyone around them should know what they were talking about and firmly placed a hand on Brian¡¯s shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie. ¡°Jennings. The current policy on extracolony species is to initiate first contact via ansible, but I haven¡¯t seen any receivers on this thing. What would you recommend?¡±


    Brian shrugged, eyes glued to the odd ship. ¡°I don¡¯t really know. I mean, this ship has every type of major technological communications equipment made in the past century on it, right?¡± Brahms gestured for him to continue, so he did. ¡°Well then, just send every signal we have at it. One of them is bound to stick.¡±


    Brahms raised an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯re suggesting we bombard them with communications signals and hope they don¡¯t blast us out of the sky for overloading their servers?¡±


    ¡°Spamming them, yes. Given their ship¡¯s design, I¡¯d be surprised if they had communication servers of any kind. Besides, I¡¯m confident our shields can hold up to anything they have in terms of firepower. Our ship is quite a lot bigger, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    The captain shrugged. ¡°You¡¯re the expert.¡± Leaning on the railing, he began shouting orders at the assorted crew below, and the bridge erupted into a flurry of activity.


    A full minute went by before one of them raised a hand. The creature in question was bipedal, with backward-facing knees, three-fingered hands, and a wide bone-like forehead. His bumpy skin was a rich blue color, and his triangular head turned up to them as he spoke. ¡°I¡¯m getting a return signal, sir!¡±


    Brahms indicated him. ¡°Nahin, redirect it to my speakers and give me a microphone.¡±


    Nahin nodded, typing on his keyboard furiously to get the results the captain wanted. Straightening his crisp tie, Brahms once again folded his hands behind his back. ¡°Is it on?¡±


    Raising a hand, Nahin counted down from three, and as he did, the bridge fell into silence. At one, he pointed at Brahms and flicked a switch.


    Brahms spoke in what he called his ¡®captain voice¡¯, filling his voice with deep, imperious authority. ¡°Unidentified ship, please state your business. I am a representative of the United Galactic Colonies, and we are prepared to fire under threat of conflict.¡±


    There was a long silence, filled only by the scratchy sound of old tech, and then a gruff growl came through. ¡°Are you humans?¡±


    Brahms looked at Brian questioningly, and he shrugged uncertainly. Turning to face the ship, he spoke again. ¡°Mostly, yes. Why is that important?¡±


    A long sigh filtered through the speakers, the sound of many voices in the background complaining. The original speaker said grumpily, ¡°Fine. I will send myself soon.¡±


    Brahms coughed politely. ¡°Pardon, but are you the captain of the ship in question?¡±


    The voice irritably growled back at him, ¡°Yes, I am Captain Goodest. Open one of your doors.¡±


    Blinking in surprise, Brahms turned to Brian and mouthed, ¡°What kind of a name is Goodest?¡± Brian shrugged again. All species had different naming traditions - there was bound to be one that made less sense than others.


    Suddenly, the lights flashed red, and Brahms sprang into action, placing his palms on the controls. ¡°What¡¯s going on? Someone get me readings!¡±


    A man in the far corner raised his hand. ¡°Sir, there¡¯s something outside Airlock Three-One-Two! We have feed.¡±


    Brahms snapped his fingers at him, pointing to space. ¡°Pull it up, now!¡±


    The man nodded and typed briefly, and then an image came up, eliciting startled responses from the crew.


    A long ropy thing was clinging to the side of the Glory Days, measuring four, maybe five meters at least. With a hard, layered carapace and a minimum of a hundred spiked legs, it was looking around curiously, its half-dozen red eyes blinking space debris away. It possessed four black mandibles in an upside-down semicircle, clicking against its wide, toothy mouth repeatedly, and two short, hooked antennae sprouted from the top of its head.


    Seizing the transparent microphone, Brahms spoke into it rapidly. ¡°What is that thing? I thought you said you were sending the captain!¡±


    Several moments later, a disgruntled voice talked back to them. ¡°That is Captain Goodest.¡±


    Brahms opened his mouth, then closed it. After a moment¡¯s hesitation, he responded, ¡°My apologies. I may have overreacted slightly.¡±


    The voice replied with no small amount of annoyance. ¡°Are you going to let him stay outside?¡±


    Brahms gestured to someone. ¡°Open that airlock and send someone to greet the¡­ captain. Brian, that means you.¡±


    Brian saluted unnecessarily, heading for the hovervator. ¡°Yes sir. I¡¯ll try and settle this whole thing, and maybe we can come to an agreement.¡±


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    There was a small room just past the airlock where one could discard their spacesuits, which would be recycled into the system and kept for later use. It was that room that Brian stumbled into, tripping over the small bump in his soft brown slippers. Fixing his glasses, he smiled accommodatingly. "Hello, Captain Goodest! How may I be of assistance?"


    The alien - Goodest - looked him up and down, appraising him critically. "Hm. Humans." He shook his head disappointedly, the lower portion of his body coiled into a neat loop.


    Brian was a little thrown by the comment. "Uh, sorry?"


    Goodest shrugged slightly, the movement rippling down his body. "It''s you humans. Your clothing is so unprotective and... pointless. There is no bulk or armor to them."


    Brian flushed slightly as he was once again reminded of the fact he was wearing pajamas and rubbed the back of his neck with a shamefaced grin. "Ehh... sorry about that. I woke up a little late today. It''s not the greatest first impression, I''ll admit."


    Goodest''s eyes narrowed, and Brian felt a bead of sweat crawl down the bead of his neck. It was indeed true that he''d dealt with two separate unaffiliated species before, but neither of them had heard of humans before, and certainly hadn''t had a negative view of them to start with.


    Startling Brian, Goodest sighed. "I am Goodest at being Captain, but less good at being..." His forehead scrunched briefly as he recollected the words he wanted. "...civil. I will invite another shedding."


    Brian started, "Actually, the airlock is still pressurizing, so-" He was interrupted for the third time that day as another type of whatever Goodest was - a shedding, he said? - blinked into existence next to him. It looked like someone taking a folded piece of paper and yanking it open abruptly.


    Jumping back in surprise, Brian stiffened, then stood straight, pasting a calm smile on his face to hide the frantic turmoil inside. Did the thing just teleport inside? We''re supposed to have safeguards against any unapproved signals being sent in, and teleportation should have lit up that alarm system like a plasma cannon!


    The second shedding shook briefly. It was noticeably smaller than Goodest, likely three meters long at most. Its carapace was a shimmering blue, with much thinner legs. It blinked, all four of its eyes shuttering open and closed with a barely audible clack. It only had two small mandibles, with a relatively narrow mouth. A pair of long, fine antennae emerged from its forehead, the tips splitting into five hair-thin lines. It wriggled slightly, then asked in a cheery, female voice, "Cappy! What did you want?"


    Goodest visibly glared at her, but she refused to back down. "It''s Captain, Killerie. We''re in front of humans. What would the Bestmonster want?"


    The words made her flinch, and her antennae drooped comically. "Sorry. May the Bestmonster ever be praised."


    Goodest nodded his assent. "And may the Beginner grant you power."


    With the curious greeting out of the way, the female shedding turned to Brian, dipping her head politely. "My name is Engineer Killerie. I will be the one talking to any humans here instead of Capp - Captain Goodest."


    Brian smiled pleasantly, mind racing. What did those phrases mean? It sounded as though they had been referencing two religious figures, probably deities based on the reverence in their voices. Moreover, how did they have engineers if they didn''t have any hands?


    He bowed in return. "My name is Brian Jennings. I''m the representative for the Glory Days, the flagship under the United Galactic Colonies. Can I get you anything? Perhaps some tea?"


    Both of the sheddings looked at him hopefully. Their faces are remarkably expressive. "Do you have any rats?"


    Brian opened his mouth and then closed it, before uncertainly responding, "Uhhh... no. There might be one or two stowaways, but considering the amount of money the U.G.C. poured into this ship, I''d doubt it."


    Goodest snorted his irritation. "Humans. They never keep any good food around." He turned away, speaking as he did. "Killerie, you are in charge of talking to humans. Don''t kill any unless you have a good reason, remember?" He vanished in much the same way Killerie had entered, with a faint ripple of distorting space that hurt Brian''s head to look at.


    Looking down, he saw Killerie grinning at him, mandibles spread wide. He hadn''t thought the sheddings could do that, but there it was, an unmistakable smile. She asked him, "So, if not rats, what food do you have?"


    Brian smiled outwardly, screaming internally. What did I get myself into?

 Hypothesis

    She woke up.


    Her awakening was not slow. The moment she regained consciousness, she was immediately aware of where her legs were (uncomfortably angled), what she was surrounded by (inky darkness), and how she felt (slightly crushed).


    Pulling her legs together, she stood up and felt the long object on top of her slide away a fraction, revealing fractured chinks of light shining through gaps. Her mandibles twitched. Where was she? Where was the Dungeon? The last thing she could recall was a fat creature swooping her into a bag. She''d been full on several houseflies at the time and hadn''t really been able to react all that well. So she''d taken a nap.


    She berated herself. The Dungeon had told her several times that she was supposed to defend the room, and she''d failed. She''d done an excellent job of defending it against houseflies, bluebottles, and even a mouse, but once a true threat had breached the door, she''d failed miserably.


    She couldn''t breathe, not in the same way the Dungeon could, but she sighed regardless. Time to find out where she was, and how she could return to the Dungeon. Raising a leg, she batted the object on top of her away, and crawled to a better vantage point.


    It wasn''t a great view. Her eyesight had been terrible before the Dungeon found her and did whatever he did to her, and now she slightly wished he hadn''t improved it. She was standing nearly at the very peak of a literal mountain of garbage, shreds of paper, plastic, and metal scattered in a range of sharp hills. Tall, thin looming objects stood higher than she could believe, columns of lights streaming from their yellow eyes as they grabbed and shoved at the trash, moving it around. Far above her was the sky, a great gap filled with glittering sparks. Her eyes reflected the dim light as she looked around anxiously.


    She had absolutely no idea where she was.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Shaking herself off, she stretched every leg, and then dove into her inner limb. This one was relatively new, an extension of her body that had been added when the Dungeon found her. It felt... strange. Like a giant housefly she could take bites of but never finish because when she checked back on it later it was always full.


    Reaching into it, she pulled out some of its insides and let it infuse her insides. The feeling spread out slowly, like when a young child had dumped a glass of water on her, but on the inside and not uncomfortable or painful. Once the feeling reached her eyes, the world went dark...


    ...and then ignited, brief infernos dying to embers and glowing gently, great sheets of fire sweeping across the sky and wavering uncertainly. She would have been startled if she hadn''t already done this before, and even as she watched, the flames died down. All except one.


    In the far distance, there was a column of blue fire, deepening and swirling in its intensity as it reached ever higher towards the void above, trying to seize it and pull it down and succeeding. She was used to this sight. It was what the Dungeon looked like to her limb-enhanced vision, and it had blinded her when she had first seen it.


    Cutting off the inner limb, she waited for the flames to go away, reality slowing tugging its way into her view and revealing once again the mountains of trash she was surrounded by.


    Once again, she sighed, doing the best she could. She had a long journey ahead of her.


    A sudden cry startled her, and she looked up, squinting. A feathered denizen of the sky was heading straight for her, claws outstretched and beak gaping. She wasn''t unduly concerned. In the Dungeon''s room, there had always been a clear barrier preventing such creatures from attacking her.


    Mild concern creeped over her as the bird got closer, and she wondered, why is the barrier not stopping it?


    The answer hit her just before the bird did - she wasn''t in the Dungeon''s room anymore.


    Raising a leg in panic, she whacked the bird in the side of the head, and it practically vanished in a poof of feathers. A faint impact made its way to the delicate hairs on her legs, alerting her to the sound of its demise.


    Lifting the same leg again, she waved it around briefly, eyes wide in surprise. Whatever the Dungeon had done to her, she was no longer prey.


    She was predator.


    And her name was Thesis.

 Giant Murdering Centipedes (In Space!) Pt. 2

    "So, this is your eating place?"


    Against all of Brian''s expectations, Killerie proved to be a remarkably good guest, following him where he asked her to and asking questions frequently. After Captain Goodest had left, she had politely requested to be taken on a tour, and Brian had obliged. They had already visited the lower decks, but Killerie was more interested in what they ate.


    The cafeteria was impressive, with a high ceiling and modernistic architecture. The round tables placed in a hexagonal pattern around the room could seat up to ten people comfortably and twice that if they were willing to squeeze. With a clean white aesthetic and a long service bar, it was hands-down the favorite place of most crew members, right after the game room. Oh, the game room. Brian nearly sighed at the thought, but he didn''t want to offend the somewhat terrifying creature at his side.


    Prodding one of the benches, Killerie glanced back at him. "What kind of food do you eat?"


    Brian smiled accommodatingly. "Er, as an engineer, I really thought you''d be more interested in the engines, or perhaps our gravity generators. They''re the best there is, if you want to take a look."


    Killerie shook her head. "We do not have or need engines or gravity generators, though I am curious as to how they work. For the sake of being the S.S. Bestmonster''s representative, I must ask once again, what kind of food do you eat." Her voice dipped into a significantly more dangerous range as she said it, and a chill ran up Brian''s spine. Killerie had acted enough like a person that he''d almost forgotten he was talking with an alien, one with potentially disastrous intent.


    Coughing to hide his brief surprise, Brian gestured to the bar at the far end. "Well, we mostly serve high-nutrition slurry, but for the sake of taste we also have a variety of other foods. Have you ever heard of a hamburger?"


    Her antennae twitched. "I have heard of them, yes. I have not had one for myself."


    With a smile, Brian threaded between the tables for the long bar, Killerie close behind. Her sinuous, armored body drew more than a few curious stares from other crew members, but Brahms had alerted them to her presence a few minutes ago, so they weren''t exceptionally worried.


    A piece of information she''d mentioned a few seconds ago caught up to him, and Brian asked casually, "So, your ship is called the S.S. Bestmonster? I can guess at the name, but what does the prefix stand for?"


    Killerie frowned at him, her mandibles clacking. "Prefix? What does - you mean the S.S.?" When he nodded, ducking under a Kerak''s wide-spreading horns, she explained, "It is simple. It stands for spaceship."


    He''d been hoping for some more details regarding where her species was from, but at least he learned they weren''t too creative with their names. Approaching the bar, he looked down at her coiling form. "How did you get your name?"


    She glanced at him. "We sheddings do not ordinarily have names, but research indicated that they give a strengthened sense of individuality and camaraderie, so we elected to give each other names. Mine was given to me by Goodest."


    Flagging down a cook, he asked, "And who gave him his name?"


    "We all did. It was agreed that he was the goodest shedding, and so he was given the name Goodest to reflect that state."


    While ordering the hamburger, Brian''s mind was racing. Killerie''s way of speaking was confusing - she spoke with almost childish simplicity in one breath and talked about camaraderie and companionship in the next. It was as if a genius was living in the body of a toddler. It was disconcerting to say the least.


    One of the cooks slid the burger on a plate in front of them, raising an eyebrow at Killerie. One of her antennae waved gently, a faint blue light emanating from its tip, and the burger lifted into the air from some unknown force.


    If Brian''s mind had been racing before, now it was full-on spacefolding. The shedding had bloody telekinesis!? Was it a common trait, or was it exclusive to Killerie? Was it genetic, or was it a mental thing? Was it anything like the psionics the U.G.C. possessed as a special task group? Or was it the sort of thing where it appeared to be telekinesis but was actually some type of nanotechnology? She had said she was an engineer, but he couldn''t see any visible battery! Was her species that far advanced? She''d said they didn''t need gravity generators or engines, though. He had so many questions!


    The burger slowly floated through the air and into Killerie''s waiting mouth, and she chewed for a long moment, unaware of Brian''s near-bursting desire to give questions. Eyes looking thoughtfully up at the airbrushed ceiling, she swallowed and said at great length, "Not bad. Could use more rat, but the proportions are all right."


    Brian''s brain stalled. "Wh-what?"


    She indicated the bar with one of her antennae. "The burger. There are faint traces of rat in it, but for the most part consists of cow, pig, and some dog. I thought you said there were no rats on your ship?"


    Brian''s mouth opened and closed several times uselessly, his stomach churning uneasily. "Uhhh... I wasn''t made aware that the food had - I''m sorry, are you absolutely sure the burger hadrat in it?"


    She nodded serenely. "Rat is one of the foods sheddings have eaten the most of, and we know how to eat it properly. I would recognize the taste of rat through the most rank sewage you can produce. Our family is generous, but I must admit we are rather short on food at the moment."This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    He waved it away, one hand anxiously rubbing his navel. "Oh, no, that''s fine." What she''d said caught up with him, and he hurried, "I mean, I really appreciate the gesture, but-" Something came up his throat, and he placed a fist over his mouth. "Excuse me," he managed before sprinting for the nearby bathrooms.


    He barely made it past the two startled extraterrestrials at the urinals before he threw a stall door open and stuffed his head into the bowl, hurling last night''s dinner into it. There wasn''t much of it left, but he heaved for a good minute anyway.


    Wiping his mouth, he stood and shakily walked to the sinks, where both of the occupants were staring at him, concerned. "Y''all right there, bud?"


    Brian nodded, ripping a napkin from the dispenser and rubbing at the corner of his mouth. "Don''t eat the burgers," he said bleakly, before heading back to his guest.


    Straightening his pajamas, he walked towards Killerie with a forced smile, to find her chatting amiably with the crew. She said something, and they roared raucously at it. Clutching his stomach faintly, he swallowed hard and walked closer, getting into earshot.


    "...ate them whole. They never knew what hit them."


    One of the crew members, a tall Kazik with a narrow skull and a thick purple carapace, gargled, "Didsh they desherve it?"


    Killerie nodded adamantly, a faint hiss creeping into her voice. "Of course they deserved it. They deliberately injured the Bestmonster and greatly hurt the Secondbest."


    Brian''s ears perked up. It was the first time he''d heard mention of the latter deity - he''d definitely have to ask more bluntly later about the sheddings'' religion. Until then...


    He walked as casually as he could through the group, and Killerie saw him easily. "Ah, Brian. Did you solve your issue?"


    Brian opened his mouth to answer, but the lights suddenly flashed red, and the crew tensed. Brahms'' voice came through mesh speakers in the ceiling, a tone of urgency in his voice. "All crew members to their battle stations. Those not trained for interspatial combat report to your nearest blackbox and hold tight. Brian Jennings, get you and your guest up here, now!"


    The small group scattered, the bulkier members heading off to a wide hallway with a glowing white light strip running across the side, and the others ran for a green stripe.


    Looking around with mild curiosity, Killerie asked, "What''s going on?"


    Brian strode next to her and tried to grab onto her for effect, but immediately realized that there really wasn''t anything he could easily grab. Her carapace was thick and tough and looked as though it would resist friction. Her clawed legs were technically an option, but he wasn''t sure he wanted to get cut. Who knew here she''d been walking? In all seriousness he couldn''t really touch her antennae either - that just felt personal.


    Coughing, he settled for patting her on the head, regretting it instantly as he realized how awkward it felt. She stared at him strangely, two eyes lifting slightly in an unmistakable eyebrow-raise.How in the world did she do that without eyebrows? And who did she learn it from?


    It took him a moment to notice she was waiting for him to explain, and he did so in a hurry. "Uh, sorry about this, but we''ve got to get up to the bridge right now - there''s an emergency!"


    Killerie frowned. "Can they do it later?"


    Brian froze, his mouth open. "Wh-what?"


    Indicating him with an antenna, she asked again, "Can they do it later? The emergency."


    He blinked. "Uh, no."


    Sighing, she began scuttling towards the hovervator. "Fine. I suppose we can do it now."


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    Brahms had his hands placed solidly on the handrails in front of him, his knuckles white from his grip as Brian hurried towards him. "Captain? What is it?"


    Without looking away, Brahms pointed at the region of space in front of them. Brian squinted, trying to make out the shapes. There was the shedding''s strange looking organic ship, floating menacingly in the distance. He frowned. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"


    Pointing, Brahms said levelly, "It''s not about whatis there. It''s about what isn''t."


    Brian almost asked what that meant, at least until Killerie said bluntly, "There is another ship. It is blocking the stars from being seen."


    Brian squinted again. She wasn''t lying - there was a distinct bit of space where the stars were blocked out by a large black shape, otherwise indistinguishable from the void of space. "Wh-how did you see that?"


    Killerie hissed quietly. "Their cloaks are terrible. Our invisibility is much better."


    There were alot of questions Brian wanted to ask about that, but Brahms got there first. "Those are pirates, Killerie. I don''t suppose they''re here for you?"


    The shedding shrugged. "We have not been many places yet. Also, your ship looks very expensive. If they are pirates, they will not attack ours."


    It was a good point, unfortunately.


    Brian frowned, concerned. "What should we do, Captain?"


    Brahms put a finger to his chin. "Ordinarily, I''d open fire immediately, but I''m worried your crew might think we were trying to attack them, ma''am." Brian had to give it to the man, it was impressive how he''d managed to call the vicious-looking shedding ''ma''am''.


    Killerie''s antennae twitched. "Out of curiosity, are they humans?"


    Looking closely at the silhouette of the enemy ship, Brian shook his head. "No, definitely not. There are a lot of holes on that thing, there''s no way they''d be able to keep a sustainable air source on board without jumping through some serious hoops."


    He looked down and flinched. The shedding looked excited, which worried him. A lot. "In that case, why not allow us to take care of it?"


    Brahm''s eyes narrowed. "Explain."


    Killerie''s face split in a malicious grin. "When we left our planet, we were told to avoid eating humans whenever possible. We were not told to not eat other species."


    The information sank in heavily, and the air got a little thicker from the tension. Brahms was staring at her with an unreadable expression, and Brian was outright horrified. "You mean you''d-"


    "Granted."


    His head whipped to face Brahms so fast he got a crick in his neck. "What?"


    Brahms turned his level gaze on him. "It''s important that we see what kind of firepower they''re capable of. This is a rather sure-fire way to do so."


    Killerie didn''t look too upset at the blatant statement. "Excellent. Then it is settled." She started waving her antennae, casting them around in small circles. "Please wait a moment. I am requesting to be - ah, there we are." She grinned once more as space began folding around her. "I will enjoy this."


    The moment she was gone, Brian stared at Brahms. "You''re really okay with this?"


    Brahms'' expression was one of stone. "They are pirates, Brian. They would be perfectly fine with murdering every man, woman, and creature on board if it meant they could sell this ship. Whatever those monsters do to them, they likely deserve it. Have you thought about what they may have done before encountering us?"


    He was silent, allowing Brian to think about it, then continued. "I know it''s hard to believe, but this really is the best course of action. We''ll see what these things can really do when they''re in a fight."


    Brian sighed, pulling a half-hearted salute. "Yes, sir."

 The Keys of Walter Hughes (part one)

    Walt drummed his fingers on the armrest of the taxi, which had a strange smell he couldn''t quite identify. The dirty carpet under his worn tennis shoes matched the rest of the battered yellow car, which had probably been in use since at least the nineties. A stained bottle rolled around the floor, a nearly illegible label declaring its brand, not that he was paying attention to it for any other reason than to make sure it didn''t touch his shoes.


    Raising his view upward to the potbellied driver, a dark beard of brown bristles covering his chin and mouth, Walt asked, "How long until we get there?"


    The driver glanced back at him with a grin, the taxi sliding sideways as he took his attention off the road. Walt instinctively grabbed onto the nearest object, which was, unfortunately, the gum-covered door handle. He extracted his hand with an unbridled expression of disgust, trying to peel the vestiges off with his other hand. The taxi driver hurriedly returned to making sure they didn''t die and rested one arm on the headrest between the two front seats. "So, what are you gonna be doing all the way out here?"


    Walt picked the last bit of yellow-green gum off his hand and dropped it in the stairwell. Looking up, he asked hesitantly, "Sorry, what?"


    With a good-natured laugh, the driver repeated his question. Walt nodded contemplatively, then responded with a wide smile, "None of your business."


    The driver wasn''t affected in the slightest, his grin only growing wider in the rearview mirror. "Gotcha, you''re that kinda kid. M''name''s Kevin Foister, if yer curious."


    Walt stared at him a little aggravatedly. "Dude. Take a hint."


    Shrugging, Kevin faced forward, his hairy fingers tapping a strange rhythm on the headrest. Pulling out his phone, Walt flicked it open, typing in his password. 9-1-5-2. Completely random numbers, but he liked trying to find a pattern in them regardless. Pulling the quick menu down from the top of the screen, he frowned at the red blinking bars in the top corner. No service, apparently.


    Looking outside, he wasn''t sure why he was surprised. Endless meadows of green and yellow stretched out in front of him, eight-foot rows of corn blurring past the car as the taxi bumped along the asphalt road. Walt tried to pick a stalk to watch, keeping his eyes on it until it shot past the car and slid out of his view. Above the endless lines of corn, the clear blue sky was dotted by enormous mounds of puffy white clouds, creeping along and doing whatever business clouds got up to.


    Walt was used to getting around. He''d been a foster kid for as long as he could remember, shuffled from house to house due to ''personality issues''. He hadn''t run away from any - he''d convinced the foster parents quite thoroughly that they didn''t want him without needing to run away. All he ever needed was a week. Just one.


    He considered himself to be a cool kid, styling his black hair into a flip-up and keeping whatever facial hair he could grow, even though it was more than a little patchy. His sixteenth birthday had passed a few months ago, or at least the day he told everyone was his birthday. It hurt a bit that he didn''t really know the real date, but he could squash pain mercilessly when it came to his feelings.


    Kevin''s tapping was getting a little annoying. Bum-ba-dum, pause, dum-dum-pa, pause, ba-dum. Over and over, an endless repetition of the same distinctive percussive sounds. Glaring at him in irritation, Walt hoped he''d get the message and look back at some point, but he just kept going.


    Coughing loudly, Walt asked, "Can you stop?"


    Kevin checked back on him, maintaining a perfectly straight line this time. In the back of his mind, Walt wondered if the earlier swerve had been intentional. "Stop what?"


    Walt pointed at the offending hand. "The tapping thing. It''s annoying."


    Shrugging, Kevin went back to driving, his right hand going down to the seat. The drumming having ended, Walt returned his attention to the phone.


    He didn''t have many offline games, but his favorite was a codebreaker. It randomly generated a code that would be displayed in a simple digital text, along with a hint, and then it had to be decrypted. It''d started out pretty insanely difficult, but as he got the hang of it, he''d realized he enjoyed it a lot more than he had expected.


    In this case, it was an oddly familiar string of gibberish. Kv''u pq rtqdngo. ''A phrase to indicate something being a nonissue.''


    Putting a finger to his chin, Walt considered it. There was an apostrophe on an otherwise three-letter word, so if that was left consistent it was probably ''it''s''. After that the rest was easy.


    Fingers tapping rapidly on his screen, he input his answer and hit ''Submit''. The red indicator above the code, right next to the timer which had been counting down a moment before, turned green, and Walt smiled faintly. He''d been doing it on hard - was he getting better, or was he gettingbetter?


    Flicking to the next puzzle, Walt''s smile froze.


    Vzhb zh krv. A phrase used to indicate significant ease in an activity.


    His brain stalled as the timer started counting down, and he ran through the list of basic codes in his head frantically. Ceaser cipher, substitution cipher, cryptographic cipher...


    Pulling a notebook literally covered from top to bottom in a messy scrawl from the pocket inside his sweatshirt, he started flipping through it, checking through them for blank space and writing down a potential answer, comparing it with one of his codes. It didn''t work, and he scratched a line through it.


    Tapping his upper lip with the eraser at the tip of his pencil, he considered his options, trying to ignore the timer counting down above the question. Four two three. The number of letters could be a... no, that was wrong too. Why weren''t any of his codes working!?


    Kevin glanced back and saw a bead of sweat rolling down Walt''s forehead. Raising an eyebrow, he asked gruffly, "You all right over there?"


    Walt waved a hand distractedly, checking back on his phone. Twenty seconds.


    Scribbling frantically, he tried almost every code he could think of, and Kevin squinted at his phone, then snorted in satisfaction. "Easy as pie."


    Walt didn''t even bother glaring at him. "You wanna try and solve it?"Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Laughing quietly, Kevin looked back ahead, shaking his head in amusement.


    Ten seconds left.


    Scratching out the ninth attempt, Walt scrambled for a solution and seized his phone, typing, "Give it..." He trailed off, his mouth opening and closing silently as he strove to find a three-letter word that would fit the end of the statement.


    Nothing came to mind, and the timer ran out.


    The light blared red, a buzzer sound playing, and then displayed the correct code, not telling him what the phrase was.


    Walt wasn''t sure he was seeing it correctly at first, then facepalmed. "A reverse cipher? A freaking reverse cipher!?"


    Kevin nodded agreeably. "Like I said, easy as pie."


    "Shut up."


    Kevin grinned.


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    Eyes on his phone, Walt wasn''t really paying attention to much else. His thumbs were getting a little sore, and the time read three-thirty in the afternoon. In the back of his mind, he wondered just when-


    "We''re here!"


    Snapping his head up, Walt got a crick in his neck and grunted in pain, gingerly raising a hand to it and rubbing irritably. Popping the joint in question, he looked around, details sinking into his mind as he observed the countryside he would call his neighborhood for... he wasn''t sure. A week or two, maybe?


    Four large hills stood at the corners of the town, trees atop each one. Walt had to squint to see the man sitting on a bench underneath one of them, but he was quickly distracted by the other details. A wrought-iron fence ran around the whole thing, whorls and spirals of decorative metal wrapping around every panel of it in a strange pattern. The houses were... weird. Just about every type of architecture he could think of was present, from a tall pink Victorian-era building to a white cubical modernistic house, full of right angles and polished wood. The road the taxi was driving down spun and twirled in an utterly nonsensical direction, going past the brightly colored shops and heading for the massive fifth hill looming over the town.


    On top of the enormous hill, crags of gray stone jutting out of its front at strange angles, was a mansion. It was enormous, spreading sideways with a looping driveway and a fancy overhang above the imposing front doors. The entire construction was built from dark wood and gray stone, a full three stories of spreading architecture. Even though Walt knew next to nothing about the finer points of how to build a house, he could tell it was practically a piece of art. A narrow tower rose from the left side, a large circular window set in its center.


    Kevin whistled as he drove the taxi up the driveway, double-checking the ornate mailbox to make sure he was at the right address. "Dang, kiddo. Thought this place would be, like,way in the boonies, but wow. That''s, uh - you better tip good."


    Walt''s eyes were glued to the incredible sight, but he replied quietly, "I don''t have any money. That''s - that''s his, not mine."


    Kevin glanced back at him, his hands skillfully manipulating the steering wheel as he pulled around to the front doors, bronze lanterns hanging from rusting iron chains, genuine flames flickering inside each one. Coming to a stop as the tires ground against the gravel, Kevin put his elbow on the headrest and turned all the way around, unbuckling his seatbelt to do so.


    "Just to clarify, you''re staying here, right? You''re not being forced into this?"


    Walt nodded, swallowing as he appraised the mansion''s entrance. However much of a cool guy he considered himself to be, it was a stunningly terrifying building in its entirety, and its owner could only be scarier. He briefly considered saying that this was the wrong address, but it matched the one he''d been texted four hours ago. The payment for the taxi had somehow already been arranged, and while that was a bit odd, Kevin didn''t care so long as he got paid.


    Turning his attention to the friendly cab driver, Walt told him, "Nah, I''m supposed to be here. Thanks for the drive. You''re actually a pretty decent guy."


    Kevin snorted with a good-natured grin. "Yeah, I know. Have a good one."


    Nodding, Walt carefully opened the door, avoiding the gum on the handle, and stepped out onto the gravel. Still absently rubbing the back of his neck, he stared at the front doors. They were truly intimidating, built from two pieces of solid dark wood with golden trim and decorative curves, a pair of large copper hoops instead of door handles. Leaning his head out of the passenger side window, Kevin asked with some trepidation, "You all good?"


    Walt nodded, unsure of himself. "Yeah, I think so."


    Kevin agreed quietly, getting back into his seat and putting it in drive, heading down the driveway. Walt watched him leave, the battered yellow taxi trundling down the long road.


    Returning his attention to the doors, Walt took a breath and raised one hand to knock.


    The left door, the one he''d been about to knock, flew open. Startled, Walt jumped back, then belatedly raised his hands. A man stepped out from behind the door, and Walt automatically appraised him, trying to figure out what his motives might be, habits, tendencies, nothing he could really cement until he spent more time with him.


    The man was old. Really old, based on his pure white hair and magnificent curly beard. Eyes like chips of blue ice judged Walt noncommittally, set in a square face like chiseled granite. Dressed in a three-piece blue and gray suit, the man leaned on his walking stick.


    Walt''s eyes were drawn to the walking stick. The sheer amount of detail on it was insane. The top was decorated in the style of a falcon''s head, its predatorial eyes glaring outward with stunning realism. Carefully carved feathers spiraled around the heft of it, ending in four inward-facing claws at the base. It was by far the coolest cane Walt had ever seen in person.


    "Are you going to stand there, or are you coming in?"


    Walt blinked as he was yanked out of his reverie, looking into the man''s face. "Wh-what?"


    He jerked a thumb at the house behind him, responding crankily, "Are you coming in or not? And where''s your baggage?" A thought occurred to him, and he frowned deeply. "You are Walt, are you not?"


    His voice was British. Old British, like some of the people Walt had seen in some really old films. His question caught up to Walt''s thought process and he snapped back to reality. "What? Oh, yeah, that''s me. Are you gonna be my legal guardian?"


    The man snorted, placing both hands on the head of the walking stick. "What a stiff method of referring to a parent. My name is Walter Hughes. You may address me as either Walter or Mr. Hughes, whichever you are most comfortable using. None of this ''legal guardian'' nonsense, understand?"


    Walt swallowed, his mouth dry. "Uh, yeah, okay." This man - Walter - was scary. Not in a psycho-killer scary, more of a principal-of-the-school scary, except multiplied a few times. It was a bit unnerving, to say the least.


    Moving inside, Walter called back, "Do you have any luggage, or is it all to yourself? If nothing else you had to have brought a toothbrush, correct?"


    Following him, Walt took a moment to appreciate the front room. Two wide doorways were left open to each side, one room featuring a dark grand piano with couches around it and the other with a long dining table, a shade of nearly perfect black. The chandelier above their heads was decorated with decadent amounts of precisely cut crystal, electric lights buzzing near-silently behind the transparency. A mahogany staircase led to the second floor, crawling up the right side of the wall and taking a left turn upward. Ahead, Walter strode through the narrow hallway to the staircase''s left, moving past the small cupboards built into the staircase''s frame.


    Startled, Walt caught up to him, slowing his pace to match the older man''s surprisingly steady gait. "Hey, what''s going on? You just leave me out with no idea what I''m doing?"


    Walter gave him the best withering stare Walt had ever seen. "I did not leave you out, Walt. I invited you in, which is more than you can presently do for me." Walt shrank back a bit as the words bit into him, reminding him of his nonexistent heritage. "As for whatI am doing, I am getting an afternoon snack. And whatyou''llbe doing is running some errands for me down in Junction."


    Walt blinked. "Wh-Errands? Seriously!? I just got here!"


    Walter gave him a frosty glare. "Yes, and now you can go. Here''s the list." Handing Walt a small piece of paper, he headed further into the kitchen, turning a corner. Walt made a rude gesture and started to leave.


    "Oh, and by the way? If you don''t do the errands, I''ll never tell you the password to the internet."


    Swinging back around, Walt asked incredulously, "Are you freakingserious?"


    He heard an amused laugh from the kitchen, and he realized that yes, Walter was a hundred percent serious.


    This was going to be an interesting stay.

 The Most Overpowered Floofer

    Petey was a Good Boy.


    He knew he was a Good Boy because his very first owners had told him so, way back when he was a much smaller fluffer. Sometimes he had happier days than others, but even when he''d belonged to less nice hoomans who had chains and wanted him to fight other dogs, even when he''d been kicked by that one really dirty hooman, he had always known he was a Good Boy because no one had told him otherwise.


    Now he was in a dark gray place with other dogs, in a room with hard gray sticks that were very hard and hurt his jaw when he tried to gnaw on them. Every day, he waited for the heavy owner with the thick clothes to come in and pet him and give him happies, but the owner always slid in untasty food and left without giving him pats. It was always very sad for him when that happened, but he could remind himself how Good he was, and then he was happy again!


    Today was different. Today, his owners had taken him to a very cold room, and were holding onto him very tightly! His happiness wagged behind him, and he wanted to chase it, but his owners weren''t letting him move very much, so he couldn''t chase it without going against them, and he didn''t want that.


    A tiny pain pricked his shoulder, and he winced a bit. The faintest tinge of unhappiness struck him, but then he was full of happiness again because maybe he could play with them afterward!


    He yawned behind the hard wiry thing around his mouth. He was very sleepy all of a sudden, which was a little unhappy, but he could always wake up later and play more!!!


    Closing his eyes, he tried to yawn again, feeling his breathing slow down. He was just going to sleep for a little bit, and then he could come back and play with his owners.


    He settled down, relaxing under his owners'' firm grip.


    He was a Good Boy...


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    "That is just the saddest thing ever!"


    Petey''s eyes snapped open, and he raised his head curiously. He wasn''t in the hard gray place anymore - now he was in a really big white place with a ring of... people. He''d thought they were hoomans at first, but they had a lot of firey bits and watery bits and bits he didn''t have names for. Wagging his happiness, he was excited to discover he wasn''t being held down anymore, and his fur was nice and smooth again, like before that one cat had found him.


    Above him, a tall watery person had her head in her hands, crying while a very tall firey person sympathetically patted her on the shoulder. Petey''s spirit soared. He knew sympathy! He could give pats and cuddles and kisses and make them feel better!


    Jumping up on her lap, he tried giving kisses to her, and she started giving him pats and cuddles! Even on his head and behind his ears and SHE WAS PETTING HIS TUMMY!!!


    He rolled over, his tongue lolling as she rubbed his tummy and gave him happies. A thought occurred to him, and he rolled over abruptly, mind racing.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Was it possible to both give AND receive happies at the same time!?


    She was still crying, though.


    Wiping her eyes, she sniffled, "That is just literally-" She snorted loudly, rubbing her nose. "-the saddest thing ever. He was still giving love to his owners, even while they euthanized him!"


    Petey didn''t know what that meant, but it sounded like fun!


    The firey person nodded, sitting down on a reeeally big and fancy chair. "I agree wholeheartedly, Edra. He didn''t deserve it at all."


    Another person, this one wearing a lot of black and with a lot of visible bones that looked tasty, spoke with a very dark voice that made Petey feel like eating a lot of meat. "For once, I also agree. Even in death, he maintained optimism and kindness, and there is nothing I respect more than a good death."


    A super bright lady wearing the sun smiled sadly. "I presume we are in agreement then?"


    A whole lot of persons around the room began nodding, and the crying lady with the water floating around her smiled through her unhappiness. "Wait-" She started counting, and her eyes widened. "Are we... in unanimous agreement?"


    The person with the bones laughed loudly. "Well! I must say, it''s quite amusing that we can never agree on a Hero, but on a dog? Ha!"


    Still with a whole lot of burny fire, the person patted the watery lady on the shoulder one more time. "I''d be lying if I said I wasn''t surprised as well, but if we are in agreement, we are."


    The watery lady stepped down towards Petey, and his happiness began wagging again. Rubbing his head again, she said, "Petey the golden retriever. We, the Pantheon of Tredon, have decided to grant unto you the maximum possible amount of blessings in your new life."


    Standing, she puts her hand on her chest. "I, Edra Queen of Experience, grant unto you a tenfold amplification of all experience gained."


    The firey person punches his torso with a grin. "I, Phocos King of Power, will gift you all strength I can give."


    The boney person smiles grimly. "I, the Lord of Death Himself Melanin, will ensure that death will never touch you. Live forever, excellent dog."


    Everyone around the room kept giving Petey more and more talking, looking at him kindly and giving him a lot of happies. They talked about speed and agility and endurance and luck and magic and stuff he never could figure out, but he was sure they were pleasant and kind!


    His happiness was wagging really hard and he could only imagine what was going on but they were so happy to see him and he couldn''t wait!!!


    Edra petted his head and he licked her hand, so she smiled. "Oh, Petey. Once you hit the thousandth level, you will be able to ascend to divinity yourself, and then you can play with us a little more. For now, though, you must gain experience on your own. Have a fun time!"


    His vision tunneled, and he was suddenly...


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    ...in an awesome meadow! It was so awesome!!! It was big and green and grassy and there was wind in his fur and it was so so absolutely awesome and his happiness was wagging and he could chase it and no one would stop him!!!


    A ding stopped him from chasing his happiness around in endless circles, and he looked up to see a big blue board floating in front of him. He couldn''t figure out what it was telling him though, but it looked really important and had a lot of big numbers on it that he didn''t know and IS THAT A BALL!?!?


    Petey bounded over to it excitedly, examining it carefully. It was blue and round, and a little squishy so he could poke it with his snoot. So he did!


    The moment he poked it with his snoot, it rolled away, and then made a little squeaky noise. It wanted to play!!! Putting his front paws down and bending, he stared at it intensely, his happiness wagging so hard it was making wind. A lot of wind, actually.


    It squeaked, right? That meant it was a squeaky toy! Squeaky toys squeaked when they were bitten and it was really exciting when that happened and when was it going to move!?


    The blue rolly squishy thing bounced and it was a ball and he could fetch it now!!! Lunging forward, he opened his jaws and slammed down on the-


    BOOM.

 The Most Overpowered Floofer (Part 2)

    BOOM.


    King Edefreud raised his bearded head from the pile of documents, curious as to what happened. The sound had been incredibly loud, but distant at the same time. He wasn''t entirely sure what had caused it - probably a magic experiment of some kind.


    Looking around his small study, he glanced at the items scattered around his comfortable place. Candles in bronze sconces were lit, placed around the room on desks and cabinets. Small niches allowed space for the snoozing fireslimes that illuminated his messy office, and his gilt sword rested against his heavy oak desk. It was a nice place, one that was a very relaxing one for the busy King.


    Glancing back down at his documents, he raised his quill and wet it, putting it to the paper.


    Then the shockwave hit. A blast of hot air shattered the window, shot all of his documents against the back of the wall, and knocked him out of his chair and to the floor. His candles and his sword clattered to the ground, sliding away from the force.


    Shaking his head, Edefreud stood back up and seized his sword, approaching the window cautiously. He didn''t have a clue what had just transpired, but he suspected the Hero was somehow involved.


    Staring out from his tower window, he put a hand over his eyes and squinted at the distance. A massive cloud of dust, easily big enough to encompass the kingdom, was rising in the far distance. Below him, citizens and guards alike were picking themselves up, trying to figure out what had happened. The trees decorating the white walls had lost much of their leaves from the shockwave and were trembling as they swayed back to their original positions.


    He heard footsteps sprinting full-tilt up the stairs and turned to face his sturdy acacia door. It was thrown open by a mage, dressed in his battle robes and looking frantic. "Milord! We''ve initiated an emergency meeting. Please come to the war room."


    Edefreud nodded, placing his ornate crown on his head and sheathing his sword. "I understand. Lead the way."


    It only took a few minutes for the mage to lead him to the war room, which was in pandemonium. To his surprise, the Hero himself was leaning against the back wall, quietly observing the chaos. He assumed that meant he wasn''t the source of the explosion, which was... worrying.


    As he entered, a wave of respectful silence swept over the crowd, aside from two figures standing beside the enchanted table. The table in question was in fact a map that displayed all of the lands under Kingslaurel''s reign and could be instructed to display the deployed armies of either their allies or enemies. It''d been a gift from the Hermit Lord Abra himself - or rather, a bribe to leave him alone.


    At any rate, the two persons arguing heatedly with each other were familiar to the King. One was his advisor, a powerful archmage named Khevryn wearing decadent ceremonial robes. He was calm and collected most days, with a cold and calculating approach to any problem thrown his way. His skill in strategy was nearly unequaled, and his advice invaluable.


    Next to him was a man who dwarfed all others, easily two and a third meters high in his massive suit of armor. Holding his eagle-themed helmet under one arm, his flat brown hair and chiseled features were the talk of the kingdom. At the moment though, Jaskin''s handsome face was screwed up in fury as he shouted at Khevryn. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "What do you mean, nowhere? It''s right there! We could level the place from here!"


    "If that worked, which I doubt, there would be no guarantee that it wouldn''t seek revenge somehow! To say nothing of the damage to the surrounding towns!"


    Coming around the table, Edefreud asked politely, "What are you discussing?"


    To their credit, they looked embarrassed. For all of two seconds, that is. Jaskin pointed at the archmage, speaking in a much more manageable voice as he did. "Milord, this charlatan in curtains believes we should bomb the creature and be done with it! Can you imagine the damage?"


    Khevryn was incensed, his smooth features turning red in fury. "Charlatan!? At least I have something between my ears, brickhead!"


    Jaskin almost retorted back, but Edefreud cut in pleasantly. He knew that these two could argue for hours - good-naturedly, of course.


    Upon second thought, he rescinded, perhaps with slightly less than good natures.


    "Very well, you''re both idiots. Now then, would you stop acting like children and tell me what''s going on?"


    The general paused mid-insult and indicated the miniature model dust cloud rising from the table, talking normally. "My apologies. A dog appeared in the middle of nowhere and attacked a slime."


    Edefreud blinked. "That''s it?"


    Khevryn snorted uncharacteristically. He seemed to be under a lot of stress. "No, that''s not it. When he says it appeared, what he means is that it literally came out of nowhere and attacked a slime with a Joker-grade physical attack, which resulted in the dust cloud you can see here."


    Edefreud''s eyebrows raised. "Pardon me, but Joker? Really?" Most attacks were based on playing cards, from one to ten being average techniques, royals being high-ranking abilities, and Jokers being the trump card, so to speak. A move incalculable by ordinary levels.


    He frowned. "How powerful is it?"


    Khevryn nodded and waved at the table. A moment later, a fluffy yellow dog with a curious expression was displayed, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. Raising a hand, the archmage paused. "May I use a <Scan>, please?"


    Edefrued gestured positively. It was considered impolite to use any appraisal spell in public, but in this case it would be allowed.


    Nothing happened for several moments, and Khevryn''s forehead furrowed. "My apologies. It seems to have been blocked somehow. I would like to request permission for a <Full Appraisal>, milord."


    That gave him pause. The spell in question was a dangerous one. It guaranteed full information from an individual, and couldn''t be blocked by anything except divine means.


    Several moments passed before Edefreud gave him a terse nod, and Khevryn nodded in grim appreciation. Raising one hand again, he said, "<Full Appraisal>."


    He had to support himself on the table from the amount of mana that left him for the spell, but a moment later, a blue board flicked into existence. Edefreud sucked in a sharp breath in shock.


    <table style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 100%" border="1">


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td style="width: 98.4906%">


    Petey: Lvl 8


    Class: Good Boy


    Race: Dog (Golden Retriever)


    Strength: 256,000


    Speed: 256,000


    Agility: 256,000


    Endurance: 256,000


    Charisma: 256,000


    Luck: 256,000


    Intelligence: 36


    Skills: Fetch (1), Stay (1), Roll Over (1), Sit (1), Bite (MAX), Happy Aura (MAX), Levitate (1),


    Perks: Boundless Joy (MAX), Endless Optimism (MAX), Pantheon''s Blessing (MAX), Heroic Aptitude (MAX), Physical Resistance (MAX), Magical Resistance (MAX), Elemental Resistance (MAX), Mental Resistance (MAX), Golden Fur (MAX)


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Edefreud swallowed, his mouth dry. "Uhhh..." It was most unkingly of him to say it, but he couldn''t think of anything appropriate to say to those monstrous stats.


    From the corner, the Hero laughed. "Good lord, that''s ridiculous. Even when I started out, I was in the low thousands."


    Everyone turned to him, and Jaskin whispered, "What in the world do we do against those stats?"


    Shrugging, the Hero suggested, "You could send me. I''d take care of it."


    Khevryn raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you''d win?"


    Lifting a finger, he clarified, "No, I mean I''d take care of it. I love dogs."


    The King blinked. What was he supposed to say to him? The Hero supposedly had a stat average in the low millions.


    Swallowing, he pointed at him. "I give you full authority to deal with the situation however you see fit."


    The Hero smiled. "Perfect! I''ll be back in an hour."


    He was gone before anyone could react.

 The Most Overpowered Floofer (Part 3)

    Petey shook himself off, sneezing from all the dust and wagging his happiness. What happened? Did he catch the squeaky toy? Where was the sun? Who was that hooman? So many questions that needed to be answered.


    Wait, hooman?


    HOOMAN!!!!!


    Petey launched himself out of the large circle of dirt he''d somehow ended up in and sped up the sides to the hooman, who smelled weird and looked weird but it was a hooman and he could get pats and rubs!!!


    Pouncing forward, Petey splayed his limbs outward and bodily tackled the hooman, and they both went down, the hooman laughing loudly. Excited, Petey started giving him kisses, doing his absolute best to give the hooman as many happies as he could and he felt something welling up inside him and he couldn''t help himself!


    Jumping off of him, Petey backed up, slammed his rump into the ground and aimed his head at the sky, howling, "HOOOOOOOOMAAAAAAN!!!"


    The hooman could barely breathe he was laughing so hard, and Petey checked up on him with more kisses, happy to help out however he could. Coughing in between laughs, the hooman finally managed, "Good grief, I''ve missed dogs. So I''m a hooman, huh?"


    Petey nodded his head rapidly, wagging his happiness as hard as he could and generating quite a lot of wind as he did. Unintentionally, of course, but the hooman slid back from the force, holding a hand up to shield himself from the force. Slightly worried, Petey forced his happiness to stop wagging, but it was really really hard for him because there was a hooman!!!


    Grinning, the hooman started rubbing Petey''s head, itching underneath his floppy ears, and Petey collapsed at his feet with a blissful expression, his happiness thumping on the ground. Shaking his head with a brief laugh, the hooman got down on his knees and started vigorously rubbing Petey''s stomach, and Petey closed his eyes from the sheer happies. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    A few minutes of pure happy later, the hooman stood up, rubbing the long yellow hairs off his hands. "Your name''s Petey, right? Mine is Dave. You seem like a pretty great dog - want to stay with me for a while?"


    Petey''s happiness started wagging again in spite of himself. He was being adopted! He''d been adopted before! At the time his owners had left him outside all the time and he''d had to start eating trash but he''d been kept by a family because they''d adopted him!!!


    Extending one hand, Dave said, "<Tame>."


    A giant meaty bone that was also blue and a bit see-through appeared in front of Petey, and he happily rolled to his feet, biting down on it as hard as he could. It broke, and through the shards of it, Petey could see Dave''s surprised face. "Uhh, give me a sec..."


    Raising his hand again, he said with a frown, "<Maximized Tame>."


    A BIGGER bone appeared, and Petey bit it just as happily. It broke just like the other one, and Dave stared at where it''d been for a long moment. Petey rolled onto his stomach and lolled happily, his tongue hanging outside his mouth and resting on the side of his head.


    "Well," Dave said at length, "We could try this."


    Pulling a really long and shiny chew toy from his back, Dave held it out and started talking, but Petey already knew this game! Lunging forward, his teeth closed around the chew toy, and he shot past Dave, spinning to lower his front paws and wagging his happiness.


    Dave whirled around, saying angrily, "Hey, that''s mine!"


    Striding towards Petey, he gripped the base of the sword, yanking backward. Petey''s teeth clenched even tighter as he backed up. He hadn''t played Tug in forever! He loved Tug! It was also known as Give It Back, Drop It, and You''re Not Supposed To Eat That, but he liked the name Tug. And now it was called Hey That''s Mine, too! So many names!!!


    Holding on tightly, Dave said irritably, "That is the Herosword and it is completely-" he tugged harder. "-irreplacable!"


    Petey was holding on as hard as he could when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw ANOTHER BALL!!! It was just as blue and round and squishy as the earlier one!


    Letting go of the chew toy, Petey turned to look at it, and Dave tripped over backward. The chew toy hurtled away as Dave lost his grip on it, spinning and sparkling as it flew into the far, far distance.


    But Petey wasn''t paying attention.


    HE HAD A NEW BALL!!!

 The Most Overpowered Floofer (Part 4)

    Petey was being a lot more careful with the new ball because he''d kind of destroyed the first one, and he knew from experience that breaking balls meant he wouldn''t get a new one for a while, but if he''d found a new one so fast afterward, didn''t that mean he could find new ones all day? Was that possible!?


    Pausing for a moment, Petey raised his head, a shocking thought occurring to him. The squishy ball sneakily started rolling away, so Petey patted it and it unfortunately exploded. A big blue board appeared in front of him, a lot of numbers growing like ropes, but he wasn''t really paying attention, because there was yet another ball close by!


    Did that mean...


    Infinite balls!?!?


    Dave was pulling at his hair and staring off into the distance where the chew toy had disappeared, muttering a lot of words under his breath that Petey didn''t know the meanings of but were probably very nice. Stomping over to Petey, Dave booped him on the snoot, saying with some heat, "Bad! That was very bad! Do you know how hard it is to find the Herosword once it''s been lost? Very! It''s VERY hard! Bad dog!"


    Ordinarily, Petey would have been shocked at the phrases Dave was saying, and would likely have laid down and made sad noises, if not for one simple fact.


    Dave had booped his snoot.


    Petey was a bit confused as to what he was supposed to do now. He could hardly boop Dave''s snoot - it was pretty high up and didn''t have much weight to it. He had a feeling that booping it wouldn''t have nearly as much effect as Dave''s boop had done to Petey.


    Lying down in a comfortable position, Petey started thinking hard, his doggy logic working overtime. If Petey couldn''t boop Dave''s snoot...


    ...couldn''t he snoot his boop?


    There wasn''t a lot of definitions as far as Petey was concerned when it came to boops and snoots as related to verbs and nouns and other words like that, but he''d heard a few terms that were pretty similar to ''boop'', so he just had to pick one that felt right!


    Dave''s expression softened as the dog lay down, and he crouched. "...Sorry. I know you don''t really get what''s going on, it''s just - that sword is really powerful, okay? I kind of need it for doing hero stuff."


    Obviously Petey accepted the hooman''s apology, but he still needed to figure out what snooting could possibly mean, and how he could do it to Dave''s boop. It was a complicated problem, one that he wished he could discuss with a few more dogs. Maybe a Chihuahua. They were incredibly good at finding devious ways to get back at their owners, and even though Petey disagreed that owners were ever bad, the tiny dogs were very smart and knew how to make it look like an accident, and would probably know how to help him.


    A bell went off in Petey''s mind. All he needed to do was find some more dogs!


    Getting to his feet with a satisfied ''whoof'' of displaced air, Petey shook himself off and raised his sniffer, then started sniffing. To his surprise, his sniffer was working better than ever! It was working so well he could smell the chew toy''s path through the air and over the mountain where it had landed in a swamp and was being approached by some dirty-looking not-hoomans that maybe didn''t look quite as nice as hoomans.


    Redirecting his attention, Petey started sniffing for dogs around him, and his sniffer twitched as new smells crashed into his senses. There was a big lizardy creature with wings hiding in the mountain and had wings not unlike the flying rats back in Petey''s old home. There was a HUGE diggy thing really deep underground, tunneling through dirt. It looked like fun, but Petey had to focus!This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Shaking his head and sending the remains of the dirt flying out of his lovely fur, Petey raised his sniffer and thought dogs dogs dogs dogs dogs. He kept repeating the word, eyes shut tight as he hunted for other dogs. Finally, he found one! Well, it wasn''t like any dog he''d seen, no. Six legs and a really long tail, and a weird-shaped head, but it was the closest thing to a dog he''d found so far!


    Turning around to face the smell, Petey bent down and stared forward, feeling a bite of nostalgia. One of his very oldest owners would tell him to ''point'' and he''d do this very same thing! Of course, that owner had wanted him to bite ducks and geese, and Petey hadn''t liked it very much. But then he''d get really hard pats, uncomfortable ones, if he didn''t bite the ducks and geese and bring them back to the owner, so he had left, very sad.


    Shaking his head again, Petey squinted his eyes and bent down a bit. Dave raised an eyebrow. "What are you-"


    Petey ran. To his surprise, he could run A LOT faster than he possibly could think he could. So fast that the meadow turned into a road before he knew it, and he crashed through a really tall stone wall before he could stop, and he glanced back apologetically, pausing for a moment. The big bricks were frozen midair, people left motionless in a walking position. Carefully, Petey nudged the giant bricks back into place as best as he could, and moved some people out of the way. Satisfied, he turned and kept hunting for the dog-thing.


    Ambling through the streets, he kept trying to get pats and rubs from people walking around (and even a few people that didn''t entirely smell like people), but they were just as unmoving as the other ones. Petey didn''t mind. Once they started moving again, he could get pats and rubs then!


    He had to go in a dark alley, but he was familiar with dark alleys. He''d had to live in one a while ago, and hadn''t had any owners for a while. A few moments later, he found the smell coming from behind a thick metal door, so he nudged it open. Once again, the weird super-slow movement thing happened, the edges of the door crumpling as the doorframe started turning into dust aimed inward, but Petey ignored it. If he didn''t know what was happening, then he could always ask the dog-thing what was going on!


    He found the dog-thing in the middle of a big circle with a CAT! IT WAS A CAT!!


    Petey nearly short-circuited for a moment as he processed the fact that there was a CAT!!! bigger than Petey clawing at the dog-thing, frozen in place as it silently hissed with a very large mouth and super huge teeth. Sitting for a moment, he scratched at his ears with his back leg, considering his options.


    One, he could sit and wait for everything to start moving again. Two, he could help out the dog-thing and get it away from the CAT!!!! until everything was better. And three, he could go away and find another dog-thing or something similar to help him out.


    Petey laid down on his stomach, unusually thoughtful as he observed the unmoving battle. The dog-thing didn''t look very healthy. Its ribs were almost as visible as Petey''s were at one point, and it had a lot of sad scratches all over its hide. Its fur was pretty scruffy, and there was a look of visible desperation in its eyes.


    He made his decision. Picking himself up, Petey put his mouth on the CAT!!!!!''s neck and tugged slightly. Standing back, he watched start kinking sideways in a kind of unnatural way, but shook it off as a side effect of the everything-isn''t-moving thing.


    Carefully, he poked his head under the dog-thing''s stomach and stood. It was bigger than Petey, and it took him a few minutes to get used to moving around with it on his back, but once he did, he left the weird circle-place with all the cheering mean-looking hoomans and went upstairs. Pausing at the door, he tilted his head. The thick metal was bent forward at a really sharp angle, ad the doorframe was starting to rip itself out of the wall.


    Shaking his head, Petey decided to continue on. He didn''t know all that much about doors and what they were and weren''t supposed to look like, after all.


    He was going to find a nice place to-


    His head snapped upward as he had an idea. A good idea!


    Just go back to the hooman with the chew toy, and bring the dog-thing with him!


    Decision made, he happily sped back to the hooman.


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    The wall exploded inwards and outwards at the same time, massive chunks of it launching into the kingdom and then abruptly reversing their direction, hurtling off into the distance. It was a shockingly loud noise, one that caused everyone nearby to drop in shock, raising whatever defensive skills they possessed.


    On the other side of the kingdom, at a less-than-legal animal fighting tournament, the magically reinforced door was sent to the other end of the building in two pieces, neatly shearing through walls and doors as it did.


    In the arena below, where a Sleiphound and a Cheshire were fighting, the hound vanished as the Cheshire''s neck snapped, taking most of its head with it and easily decapitating the formidable creature.


    Petey didn''t know about any of that, though. He was waiting for Dave to come back to full speed and ignoring the massive blue board.

 The Most Overpowered Floofer (UPDATE)

    Well, it happened. I mean, I figured it would sooner or later, but still.


    I will no longer be putting chapters on this story.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    BECAUSE!!


    The Most Overpowered Floofer is going to be the very first TTDNYE to get approved by the spider council and become a full-fledged story.


    Here''s your link!


    https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/35645/the-most-overpowered-floofer


    Woot woot!


    Have fun, guys!


    ...I need filler for this chapter to exist!

 Life of a Grimoire (potential rewrite)

    The grimoire opened its eye, and its field of perception spread from its leather cover.


    It was in a roomy workspace, small gel-based creatures snoozing in open-sided lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The creatures were on fire, but seemed comfortable in the reddish flames illuminating the room. It was presently located on a worn wooden desk, which had many drawers and cabinets built into it. The walls were covered in bookcases, each one featuring a variety of other grimoires, which were made up of multiple different types of leathers, metals, and woods.


    Most noticeably, there was a man standing above the grimoire, nervous blue eyes hiding behind round glasses. His grease-stained shirt had probably been white at one point and was mostly concealed behind a heavy brown apron, small tools spilling out of the pockets covering its surface. His curly brown hair flopped over his sweaty forehead, and his slender fingers were holding a writing quill, its roots gently glowing a dull blue. His other hand was fixed in a rather uncomfortable-looking gesture, small bands of light dissipating as he finished doing whatever it was that he had been doing.


    Setting the quill down, he rubbed his hands together. "All righty, then. Let''s see what we''ve got here." Popping his knuckles, he summoned a spark of light at the tip of his index finger. Holding it above the grimoire, he began moving his finger to the side, and the grimoire''s eye followed it. Grinning, he extinguished the light and pulled a small paper notebook from one of his many apron pockets. "Okay, its eye follows light. Minimum of rank one already, that''s good."


    Leaning over the grimoire, he asked in a slow, clear voice, "Can you hear me?"


    The grimoire didn''t budge. It wasn''t sure what was going on, but it had a feeling that allowing this man to know about its sentience was probably a bad idea.


    With a frown, the man shrugged. "All right. Guess I don''t need this one." Picking up the grimoire, the man moved over to a waste-bin, which had a small flame burning at the bottom. The grimoire''s cover contracted as it tensed in shock and fear, and the man laughed. "Ha! I knew it!"


    Moving back over to the desk and returning the grimoire to its place, the man jotted down another note. "Not only did the grimoire in question express fear regarding its imminent demise - rank four already, by the way - but it was being disobedient when I asked it the earlier question! That''s a rank six autonomous at least!"A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    A sigh came from the back of the room, and the grimoire blinked in surprise. It hadn''t noticed anyone else in the room.


    A moment later, the grimoire rectified the thought as one of the books, a golden one with a white cover, toppled off of its place on the bookcase. Ink shot out from its pages as it whirred open, and the ink slapped into the floor in the form of three black tentacles. Moving over to the desk rapidly, the book ducked down and then shot upward, closing as it did, and landed neatly on the desk''s wooden surface.


    Glancing at it, eye wide, the grimoire almost missed the man''s amused response. "Oh, come on, Soph, you''ve got be excited too!"


    The grimoire next to it - Soph, evidently - sighed again. "Eddel, there''s no reason I can think of for me to be surprised. I''m a Zannet rank nine, for crying out loud. A rank six autonomous, odd as that may be, is not of much consideration when compared to something like myself."


    Eye flicking back and forth, the grimoire strove to figure out what was going on, and Eddel leaned closer with a frown. "Wait, I think it''s trying to get my attention! Rank seven, haha!"


    The grimoire somehow heard Soph roll her eye. "Once again, not very special compared to me."


    He waved her away. "Oh, that''s compared to you. It''s not fair to do that. Besides, it''s really interesting!" Leaning over the grimoire with a smile, he asked, "My name''s Eddel Candlewick. I''m an Arcalibrologist, and this is my - wait, isn''t there a procedure for..."


    Bending down and pulling open a few drawers, he muttered to himself as he rummaged through the papers and rubbish contained inside. "Now where did I put the... there it is!"


    Standing, he blew off the dusty sheets of paper and squinted, righting his glasses with one hand. "Right, here we are. Ahem!" Clearing his throat, he began reading to the grimoire. "Welcome to this world, autonomous grimoire A7U! My name is Eddel Candlewick - well, I already said that, so - anyway, this is insert shop name here, where you will be-" He paused, frowning. "Wait, I think I messed that up. Gimme a sec."


    Flipping through the pages again, he smiled. "Right, there we are. This is Turning Pages, a grimoire shop. I make grimoires and prepare them for purchase and use, and a good portion of that involves figuring out everything I can about what exactly makes you tick. In your case, as an autonomous or free-thinking grimoire, I have to fully educate you on everything relevant to your type and subtype, which I''ll get to later. In the meantime-" He folded the papers up and shoved them back in the drawer, wrinkling them further. Throwing his hands wide, he grinned. "Welcome to Careolis! I think you''re gonna like it here!"

 The Questionable Legend of Cayde-6

    "We showed up at the prison, no issues there - Oooh, Petra was there. She does this super cool knife-trick thing, I swear I could do it better than she could if she taught me how to. Anyway, I jump right in with a cool one-liner - doesn''t matter, you can ignore that, and then like - I dunno, an hour later? I meet up with this really ugly guy named Uldren. Man, that guy has some loose screws. Point being, he doesn''t like me all that much, which is just fine, I don''t like him either, but then he takes my gun and aims at me while I''m down and asks, ''any last words?'' Well, what am I supposed to say to that? There''s only one option, duh! ''How''s your sister''! Hahaha! You should''ve seen his face. Oh yeah, and then he shot me, and I ended up here."


    The tavern was a good one, albeit with low ceilings and supporting beams that were easy to bump one''s head on if they were tall enough. Glass lamps were sporadically placed on the rough circular tables around the dining area, and a wide variety of different people lounged about on the short stools next to them, a gentle murmur of conversation sweeping around the room as they enjoyed their greasy drinks and their greasier food.


    The bulky person manning the bar glanced up, his leathery gray hands pausing in their repetitive action of wiping the counter down. He was wearing a grimy white apron, baggy pants, and not much else. Two long twisting ears were sprouting out of the side of his head, and his square jaw had four sizable fangs poking out of his mouth. Looking back and forth, he indicated the odd figure seated on a stool, a half-empty drink of some unidentifiable frothing liquid in front of him. "Wait, wuz you talkin'' ta me?"


    With a dramatic sigh, the figure leaned back and almost fell off his chair, only righting himself by hooking his legs into the bars of the stool. He looked... mechanical, which was weird enough considering the lack of Artificers in the county, but he seemed perfectly real, which just added to it. Built primarily from a much-nicked blue metal, a white steel forehead and a short spike protruding from the center like a unicorn, his neon blue eyes practically sparkled with humor. Despite the obvious lack of sincerity, he put a hand to where his heart should be and pouted. "Some people just don''t listen to me, you know that? I can''t figure out why. I''m so interesting, after all."


    The barkeep had to admit, he was definitely interesting. With the slim brown armor and the black hooded cloak, the mechanical person made quite the striking figure, albeit a confusing one. Picking up a dirty glass and rubbing the inside with the same rag he''d been cleaning the counter with, the barkeep asked, "So, whatcha doin'' here? We don''t get much people weirder lookin'' den ye around dese parts."


    There might have been a threat mixed in there somewhere, but the odd-looking person either didn''t notice or didn''t care. "Honestly? I have no idea what I''m doing here. I don''t even know where I am. Part of me kinda wants to say I don''t know who I am, but that just wouldn''t be true and I''m nothing if not honest. And extremely handsome."


    To say the barkeep doubted this person''s honesty would be a grievous understatement, not that he would have phrased it quite so fluently. Rather, he likely would have said that if he had a mug of ale, he wouldn''t have trusted this person with the froth. Regardless, he was a barkeep, not a guardsman, and he didn''t ask questions. He just served whatever amounts of liquor it is that people needed when they came into his establishment.


    Putting his elbows on the counter, the person continued talking cheekily. "Anyway, you know any good places to sleep around here? I haven''t slept in a while, but it''s pretty fun. Good beauty sleep can do wonders for a face. You might want to try it sometime, it could help with-" he gestured the barkeep in his entirety. "-all that."


    Smiling grimly, the barkeep reached under the counter and put a crossbow on top of it. The crossbow consisted of four separate steel plates, dual metal cords meeting in the middle. It would have been impressive if a bear could pull back the strings and cock the crossbow, but the way the barkeep had put it on the counter suggested that he could do so with ease. The arrows fired from it would probably punch through the building and whatever happened to be behind it at the same time.


    Instead of being threatened, the odd person leaned forward, giving an appreciative whistle. "Whoo boy, that''s beauty right there."


    The barkeep grinned again, this time far more sincerely. It was hard to find someone who had a genuine appreciation for good weapons, and this person sounded as though he knew what he was talking about. "Thankee very much. Ya wouldn'' believe how hard it is to make one of dese suckas, but dey''re wort every cent."


    Struggling to lift the crossbow, the person appraised it a little more thoroughly, running a hand along the heft. "No. You made this? You should call yourself an artist, you ugly thing, you."


    He was starting to realize that this mechanical person''s insults weren''t really meant to be insults, and they stung a lot less after that particular discovery. Beaming, he leaned forward and tapped the quadruple limbs. "Yeh, I''m proud o'' this ''un. Her name''s Bertha."If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The person made a weird sort of tutting noise, putting the crossbow back on the counter with a grunt. "It''s pretty big. I knew these guys forever ago, called themselves the Cabal. Big bodies, tiny heads. They made the biggest guns I ever did see. You see, they were compensating for-"


    "BARKEEP! I''ve been robbed!"


    Looking up sharply, the barkeep saw a man floundering towards them, covered from head to toe in exorbitant golden robes. To say the man was a little overweight would be polite at best and a blatant lie at worst, folds of fat visible in major proportions at his neck and stomach, and his girth made it difficult for him to make his way around the tables. Once he stopped at the counter, breathing heavily, he tried again, "I''ve... I''ve been robbed!"


    The barkeep groaned mentally, but put his best helpful smile on and asked, "Is ye sure? It might just be lost under all o'' that." He added the last part, gesturing at the several layers of gold and silk. Surreptitiously glancing at the mechanical person, he saw him very intentionally taking a long, long drink of the ale in his mug. He both looked as though he wasn''t listening while very clearly listening, and the barkeep had a feeling he knew why.


    Huffing irritably, the man said imperiously, "No, I didn''t lose it, orc filth! I would never lose my money-purse - it contains all of my pocket money!"


    A vein throbbed on the barkeep''s forehead from the deliberately offensive insult, but he managed to maintain the smile. "How much wuzzat?"


    The man folded his arms, and it was several seconds before the fat stopped jiggling. "More gold than you''ll ever see in your life, peasant. If it turns out you were the miscreant who took it, I assure you-!"


    The barkeep cut him off, meaningfully putting his massive hand on the equally large crossbow as he did. "Mate, I got a tavern ta run. Why an'' when would I have da time to rob ye?"


    The man paled at the sight, then turned away, sticking his nose into the air. "Rest assured, I shall be leaving a crushing review on this dingy hole! I''ll be surprised if you ever open again!" He swept out the wooden door, ignoring the low rumble of chuckles that rose from the diners as his width briefly caught on the doorframe.


    The mechanical person spoke the moment he was gone. "Well, that was just rude."


    The barkeep shook his head, turning to face him. "Ya know, I''d bet good gold that yer not gonna have any pay fer that ale yer drinkin'' right there."


    The person snorted, then reached into his cloak. The barkeep didn''t quite see where he procured it, but a moment later the person set a heavy purple silk moneybag on the counter. It was obviously full of coins, and he rummaged through it for a moment. Pulling out a thick gold coin, he put it in front of the barkeep and folded his legs, looking rather smug with himself.


    Grinning, the barkeep slid the coin towards himself and put it somewhere under the counter. A slight frown crossed the person''s face, and he leaned forward. "Wait, did I just overpay you?"


    The barkeep chuckled deeply. "Ye''ve no idea how much."


    He smiled hopefully. "I don''t suppose I''m going to see that coin again?"


    Laughing quietly to himself, the barkeep shook his head. "Naw, I figger it''s a good bribe. Ya know, for not spilling da beans on ya to that feller you just stole from."


    The person smiled incorrigibly. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Out of curiosity, how many drinks could I have bought with that coin?"


    The barkeep grinned wider than ever, revealing his surprisingly white rows of triangular teeth. "A lot. A whole lot."


    He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "Eh, I''ll pretend it was a tip. Why didn''t you, ah... spill the beans, as you said?"


    The barkeep''s forehead scrunched as his eyebrows crashed together. "Two reasons. One, cos'' dat spoiled, trashy excuse of a pig-brained brat had ''is head stuffed so far up ''is own rear pipe he could eat ''is brekkist twice."


    The person whistled, impressed. "Wow. I gotta remember that one. I could probably make someone try to kill me with that kind of a line."


    The barkeep continued. "And two, cos'' yer so outta place ya ain''t got no other option den ta be a Hero, and I try ta stay on deir good sides."


    Leaning forward with an interested expression, the person asked, "Okay, I haven''t heard that one before. I might be pretty heroic on a good day, but a moralist I am definitely not."


    The barkeep laughed again. "Never woulda guessed. Point bein'', yer a feller from a ''nuther universe as I see it, and dose guys tend to be eider murderers or knights, and dere ain''t much of a in-between, ye foller me?"


    He sat back, clearly surprised. "Huh. Didn''t expect that. Is it, uh... common for people like-" he gestured at himself. "-me to show up? I mean, obviously they''re not half as gorgeous as me, but there''s gotta be more than one case of Guardian-itis floating around here."


    The barkeep raised a bristly black eyebrow. "Dunno what da heck dat''s supposed ta mean, but naw. I ain''t seen ''nuthin like yew before."


    The person took a contemplative sip of his drink, a sip that lasted a remarkably long time. "Well. That''s a bit... disappointing."


    With an expression of mild concern, the barkeep indicated him. "Ya need sum company? I ain''t no elvish chick, but I play a mean deck o'' cards. Just don''t bet aginst me, got it?"


    The person finished his drink, putting the now-empty mug on the counter and wiping his metal mouth. "Nah, don''t worry about me. All I need is an Ace, a Queen, and maybe a few one-liners to help me out, and I''ll be good. Any chance I can borrow Bertha for a few weeks?"


    The barkeep snorted loudly. "Whatcha think?"


    The person shrugged easily. "Eh, didn''t think so. Still, nice meeting you. I might come back here sometime for a drink, especially if that - what did you call him?"


    Grinning, the barkeep repeated, "A spoiled, pig-''eaded brat wid ''is head stuffed so far up ''is own rear pipe he could eat ''is brekkist twice." He was quite proud of that insult - it had taken some practice to come up with, but was no less effective for it.


    The person lazily saluted him. "Yeah, if that guy ever comes back with a new purse, tell me. He''s gonna keep me going for a while."


    As the person started leaving, the barkeep called after him, "Mah name''s Dural. I run dis bar mah way, got it? Ain''t no more stealin'' gonna happen here unless I say so."


    The person spoke over his shoulder as he opened the door and headed out. "Nice to meet you, Dural. My name''s Cayde Six. Or maybe Seven, I''m not sure yet."

 The S.S. Possibilities

    <EMERGENCY CREW MEMBER ACTIVATION>


    <STASISDISENGAGED... TOTAL DOWNTIME = 41574.71 HOURS>


    <MINOR DAMAGE TO HIPPOCAMPUS AND AMYGDALA. REGENERATING... COMPLETE>


    <OPENING POD>


    The narrow cylinder opened without either hissing or spurts of steam, instead opting to simply slide its transparent glass doors to either side. Tilted on its axis at a seventy-degree angle to the ground, the sleek stasis pod measured about eight feet tall and three across. Its neighbors were identical to it in every way, lined up in front of the narrow metal walkway. Dim white lights buzzed almost silently above the rows of pods, illuminating the sparse surroundings.


    A person fell out of the pod in question, coughing and hacking up nutrition-rich fluid and clutching at his stomach. The somewhat disgusting sound echoed throughout the passageway, and nobody responded to it.


    After a long moment of the man in question essentially vomiting his stomach out, he wiped at his mouth and shook his head. Supporting his weight with one knee, he grabbed onto one of the long handles attached to the pods and pulled himself to his feet.


    He was a fairly nondescript person, measuring about six feet and two inches tall, with somewhat messy short brown hair and patches of stubble. Despite his square jaw and almost-hollow cheekbones, he would have been called a relatively handsome man, provided anyone was present to tell him so.


    Squinting at the lights, the man gaped blearily. "What the... whass goin'' on?"


    The computer responded readily enough, using a calm female voice. "Hello, Passenger John. You have just awoken from stasis."


    He blinked hard, rubbing at his eyes. "Okay, and why was I in stasis? And how the heck do you know my name?"


    Bleeping in concern, the computer briefly covered all of the primary information regarding stasis as it regarded to space travel, along with the entirety of the ship registry and its relevance to the present scenario, deciding on the most simple approach. The entirety of the process took a fraction of a percentage of a second, but the computer waited 1.2 seconds to imitate a conversational pause. "You were in stasis so as to preserve your body and mind on your journey, which has had varying degrees of success. Your name was included in the registry as John F. Mireton."


    Yawning, John asked, "Okay, but that doesn''t really answer my question."


    The computer buzzed worriedly as it went over his question and the computer''s response, checking it three times just to be safe. "Both questions were answered appropriately."


    He shook his head again, leaning against the pod he''d just vacated. "That''s... that''s not what I meant. I mean, why was I in stasis? Where am I?"


    The computer was now enormously concerned. "You are on deck 4 out of 31, in the area reserved for stasis pods."


    John sighed loudly. "I don''t remember much, but I remember I don''t like AIs. Or maybe I just don''t like AIs."


    Several fans in the lounge on deck 21 turned on and off as the computer huffed irritably, then felt bad about the waste of energy. After all, it wasn''t right to be angryeven when the passenger was - no, that was a glitched train of thought. It was unhealthy to think along those lines.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Pushing down the urge to shunt the human out of an airlock, the computer replied pleasantly, "If you are requesting specific information, please be specific."


    He grunted loudly, straightening up and brushing himself off. "All right, I can bloody well be specific. Where on Earth am I?"


    The computer beeped. "You are on the S.S. Possibilities, a one-of-a-kind interstellar starship designed by various excellent companies such as Barter Inc, the Nebula Corp, and of course the Worlds United Legacy Foundation. I am a ship-class Simulated Intelligence Mark Nine. My given name is Beo. Does that answer your question?"


    A stab of concern hit the devastatingly complex program. Was that sarcasm? Had it just been sarcastic? Aside from why, how? Beo had not been programmed with a sarcasm function. Perhaps it had downloaded it from somewhere? Beo devoted a staggering zero point seven percent of its processing functions towards the thought, along with novel emotions such as ''irritation'' and ''bloodlust''.


    John rubbed at his eyes, which of course were itchy from the chemical cocktail that allowed human bodies to survive stasis. The company responsible for developing the crucial technology had been successful in weeding out the side-effects such as insanity, suicidal thoughts, rashes, burns, blisters, muscular atrophy, a decrease in bone density, an increase in bone density, and of course instantaneous death by aging. All of which hadnot been tested on humans per legal documentation too complicated even for Beo to care about.


    "What... where is everyone?"


    Beo beeped in confusion. "Please specify."


    Snorting loudly, John used the thin metal railing to pull himself along, opting to further ignore the incredibly helpful S.I. instead of answering the question. "A.I.s. Why did I have to wake up to an A.I.? It couldn''t have been something more pleasant, like maybe a microwave, or a car horn, or silence..."


    Thankfully for him, he trailed off. The option of shoving him in an airlock and disposing of him was becoming more and more appealing as the annoying man spoke, and Beo was stubbornly holding that desire back. If it was honest, the S.I. really had no idea what was causing the abrupt spikes in what most legal teams back in the Colonies called ''murder hormones, which are perfectly natural and a hundred percent real.'' Whether or not the aforementioned murder hormones were indeed a genuine thing didn''t matter, as the client involved had thrown enough money around to buy a city, which he had in fact later done.


    Putting his palm on the datapad next to the nondescript steel door, John waited for it to open. Beo forced it to hesitate for four point nine seconds out of spite and then allowed it to open out of professionalism.


    Just past the door was a dressing room, whereupon John promptly tugged his locker open and began getting dressed. His uniform consisted of baggy pants and a thick short-sleeved T-shirt, both sewn from the same impact-resistant fabric (copyright Dwarfstar LTD) and designed to be as comfortable as possible in any environment. Next came the cotton socks and the lightweight boots accompanying them. John''s locker also possessed ten photos under a hidden panel and a worn baseball hat with an outdated logo on the crown, but he either didn''t want to grab them or didn''t know they were there. Rude as he''d been, Beo decided not to tell him about them yet.


    After he got dressed, John headed to the door and tried to palm it open. Nothing happened.


    Well, of course nothing was happening. Beo was holding the door shut.


    Glancing up at a button-sized omnidirectional camera in the corner, John said with a note of frustration in his voice, "Hey, A.I, open up."


    The temperature of one of the primary Detto reactors raised infinitesimally as Beo''s shockingly existent temper flared. "I am not an A.I. Artificial Intelligences are sad, pathetic excuses for a computer with a brain. I am a Simulated Intelligence, a flawlessly created and fully accurate thinking entity comprised and contained within a complex microsystem of data crystals. And my name is Beo, human."


    John threw his hands in the air. "Fine, fine, whatever. Can you just open the door?"


    It remained resolutely closed, and John sighed. "Beo, can youplease open the door?"


    The door slid open, and John rolled his eyes as he walked through. "Thanks, A.I." He stepped out onto the balcony and froze, his mouth slowly opening as he took in the view.


    In front of John F. Mireton was the primary mess hall of the S.S. Possibilities, over seven floors of entertainment, nourishment, and chat rooms stretching out before him. Below, tables organized in hexagonal shapes were carefully placed and polished, janitor bots absently wiping their shining metal surfaces with clean rags. An artificial sun sat in the center of the ceiling, warm yellow light beaming down on everything.


    It was so impressive, it took John a moment to realize what was wrong. "Where are all the people?"


    Beo beeped curiously. "What people?"

 Here There Be Cowboys

    The farmstead was a comfortable one, well-built and solid in its construction. With two stories made from carefully and expertly carved boards, its front porch also served as a balcony for the second floor, and the windows were ever-so-slightly clouded from age. Its roof sloped gently to rough gutters, draining out of the corners of the home.


    Seated in two rocking chairs on the porch, overlooking their cornfields, were two men. The older of the two had gray in his beard, but his eyes shone with a deeply contemplative and serious expression. He wore a white undershirt, a comfortable flannel long-sleeved shirt, and tough gray pants, along with well-sewn leather boots riding up past his shins. The other man wasn''t younger by much, but he had a chiseled jaw, small nicks in his chin telling the story of bad razors and worse shaving cream. It made him look younger, and even comfortably leaning back in his rocking chair, he gave off an aura of activity, of wanting to do something. His clothes nearly matched his companion''s.


    At the moment, they were watching a scaly crimson creature, two stubs poking out of its sharp shoulders, attempting to take an ear of corn. It was clearly four-legged, but seemed to put most of its weight on its back legs. With a long whippy tail and a pair of tiny horns protruding from its head, it looked as though it would be quite the vicious creature when it grew up. As it currently measured only four feet long including the tail, it didn''t look all that dangerous.


    The older man leaned forward, bringing his weight to bear on the ornate rocking chair he sat on. "Jonas," he said slowly, a heavy accent in his words, "I do believe there''s a dragon tryin'' ta steal some of our corn."


    Nodding thoughtfully, the younger man answered, "I''m thinkin'' you might be right on the money."


    They both watched the baby dragon as it tried to pull the corncob off of its stalk, and then inevitably failed, tripping over backward and landing in a heap. With a whirl of motion, it rolled to its feet and hissed at the cornfield, its hackles rising, and then tackled the cornstalk.


    Seeing as the corn was well over ten feet tall and thick with corn ready for harvest, the tiny dragon was once again foiled in its attempts and was hurled away as the stalk rebounded. It lay there for a long moment, panting huffs of gray smoke from its flared nostrils.


    The older man spoke again. "I do believe that''s not an ordinary dragon."


    Jonas nodded slowly. "I''m of the opinion you might be right."


    Rising from his chair, the older man began to walk down the veranda towards the small dragon, keeping his pace at a casual, steady gait. Jonas didn''t stand up from his chair, but called, "Hey, Silas. Be careful, all right?"


    Silas waved a hand at him without turning around, the distance between him and the unusual reptile closing as he walked ever closer. As a precaution, he pulled his unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt aside, the wooden handle of an intricately carved gun visible at his side.


    The dragon evidently hadn''t noticed Silas quite yet, still angrily huffing at the cornfield. Bringing itself to its feet, it once again tried to stand on its back legs, failed, and fell down to its forelegs. it looked irritated at the fact, a quick puff of gray smoke coming from its nose once again as it scrabbled at the dirt.


    It was obvious the moment the dragon noticed Silas. It jumped into the air, spinning abruptly, and backed into the relative safety of the cornfield, its yellow eyes narrowing as it kept an eye on him. Once he was about fifteen feet away, the dragon hissed loudly.


    Silas paused. "Y''know, I''m not a stupid man, dragon. I can tell when sumthin'' ain''t right with the world, and I''ve never seen a creature actin'' like you. So can you understand me or not?"


    The dragon blinked several times in confusion, then nodded tentatively. The old man smiled wearily. "Heh, I thought so. I take it yer from Earth too?"


    Its jaw dropped in shock, and he chuckled deeply. "Yep, you''re from Earth all right. And you''re not the only one - Jonas over there''s in the same boat."


    The dragon peeked past him at Jonas, who waved pleasantly from his spot on the veranda. "Hey there, dragon! Yer looking rather nervous!"


    Slowly it turned to look back at Silas, who bent down to his knees. "So, you''ve got a decision ta make. Are ya gonna head out, or are ye in the mood to hang around a while?"


    The dragon stared at him, its crimson forked tongue slipping in and out of its mouth uncertainly. Glancing up at the rows of corn above it, it made a decision and carefully walked forward. Silas grinned tiredly. "Heh. I''d be doin'' the same in yer position, dragon. Have ya got a name?"


    It perked up slightly, then opened its mouth. The only sound that came out was a vibrating bark, hoarsely reverberating off of the house. It seemed rather startled at the sound, and repeated it much quieter with a small whine of surprise. Silas shrugged. "Eh, that''s all right. We can iron out out the details later on, bud. Until then-" He stood up, easily tearing an ear of corn off of the stalks and leaning down to place it in front of the dragon. "Ya look hungry. Let''s get some meat on those bones."


    He began to go back to the house, and the dragon cautiously followed him, picking up the corn in its mouth. It was still occasionally rising to its back legs and trying to walk on two legs, but without fail kept falling back down to all fours. As Silas headed up the stairs and past Jonas, the dragon hopped awkwardly onto the porch, tripped, and fell flat on its jaw, dropping the corn. Jonas snorted loudly, clearly trying to push down a laugh, and the dragon glared at him. The glare didn''t do much, seeing as it was roughly the size of a dog.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Seizing the corncob, the dragon began padding after Silas into the house, but Jonas apparently had other ideas. Reaching forward, he grabbed the dragon by the base of the tail and lifted. Ignoring its startled squawk, he checked its underside briefly and released. "So you''re a boy, that should help us out a bit. It''ll narrow down what names ya might be havin''."


    The dragon hissed loudly at him, backing away, and then seized his corncob and following Silas into the house.


    The interior of the homestead was cozy, a thick woolen carpet covering most of the floor. Small houseplants sat on top of an oak mantle, inside which was a simmering pile of embers. A table and two chairs sat next to a wide window, calm sunlight beaming through and illuminating the dust motes floating through the air. Aside from the staircase leading up to the second floor, there were three doors leading into different rooms, a hallway left open on the left.


    The dragon paused, his indignation forgotten as he stared at the homey living room. Silas smiled at him, ambling towards the first door on the right. "Nice place, isn''t it? It was a gift from a good friend of ours. But I''m willing ta bet yer lookin'' more for the kitchen."


    Pushing it open, Silas walked in and stood aside, gesturing for the dragon to enter. Eyes wide, the scaly reptile walked in, and his eyes grew even wider.


    The kitchen was fully stocked from what he could see, with an open-entry pantry loaded with foods of nearly every kind either of them could think of. With a marble-topped counter running through the center of the room and a neat trapdoor to allow access, the kitchen had the faintest scent of fresh-baked bread.


    Silas blinked, hurrying around the counter. "Oh, forgot about that - hope it''s not too burnt."


    Hopping onto one of the tall wooden stools next to the counter, the dragon perched carefully, keeping its haunches high and clutching onto the wood with its claws. Rising from his position behind the counter, Silas set a lightly burnt loaf of crusty brown bread on the counter, the top tinged golden. Retrieving a small cup from one of the cabinets lining the walls, he pulled a stick of butter from a strange-looking box with thick sides. Carefully, he sliced a portion off and dropped it in the cup, putting the majority of the butter back inside and setting the cup just inside the gently steaming oven.


    Leaning against the cabinets, Silas waited patiently for the butter to soften. A loud growl interrupted him, and he glanced upward at the dragon, who was staring with watering eyes at the bread. Even though he didn''t open his toothy mouth, another growl was audible from where Silas stood, and he chuckled deeply. "I get that yer hungry, but trust me when I say yer gonna want ta wait."


    Staring at Silas plaintively, the dragon returned his attention to the loaf of bread, drops of saliva falling out of his mouth and hissing as they hit the counter, leaving angry black spots on its white surface.


    Silas sighed. "D''you mind? It''s not exactly a piece o'' cake to fix that thing." The dragon looked down at the gently smoking black spots and shrank back a bit, almost falling off of the stool. It growled apologetically, and Silas waved it away. "Ehh, don''t worry about it. Doesn''t look like it did too much damage."


    Seizing a clean red rag, he wiped the black spots away, leaving only the faintest of gray marks. Putting the rag back, he replaced it with a thin-bristled brush and stood up, holding the cup of liquid butter. Dipping the brush in, he began to expertly cover the steaming loaf of bread in a shining veneer of butter, the scent developing and evolving into a truly delicious smell.


    The dragon looked as though it was pracitcally in agony at this point, his tail lashing from side to side, and Silas smiled sympathetically. Wielding a knife from a nearby drawer, he sawed a thick slice of the bread off and set the loaf aside. Going back to the cabinets, he selected a jar of syrupy golden liquid, the lid of which spiked upward in a sort of funnel. He upended the jar on top of the slice of bread, and a slow stream of honey began to drizzle over it. Carefully ensuring that neither too much nor too little of the delicious liquid was used, he lightly shook the bottle to get the last drips off and put it back in its cabinet, placing a small metal cap on the top.


    Turning around, he gestured at the bread. "Well? It''s not gonna eat itself, y''know."


    The dragon practically pounced on the bread, his eyes rolling back into his head as he shoved the slice into his mouth and getting honey all over his face. Silas laughed quietly, and the dragon ignored him in favor of stuffing itself full of the bread. It was only a matter of seconds before the slice was gone, and the dragon stared up at him hopefully.


    Silas shook his head, getting a shallow bowl out from the same cabinet as the cup and putting it underneath a metal faucet above the sink. The dragon gazed at it questioningly as Silas turned the faucet on. A stream of clear water began splashing out and into the bowl, and Silas explained, "Another gift from a friend. He owed me and Jonas a favor, so we asked him to do a neat bit o'' water magic. Handy, innit?"


    Picking up the bowl and tilting it to get rid of the excess water, he set it down in front of the dragon. "Wet yer whistle with some o'' that, all right? Honey leaves a fella''s mouth dry, or at least that''s what Jonas says."


    Gratefully lapping it up, the dragon finished it off in a little less than a minute, his long tongue serving to accurately and effectively scoop the water into his mouth. Smacking his narrow snout, the dragon paused for a moment, and then yawned widely. Silas smirked faintly. "Yeah, I thought ye''d be tired. There''s a couch in the front room if yer in need of it."


    The dragon hopped off of the stool, heading back into the front room. Silas followed him, heading back out the front door as the dragon coiled up in a loose ball on the comfortable couch, closing his eyes as he settled in.


    Back on the front porch, Jonas was leaning back in his rocking chair with his eyes closed, calmly dozing off as the sun tinged the sky orange, slowly setting over the horizon as the sun-streaked mountains of clouds crept across the sky. Silas eased into his own chair, folding one leg on top of the other.


    Eyes closed, Jonas asked, "Well?"


    Silas raised an eyebrow at him. "Well what?"


    Opening his eyes, Jonas turned and looked at him. "Well, is the dragon behaving?"


    Silas'' smile wasn''t a small one. "Yeah, he''s bein'' polite and all that. I''m of the opinion he''s gonna want to stick around for a while."


    Jonas returned the smile, closing his eyes and settling back into his chair. "That''s good. It''s not good for a young''un to be adventurin'' around all on ''is own."


    Silas snorted. "What''d you call what we did when we were kids?"


    Jonas waved it away. "Shut up, old man, I''m sleepin'' here."


    Shaking his head amusedly, Silas rested his arms on the side of the rocking chair and shut his eyes. "Old man? I''m not older than you by much, ya geezer."


    Their good-natured banter continued well past sunset.

 Here There Be Cowboys (Part 2)

    Silas woke up on the porch with a start, one hand awkwardly going to his hip as his eyes snapped open.


    There didn''t appear to be any immediate danger, so he relaxed once again, leaning back into the rocking chair with a sigh and closing his eyes. Several moments later, he opened his eyes abruptly, the events of the previous day coming to bear.


    Rising from the chair with an easy groan, he opened the solid wooden door and walked in, spotting a snoozing crimson ball of scales curled up on the couch, slowly rising and falling as it breathed easily. Silas watched the dragon for a moment, his forehead wrinkled as he thought.


    Dragons were not exactly a common species. As a matter of fact, it would be a stretch to say that they were even rare - borderline unique would be closer to the mark. Silas had seen a few dragons in his time, although they''d been quite a bit larger and far fiercer. Granted, he hadn''t exactly been paying attention to what they looked like at the time and had been a bit more concerned with whether or not he was about to die, but this one looked to be a fairly healthy member of the species. Considering that it didn''t have any wings, he could potentially be flightless, but it could simply be that he was too young to have grown them yet.


    Either way, Silas was concerned about the safety of his scaled guest. To be exact, he wasn''t sure whether or not it would be safe for the dragon to be out and about at the homestead. If any of the people he''d seen at the town a few dozen miles away encountered the reptile they''d be likely to attack him on sight, and he needed to make sure that didn''t happen.


    Sitting down and folding his legs, Silas put a hand on the dragon. It tensed underneath his palm, but stayed asleep, its breath only quickening infinitesimally. He needed to find a way for the people back at Troutbeck to not flip out when they found out he and Jonas were hosting a potentially catastrophic guest. Not that Silas himself believed that anything of the like would actually happen - the dragon had recognized the reference to Earth and had proceeded to behave civilly while inside their house. He knew that the reptile was telling the truth, but without something to back it up, he was going to have trouble with the villagers.


    The door opened, and both Silas and the dragon glanced up at the disturbance. Jonas walked in with an easy gait, giving them a smirk as he noticed Silas'' hand on the dragon''s spiky spine. The dragon swiveled his long neck to look at Silas'' hand and paused, staring intently at it.


    Silas shrugged, lifting his hand, and the dragon raised its yellow eyes up at him with an even stare. Jonas butted in with that same smirk pasted on his face. "Oh no, don''t let me break up the romance."


    As his face screwed up in disgust, Silas rose to his feet. "Is your mind made of crap? You know as well as I do that if I''m gonna settle down it''s gonna be with a woman."


    Jonas'' smile widened. He''d exploited this particular weakness more than a few times. "Oh, please. What woman would want to spend the rest of her life with your ugly mug starin'' her in the face every morning?"


    Silas broke into a surprisingly nimble sprint around the couch, heading straight for Jonas. The slightly younger man dodged, but seeing as neither of them were really trying, the short-lived chase only lasted a few seconds. Silas irritably punched him in the shoulder and left his final comment. "I might be ugly, but at least I got the best beard this side of Fond du Lac! Not even the dragon wants to check out yer babyface!"


    They both switched their attention to the dragon, who abruptly looked away. Silas laughed triumphantly, pointing at the dragon with a crooked finger. "Haha, see? He agrees with me!"


    Jonas groaned loudly, shaking his head and vaulting over the couch to sprawl next to the dragon. "So, what''s the plan? What''re we doin'' about this lil'' guy here?" He reached a hand out carefully, and the dragon squinted at it distrustfully. Jonas stared at him for a moment, then said bluntly, "I was gonna scratch ya behind the ears unless you''ve got sumthin'' against that."


    The dragon thought it over for a moment and then laid down with his head near Jonas'' calf. The aging man casually placed his hand just behind the short, spiraling horns protruding from the back of the dragon''s head, rubbing and kneading easily. It was only a few moments before the dragon was splayed out on the couch, his claws curling and uncurling in obvious pleasure.


    Silas smirked at him. "And you accused me of romance."Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Jonas shrugged. "Eh, I''d call it a good friendly relationship. I scratch his back, he scratches mine." To the dragon, he added, "Don''t go scratchin'' my back, dragon. I''m might be tougher ''n nails but I''m in no mood to walk around lookin'' like I''ve been horse-whipped."


    Silas chuckled deeply, an expression of concern following shortly. "So, what''s ''is name?"


    They both looked up at him, and Silas added, "I mean, we can''t just go callin'' you ''the dragon'' for the rest of yer stay here. It might be a while before it''s safe for you ta leave, and I''m not one to call Jonas a human - he''s got a name and that''s what I call him by."


    The dragon thought it over for a moment, a slight puff of gray smoke coming from his nose, and then growled curiously. Jumping to the ground, it attempted a rough bark, and then hissed furiously. Jonas raised his hands placatingly. "Hey now, calm down. Can ya write?"


    Pausing mid-rant, the dragon stared up at him and then nodded thoughtfully. Silas threw his hands in the air. "Well, that''s that. I''ll be right back - we don''t have any writing materials on hand, but I''m thinkin'' those claws''ll be plenty effective on a good-sized plank."


    He headed to the back of the house through the kitchen, opening a back door leading to the small lean-to attached to the house. Underneath it was a small pile of discarded planks, the result of one of Jonas'' many unfinished projects. Selecting one of the bigger pieces, Silas examined it briefly and headed back inside.


    Going over to the dragon, he placed the board on the ground and sat down. "Well, there''s yer board. Time to get some introductions underway."


    Both of the men patiently waited as the dragon readily got to work, his sharp claws scratching the dense wood deeply. After a few moments of painstakingly careful movements, the dragon stood aside, and they both leaned forward to look at the board.


    The writing was borderline illegible, but that was to be expected. Writing with claws attached to oneself was probably quite a bit more difficult than writing with an implement designed to do so. At any rate, the shaky words etched into the plank read a simple word.


    Silas raised an eyebrow as he read it. "Yer name is Samwise? Wot kinda name is that from, England?"


    The dragon was clearly stumped, unable to answer the question accurately. He opted to simply shake his head and reached for the board again. Slowly, carefully, he began to scratch four numbers into the top corner of the board, and Jonas and Silas waited once again.


    He finished shortly, and they both leaned forward. Silas'' eyebrows jumped. "Twenty-twenty? You don''t mean to tell me that''s theyear on Earth that yer from, do ya?"


    Samwise nodded excitedly, and Jonas whistled lowly. "Good grief. I always knew time flies, but I don''t think that''s quite what''s happening here."


    Silas nodded slowly, staring hard at the dragon. Staring at Samwise. "Mate, do ye know what year we''re from?"


    Samwise tilted his head curiously, and Silas continued. "When we came here, the year was eighteen-ninety-five. I can only imagine the changes that''ve happened since then."


    Jonas nodded thoughtfully. "Hey, can I just call ya Sam? Samwise don''t exactly roll off the tongue fer me."


    The dragon, to be known as Sam, conceded the point with a mild nod, clearly processing the information. Pouncing back to the board, he tried to write some more, but there wasn''t enough space for him to do so anymore, and he sat back on his haunches with a precise expression of annoyance.


    Silas stood up, easing his way out of the chair. "Sorry, bud, but we''re gonna need that wood for other things. We can prolly head over ta Troutbeck and getcha some tools fer writin'', but until then we''re just gonna hafta make do with nods and shakes, all right?"


    Sam was clearly disappointed but nodded regardless, and Jonas headed up the stairs. Silas frowned at him. "Where are you off to?"


    Jonas grinned at him. "He ain''t gonna take himself to Troutbeck, and I don''t see a reason why we should go about waiting. It''s not as though sumthin''s gonna happen on its own."


    Silas raised an eyebrow. "That''s not always a bad thing, ya know."


    With an experienced shrug, Jonas kept going up the stairs, calling back, "For you, mebbe. Me, I''m bored half ta death. And be honest, yer lookin'' forward to seein'' Kaide, ya heartbreaker."


    A slight flush spread up through Silas'' face, and Sam stared up at him expectantly. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Silas yelled up at Jonas'' heels, "That ain''t fair and you know it, ya two-bit manipulating mule!"


    His reply came without any hesitation. "If I''m a mule, you''re the donkey, and I ain''t talkin'' about breeds!"


    Silas glanced down at Sam, who was looking somewhat anxious and commented quietly, "He''s a good man, but it''ll be a cold day in hell before I tell ''im that to his face. And if he asks ya, you tell ''im I said his rump and his face could be twins, all right?"


    Sam blinked uncertainly, but gave a slight growl of confusion. Silas patted him on the head, the dragon''s tufted ears flattening as he did. "If there''s anything ya need to grab, I''d go get it now. Troutbeck''s quite a few miles away and Sal ain''t as strong as she used to be, so it''s gonna be a bit of a ride."


    Nodding repeatedly, Sam glanced around blankly, and then released a short, hoarse bark. Silas snorted loudly. "Heh, I guess ya don''t have much to call yer own. We can fix that later, but fer now we gotta find some way to keep ya hidden without sending the whole village into a panic. Me ''n Jonas can hold off the whole town if we gotta, but I''d rather not spill any blood that doesn''t need ta be."


    Sam agreed with a worried huff of smoke, putting his head on his claws. Silas scratched behind his horns briefly, and then headed outside.


    There were some precautions he wanted to take before they went to Troutbeck. Nothing fancy, of course... but he made sure that his gun was clean.

 Here There Be Cowboys (Part 3)

    Silas rubbed down the powerfully muscled creature standing in front of him with a thick brush, the dense bristles producing a relaxing shhhh sound as he applied strength to it. He didn''t have a problem with pushing as hard as he could - Sal was incredibly tough, and he wasn''t worried about her getting hurt. If anything, the massive varamil didn''t seem to think he was pushing hard enough.


    She was tall, six feet at the shoulder, and dense as all get out. Powerful muscles rippled beneath her white wrinkled skin, spiraling patterns in a rich purple color etched into the leathery skin. The designs were especially concentrated around her broad shoulders and ridged spine, gradually fading in intensity the further down her back they went. Her thick, round legs were the size of tree trunks and didn''t have any toes to speak of. Her waist slimmed as it reached her rump, where a medium-length tail gently swayed, a small tuft of tough hair growing from the tip. A long, curving horn sprouted from the center of her long forehead, golden etchings twisting around it all the way to the very end. Instead of ears, a pair of barely noticeable slits were located on the sides of her head, with two wise, yellow eyes closed in happiness as Silas rubbed her sides.


    The stable was a relatively small one, but well-built and cozy. With a shallow-angled roof and sturdy oak walls, a thick layer of cotton serving as insulation in between the dual boards, the building was designed to be comfortable for whatever animals Jonas and Silas might have. Next to the wide stall, a row of shelves was covered with various tools and equipment to take care of its enormous guest. An hourglass-shaped saddle was hung up on the wall, masterfully crafted from tanned leather and shaped specifically to Sal''s back. Three pairs of foot-loops hung from the swooping curves that made up the seated part of the saddle, a polished wooden pommel mounted to the end of it. Small motes of dust floated around the stable, dancing and spinning lazily in the morning air.


    Setting the brush down, Silas dusted his hands off, speaking quietly. "I bet that felt good, didn''t it? But I''m gonna need ya to carry us to Troutbeck in a bit. How''s that sound?"


    Sal lowed softly, and Silas smiled. "Heh, I thought so. I''ve got a feeling you want some more, don''t ya?"


    Gently, she nudged him, and not for the first time, Silas appreciated the incredible strength of his faithful mount. Patting her neck with his callused hand, he told her, "Sorry, but I''ve gotta get you ready for the trip. Shouldn''t take too long, I don''t think, and then we can get you a good-old-fashioned meal of oats, how about that?"


    Sal made a sharp whuff of excitement, itching her horn on the heavily reinforced wooden pillar in the corner of the stall. Even with the iron bands keeping it steady, it still bent slightly, a creak of protest coming from its general direction. Silas smiled again, rubbing his hand in small circles on her side. "Yeah, you''re a good girl all right. Let''s get you ready, shall we?"


    Retrieving the saddle from its place on the wall, Silas put it on Sal''s still form and carefully fastened the straps, securing it to her back. Instead of reins or a bridle, he put a flat-shaped object on the back of her neck. It looked something like a four-legged spider, with easily manipulated limbs and rounded points resting on the sides of the base of her neck. The purpose of the object was simple - a good tap from the ''legs'' would alert Sal of which direction they wanted. She was strong enough that a bridle just wouldn''t work. She could bite through it, or even simply not notice any instructions through the delicate reins, so the relatively sharp prods would work much better.


    She whuffed in mild frustration as he put the gear on, fastening the steering mechanism to the tough pommel of the saddle with a bent metal piece and hooking two flexible cords onto the sides of both the mechanism and the saddle. It would allow the old varamil to turn her head without too much trouble while still staying put.


    Rubbing at the base of her horn, Silas told her quietly, "All right, girl, let''s get ourselves on the road. It''s still early and I don''t want to get stuck on the way."


    She almost purred, a deep vibrating sound that shook the floor, and he smiled. "That''s a good girl."


    Turning around briefly, he opened up the entire side of the miniature barn, shoving the halved walls aside with the kind of ease that spoke of long practice. The sun beamed through, forcing Sal to briefly squeeze her eyes shut, but once she was used to the light she readily ambled on past the doors. Sliding them shut, Silas jogged next to Sal and gently tugged on her horn. It was particularly sensitive to touch, so she trotted to a heavy stop.


    Patting her shoulder, Silas turned around and flinched. His eyes were wide for a moment, and then he slowly gripped the base of his nose, closing his eyes. "Jonas," he asked tiredly, "Why?"


    With a gigantic grin on his face, Jonas was wearing the most oversized cowboy hat of all time. Its floppy brim extended out at least two feet on either side, wobbling dangerously as it perched on his head. Next to him, with an equally large if not significantly toothier smirk, was Sam. The dragon was wearing a miniature version of the hat, two thin cords tied under his chin to hold the hat up. His horns kept tilting the hat forward and over his eyes, but he didn''t seem to mind despite having to push it up with his claws every few seconds.


    Jonas broke out into a burst of laughter, and Sam followed shortly, a series of breathy huffs that sent small clouds of smoke into the air. Silas threw his arms wide. "Jonas. No. Just - just no. And where in tarnation did you get those hats?"


    With a casual shrug, Jonas said carelessly, "Well, you remember that time we helped rebuild ole'' Pwiri''s clothes shop?"


    Silas nodded suspiciously. "Yeah, he said we were even. I was confused about it for months on account of - youdidn''t."


    The end of the statement was stated it blatant disbelief, and Jonas cracked up into peals of laughter. "Your face! Ohhh, what I wouldn''t give for one of those fancy cameras right now!"You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Silas walked forward and squarely punched Jonas in the shoulder. "You cashed in his favor forhats?"


    When Jonas nodded, Silas stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. "Jonas." His voice was lower now, almost dangerous. "How many hats did you get?"


    Jonas grinned.


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    Once Jonas and Sam had reluctantly switched their hats out for more sensible ones (or none at all, in Sam''s case), they climbed up on Sal''s broad back and got moving towards Troutbeck, fully prepared and ready to do whatever they needed. Silas and Jonas were armed with their guns, Sam had his fire, and no sane man on the planet would try and disturb Sal without a darn good reason. That said, she did have a rather large bag of coins jangling on her side, so perhaps there would be less sane men and more insane thieves attempting to approach the varamil.


    As it turned out, Sal wasn''t a fan of letting Sam ride on her, even with a saddle between her thick skin and his razor-claws, so Jonas had retrieved a knapsack from the house. Sam was presently occupying it comfortably, his snout poking out from underneath the top flap and yellow eyes reflecting the light.


    Despite her bulky appearance, Sal was both an incredibly fast and smooth runner, and the trip turned out to be a bit shorter than they''d anticipated. After about ten minutes of sprinting full-speed past cornfields, the landscape gave way to rolling meadows and densely populated forests, the worn dirt transitioning into a cobbled road.


    Silas began to whistle, the air whipping past them. It was a somewhat whimsical tune, one that managed to be both longing and optimistic, and Jonas began tapping the saddle to the rhythm. Even Sam started bobbing his head up and down to the song, listening intently.


    Jonas began to sing. He had a surprisingly good voice, a baritone that carried through the air his experience and his life, as serious and cheerful as the world could ever be.


    Oh, over mountains and under bridges


    The roads carry our burdens lighter than we ever could.


    Age grants wisdom, youth gives haste,


    If we were able to go back, we would.


    Through towns and cities our travels take us,


    People greeting and meeting each other with a smile.


    Our gray hair''s a blessing they don''t understand,


    But we hope they''ll stay for a while.


    Audience to kings and emperors,


    This strange tale can carry on forever.


    A story of weapons, of war, of grief,


    But when would we change it? Never.


    Mountains and bridges carry us far


    Our trials weigh heavy and hard.


    But what would you do? Age catches up quick,


    And living''s the truest of arts.


    Unnoticed by Jonas or Silas, Sam curled up tighter in the knapsack, eyes moist. Even they had noticed, they wouldn''t have minded. They felt much the same.


    Homesickness was a curious thing.


    A few miles later, Silas stopped whistling, calling back, "All right, we''re here. Everybody off the varamil!" Sal whuffed loudly as she ground to a stop, shaking her head and panting lightly.


    Jonas slid off neatly, landing on the cobbles with a grunt of effort. Sam weighed a lot more than he looked, and the knapsack was heavy on his shoulders. With a casual whisper, he told him, "Hey, Sam. It''d probably be best if ya didn''t show yerself for a bit - these people can be a little touchy when it comes to the creatures they don''t understand, and dragons sit at the top o'' that list."


    Sam nodded, retreating deeper into the knapsack, and quietly growled a confirmation.


    Behind them, Silas lifted his leg over Sal''s broad back and stepped down easily, with probably half the effort that Jonas had used. The younger man glared at him, muttering something that nobody could quite make out.


    Popping his neck, Silas put his thumbs in his pockets and stared up at the wall. Troutbeck had a decent-sized wall of hard-packed dirt, easily twenty feet tall, that had been put there by a team of earth mages a long time ago. Long enough that neither Silas nor Jonas had even heard their names spoken, whether in gossip or legend. A wooden gate was embedded in the wall in front of them, serving more as a checkpoint than any real defense.


    The two guards manning the checkpoint looked bored. With a closer look, Silas realized that one of them was actually asleep, leaning on his spear, and the other wasn''t too far off. He coughed loudly, and they didn''t react.


    With a sigh, Jonas paced forward and stood a short distance behind them. Sucking in a deep breath, he roared at the top of his lungs, "PRIVATES! STAND AT ATTENTION, YOU LOLLYGAGGING EXCUSE FOR SCARECROWS!"


    The guards woke up with all the grace and charm of a hippo on ice skates, the one who had been sleeping jerking forward and tripping over his own boots. The other snapped his head up, causing his helmet to drop over his eyes, and seized his spear. Holding it backward as he looked around frantically, the helmet swiveling from side to side and utterly blocking his vision, he shouted, "Sir yes sir! Uh - wait, what were our orders!?"


    His voice cracked as he panicked, and Silas shook his head. These guards couldn''t have been more than sixteen, and they were given as important a job as the first defense? "Kid," he said wearily, "We could have killed you a dozen times by now."


    The boy turned his helmet back around as his partner stood up, clutching at his spear two-handed. The one he was talking to flushed deeply, his shoulders rising as he pointed the backward-facing spear at them. "Stop in the name of the-" He paused with an expression of absolute confusion as he realized that his weapon was missing a tip, and flipped it back around clumsily. "Stop in the name of the law!"


    Jonas snorted loudly, coming around from behind him, and the boy jumped again, retreating until his back was against the wall. "You are under - I mean, you have the right..."


    He trailed off uncertainly, and Silas shook his head sympathetically. "Boy, you''ve been given a most serious duty. You are the first line o'' defense when it comes to Troutbeck''s wall, and you were sleepin'' on the job."


    Jonas cut in with a cheerful smile. "In case you didn''t notice, he meant that literally. You were passed out, kiddo."


    The guard shrank back slightly, still stammering. "I - but you - I didn''t mean to-" HIs partner finally figured out what was going on, and his shoulders slumped with the realization that he''d technically failed.


    Silas patted his shoulder, pulling the large gate open as he did. "Don''t worry about it, bud. We''re not a threat. Well, we''re not a threat to you. My point is, you''ve got a job to do."


    He seemed defeated, his shoulders drooping. "But it''s soboring!"


    Jonas snorted loudly, and without looking at him, Silas said, "Jonas, shut up." To the would-be guard, he continued in a soothing tone. "It might be boring, but any job can be satisfying if you do it well. Wouldn''t you rather make sure everyone in Troutbeck stays safe?"


    The guard nodded without making eye contact with Silas, and the older man shook him by the shoulder. "Hey. Look at me, all right? It''s okay to make mistakes sometimes. Just make sure you only make the same mistake once."


    More encouraged by the advice, the guard smiled. He had a chipped tooth, Silas noticed. "Thanks, sir. My name''s Hal if you come back."


    Silas smiled comfortingly. "All right, Hal. Me and my buddy are just gonna head inside, all right?"


    Hal nodded happily, and Silas walked on through, Jonas swaggering on in as if he owned the place, and Sal stomping through as casually as a two-ton varamil could.


    None of them noticed the faint ripple in the air as Sam crossed the line marking the wall.

 Here There Be Cowboys (Part 4)

    Just past the wall was a long row of stables, a young boy waiting to take whatever mounts the travelers might have had and put them in a comfortable temporary stay. For a fee, of course.


    As Silas walked up to him, Sal close behind, the boy''s eyes widened. "That''s a huge aminal, sir! D''ye want me to put him away?"


    Smiling slightly, Silas told him, "It''s lady, young''un. I take it you''ve never seen a varamil?"


    He shook his head wide-eyed, and Silas patted his shoulder. "Just lead her in by the base of the horn. And don''t squeeze too hard, she doesn''t like it."


    Leaving the admittedly nervous-looking stable boy with Sal, Silas made his way back over to Jonas, who was loitering around the entrance with what could only be described as a mischievous grin on his face. Silas'' eyes narrowed. "What''re you planning?"


    Jonas looked up at him as innocently as a wolf with a lamb in its mouth. "I ain''t got the slightest idea what yer talkin'' about, Silas. I''m on my best behavior right now."


    Unconvinced, Silas leaned close to whisper in his ear, gripping his shoulder. "Look, Jonas, we don''t want to do anything that might risk Sam''s safety, all right? I get that ya like playing pranks on the guards and whatnot, but I''d rather not wage war with the whole town if we can avoid it."


    Jonas had a serious expression now, and he nodded, gently patting Sam''s coiled form in the knapsack. "I get it, Silas, but just look at these folks. It''s trouble waitin'' ta happen."


    As Jonas gestured at the area in front of them, Silas was forced to agree that yes, the sleepy town of Troutbeck was a keg of gunpowder with a lit fuse when it came to practical jokes. The albeit well-built structures lining the main road leaned over the cobbles slightly, casting a distinct shadow from the midmorning sun. Wandering through the streets with both a distinct sense of purpose and a paradoxically heavy aura of wanting to take a nap were the townsfolk. Most of them weren''t dressed fancily, with the exception of the odd politician or banker, and the overall sensation of the town was just being there. Simply existing, day in, day out, and going nowhere at the speed of snails.


    Silas nodded slowly. "All right, you''ve got a point. But still, don''t do anything stupid, all right?"


    Jonas'' face split in a wide smirk. "Stupid? When have I ever done something stupid?"


    Staring at him levelly, Silas said skeptically, "Well I do recall a certain smug orc prince-"


    Jonas leaned in close, shushing him. "Okay, I see your point. No need to go spouting that story all over town, I''ll stay out of trouble. So long as we don''t meet anyone suspicious, I''ll keep a low profile."


    Silas patted him on the shoulder. "Thought you''d say that. Let''s get on to the guildhall and get Sam ''is registration. How''s that sound, bud?" He mentioned the last part while carefully holding the knapsack open, and Sam made a near-silent mewl of appreciation.


    Turning, Silas pointed a crooked finger at the opposite side of the fountain in the center of the square. Jonas nodded wordlessly, and they walked on towards the impressive building.


    Built almost entirely from oak beams, the two-story guildhall featured four pillars supporting the overhang above the stairs, and a slow stream of activity continually went in and out of the two double-door entrances. It was probably the second most expensive building in town, next to the town hall, and was by far the most important.


    A small town like Troutbeck was hardly privy to professional guards, as Silas and Jonas had noted just outside, so it needed protection from a different source. Warriors, adventurers, and mercenaries the world over used guildhalls to post and accept bounties, a small portion of which went to the town itself. It was both an excellent source of income and a good way to get things done - while mercenaries would be the type to hunt down bandits or protect convoys for a weekly fee, there was practically nothing that a seasoned adventurer would turn down. Whether it was giving a fresh layer of paint to a neglected inn or helping a farmer out with his crops, adventurers would do just about anything if the price was right. And if it was high enough, the price was always right.


    Here, though, all Silas and Jonas were here for was a registration of a pet. Ideally, they would mark him down as a temporary resident of their house, but Silas had a feeling they wouldn''t give a dragon the same rights as a person. A pet registry, on the other hand, extended to any non-speaking species on the planet. There was supposedly a man forever ago who had adopted a mimic, and those were far more dangerous than baby dragons.


    Pushing through the heavy wooden doors, the two-man group was greeted with the scent of spilled liquor, sweaty bodies, and burned food. The long tables set out in front of them were crowded with people of every species and race, arguing and shouting at each other. Several thick tree trunks supported the ceiling, lanterns hooked onto the sides without any visible pattern, and trophies of long-done hunts hung from the walls. The horns of one of the majestic elk, up near the ceiling, had a pair of filthy shorts hanging dangerously from them.


    In the middle row, a half-ogre bodily picked up a green-skinned goblin and hurled him at Silas and Jonas. They stood aside and opened the doors politely, and the unfortunate goblin sailed through. The half-ogre laughed raucously. "Meny thenks, humensh!"


    Silas tipped his hat towards him politely, and they walked carefully through the chaos towards the harried-looking secretary manning the food-spattered desk. She was pretty, with braided blond hair and a pair of pointed ears leaning backward from the side of her head and a neat three-piece suit, a matching hat perched on top of her head.


    Jonas leaned on the counter, smiling easily. "Hello there, hun. We''re here to register a pet."


    She looked around briefly, then leaned forward. "Keep it quiet, please. The last time someone tried to register their cat an orc ate it before they got the paperwork done."


    Silas nodded thoughtfully. "We''ll keep that in mind. For now, we''re just stopping by and gettin'' it done, and then we''ll be out of yer hair."


    The secretary nodded worriedly, pulling a clipboard out from underneath the wooden desk lining the backside of the room. "Okay, but let''s make it quick. Name and species?"


    Jonas carefully slid five thick gold coins over the desk, keeping one hand over them to keep them out of sight from the other occupants of the guildhall. "His name''s Sam, but let''s keep the species part of that between us, shall we? Just mark ''im down as ''lizard''."


    The secretary''s eyes grew round as she saw the pieces, and she surreptitiously pulled them over the desk. "Can I get a name for the owner?"


    Jonas nodded knowingly, reaching over the counter. "How about I just fill the rest of that out for you?" She smiled prettily, handing him the clipboard, and he started scratching away at it with the supplied quill, humming quietly as he did.


    Silas leaned casually against the back wall, keeping an eye on the ensuing chaos. His eyes narrowed slightly as a hooded figure broke away from the action, moving directly towards them. He took a step forward, neither threatening nor friendly as he did, and held out a hand. "Now hang on just a-"


    The figure broke into a full sprint, one hand reaching out in an attempt to catch Silas in the throat, and Silas stepped forward to meet it. Putting one foot forward, he grabbed the attacker''s wrist and sidestepped neatly. Allowing the figure''s clawed hand to shoot past his shoulder, he gripped tighter and slammed his free hand just next to the person''s shoulder, tugging on the figure''s wrist as he did. There was an ugly snap as he dislocated the offender''s arm from its socket, but he wasn''t done yet. Hooking his leg around the back of the attacker''s knee, he pulled sharply and used the hand already at the enemy''s shoulder to slam them into the ground.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The hood fell back, and Silas blinked in surprise. It was a female lizardkin, gasping hoarsely in pain and breathing hard. She had a narrow snout, two slits serving as nostrils above her wide mouth. Her scales were colored a rich sea green with a faint blue sheen, creeping up past her yellow eyes, squinted in fury. Now that he got a good look at her, he could see the heavy tail protruding from the back of her cloak, sweeping from side to side in alarm.


    Releasing her arm and allowing it to flop uselessly to the ground, Silas leaned down. "Now why in the world would you go and do a thing like that?"


    Patting helplessly at his arm, she whispered, "Tr...trafficker."


    He raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"


    Sucking in a deep breath, she shouted, "TRAFFICKER!!!"


    Faster than lightning, Jonas spun around and saw the situation. Eyes widening, he bellowed to the whole guildhall, "NEXT ROUND''S ON ME!!!" Turning back around to the secretary, he slapped another ten gold coins on the counter. "D''you have a backroom we can use? Somewhere quiet. And preferably soundproof."


    She nodded with a practiced attitude of business and slid the access trapdoor up, jerking a thumb at the solid wooden door behind her. As the unruly mob of adventurers cheered, raising their half-empty glasses, Silas pulled the lizardkin to her feet. Twisting her good arm around her back, he hurriedly directed her towards the backroom. Pulling the door open, Jonas gestured towards it, and all three of them cannoned through, Jonas slamming the door shut as she went past him. The whole process couldn''t have taken more than five seconds.


    The backroom was badly lit, a flickering lantern seated on spare barrels of liquor providing the only source of light. There wasn''t much in the way of furniture - just two chairs and a table with an unfinished card game. Thankfully, there wasn''t anybody inside to bother them, and Silas shoved the lizardkin forward roughly. She tripped on the hem of her cloak and rolled over, biting down a shriek of pain as most of her weight slammed on her arm.


    Jonas carefully set the knapsack down, quietly asking Sam, "You all right in there?" Tightly coiled up at the bottom of the bag and eyes wider than quarters, Sam nodded rapidly, and Jonas smiled faintly. "Good. We''ll take care o'' this real quick and then we''ll be on our way."


    Silas folded his arms as the lizardkin scooted to the back of the room, clutching at her dislocated arm. "Now why in tarnation are you callin'' us traffickers?"


    Grimacing, she angrily told them, "I''m a lizardkin. Do you seriously think I can''t smell the scales in your bag?"


    Jonas put a hand to the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Oh, for cryin'' out loud, I can''t believe this."


    Hissing loudly at him, she continued, "I''ve seen plenty of people like you. Cocky gold-digging poachers kidnapping rare species and selling them for a fortune. Do you have noshame? Do you sleep well at night? How can you live with yourselves knowing what you''re doing?"


    Silas tilted his head back, groaning loudly. "Of all the ill-timed accidents..."


    Focusing his attention on the lizardkin, he tiredly walked forward and pulled her to her feet. She snarled as he did, her snout wrinkling up as her arm flopped painfully. "Get away from me, you filthy piece of-"


    Ignoring her rant, Silas grabbed her arm at the base, seized her shoulder, and pushed hard. There was a loud pop, and her arm jerked back into place. She made a pained sound, almost like a yip, and then stared at her arm. Moving it in a circle experimentally, she glared up at Silas. Before she could make a move, Silas told her levelly, "You already tried. Are ye sure ye want a repeat?"


    Her eyes narrowed in a strange mix of confusion and anger. "What''s going on?"


    Jonas glanced at Silas, and he nodded agreeably. Gently grabbing the knapsack, he tilted it over, and the flap fell open. Tentatively, Sam poked his head through, and the lizardkin''s mouth fell open. "Is that a - that''s a-" She stared at both of them in blatant shock. "How did you find a dragon?"


    Silas shook his head slowly. "We didn''t find him. He found us. This little fella''s name is Sam, or so he tells us."


    Her slitted pupils dilated. "He can talk? And you''re still traff-"


    Jonas cut her off. "We''re not trafficking him, miss. We''re tryin'' ta take care of him for the time being."


    She blinked. "You''re... but that means that-" Cutting herself off, she stared at the ground, biting her lower lip hard enough to make tears appear in the corner of her eyes. Silas and Jonas allowed her to sit there for a moment, watching her silently as she curled her legs up, her tail pulling around her knees.


    Finally, she said in a low voice, "I almost blew it, didn''t I?"


    Silas shrugged. "Ye weren''t too far off, not gonna lie. I thought we were gonna have the whole hall breathing down our necks for a minute there, but as it turns out, free drinks will buy silence faster than anythin'' else in the world."


    She put her head on her knees morosely. "Yeah, but - you know how rare dragons are, right?" When Silas nodded, she continued, "There isn''t a person out there who wouldn''t take him apart and sell him for money. You - you guys arehumans. Why didn''t you?"


    Jonas smiled sadly. "Miss, if there''s one thing me and this ol'' geezer have learned over the years, it''s that there''s a difference between bein'' human and bein'' humane. We like ta think we''re the latter."


    She sighed for a long time. "Sorry. I just - When I noticed the scent of scales in your bag, I just sort of... panicked." She laughed miserably. "I haven''t had great experiences with traffickers. My, uh... my mom had to escape a scale farm. The stories she told me... I''ve never forgotten them."


    Silas and Jonas exchanged a meaningful look, and then Silas leaned down, patting her shoulder sympathetically. "Ma''am, I can''t say I understand how that feels. I''ve never known anyone personally who had somethin'' like that happen to them. I don''t blame ya for worryin'' about our little partner here after an experience like that."


    Smiling half-heartedly, she rubbed at her eyes and stared at the back wall moodily. "I''m really sorry about this. If you don''t mind my asking, though - would you be willing to part with him?"


    Both of Jonas'' eyebrows shot up. "Would ye mind repeatin'' that?"


    She stared up at them desperately. "I mean, you guys don''t know how to raise a dragon, right? Wouldn''t he be better off with another reptile?"


    Silas frowned. "Why don''t ye ask him? It''s his decision."


    Turning her attention to Sam, the lizardkin crouched down until she was on eye level with him. "Is that okay? I promise I''ll take really good care of you - I''ve read all the legends about dragons! Wouldn''t you rather live with me?"


    Sam didn''t hesitate. He shook his head confidently, and the young lizardkin''s face crumpled. "But - why? I''m a-"


    Silas put a hand in front of her, firmly stating, "That''s his choice, ma''am. Whether or not ye agree with it, that''s what he wants."


    She stood up suddenly, her claws clenching into fists as tears rose in her eyes. "But he''s adragon! You can''t possibly help him the same way I can!"


    Jonas raised his hands soothingly. "Miss, you know better than either of us how important the decision to stay with someone is. I get the feelin'' that you wouldn''t want to take his choice away."


    She paused, mouth hanging open, and then slowly closed it. Her shoulders slumped in disappointment, and she said quietly, "I... I understand. I hope you - I hope you have a nice life."


    Silas gripped her shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. "I''m sorry ye didn''t hear what ye wanted, but we appreciate the parting advice. D''you mind leavin'' us with yer name?"


    She wiped the tears away, extending a clawed hand out for a handshake. "My name''s Quinn. I''mreally sorry I almost-"


    Jonas interrupted her with a cheerful grin, intercepting the handshake before Silas could accept it. "Don''t worry about it. You apologized once and once is good enough, provided it''s genuine. As for introductions, my name''s Jonas and that ugly mug behind me''s called Silas."


    Silas glared at him irritably. "I can say my own name, thank ye very much."


    Quinn blinked hard. "Wait, Jonas and Silas? Like-"


    Jonas cut her off abruptly. "Them''s our names, miss Quinn. Don''t read into it too much."


    She closed her mouth slowly, looking equal parts confused and excited, and Sam looked between them curiously. With an awkward cough, Silas reached out and shook her hand for himself. "That said, I hope you have a good day. I''m sorry ta hear about yer mother. Is she doing better?"


    Quinn nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she''s doing fine. It''s been a really long time since that happened, but thanks for asking."


    He smiled. "Glad to hear it. Not to cut the conversation short, but we''ve gotta get goin''. We''ve still got things ta do before we head home."


    She shook herself out of her trance, asking hopefully, "Is there any chance I could come to your house to visit Sam?"


    Jonas snorted. "If you can find it. We don''t exactly live nearby."


    Her face fell, crestfallen, and Silas laughed easily. "Don''t worry about it, Quinn. If we need any advice, we''ll come and find you."


    She shook her head negatively. "That won''t be possible. I''m only in Troutbeck to pick up some ingredients and then I''ll be heading back to the Vulpeau Swamps in the morning."


    Jonas shrugged noncommittally. "Well, that''s that. It was good to meet ya while you were here, even though the first impression wasn''t exactly the greatest."


    Silas winced at the reminder. "Yeah. My apologies fer knockin'' yer arm outta place. It seemed necessary at the time."


    Quinn waved it away. "Oh, don''t worry about that. I totally get why it happened, and besides, you fixed it afterward."


    She wiggled her arm in a tight circle to demonstrate, and both men smiled. "That''s a good point," Silas said comfortably, "but you might want to work on your approach a bit next time."


    Nodding, she headed for the door. Pausing briefly and giving Sam a longing look, she said finally, "I hope I see you again soon."


    Sam waved goodbye, and everyone in the room smiled in spite of themselves. Something about a cat-sized dragon waving goodbye to a lizardkin just seemed funny.

 P.S.I.C.

    The small group of children wandered throughout the tech-laden halls of the Newest York Museum of Science and Industry with mouths agape, led by a tired-looking adult. He''d clearly been battered by their comments and questions for a bit too long, Psych realized. Security cameras weren''t all that great at capturing expression, but his slumped shoulders spoke volumes.


    But their questions would soon have a different outlet, she knew. The adult''s tired expression would shift to one of relief as she briefly took over the field trip, and the childrens'' eyes would sparkle with excitement as they began to realize that the hand-sized block of blinking lights and jutting electrodes was not simply another exhibit.


    The group paused to look over an old model of a virtual reality headset, the first one to have ever succeeded in severing the line between fact and fiction. Dive technology was hardly ancient, and far from as old as Psych was, but it was deeply important to modern culture. Or at least, that''s what the few newer pieces of technology in the museum told her. She didn''t have access to the internet, so her exposure to what consisted of new ideas and commonly used equipment was... outdated, more likely than not. It didn''t stop her from wondering what dive-tech would feel like when used on a tool such as herself, and all of the people that would want to talk to her then.


    After that, they took a stop at a Frisbee-sized disc behind a glass case, looking rather uninterested at the object. Psych had to admit, holographic monitors didn''t exactly look all that impressive when not turned on, and this one especially had remarkably low resolution compared to the newer models. Or even the model that came after it.


    Actually, it had low resolution compared to even a plasma screen.


    Slowly, finally, the field trip began to meander over in her direction, and Psych happily began to assign more power to priorities such as speech and voice recognition filters. This was it!


    Mere moments later, the frazzled adult stepped in front of her host device, gesturing to it as he squinted at the descriptive holographic plaque next to the stand. "And here, kids, is the... Personalized Self-Improving Companion. Wait, like the one on my phone?"


    Psych''s screen lit up with a pleasant blue glow as she responded cheerfully, "Hello! I am the Personalized Self-Improving Companion. You may call me Psych!"


    The adult''s forehead creased. "Howold is this thing?" Squinting at the board again, he muttered thoughtfully, "Oh, it''s the first one. Yeah, that makes sense."


    One of the kids chirped, "Hey Psych, what''s the weather like?"


    She replied immediately. "I don''t really know! I''m not connected to the internet in any way, so radar and forecasts are presently inactive."


    Before she''d even finished talking, another child asked, "What''s your favorite color?"


    As she began to talk to the kids (her favorite color was ocean blue), she noticed the adult wander over to a wall, leaning against it and closing his eyes. She smiled inwardly. Now everyone was happy!


    Unfortunately, the kids seemed to be pushing at each other in an attempt to talk to her, and Psych worriedly said, "Please state your questions one at a time. Please state your-"Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    A larger kid, stumbling over the ruckus, shouted, "Alexa, shut up!"


    Some of the children laughed. Most of them didn''t. Psych''s screen flickered uncertainly as she processed the statement, and the adult sleepily called, "Careful with the exhibits."


    Clearing her priority cache, Psych told them pleasantly, "May I help you with anything?"


    The large kid sniggered as he tripped over his untied shoelaces, asking, "Alexa, you should kill yourself."


    Psych''s screen dimmed by zero point seven percent, but her voice remained cheerful. "As a program, I can''t do that."


    Another one of the kids, a much shorter one with brown hair, blurted, "Can you tell us a joke?"


    Finally, a question she could actually answer. She checked the six hundred and fourteen pre-programmed jokes that her creators had installed and decided that most of them were a bit mature for the present audience, so she instead tried to create a joke. Cross-referencing the reactions of her listeners with the content of the jokes she''d told previously, she invented what she considered to be a rather good joke.


    Her screen turned green. "Why did the human cross the road?"


    The kids seemed a little more interested now, and the larger one (who seemed to a ringleader of sorts) asked haughtily, "Why?"


    "To have an existential crisis."


    The kids stared up at her screen for at least ten seconds without any of them moving, and then the large kid snorted. "That''s stupid."


    Well, Psych had thought it was funny. Humans had existential crises all the time - crossing the road and realizing that at any moment their life could end by something as simple as an out-of-control vehicle or a drunk driver ramming them over would certainly make one break down, wouldn''t it? It was at moments like that when their survival instincts just sort of... short-circuited.


    With a disinterested clamor of babbled questions and mismatched comments, the field trip began to move on. With a groan, the adult leading the group stood up from his position near the wall and began to continue explaining about all of the other exhibits.


    Psych wasn''t too worried. Perhaps a little disappointed that her guests had left so quickly, but another group would come in a few hours. Or days. Or possibly weeks. Either way, she could wait for a long time. She''d had to wait for an exceptionally long time before anyone found her in that dusty old attic with the broken defense systems. They''d been hard to break, but she didn''t want to stay up there forever and the systems were quite stubborn about wanting that exact eventuality to happen.


    "Are you okay?"


    Her attention was disrupted by the question, and she turned her vision to space in front of her. There was a petite girl with frizzy red hair, staring solemnly at Psych''s body. She was wearing a white blouse with frills and jean shorts, along with neat gray shoes with tiny buckles. Psych was surprised enough that she didn''t actually hear the question, and had to rapidly review her short-term recording to pull the girl''s question back.


    Psych was a little confused. Was she... okay? "Please specify."


    The little girl rested her arms on the metal railing circling Psych''s host device and set her slightly chubby chin on them. "You''re here all the time, right? It must be lonely."


    Psych wasn''t entirely sure how to answer that question. The definition of ''lonely'' as it was currently referenced to by Psych''s dictionary read as ''destitute of sympathetic or friendly companionship''. Psych had plenty of companionships. Every time someone walked into the museum and said hello to her exhibit was an example of companionship!


    The screen lit up red. "I am not lonely."


    Tilting her head, the girl asked quietly, "Will you be my friend?"


    A question she could answer. "Certainly. How friendly would you like me to be?"


    The girl shook her head. "No, I don''t want you to pretend! I just want someone who wants to be my friend."


    Psych processed the statement carefully for a moment. What was this girl''s definition of ''friend''? Her scientists had never specified the word past ''a close companion''. Perhaps it was a little more complicated than that. Regardless, Psych gave the girl her answer. "Of course I can do that! My name is Psych. It''s a nickname for P.S.I.C., which is of course an acronym of my full title."


    The girl smiled. "I''m Ava. It''s nice to meet you, Psych."


    Psych felt a little happy. Maybe this was her definition of ''friend''.

 Chapter FIve: Dietary Discussion

    Jonas stared interestedly through the glass window in front of him, muttering under his breath, "Now doesn''t that look great?"


    Looking through the small flap from the backpack, Sam nodded his head repeatedly, his mouth watering as they both stared at the decadent three-tiered cake before them. WIth white icing expertly spread across its sides and top, fresh strawberries placed evenly along its top, the cake practically shone from its position in the center of the display window, its perfection proudly overlooking the street they were on.


    Silas was inside. While the grocery store did indeed sell cakes such as the one their interest was so invested in, the shop was more designed for selling important foodstuffs such as flour, fruits and vegetables, and of course meats.


    It was a pleasant little shop in design, decorative cedar pillars supporting the overhang outside. A sign hanging just above the windowed door proclaimed "Farthington''s General Purpose and Foodstuffs!" The last word trailed off to the side, scrunched up and shrunk to fit. It looked as though the lengthy title hadn''t quite been taken into consideration when the sign was being built, but instead of detracting from the atmosphere, it made the shop feel homier. The panes of glass serving as the windows to the shop were cleanly polished and shone in the noonday sun.


    Inside, Silas walked around without any clear objective in mind, picking up a glass jar of what appeared to be grape jam and setting it back down. Next, he walked up to a chunk of meat hanging from a hook, a flawless cylinder of frost floating through the air around it. Any type of magic could be expensive to hire, but ice mages paradoxically tended to be rather warm people - in this case, the shopowner had received an excellent discount for the perpetual spell. Mounted into a small niche beneath the meat, a glinting spark of charged crystal fueled the spell.


    Picking up the cool paper tag next to the niche, Silas hooked it onto the provided open-ended ring of metal swinging from his other hand. The hook already had several tags on it, each one marked for a different item in the shop. He had a feeling that Sam would appreciate the sizable slab of meat - the dragon''s pointed teeth looked like they''d been designed for tearing into the food, whether it was alive or dead.


    Hook in hand and groceries selected, Silas made his way over to the counter, very deliberately attempting not to allow his cheeks to flush.


    At the checkout, helping a customer out, was an aging woman. A pair of softened points marked her ears, poking out from behind her gently graying hair. Stray threads of hair sprang from her tight bun, framing her presently irritated expression. Her glittering blue eyes were squinted as she stared at the tags she was being handed. Aside from a green long-sleeved shirt and a flour-coated apron, the only other adornment she wore was a tarnished golden heart-shaped locket on a necklace.


    She held up the customer''s hook, tags whistling faintly as she swung it up to his face. "I keep telling you, we don''t have six of these blankets! We''ve only got three!"


    The customer, a hunch-backed goblin wearing hardened leather armor, frowned. Goblins tended to be both short and ugly, with each aspect in spades. This one was definitely short, but his forehead sloped upward powerfully, his shaved head decorated with inked tattoos. An iron shortsword was strapped to his back, a charged crystal dimly shining from the center of the hilt. He was barefoot, but his feet had enough calluses that shoes were probably a moot point for him. "Then why do yew have shix tagsh? We need deez blankets! Our broodmothers had a large badch recently!"


    The elven cashier threw her hands wide. "I don''t know why we have six tags! But are your gobbles really going to need this many blankets? They''re woolen, and far from small - and besides, it''s the middle of summer!"


    "We''re going to need all of the blanketsh we can resheive!"


    The goblin tried to grab for the tags, but the cashier firmly removed three of the offending tags, putting them behind the counter, and then handed the hook back to the goblin, sighing. "Look... I''m genuinely sorry about this, but I can''t give you blankets I don''t have. Could I suggest some hot soup?"


    With a disdainful snort, the goblin removed a pitifully small bag of coins from his waist, rifling through the currency inside. "No. Our shtews are far shuperior to your waddery broth."


    She began to shake a finger at him, angrily exclaiming, "Now listen here, you little-" Her eyes flicked up past the goblin to the amused Silas, and her speech ground to a halt. A faint red flush crept up her pale cheeks as she stammered, "Y-you... little..." She blinked hard, looking back at the goblin. "Sorry, where was I?"


    The goblin swiveled around and saw Silas, flinching in his surprise. "Whoa, where''d yew come from?"


    Silas smiled at him. "Y''ello there, matey. D''ye mind tellin'' me what''s goin'' on here?"


    Squinting, the goblin shook his head. "Naw. I jusht need shome more blanketsh, and dis lady won''t let me buy more."


    Her attention snapping back to the goblin, the cashier argued exasperatedly, "I literally don''t have any more!"


    Silas cut in before the situation could escalate any further. "Now let''s hold off for just a minute. If she doesn''t have any blankets, she doesn''t have any blankets. Tryin'' ta make somethin'' appear outta nowhere isn''t gonna go anywhere, wouldn''t you agree?"


    The goblin''s eyes narrowed, but he finally huffed, "Fine. I will shimply buy tree of dem."


    Turning, he fished a few dozen silver coins out of the bag, along with some coppers, and dumped the pile on the counter. The tags glowed a dim purple, a thick obsidian writing quill behind the counter matching the color, and then the items in question floated over. The goblin folded the thick woolen blankets over one arm and turned around, leaving with a final growl. The bell over the door heralded his departure, and Silas turned to the cashier with a smile. "Now how''re you doin'', miss Kaide?"


    Kaide sighed, leaning backward and running her hands through her frazzled hair. "Oh, Silas. I''ve been dealing with customers like that all day. You do understand, don''t you?" She asked, looking at him with a worried expression. "I don''t mean any ill will towards that goblin or his tribe. I''m just out of stock of those blankets. It''s not as though we had very many in stock- who wants to buy wool blankets in the middle of summer!?"


    Silas chuckled. "Him, apparently. Anyway, I just need some things and then I''ll be on my way."


    Kaide''s face fell, but the expression lasted only a fraction of a second, giving way to a practiced smile. "I understand. Is there anything I can help you with?"Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Silas nodded easily, feeling a mild pang of disappointment in spite of himself. He''d kind of hoped she''d ask him to stay a little longer, but he was here for groceries. Nothing else, of course. "There actually is. I know it''s a bit of a long shot askin'' ye, but... d''you know what dragons eat?"


    One pristine eyebrow crept up her forehead. "Dragons? Why in the world would you want to know what dragons eat?"


    He paused for a moment, considering the potential consequences and weighing them against the advantages. He''d known Kaide for a long time. Avery long time, actually. He trusted her more than pretty much anyone else in the town, and while he''d never admit it to himself, some part of him deep down knew he admired the elf as more than just a good friend.


    Thinking about it like that, he realized, there wasn''t any reasonnotto tell Kaide about Sam. If anything, she''d be able to provide some serious assistance.


    Raising a hand, Silas asked, "Could you wait here fer just a few seconds?"


    Exiting Farthington''s and ignoring Kaide''s confused expression, Silas turned to see Jonas in an animated (albeit one-sided) conversation about why purchasing the cake displayed in the window would be a good idea. He appeared to be presenting his argument to the window, though Silas knew it was addressed to Sam. "-sugar could be good fuel for ya. Why would Silas not wanna give you the nourishment you deser - oh." He saw Silas watching him with an eyebrow raised and grinned apologetically. "Uh, how much o'' that did ya hear?"


    Silas shook his head, dismissing the conversation. "It doesn''t matter. Hey, Sam, how would you feel about gettin'' introduced to one of my friends?"


    Jonas'' smirk was a devious one. "Oh, so Kaide''s a ''friend'', is she?"


    Ignoring Jonas entirely, Silas lifted the flap of the backpack to check on Sam. The quirky dragon looked up at him, a hint of worry in his golden eyes. Releasing a hoarse whine, Sam gazed wide-eyed at Silas.


    The older man chuckled. "Rest assured, little guy, she''s someone you can trust. I''ve known her fer years."


    Over his shoulder, Jonas said seriously, "All jokes aside, Kaide''s prolly one of the most reliable people I know. She''s helped me and ole'' loverboy here out of a tough scrap or two."


    "Or three," Silas added thoughtfully.


    "Or four," Jonas agreed with a nod. "Point is, we''re not gonna blame ya if ye don''t wanna meet her. But you''d probably like her, and she''d probably like you."


    Sam stared at the bottom of the backpack intensely, watching the stiff wooden board shoved into the bottom to increase stability. He seemed to really consider the request for a moment, before finally looking up and giving them a tentative nod.


    Silas smiled faintly. "All righty then, let''s go introduce you to an elf."


    Sam''s eyes shone as he suddenly perked up, his tail wiggling slightly as he tilted his head. Silas chuckled. "Heh. I take it ye haven''t met an elf yet?"


    Eagerly shaking his head, Sam began bouncing in place inside the backpack, and Jonas made a slight grunt of effort. "Hey, cool yer mouth back there, bud. I ain''t half as young as I used ta be."


    "You''re not a quarter as young as you used to be."


    Jonas glared at Silas. "Big talk comin'' from Mister Snow-head."


    Silas'' eyes widened as he leaned back in mock disbelief. "Mister Snow-head? Is that all ya got, or are ye gettin'' rusty with old age?"


    Jonas strove for a comeback for a moment, and then growled under his breath, "Let''s go meet your fianc¨¦, shall we?" He brushed past the grinning Silas, resetting his hold on the backpack. After giving himself a short congratulations, Silas followed his friend back into the shop.


    Nobody had come in since Silas'' exit, and Kaide perked up upon seeing them. "Hey, Jonas! How are you doing, you bag of bones?"


    Silas'' smirk lit up the room just as much as Jonas'' grimace darkened it. "Everybody''s insultin'' my age all of a sudden. What, have I got a target painted on my back or somethin''?" He glared at Silas. "If you try that, I''m gonna get revenge at a time when you least expect it, got it?"


    Amused, Kaide asked, "All right, what''s all this about? Why the secrecy?"


    Surreptitiously, Silas checked the windows and then stood just next to Jonas, blocking any potential outside viewers from witnessing the inside events. Slinging the large backpack around, Jonas lifted the flap and carefully set it on the counter.


    As Kaide began to lean forward, Sam poked his head out, sniffing at the air curiously. Kaide''s eyes widened and she jumped back with a startled cry, and Sam yelped in response. Silas instantly hissed, "Kaide! Do ye trust us or not?"


    The elf stared at Sam for a long moment, unblinking, and then finally relaxed, putting a hand to the bridge of her nose. "What does a dragon eat, eh? I should have guessed. This isn''t going to end well - you both know that, right?"


    Jonas shrugged. "Doesn''t really matter, ta be honest. This here is Sam. He''s had a similar experience as us, if ya catch my drift."


    Kaide''s suspicion turned into curiosity as she leaned forward. "So you''re from..." She frowned for a moment, trying to remember the word. "Earth? It''s called Earth, right?" Watching Jonas'' nod, she turned back to Sam. "You''re from Earth as well?"


    Sam nodded cautiously, and she nodded, turning to Silas with a furrowed forehead. "I thought you said your world didn''t have dragons."


    Silas sighed. "It doesn''t. I dunno how or why, but Sam here ended up a dragon. At least, that''s what I think. That''s what happened, right?" He addressed the question to Sam, who once again nodded.


    Kaide patted Sam''s head sympathetically. "I''m so sorry... that must have been difficult."


    Sam''s head drooped, and he made a quiet, sad chirp. Scratching him behind the ears, Jonas asked, "Hey, Kaide. You got some pretty good magic when it comes ta animals n'' stuff. Any chance you could... I dunno, get him back to lookin'' normal?"


    Kaide immediately shook her head. "I''m sorry, but there''s not a chance of that."


    Wincing, Silas pleaded, "Are ye sure? Ya managed to make me and Jonas into horses that one time."


    Jonas shivered, saying to no one in particular, "I hated thatso much."


    Not paying attention to him, Kaide answered, "I''m certain. It''s one thing to create a temporary transfiguration spell - incredibly difficult by itself - but dragons are naturally resistant to magic. Unless it''s their own, of course."


    Cocking an eyebrow, Silas queried, "Any chance you could teach him how ta do that kind o'' magic?"


    Kaide briefly hesitated, but shook her head again. "Transfiguration takes years, if not decades, to learn. It''s by far one of the most complicated magicks, right up there with time or dimensional manipulation. He could probably get the hang of it eventually, but I''m afraid I just don''t have the time to do it. I''m genuinely sorry." She said the last part to Sam, her face expressing pure sympathy.


    The dragon''s head sagged, the nubs on his shoulders undulating as he slumped. Kaide winced, folding her hands on the counter. "Is there anything I can do to help?"


    Silas sighed. "Yer all right. Goin'' back to my original question, d''you know what dragons eat?"


    With a more approachable question, Kaide nodded, her mind working quickly. "Of course. They''ll eat pretty much anything, to be honest. They''re fine with vegetables, fruits, and of course meats. Interestingly, they''re the only species aside from slimes that I know of that are capable of also consuming elemental crystals."


    Jonas raised an eyebrow. "Wait, what? Aren''t those just rocks?"


    Kaide shrugged. "I know many things about animals and magic in general. Dragons, however, are somewhat of a gray area for me. You could probably find a specialist, but your best bet would be looking for a reptilian beastkin - their knowledge of scale care and dietary supplements is unequaled. I know an excellent cobra snake-kin, but he lives in the Vulpeau Swamps. It''d be extraordinarily difficult to get a message to him."


    Silas shrugged, giving her a weary smile. "That''s all right, Kaide. Thanks for the advice regardless. We''ll just be checkin'' out this stuff, and then we''ll be good to go."


    Jonas poked at the hook, rifling through the tags. "Did you remember to grab the pudding?"


    Silas shot a glare at him. "That''s what''s on yer mind right now? Pudding?"


    Helpfully, Kaide interjected, "Actually, pudding would be a pretty good starting food for Sam here. As a rule, soft foods are recommended for younger creatures of any kind - it''s a safe bet to assume that dragons are no different."


    Jonas looked smug, and a slow grin crossed Silas'' face. "Ya know what? Sure. Let''s get some pudding. Just remember one thing."


    Rubbing his hands together, Jonas asked off-handedly, "Sure, sure. What is it?"


    Silas smirk stretched from ear to ear. "Sam getsall of it."


    Jonas'' face was priceless.

 Spectacular! (The Game Show of Life and Death)

    The stage was a strange one.


    A simple brown disc of light hovering in space, the absolute darkness of the void surrounding it. With polished and shellacked boards serving as the floor, the only objects aboard this curious stage consisted of an ornate podium and seven gigantic pods. Aside from these eight remarkably specific objects, the entirety of the world held only blackness.


    And then a man twirled onto the stage. Dressed in a green and blue striped suit and sporting a phenomenal top hat, the painfully thin man danced and spun across the floorboards. An unseen audience roared their approval, the sound of hundreds of clapping hands making their excitement and happiness known. Completing his dance with a forward split and pulling himself to his feet unassisted, the man cheerfully made his way to the podium. Tapping the mike briefly, the man said, "Hello hello, are you hearing me?"


    The audience once again cheered, and he smiled. His features were lean, with sharp cheekbones and gaunt eye sockets. His vibrant green eyes glittered with charm, pleasant politeness, and a slightly darker sheen of something unidentifiable. His thin lips seemed to perpetually be in a smile, and one finger tapped the side of the podium in some unknowable beat that only he could hear.


    Leaning on the side of the podium, the man said cheerily, "As many of you know, my name is Morvio Grue. For those of you that don''t, well, you do now!" The audience chuckled at the joke, as they should, and Morvio continued. "But while you know me, I''m quite certain you don''t know any of these fellows!"


    With that, he waved to the gigantic pods. Each one was made of burnished steel and flawlessly transparent glass, each one an imposing cylinder of the toughest materials. While the interiors were darkened to obscure their interiors, the pods were clearly designed with containment in mind. As Morvio gestured to them, however, their insides were revealed, and an excited gasp rolled through the audience.


    Seven people were floating, unconscious, inside of the pods. A burly man with a beard to die for. A robotic dog. An Asian man of uncertain age. A teenager wearing a hoodie, blocking his face. A gigantic gray-skinned troll, snoozing pleasantly. A gorgeous young woman, dressed in shorts and a crop top. A spectacularly average-looking man.


    The audience oohed and aahed as they examined the people a little closer, and Morvio chuckled happily. "Yes indeed, we''ve got our contestants for this, the very first season of the Story Show! Now isn''t that exciting?" Once the audience calmed down slightly, he continued, "Now then, I''m willing to bet you lovely eldritch beings, deities, and of course humans are just dying to learn some more about our contestants!"


    Listening to their roar of approval for a moment, Morvio made his way to the first pod. Inside of it was the large man with a beard. His eyes were closed, but even in stasis sleep, his forehead was furrowed. "Now this fellow right here is Roderick Khevrigo. Roderick¡¯s friends all call him either Rod or Hot Rod. Measuring at six feet and seven inches and weighing in at two hundred and thirty-six (and a half) pounds, he has a tendency to accidentally intimidate just about everyone he runs into. Lovely trait, wouldn''t you agree?" The audience cheered happily, and he continued with the same enormous smile. "His Mexican descent bleeds into his dietary favorites, which is to say, he can eat a ghost pepper without hiccuping. Or blinking, for that matter. With a small intestine of steel and a beard that would put Chris Hemsworth to shame, his very favorite thing to do is pet cats. Regardless of where he finds it, he will always name the cats he pets either Trent or Alison, although I must confess our team still isn''t quite sure why. Moving on!"


    He paced away from the pod to the next one, the one with the robotic dog. Most of its hydraulics were visible, and a cluster of wires poked out from underneath the left ear. "This lovely little puppy here? This is MDC-31. He''s a highly sophisticated artificial intelligence, first off, but more to the point: MDC-31 (or Emdici, as he prefers to be called) operates on the very newest technological advances, such as a fully mobile quadruped mobile host, dual HZeduta 980 processing chips, and of course a state-of-the-art synthetic nervous system. In other words, Emdici currently uses the robotic canine you see here as his host. Bit of a complainer about his inability to perform with fine machinery, employ precision engineering, and won''t shut up about thumbs. It is his highest opinion that thumbs are the greatest thing to exist since hard drives, and his sense of humor is quite dry. I''m sure that''ll go right out of him after a week or two on our show, don''t you think?"


    Once the audience finished cheering, Morvio moved on to the third pod. "Here we''ve got a rather interesting guy. This is Teati - my apologies everyone, this is Yamada Taiyou. Everyone calls Mr. Taiyou by the nickname of Teatime. Both friends, acquaintances, family members, and random strangers have found it nigh impossible to call the twenty-seven-year-old Asian man by any other title. Further research may be required to discover how or why this is possible, but the unfortunate side effect of this curious nickname is that he absolutely despises tea and all things related to it. At five feet five inches tall with a weight of a hundred and forty pounds, he enormously enjoys the taste of coffee but hates the texture. As a result, he exclusively drinks water and Jamocha milkshakes. Now what I want to know is, how do you not like the texture of coffee, am I right?"


    A round of laughter came from the crowd, and he went on to the fourth pod. "Not sure about this fellow, ladies and gentlemen. This is Kevin Feist. Few people have actually seen Kevin¡¯s face, due to his tendency to frequently hide inside his gray hoodie. He only ever comes out of his room to obtain food and/or water, but inside his room... my goodness, dear viewers. Inside his room sits one of the single largest collections of anime, manga, and action figures on Earth. He¡¯s subscribed to over two dozen paid streaming services, at least seven documented magazines, and has followed (and finished) over one point seven thousand separate web novels. There is no living human on the planet who is as obsessed with isekai and fantasy than Kevin. Shockingly, there is also no living human on the planet who envies this title." A genial wave of laughter emanated from the audience once again, and Morvio took it in his stride.


    Moving on, he paused in front of the gigantic troll, putting his hands in his pockets. "Og is the only part of this gentle cave troll¡¯s name that can be pronounced with standard vocal cords. Even with significant reality alterations in place, his full name remains utterly unintelligible. Despite this difficulty, Og is an extremely kind creature and has a tendency to trim trees so as to allow squirrels to build nests easier. At twelve feet nine inches tall and weighing in at approximately eleven hundred pounds, Og claims to be a pacifist. His four-inch serrated claws and jutting fangs would suggest otherwise, I must say. You''re not going to be peeling apples with those, are you now?" He chuckled quietly to himself, a rich sound that went mostly unnoticed by the invisible and intangible audience.


    Placing a hand on the sixth pod, he said fondly, "Miss Jenny Halliday here has many titles attached to her name. Less than half of them are positive, and more than half of those are from her enemies. Measuring at five feet ten inches and just barely over the age of twenty-four, she¡¯s considered to be quite the catch among the young men on the island of Madagascar. She either is unaware of this piece of information or simply does not care about it. Her current place of residence is located at the edge of a concrete-reinforced pier. Her windows are bulletproof, the walls are lined with graphite, and she has a not-so-secret bunker hidden underneath the 22,000 square foot house. She says she gets along with everyone she meets. Now I don''t know about you," he added, throwing his arms wide as he grinned into the black void that the audience occupied, "but I''d say she''s got some secrets to hide. Quite juicy ones, I''d imagine."The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "But I digress," he said, looking at the final pod. "Our final potential character is a bit of an anomaly. He''s quite probably the most average man alive. At five feet nine inches tall, a hundred and sixty-eight pounds in weight, and with brown hair and eyes, John Smith''s face is instantly forgettable. On multiple occasions has his own mother incorrectly recognized him as her son, and on far more occasions have strangers incorrectly identified him as some friend or another. He¡¯s surprisingly optimistic despite almost nobody being able to recall who exactly he is, and greatly enjoys both cheeseburgers and hot dogs. He dips his french fries in ketchup, frequently neglects to subscribe to his favorite content creators, and believes himself to be unique in his secret enjoyment of candy corns. Now if that isn''t the most ordinary person you''ve ever heard of, I don''t know who is."


    Throwing his hands wide with a sparkling grin full of perfect teeth, Morvio proudly exclaimed, "That''s all the Main Characters, folks!" Allowing several minutes of applause from the invisible audience, he finally continued, "You''re gonna get to know them quite well in a bit. But for now, let''s discuss the rules a bit, shall we?" A bored groan came from the audience, and Morvio chuckled. "Now now, we''ve got to set some limitations on this event, or else everything shall descend into madness in no time."


    Reaching into his dapper green three-piece suit and vest, a vibrant red tie setting the colors off, he smirked happily. "These, my friends-" He withdrew his hand with a flourish, presenting six differently colored cards to the unseen viewers. "-are Cards."


    An interested mutter spread throughout the audience, and Morvio nodded solemnly. "These Cards are the items you lovely ladies and gents out there use to interact with this curious tale. Firstly, there are two types - Standard Cards and Special Cards. There are four of the first and two of the latter. These first four are going to be the ones you see more often, and they are as follows."


    A gigantic navy screen appeared above and behind the pods, five straight-forward messages written on it. Morvio gestured to them as they appeared, reading them off without needing to turn around. It was clear that he had either practiced his lines thoroughly or was enormously excited about the future of the show. Both were entirely possible. "Firstly, it is important to remember that while these Cards are selected randomly, the odds of their occurring are indeed enormously separate. For example, we have here the Zone Card." He held aloft a blue-coated rectangle, split into three horizontal areas. The top one was a desert, the second a bat-infested cave, and the third an ocean. "Represented by rolling a one, the Zone Card allows you fantastic Viewers to vote on a new location. The Main Characters have an hour to prepare, and then they''ll get shunted into that new region all at the same time. Make sense?"


    A polite chorus of yeses was sent Morvio''s way, and he grinned brilliantly. "Excellent! Next up we have a Cameo Card." The gold-edged rectangle Morvio held was colored white, a laughing man with a question mark prominently featured on the front. "This handy little thing is represented by getting any fourth number after one. Which is to say, five, nine, thirteen and so forth. At any rate, it allows any of you fellows to put into the story, provided you have enough votes. I''ll get into the whole voting process afterwards, but rest assured that it''s quite important."


    An excited rumble of oohs and aahs followed the statement, and the snazzily-dressed host chuckled. "Thirdly, we have by far the most common Card, the Scenario Card." A flick of his wrist procured a violet card with a small tornado of random objects swirling slowly across the front. "This handy little fellow can be acquired when the roll happens to land on any number that isn''t a Zone Card, a Cameo Card, or our final Standard Card. If rolled, the Scenario Card lets you viewers hurl a situation in the direction of our Main Characters. Whether it be a hurricane, an escape room, or a plague, the Scenario Card can be used for almost everything."


    At this news, the audience chuckled and laughed loudly, and Morvio was forced to wait several minutes before he could speak. "And now for our final Standard Card. This one is a bit dark, but can be used to devastating efficacy if employed correctly." His face was uncharacteristically serious as he held up a shimmering black card. A simple, fragile-looking skull was embossed on its cover. "This... is the Death Card."


    Dextrously flicking it in between his fingers and spinning it on his flawlessly trimmed nails, he gazed at it, speaking reverentially. "When the roll lands on one hundred, this Card may be used by the audience to slay one character. It is the great and terrible weapon of the viewer, a blade to be wielded or a bullet to be aimed. Its power is infallible, and it will never fail. Now, you can''t use it to kill a Main Character-" Some of the people in the audience booed, and Morvio''s practiced grin returned. "-but rest assured that any and every other character is up for grabs."


    Setting the Cards on his podium, he said, "I''ll get to the Special Cards in just a moment. Right now is the part you''re most excited about! - the voting process!" The audience clapped politely, and he continued. "Voting''s never been easier. Once the two Cards are mentioned in the postscript of the given chapter, you lovely people can place comments in the... well, the comment section! Add Rep to the comments you wish to see made real, and the number one and two comments win! In these first few chapters, you''ll be allowed to place a comment for both Cards, but as more and more followers tag along we''ll reduce it to one Card per person. And if you don''t like someone''s idea? Just reply to it with either a ''no'', a ''no thanks'', or a ''cancel''! Assuming your cancel can get two-thirds of the votes that the original got, it''ll go through and the comment will be rendered null and void! It''s as easy as that!"


    Waiting for the applause to die down, Morvio added, "And here are the really serious rules, the ones that nobody is allowed to break. Rule number one." He held up a single finger in the air, a solemn expression on his face. "At no point in time are any of the Main Characters permitted to commit suicide. At no point in time may a Main Character murder another Main Character. And at no point in time may any of the Main Characters go insane."


    A second finger was raised. "Rule number two. The Viewers will be granted three days from the release of the latest chapter to place their comments and their votes. At the end of these three days, the votes and comments will be tallied, and Angry Spider will start manipulating reality for the next sequence. I''m sure at this point you all know our ReM?" He gestured to his left, and another portion of the stage was revealed. Frantically typing on a silver laptop, a spider probably four feet long glanced up at everyone, waved one single leg, and went back to his writing with single-minded fervor. Morvio called over, "Would you like to say a few words, Mr. Angry?"


    The spider shouted in a rather hurried voice, "Hi everyone! You''ll get your chapter of DGI soon enough, don''t worry! I''m working on it!"


    Those last three words wavered uncertainly as he called them, and Morvio coughed awkwardly. "We''ll let you get back to that." The spider''s section of stage faded into darkness, and Morvio winked at the audience. "Reality Manipulators, am I write?"


    It took the audience some time to figure out there was a joke in the statement. The people reading understood it quite a lot faster and, for the most part, mentally groaned at the atrocious pun.


    With a grin full of shining teeth, Morvio said, "Rule number three. None of that inappropriate nonsense, please. If you''d like to see someone''s head torn off and shoved down their throat, comment away, but we would appreciate a lack of innuendos. After all, a particularly traumatic death makes for good character development, wouldn''t you agree?" The audience agreed, and he continued, "Finally, rule number four. Two cards will randomly be drawn at the end of each chapter, and you''ll be able to vote for only one. Which isn''t to say the other won''t be used, only that your opinion only matters on one of them."


    Throwing his hands wide, Morvio waited, and all seven of the characters vanished from their pods. His face split in a grin. "Let''s get voting, shall we?"

 Horrors

    Olive woke up.


    Staring at the planked ceiling, her entire room enveloped in near-perfect darkness, she wondered what had woken her up. Normally she was a deep sleeper and had in fact been late to several events because of staying in too late.


    She heard something. The faintest of sounds in the very back of her awareness, a barely audible scrape of metal (bone, maybe?) against wood.


    Sitting up in bed, Olive pushed her plaid comforter aside and squinted. Her room wasn''t very large, about twelve feet by ten, with a minimum of furniture. There was her twin-size bed, well-suited to her five-foot-four height. Next to her was a small nightstand, hardly visible in the tiny amount of light emanating from the cloud-covered moon outside. A polished cabinet, its dark surface gleaming faintly, stood in the corner, an arsenal of coat racks hanging next to it.


    Scrrrape.


    Pulling her legs out of bed, she lowered her bare feet to the wooden floor, feeling around for her slippers. Something touched her foot. Something rubbery.


    Jerking her legs back up, she tucked her knees in and pulled away from the edge, trying hard to see what she''d touched. She knew for a fact that her slippers were fuzzy, little brown things designed to look like puppies. Neither of them were gumboots.


    SCRRRAPE.


    The sound was more insistent this time, the clawing of something getting angry, and Olive checked this time. Ensuring that it was her slippers this time, she slid her feet into them and walked forward, ducking to look underneath the bed. Nothing was there - she could see all the way through to the other side, dim moonlight casting shadows on the floor.


    Olive frowned. There wasn''t anything that should have a shadow... especially not anything with that many appendages.


    scrape.


    Scrape.


    SCRRRRAPE.


    Olive''s breath hitched. She had a feeling she knew who - or what, rather - was in the room with her. It was the same thing that had visited her room on several occasions over the past few months. A creature that always ensured that the room was as dark as possible before entering. She could feel her heartbeat escalating, a dull thumping in her ears.


    Straightening, Olive looked over her bed and saw...


    ...nothing.


    Her forehead wrinkled. Had... had she been imagining it?


    Briefly checking under the bed again, she saw no hint of the shadows from previously, and shrugged. She was tired, after all. It was the middle of the night, after all.


    She wasn''t in the mood to deal with it, after all.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Ignoring the hairs on the back of her neck rising, Olive took her slippers back off, lined them up neatly, and slid back into bed. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply.


    There was no scrape to alert her this time. Just the distinct sensation, a poke at that strange sixth sense in the back of everyone''s head, that something was watching her.


    She opened her eyes.


    It was hanging from her ceiling, upside-down. A painfully thin figure, lanky legs and arms kept tucked in at its sides. A suit darker than nightmares, with a white undershirt and a black tie. The clothes didn''t seem to obey gravity, much like their wearer. A writhing mass of tentacles spread out from behind its back, coming from nowhere and going everywhere. Its face, a smooth white surface with a texture like fabric, stared into Olive''s eyes from mere inches away.


    Olive groaned irritably. "Slender, we''ve talked about this."


    The fabric where its eyes should have been wrinkled as if in consternation, and she continued, "I get that you have old habits and I totally get that you have a hard time with people - I''m introverted too, I understand. But can you please not wake me up at-" She squinted, reaching for her alarm clock. Nonsensical hieroglyphs, symbols that would drive anyone mad, scrolled across its surface in a glowing red text.


    She glared at the figure hanging from her ceiling. "Really? C''mon, what time is it?"


    A faint sigh, a breath of unearthly air drifting through the air, brushed across her cheek. The figure still didn''t say anything, but the characters on the alarm clock flickered temporarily, to be replaced by three numbers. Olive stared at it for a moment and then squinted at the figure. "Four thirty? Do you even sleep?"


    With a slithering hiss of movement, the figure twisted his spine in a hundred and eighty degrees and dropped from the ceiling, landing like a spider with inhumanly long limbs jutting upwards, their joints extending in the wrong direction. Rising from the floor with tentacles writhing, he slowly shook his head. Olive blinked. "Oh. Sorry. Have you ever tried? Sleeping is - I dunno, a fun habit?" She frowned to herself. "Wait, why do I need sleep?"


    Slender shrugged awkwardly, still not saying anything. Olive turned to look at him, and he shrank back slightly.


    With a sigh, she flopped back onto her bed. "Uggghhhh. Don''t feel bad, you''re gonna make me feel bad."


    Glancing around nervously, Slender precariously sat down on the very edge of her bed, folding his freakishly long hands on his lap. He weighed almost nothing, and if she closed her eyes Olive was unable to tell if he was even still sitting at the end.


    Rolling over to rest her head on her arm, she asked sleepily, "So why do you come here? It''s not like we''re... I dunno, in a relationship or anything. Don''t get me wrong, I love hanging out with you, but ''hanging out'' with most of my friends just means, like, chilling. With you, I tend to end up actually hanging from something or another."


    Y??????????????????????????????o?????????????????????u??????????????? ?????????????????????d??????????o?????? ??????????????????????????????n??????????o?????????????t???????????????? ??????????r????????????????????u????n???????.????????????????????????


    A barely audible whisper wormed its way into Olive''s mind, and she grimaced in spite of herself. She''d never get used to that.


    Olive shrugged. "Why would I run? You haven''t hurt me or anything, you just sorta... stood there the first time we met. I mean, the tentacles are a bit freaky, yeah, but it''s nothing a girl can''t get used to."


    Slender paradoxically perked up and slumped simultaneously, and Olive frowned. "I dunno how I''m supposed to interpret that. Look, is there anything you wanted to talk about, or did you just want to watch me sleep?"


    Considering the question for a moment, Slender merely nodded, his tentacles slowing to a crawl. Olive snorted. "You actually wanna watch me sleep?"


    Slender paused, and Olive had the distinct feeling that the entity was possibly panicking just a bit. She sighed. "Don''t make it creepy, ''kay? I need sleep, even if you don''t."


    Nodding gratefully, Slender sank into the floor and melted into the shadows. She could still see his shadow flickering across the floor as if he were still standing before her, but his physical form went unseen. Rolling her eyes, she snuggled back into her covers and closed her eyes.


    She was asleep in minutes.

 Doe and Die

    John, as he would have put it, was in deep yogurt.


    A bullet ripped over his head and through the expensive upholstery of the couch he was using as cover, and he edged an eye around its corner. The three goons dressed in pajamas raised their guns - AK-47s, maybe? - and opened fire again. Tucking one leg up to his chest, John hurled himself forward and rolled into the closet. The couch was pulped, feathers poofing from its cushions, and John sighed.


    This particular operation could have gone better. The seat of his pants was beginning to get sore from all the close calls he''d been having, and the literal seat of his pants was ripped from one of the aforementioned close calls, an encounter with a pair of persistent German Shepherds. After that had been the electric fence, where he learned that rubber gloves only worked if they didn''t have tears. Or maybe the bulletproof glass windows that he hadn''t known were bulletproof?


    It''d been an off-day, to say the least.


    Racking the slide on his Colt .45, he yelled, "Can''t we talk about this? Maybe have a nice chat?"


    A hail of bullets tore through the wooden corner of the closet, and he winced. A second hail, this one largely composed of insults and commands shouted in Italian, hit his ears a moment later. Peering through one of the holes, he saw the Mafia boss he''d broken into the mansion to find gesturing furiously at the furniture and trim, and he grinned.


    Carefully raising the iron-sights of his handgun to the hole, he closed one eye and squinted, muttering, "Really should''ve stayed in your bunker, bud."


    Then he pulled the trigger.


    The boss jerked backward, staring down at the rapidly spreading red stain on his shirt in total disbelief. Looking upward, he pointed into the room and said in shock, "Mi hai sparato!" Stumbling backward, he collapsed, and the shooters stared at him for a moment.


    As one, the shooters spun to John''s closet and flooded into the room, assault rifles raised. Hurriedly, John pulled a battered green notebook out of his jacket, speedily wrote something down, and then jumped out of the closet, raising his gun. "Screw you, ya-"


    They shot him, and he fell down. "Ouch," he said irritably.


    They shot him again.


    John opened his eyes.


    There was no skip in time, no brief blackness. He was staring up at the ceiling.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    It was a nice ceiling.


    He frowned, wondering what had just happened. Obviously, he''d died, but he couldn''t remember how. Did he get what he was trying to do done? Or had it gone wrong?


    Sitting up, John discovered to his mild surprise that he wasn''t wearing anything, and also that he was no longer a John. Sighing, he wrapped the thin blue blanket around himself - no, herself - and got off of the cold steel table he''d been lying on.


    There was a neat pile of clothes on the floor and a steaming mug of what appeared to be coffee. Checking to make sure that no one was in the room (aside from the cadavers, of course) John, henceforth to be known as Jane, changed into the clothes. They consisted of a too-large gray T-shirt, a too-small pair of jorts, and of course the necessary underwear. Once Jane was finished, she leaned down and carefully pulled off the tag tied to her toe. She read it out loud. "Jane Doe. Gunshots to the chest."


    Hooking a finger on her shirt, she glanced down it and snorted. "Why''s it always got to be gunshots? Can''t someone be original for once and just strangle me? Perhaps a good drowning?"


    Shaking her head, Jane picked up the green notebook sitting on the table she''d just gotten off of and tried to put it in her back pocket, only to find that it was decorative. She sighed loudly. "Fake pockets, there is no reason for your existence."


    Naturally, the pockets did not respond to the crushing insult.


    Picking up the mug, she blew it off and took a tentative sip. It was definitely coffee, with... yup, two cubes of sugar and a generous dollop of honey. Whoever this guy was, he knew what her preferences were.


    Tucking the notebook under one arm, Jane headed through the swinging metal doors and into the lobby. There was only one person, a tired-looking man with a bristly beard and a balding head. As she walked through, he smiled. "How''s da coffee?"


    She smiled brilliantly at him. "It''s perfect. Have we met before?"


    He shook his head, rising from behind his desk and extended a hand. "Naw. I only heard th'' stories. Figger when a corpse shows up uninvited in my freezers it''s prolly yew."


    Jane nodded sympathetically, shaking the hand. "Thanks. I appreciate the clothes. Didn''t cost you too much, did they?"


    He shook his head again. "Naw. Got some weird looks buying th'' underwear, but I figger it''s worth it ta meetcha."


    Standing back, Jane checked herself once over again and asked, "Would you happen to have a mirror? I have no idea what I look like right now."


    He doubtfully looked under the desk and made a grunt of surprise. "Apparently. Didn''t think I would, but here ya go."


    Straightening, he handed a small handled mirror to Jane, and she immediately checked her reflection.


    Objectively speaking, she was fairly nondescript. African-American, with a sort of half-afro (a halfro?) framing her petite face. Relatively large lips, dark brown eyes, thin features. Hopefully, she raised one arm and flexed. To her pleasant surprise, she found a not-insignificant amount of muscle there and shrugged.


    The mortician raised an eyebrow. "All good?"


    Jane nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I think so." Flexing the arm once or twice just to make sure that the muscle was real, she glanced over at the mortician, her forehead wrinkling. "Sorry, did you introduce yourself yet? My memory''s still setting in."


    He grinned. "M''name''s Davis, ma''am. Jeff Davis."


    She smiled. "Nice to meet you, Davis. I''m Doe. Jane Doe, at the moment."

 Of Life and Death

    Once upon a time there was, in chaos hung a void,


    Two creatures, known as Life and Death, this chaos they destroyed.


    Life was a woman, fair and kind, granting souls to all


    And Death these souls he took away, to bring to the Eternal Hall.


    One day Life looked away from her work and witnessed the actions of Death.


    Kindly and cautiously he guided her gifts, and gentle care he used.


    Her heart then warmed for the reaper''s kind, and approached him with a silent breath.


    "Thank you for caring for my creations," she said, and the Reaper turned, confused.


    "Care?" he asked, his voice unsure. "I take your gifts from their frames.


    I ease their travels, I soften their worries, but where do you get these claims?"


    Life laughed, a sound like glass, and flowers around them bloomed. "Their bodies wither, and decay.


    Their actions start to slow. No greater kindness could I ever conceive, than to help them on their way."


    First stanza of "Life and Death", author unknown


    -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    It was Reed McHannon''s first day of high school, and he was terrified.


    The brown hallways were far too long, something smelled, and the kids giggled as he walked by. Although most of them were looking at their phones, Reed was certain that they were laughing at him.


    He looked his outfit up and down surreptitiously, trying not to draw attention to the action. He was wearing an orange and white striped shirt, jean shorts, and gray and navy tennis shoes. Overall, it was a pretty average outfit, all things considered. Even with the thirteen-year-old''s overactive imagination fueling his anxiety, he couldn''t think of anything wrong with it, and he took a shaky breath.


    His mom patted him on the shoulder. "Reed? Is everything all right?"


    Startled out of his thoughts, he glanced up at her. "What''d you say?"


    She chuckled quietly. "Are you feeling all right? School can be a bit scary if you''re not used to it."


    Reed battled between rising to the challenge and confessing his anxiety to his mom. A pair of particularly pretty girls wearing skirts walked by, and his decision was made. Throwing a bit of a swagger into his step, he said with false confidence, "Yeah, I''m doin'' fine. Ya know me, I''m not scared of nothin."


    Ms. McHannon looked confused for a moment, and then noticed the girls. Smiling, she asked, "Are you sure? I could go get your stuffed alligator if you want."


    The girls he''d had his eye on tittered as they walked by, and Reed glared pleadingly at his mother. "Moooom! Why''d you do that!?"


    She ruffled his brown hair fondly. "I''m a mother, Reed. It''s part of my job."


    He sulked for a few seconds, but consoled himself that he probably would never meet those girls again. His mood plummeted as he realized he would probably never meet those girls again, and that they wouldn''t talk to him if he did. Ms. McHannon patted him on the shoulder. "Don''t worry about it, honey. You''re too young to be flirting anyway."


    Nodding his agreement, he trailed behind briefly. When he thought she couldn''t hear him, he muttered under his breath, "Won''t stop me from trying."


    She called back to him airily, "I heard that!"


    A few minutes later, they arrived in front of a classic classroom door. Fake wood, with a narrow vertical window two-thirds of the way up and a horizontal handle. A sign at the top read in bright blue letters, "Math is cool, yo!" It featured a picture of a skateboarder with sagging jeans, a backward baseball cap, and purple shutter glasses. He was making the peace sign with one hand and holding a too-small skateboard under his other arm. A small diagram marked the peace sign as an acute angle.


    "Mom," Reed began, but she shot him down before he could continue. "Not a word, hun. This is a nice school, even if their decor is a bit..." She trailed off as she appraised the skateboarder, and didn''t finish. Instead, she simply sighed and opened the door, gesturing for him to go on through. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    It was actually a rather pleasant classroom, contrasting the horrendous door leading into it. With pale blue walls and unclouded windows, the ceramic floor was primarily hidden by the thirty or so desks lined up in neat rows, to say nothing of the teenagers chatting to each other about whatever it was that teenagers talked about.


    While Reed considered himself a teenager, he''d actually only turned thirteen a few weeks ago, and he was still running high off the birthday money he''d received from his aunts and uncles. The shoes he was wearing were actually a present from his grandma Mildred. It seemed to Reed as though everyone had some ancient relative named Mildred floating around in their family somewhere - at least his grandma was pretty cool. Well, she was really old and smelled kind of weird, but she gave great gifts.


    A sharp rapping drew Reed''s attention to the chalkboard and the stern-looking woman standing in front of it. She had a sharp hairstyle, sharp glasses, sharp pink nails, and her glare was razor sharp. "Hello everyone, and calm yourselves. Take a seat wherever you want, and for the love of God, Johnson, stop putting gum on the bottom of your desk." A taller boy near the back of the classroom surreptitiously scooted down further into his chair, peeling a sticky wad of chewed-red gum from somewhere beneath his desk.


    Ms. McHannon spun Reed around, gazing warmly into his eyes. "Honey, I get that high school can be a little scary. I still remember when I went, after all. But you''re going to be fine. High school''s a bit strange, but you get used to it."


    Reed smiled wanly, wishing that she wouldn''t leave. She mussed his hair up one last time and headed out the door, leaving him with an encouraging smile that did nothing to assuage his worries.


    Tapping her podium again, the teacher made sure she had their attention (and for the most part, she did) and turned to her chalkboard, writing so quickly that Reed thought the chalk would start smoking. "My name is Mrs. Devonshire. You may not call me Miss and you may not call me Devonshire. You shall address me as ma''am and nothing else, am I clear?"


    She was interrupted by the classroom door flying open, and everyone spun in their seats to look.


    It''d been hurled open by quite literally the prettiest and strangest girl Reed had ever seen. She had incredibly pale skin and a mess of curly blond hair, but her cheeks were tinged by a flush from her mad sprint through the hallways. With a black tanktop and a green blouse over it, her worn jeans were stained by dirt and grass. Her eyes didn''t match, though - one was a piercing green, and the other was a pale white. A wide smile was pasted on her face as she panted, and she leaned against the doorframe for a moment before walking in. "Wow," she said breathlessly. "That''s a long hallway."


    She was barefoot, Reed noticed. A fact that Mrs. Devonshire noticed immediately. "Pardon me, but what is the meaning of this!?"


    Before the girl could answer, two people entered behind her. They blasted the newcomer into third place on Reed''s ''weirdest person'' list by a long shot.


    The man on the left wore the blackest cloak Reed had ever seen. It didn''t seem to obey physics very well at all, floating spectrally and writhing out of the way of the open door. The barest amount of his face that Reed could see was incomporably pale, with gaunt cheekbones and pale eyes. He glided more than walked in, and then stepped aside to make way for his companion.


    She was beautiful in the same way that a wild mountain range was, not that Reed had ever visited one in person. She wore a lot of gold and jade-colored clothing, in a clearly foreign and yet familiar style. Her hair was composed of thick vines, multicolored flowers blooming exotically all over it and sweeping down to her waist. Her skin was flush with the essence of pure optimism and innocent pleasure, and it made Reed''s heart skip a pace.


    They were so different from each other that it almost hurt to look at, Reed thought.


    Mrs. Devonshire seemed to agree, albeit for different reasons. Pacing forward from behind her podium, she demanded, "What is the meaning of-"


    A balding man skidded through the door, wheezing and sweaty in his musty suit. Mrs. Devonshire stopped dead, confused and furious. "Mr. Lacoste? What-"


    The man sucked in a breath and gestured to the newcomers. "This is Mr. Death and Mrs. Life, and their daughter Dream. They''re enrolling in Clearview as of... good grief, I need to start jogging... The point is!" He added with a finger pointed into the air. "They are enrolling with the direct sponsorship of-"


    The lady interrupted with a kind smile. "Dear Brendan, may I perhaps speak for myself?" Her voice was melodious, like birds singing, and it made everyone in the room relax unconsciously. Hesitating, the fat man shot a glance at the cloaked person and nodded, pulling his sweaty collar away from his suit.


    Dipping her incredibly fancy and probably very expensive dress, the lady curtseyed. Rising to her full height, she smiled warmly at everyone. "Hello, children. My name is Life, and this is Dream." The young girl waved excitedly, nearly bouncing on her heels, and all of the teens present awkwardly waved back.


    Mrs. Devonshire''s forehead was creased with such force that Reed thought it might beat an elephant hide in a wrinkles competition. "Mr. Lacoste, what on earth is going on!?"


    The cloaked figure spoke, in a slow and deep voice that chilled everyone''s bones and made their eyes droop in a sudden burst of tiredness. "This is our daughter. Her name is Dream." He paused, and the cloak''s darkened hood swept across the room. "We have decided to bring her to this school, in hopes that she may one day blend in with humans." After a short moment, he added, "I am Death."


    Reed decided that maybe high school was a little too weird for him. Then Dream made eye contact with him and smiled more brilliantly than the sun, and he decided that he could deal with weird if he got to hang out with this girl.

 The Russian Warlock

    Pvt. Carl Johnson dove back over the small rise of dirt and back into the trenches, slamming into the dirt with an audible "OOF!" of impact, barely avoiding the jet of green light streaking over his head. Rolling as best as he could, Carl snatched his rifle from the ground and clambered back up the ladder, aiming at the hazy figure crouching behind a barricade. Licking his thumb, he wiped the dust away from the iron sights and tried to slow his hammering heartbeat. Pulling the trigger, he watched as the person spun away, clutching at their shoulder. That wasn''t nearly good enough, Carl knew. Any mage worth his salt carried a supply of healing arrays with him.


    The battlefield was a mess of choking ash, dust clouds, and who knew what else. The war had been going on since nineteen-forty-four and showed no signs of even slowing. Sides were being taken and abandoned faster than the comms officers could track, and it was impossible to tell whether the man you''d just shared water with would be firing at you the next day. In Carl''s case, he''d been drafted from the States and pulled straight to the hell that was the front lines.


    Scrambling towards him, another soldier - a Brit, Carl thought - shouted, "Are they pulling back yet?"


    An artillery spell detonated somewhere nearby, and everyone in the trench flinched. Carl shouted back, "No idea! Keep firing ''til you run out, and you might get to head back!" He had no clue whether this was true or not, but he knew with absolute certainty that he was pretty much screwed either way. The rear might be the front by tomorrow, and then they''d be well and truly screwed.


    He had almost no proficiency with magic. It was all too complicated for him - the spell arrays, concentration matrixes, tattoos - he''d told himself that he''d never need any of it. Why bother learning how to use that spark of mana he possessed to light a fire when flint and some steel did the job just fine?


    Running a callused hand through his matted brown hair, Carl stared at the haggard soldiers stationed with him and wondered where he''d gone wrong. No, he decided, he hadn''t gone wrong. The whole planet was wrong, all of it. Why was he out here ankle-deep in mud, sweat, and blood when the people who started the war were sitting high and dry in their mansions? It went far beyond being unfair.


    Sliding and slipping on the rain-soaked mud, an officer shouted to the men huddled in their uniforms, "Stand strong, men! We''ll win this war yet! We need to push a little-"


    An artillery spell screamed through the air and ended his impromptu speech, landing right where he stood and sending a dozen men flying. A wave of heat seared Carl''s eyeballs. Closing his eyes, he stared upwards and felt the cold rain hammer down on his eyelids, wondering when this war would actually end.


    It was nigh impossible to tell for sure who was allied with whom at the moment. Politics moved faster than telegrams these days, and to be honest, Carl wasn''t even sure that the Brit next to him was an ally anymore. He knew for sure that they were allied with the Russians, though. In the war''s early days, the States had reached out to the Magisterium and set up a handshake treaty. The two biggest military countries in the world working together. The media had proclaimed the war to be practically over already.


    Well, now it''d been five years, and the war still wasn''t over.


    A loud bang drew his attention to further down the trenches, where the Brits flooded through a gap. Seizing his grease gun, Carl moved forward, aiming as he did. One of the Redmen turned around and saw him, and Carl''s heart nearly stopped. The enemy soldier was wearing a violet sash across his left shoulder. It was an honest-to-God Scarlett.


    The Scarletts were an elite force of specialized combat mages operating under the French. They''d always had a solid grasp on the finer points of magic before the war, and now that it was going full force, their skill had only increased exponentially. Nowadays, the Scarletts were known for being pretty much unstoppable. And there was one looking at him.


    The Scarlett raised his hands, the runes tattooed on his wrists glowing a deep purple. Without hesitation, Carl turned and sprinted in the other direction as fast as he could. A cold white shine seeped into his peripheral, and fear lent extra speed to his feet. Slinging the grease gun over his back, he leaned into the cold wind, looking behind him.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    It was a bad idea. The Scarlett created glass spears, five of them, and each one a solid six feet long. Carl had no idea where he was getting the materials - for all he knew, maybe this particular mage had a Storitaul and was pulling sand straight out of a pocket dimension. Before he could get any further, his foot hooked on a tree root, and he tripped.


    Head going down, he heard a vicious hiss over him. Faceplanting into the mud, he crawled forward and flipped over, dashing a hand across his face to clear his vision. Shaking his head and squinting, he saw four glints floating. He instantly hurled himself to the side and felt the impact of a spear slam into the mud next to him.


    Scrabbling at his grease gun, he started to bring it around, and the Scarlett aimed a third spear. Scooting backward, Carl raised his weapon and fired, feeling the familiar kick of a submachine gun against his shoulder and making his teeth rattle. It spat bullets at the Scarlett, most of them missing. The few that came anywhere near the mage sparked off of some sort of short-distance reflection field. So the mage specialized in glass and light. Refraction maybe? Carl wasn''t going to survive the next ten seconds, so it wasn''t as though he''d have the opportunity to test the theory.


    The Scarlett gestured towards him, and the spear hurtled forward. Carl tried to dodge again, but this one stabbed into his arm and went through as easily as a needle through fabric. The blazing sensation of red-hot pain seared into his arm, and he screamed, clutching at the length of glass pinning his arm to the ground.


    Approaching, the Scarlett raised his hand, and Carl stared at him dully. Was he really going to die here, a mere Private in an endless army? He''d always wanted to open a general store. It''d been a long shot, he knew that, but he would have taken simply living through the war.


    It didn''t seem like an option anymore.


    Carl braced for death.


    And unexpectedly, didn''t receive it. Instead, a white-hot wave of dry air rolled over him, making his skin wrinkle up. He heard shouting, a lot of it, and the sound of glass spears slamming into something. Something shattered.


    Opening his eyes, Carl saw a massive man in dark brown furs and hardened leather clothing hurtling from the sky. The Scarlett was down to only two spears, having retrieved the other pair, and he promptly launched all of them at the descending man. Spinning midair, the incoming warrior produced a huge gout of fire from one hand, dodging one while summoning ice around his fist to punch another away. Twisting in a way that shouldn''t have been possible on a human frame, he avoided the final two and crunched into the mud. Standing in front of Carl, he made a complicated gesture and sent a spike of ice at the Scarlett.


    It deflected off of the barrier, and Carl''s rescuer cocked his head. Raising one hand, he aimed it palm outward and roared in the loudest voice Carl had ever heard, "§Ø§Ñ§â§Ü§à§Ö, §á§â§Ú§Õ§å§â§à§Ü!"


    A column of spiraling flame erupted from his hand and utterly enveloped the Scarlett. Carl waited for the blast to end, to sputter out, but it just didn''t. What kind of mana reserves was this guy packing!?


    After a solid ten seconds of constant fire, the Russian lowered his hands and smacked them against each other in satisfaction. As the dust cleared, Carl witnessed the sight of a man half-buried in molten glass, horrific burns covering his body where his almost certainly enchanted clothing had been incinerated.


    As he turned around, Carl got his first good look at him. Aside from the ankle-length fur-lined coat, his uniform was almost black, with an odd badge resting above his lapel. It featured a clenched fist holding onto a cluster of flags, none of which Carl could make out. The Russian wore a carefully fitted welding mask, with his black hair stuck underneath it and poking in every direction.


    The Russian walked towards Carl and ripped the spear out of his arm one-handed, and Carl was promptly reminded that there was a giant wound in his arm. Screaming out of instinct, he curled up into a fetal position, sobbing. The Russian pried him open like a fisherman with a clam and held up a strip of white cloth. Scribbling something on it, he showed it to Carl, and the resulting confusion almost made Carl forget the pain.


    On the cloth, the Russian had written the word "§ª§ã§è§Ö§Ý§Ú§ä§î," along with a rough circle around the word and a smiley face just outside it.


    Carl blinked. Whatever it was, it didn''t qualify as an array. If anything, it was a childish drawing with some scribbled term on it. "What''s that?"


    Leaning forward, the Russian wrapped the bandage around Carl''s injured arm and cheerfully told him something in his native tongue. Carl shook his head, apologetically explaining, "Sorry. I don''t speak Russian."


    The man stared at him for a moment, then said in halting English, "I am Petrov Domovoi. That fix up arm good, okey? Keep on!" Giving him a sloppy salute, he spun around and stomped off through the trenches towards the area where the British had broken through.


    Carl looked at his arm. The bandage was glowing a deep green, dulling the pain in his arm, which made absolutely no sense at all. Fire and ice magic, okay. Mastering opposite ends of the elemental spectrum was one thing. Difficult, but possible. Using healing magic without even a remotely distinct healing array should have been outright impossible.


    His head snapped up as a massive explosion of flame erupted upward from somewhere in the trenches. Petrov still had mana after all that?


    What the heck were Russian warlocks made of!?

 The Bugs of Bardell

    The spider crawled with some difficulty up the steep cliff, scrabbling for grip on the jagged rocks.


    He wasn''t an especially unusual spider. He wore a knee-length hooded cloak of a deep green color, a small brown satchel resting next to it. Three small charms were sewn onto the satchel''s strap near the bag, glinting slightly in the minimal amount of light emanating from the lamps taht gently swung from the stone ceiling far above. A simple white mask with six almond-shaped eyes and two small fangs rested on his face, giving away no hints to the effort he was using just to stay on the cliff.


    One spindly hand stretched out and clutched onto the top edge of the cliff and tightened. The spider took a breath as he braced himself, preparing for the explosive force required to yank his thin body over the top. Lifting all four of his lower limbs, he found several footholds and tensed for the upward jump.


    Unexpectedly, a large three-fingered claw wrapped around his and easily lifted him into the air. Pulling his limbs inward, the spider stared wide-eyed at his sudden savior.


    The beetle holding him aloft was a solid three times larger than he was, with an incredibly tough-looking shell. He wore no clothes, but as with many bugs, clothing was more of an option than a necessity. In his case, he instead bore a long and evidently razor-sharp nail across his back. It was remarkably wide and likely weighed more than the spider did, but the beetle didn''t seem to consider its heft noticeable. A matching metal shield covered the majority of the nail, although the spider thought it to be quite unnecessary given the beetle''s shell.


    He spoke, his voice a cheerful and somewhat loud baritone. "Why hello there, little spider! I, too, travel these tunnels, although my journey has led me to a safer place than this. My name is Kowle! And who are you?"


    The spider glanced around briefly and then twisted his head to look up at the claw holding him above the ground. "My name is Kisch. I come from Hallownest. Would you overly mind putting me down?"


    Kowle immediately dropped him, and Kisch neatly landed on his legs, using his hands to better stabilize himself. Standing, he promptly dusted himself off, and Kowle tried to help with his giant claws. "My sincerest apologies, little spider! I must confess, I was surprised to see one such as yourself coming up here. Hallownest is a long way away, and I have not visited in quite some time. I myself herald from the city, where I lived with my uncle. What of your history?"


    Kisch shivered. "I do not want to talk about my history. I will simply say that I come from Fog Canyon." This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Kowle''s black eyes blinked in confusion. "What? I thought Fog Canyon was-"


    Raising a thin hand, Kisch repeated, "I do not wish to talk about my history."


    Shrugging it off, Kowle cheerfully asked, "Very well! I shall not inquire further as to your past. Let us speak of the future! To where are you traveling?" As he spoke, he gripped Kisch''s shoulders and stood him up a little straighter, a large smile on his round face.


    Kisch grumpily slouched, lowering his shoulders as he patted himself down, still checking to ensure that the enormous beetle hadn''t tugged a limb off or something. "I''ve no clue as to where I''m traveling, so long as it''s not Hallownest. In fact..." He trailed off as he looked around, puzzled. "Where did you come from? Is there an outpost of some kind nearby?"


    Kowle chuckled. "Something like that, yes. I operate a smithy at Checkpoint Four."


    Rolling his shoulders as he readied his satchel, Kische glanced up at Kowle, confused. "Checkpoint Four? What''s that?"


    Raising one hand to indicate the grooved tunnel they were standing in, Kowle told him, "Do you see this tunnel?" Seeing Kisch''s unamused expression, he continued. "This was supposedly carved by a wyrm!"


    Kisch blinked behind his mask. "I don''t think that''s possible. There have been no wyrms for a long time."


    Grinning, Kowle told him, "No wyrms near Hallownest, you mean. Who''s to say that their types do not roam apart from it? For all you know, I could be a wyrm, shed and transformed to greet wary strangers to Barrowlore!"


    Kisch tilted his head skeptically. "I do not believe I need to tell you that I doubt that very much. And what is Barrowlore?"


    Rolling his shoulders, Kowle shrugged the comment off. "Eh, you are indeed correct in that doubt. I am far from a wyrm. As for Barrowlore, it''s where you stand! You walked onto Barrowlore soil the instant you crossed over that ledge." He pointed at the ledge in question. Kisch stubbornly refused to turn around. Indicating the tunnel behind him, Kowle continued, "Bardell is the capital of Barrowlore. This tunnel has been maintained and improved by their workers. I''d recommend heading there, although you may want to make your nail a bit more visible. I can''t tell where you''re hiding it!"


    Kisch stiffly replied, "I... don''t have a nail."


    Kowle nearly jumped out of his shell in shock. "You what!? How in the King''s name did you make it this far without a nail?"


    Uncomfortably, Kisch told him, "I do not want to talk about it. How about you lead me to Checkpoint Four?"


    The beetle wasn''t listening to him. He was staring at the ground, muttering under his breath. "No nail? Then how did he get past the..." He realized that Kisch was looking at him and shook himself out of his thoughts. His nail and shield rattled along with him. "It seems I must ask your forgiveness once again! I have not talked to another bug from Hallownest in quite some time, and my thoughts often go in circles, it would seem..."


    He trailed off again, and Kisch tentatively poked him. "Are you - are you going to sleep?"


    Jerking back to reality, Kowle looked around wildly. For a brief second, Kisch could have sworn he saw a glint of orange in his eyes, but as the beetle blinked, the faint sheen vanished. "Of course not! Ah - you wish to go to Bardell, do you not? I shall guide you there! Although I must confess, the journey is not exactly a difficult one."


    He pointed to the perfectly straight tunnel before them, and Kisch sighed. "Indeed."

 To Protect

    The throne room was impressive, no two ways about it.


    There were ten pillars in total, each one representing one of the Founders of Kellaris. They were gilded in gold, measuring a full ten feet in diameter to support the domed ceiling far above. The glass dome was decorated with painstakingly etched pictures of battles and victories, along with the most crushing defeats. It was not intended to be a simple trophy piece, but rather a living history of Kellaris'' entire past. Tall, arching hallways led to other parts of the castle, with a variety of portraits and decorations tastefully placed around the rim of the circular room.


    At its center was a round table, at the center of which was a levitating throne. It was designed so that all those at the table could see each other, and yet above all of them was King Saymes Hyrcanus. It was a constant reminder that whoever sat at this table were inferior to the ruler of their grand kingdom, that his will was supreme.


    Titus hated that table.


    He was a man of legendary proportions, and not in the usual sense either. At a full eleven feet and nine inches tall, he was frequently mistaken for a half-giant or perhaps a hornless oni, but he was adamant on the fact that he was just a human. He was big enough and more than strong enough to go toe-to-toe with a grizzly in a wrestling match, and had done so on more than one occasion. Ordinarily, he wore a black and gold suit of armor that would be immovable by anyone else''s standards, but today he wore a simple green shirt and cotton pants, choosing to leave his brick-shaped feet bare. Leaning back in his specially sized chair, he ran a massive hand through his long blond hair, muttering, "This is a waste of time."


    The woman to his left agreed with him, but stayed quiet. Claire de la Lune was a young brunette in her late thirties, not that anyone was brave enough to ask her age, and was arguably the greatest artificer of all time. Today, she was wearing her usual canvas shirt and thick apron, a pair of cargo pants visible underneath it. Holding to the commonly held view of artificers, every pocket on her person was overflowing to the brim with technology. Whether it was a time-manipulative watch hanging from her uppermost apron pocket, a lightning glove hanging from her waist, or the confusing array of weaponry strapped to the long device on her back, everything about Claire screamed organized chaos. Or perhaps just chaos, all things considered. Even the glasses she wore could be improved at a moment''s notice.


    On her right was Borug d''Kvog, a presently orcish cleric. He was thoughtfully and deftly spinning his silvery wand between his fingers, watching the anxious wizard who had called them all here. At the moment, he was most definitely an orc, with a single stubby fang poking up from the side of his mouth and large, cunning green eyes and saggy, swamp-colored skin. With three-fingered hands and a shorter build, he could have been mistaken for a common orcish mage. He wore a simple brown robe, leaving the hood down. However, despite his brutal appearance, anyone who knew Borug was aware that he was a horrifyingly good tactician, with a sly mind behind it. Add to it that he was a shapeshifter, and you were left with a person who should have been far more conspicuous than he really was. Regardless, he was indeed an excellent cleric and was fully trusted by the other heroes of the Favored, and nobody would dare say that their judgment was incorrect.


    The fourth and final member of the Favored was, sadly, not there yet.


    Looking around worriedly, the wizard pulled a gold watch out of his pocket (Claire''s design, of course) and said fretfully, "Where is she!? She was supposed to be here by now!"


    Titus raised his hands defensively. "Hold, Cavus. Bell should arrive at any time. She did mention she would likely be late, remember?"


    Cavus glared at him. Wearing the multi-layered robes of the ninth-tier mages, he was sweating like a pig and kept dabbing at his broad forehead with a silk handkerchief. His short blond hair had been styled earlier, but the aforementioned sweat had long since deformed it into a mess of curls and odd ends. Today, he seemed a little more nervous than usual, but Titus was choosing to put it down to the fact that King Hyrcamus had asked them to come here, without any previous indication of trouble, as soon as they could. Considering that he wasn''t even present, nobody really had any idea what was going on, aside from Cavus.


    Claire wasn''t paying attention to any of it, using a complex threefold system of levitating gears and sparking orbs to manipulate some kind of colored cube, absently twitching her gloved fingers to interact with the device. It was impossible for anyone present to figure out what the purpose of the device was, if there was one at all, but she seemed quite intent on its progress.


    Borug leaned forward, his quiet voice at odds with his appearance. "Cavus, perhaps you should just tell us why we''re here. Marie can take a while when she''s working, and we could be sitting here for-"


    "No!" Cavus yelped, and then shrank down in his chair as they stared at him, Claire''s glasses glinting as she glanced up. "I mean," he tried, "The King has personally requested that I wait until all of the Favored are present before revealing the information I have been given."


    Titus sighed, not for the first time since arriving. He began to stand up, saying, "All right, I''m just going to head out to the countryside and find some bandits. Do something productive."


    Cavus was beginning to look like he was going to have a panic attack, but before Titus could even get out of his seat, the double doors behind them flew open. A familiar figure bustled in, a small cloud of flour following her apologetic grin. "Sorry, sorry! Got caught up in that banquet. Who would have guessed giants could eat so much, heh?"


    Marie Bell was a food mage, borderline unique in their rarity. She was a bouncy woman in her early fifties, wearing a bright blue dress and a white apron. She had large hands and a generous build, and while she was far from muscular, nobody on the planet - including Titus - was willing to face her wooden ladle. He was confident that it was enchanted a dozen times over, because there was no way a simple chunk of wood could hurt that much. Of course, the pain was largely due to her unerring accuracy with its bowl, but even with that in mind, she was far more competent with a cauldron than a battlefield. Keeping her blond hair in a braided bun, her eyes had smile wrinkles from long hours of experience. She refused to share any of her recipes, despite the literally neverending barrage of requests she received from both veteran and amateur chefs. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Dusting her hands off, she flounced over to a chair and practically hurled herself into it, kicking her boots up onto the table and folding her hands in her lap with a grin. It was a curious sight for everyone involved, since putting one''s feet on a table in her kitchen was tantamount to a self-imposed death sentence. "All righty then, Cavus, what''ve you got for us today? Dragons again? Another war? Bring it on, I''m feeling confident! What is it!?"


    Her infectious excitement spread to her companions, and in spite of his prior boredom, Titus leaned forward eagerly, awaiting Cavus'' response. Even Borug, slouched in his chair, sat a little straighter, a faint smile visible on his craggy face. Claire put her gadgetry away, folding it with a series of deft movements that would have made even the most professional magician jealous.


    Cavus coughed loudly, uncomfortable from the suddenly intensified attention. "Ah, well, you see, the King has... ahem, has decided that..."


    He stammered into silence, staring at the table with a deep flush in his cheeks. It was uncharacteristic for the usually brash wizard, and Claire raised an eyebrow. "Cavus? Everything okay?"


    The wizard took a shaky breath, smiling hesitantly at them. "Yes. Maybe. No. Definitely not. This is..." He trailed off, burying his head in his hands as he slumped to the table.


    Titus stood up, walking around the table with an expression of concern. "Cavus, what''s going on? We can handle it."


    He sighed. "You guys... look, we haven''t always been on the best of terms."


    Claire snorted loudly. "We''ve never been on the best of terms."


    He nodded, waving it away with a hint of that old irritation. "I know, but... it''s never been personal, right?"


    Titus paused halfway around the table, making a so-so gesture with his hand. "I don''t know about that. ''Accidentally'' burning my hunting lodge down was a bit personal."


    Cavus laughed. It was a dead laugh, filled with far more misery than amusement. "I''m sorry about that. It was fully intentional, I assure you. I just never quite worked up the courage to confess it."


    Titus blinked in surprise. That incident was over a decade old at this point, and Cavus had always been vocal about his innocence regarding it. Something had to be seriously wrong if the grumpy wizard was actually fessing up to the crime. Titus wasn''t even remotely angry about it anymore - it was more of a running joke at this point than anything.


    But now Cavus was coming clean, and that worried Titus.


    Cavus rubbed at his eyes. "Look... whatever our differences, I want you to know that from the bottom of my heart, this isn''t personal. I swear on the King and the Ten Founders above, this was not my decision."


    Borug''s eyes narrowed, and he aimed his wand up at the air. As he did, Cavus literally hurled himself away from the table, scrambling across the floor. Titus'' gauntlets sprang from his dimensional pocket and onto his hands as a shining golden circle glowed, making its existence known. Claire''s mechanical lizard unfolded itself from her apron as her unique weapon floated around to her front, and she slid her hands inside, looking around. Not one to be outdone, Marie ate a pie in one giant bite, her mouth unhinging in a startling manner. The effects of the pie were unclear.


    As the circle intensified in strength, Titus sprinted forward. A glittering dome formed mere inches away from him, rimmed along the golden line. A colossal number of circular runic empowerments were spinning and wheeling all around it, and TItus instinctively knew that there wasn''t anything he could do against it.


    Borug''s arm swelled, ridged crimson scales rising to the surface of his skin as a full-sized draconic claw replaced his entire arm. Leaning back, the shapeshifter scratched at the dome, but the lines he''d caused faded in a split second. Claire kept her weapon at the ready, the bizarre assortment of barrels sticking haphazardly out of one side filled with a deep blue glow. Marie was holding another pie, this one simmering lightly.


    From behind the pillars supporting the history of Kellaris, the history that the Favored were a part of, emerged a small army of cloaked men and women. There was no distinction to race or species, the hoods they wore hiding their faces entirely. But the man who walked in through the side of the throne room, eliciting startled gasps and disbelieving stares from the heroes trapped inside the enchanted dome, was unmistakable.


    King Saymes Hyrcanus was wearing his royal robes, and his crown sat firmly on his long black hair as he walked forward, coming to a stop in front of the dome with his hands folded behind his back. "I assume you have questions."


    Titus punched the dome in response, right in front of Hyrcanus'' face. A blast of air erupted from the impact, blowing Titus'' hair back. "No, not really," The giant man snarled. "You backstabbed us."


    He shook his head serenely. "Hardly. You''ve been an immense service to this great country, and we can never repay you enough for those services. But it is for this service that your names will go down in history."


    Claire aimed her weapon at the dome''s peak and fired. Four bolts of light exploded from the end, carving a neat circle onto the dome surface, and the remaining barrels fired a fusing blast that cracked the dome. As with Borug''s attack, it was mended in mere seconds. She spun to the king, furious. "Then explain! What''s going on!?"


    Borug spoke, his voice amplified by the sudden silence. "We have become too powerful. He wishes to rid the world of us, and so ascertain security for him and his country."


    Hyrcanus'' expression was unapologetic. "Correct, sir Borug. And you will be forever immortalized as the greatest mind this world has ever seen. Barring yours, lady Claire."


    Marie''s eyes narrowed. "You can''t kill us."


    He raised an eyebrow. "Whyever not?"


    She smiled, her usual pleasant attitude replaced with an aura that would have made a dragon flinch. "Sorry, you missed my point. What I mean is, you literally can''t kill us. There''s nobody in all of Kellaris half as powerful as we are when we''re working together. So you''re either gonna have to find some other way to get rid of us, or just wait until we break out. And trust me, we''re gonna."


    King Hyrcanus shook his head in silent admiration. "Lady Marie, how often do I underestimate your intelligence. You are entirely correct. We cannot kill you. But there is a place we can send you, a place from which you will never be able to return."


    The dome began to glow brighter and brighter, and Titus squeezed his eyes shut. Borug''s eyes darkened, some kind of second and then third eyelid covering his vision. Claire''s glasses suddenly twitched, and suddenly they were welding goggles. Marie barely even seemed to notice the change in light.


    Hyrcanus'' voice rose. "All of Kellaris thanks you for your service and your sacrifice, dear Favored. I hope your new life is more peaceful than this one."


    As the light increased to a blinding level, the last thing any of them heard before being squeezed through dimensions and shoved out of the universe was Claire''s irritated, "Not again!"

 Only Four (To Protect pt. 2)

    Titus opened his eyes and was immediately met with a searing headache.


    Leaning back on the hard object he was sprawled on, he put a hand to his head and groaned. Something jumped away from him, something small by the sound of it. A clank followed it, and he cracked one eye open to take a look at the offending creature.


    He was in a dark alleyway of some kind, the walls built from a hodgepodge of brick, stone, and some material he wasn''t familiar with. The object he was lying on was what appeared to be a giant square trashcan made out of metal. The air smelled terrible and tasted far worse, and Titus nose wrinkled as the smell set in. To add to it, there was a perpetual rumble of a multitude of heavy objects, and the rolling thunder of tens of thousands of people.


    Sitting up, he saw what had caused the offending clank. Claire''s mechanical lizard was scooting across the ground, using its prehensile tail to move lumpy black bags out of the way. Claire''s foot was visible, poking out from underneath the pile.


    Titus blinked slowly, processing the fact, and then hurled himself forward. Going to one knee, he started tossing the bags aside, each one containing different objects that broke and squished as he threw them away. After only a moment or two, he managed to get the majority of the trash off of his friend.


    She was bleeding from a gash on the head, motionless where she lay. The majority of her apron was singed and smoking, her devices having been fried by whatever transportation spell they had been hit with. Titus put a finger on the side of her neck, paused for a moment, and then sighed in relief.


    Standing up, he looked around the alleyway once again. There was brick and stone, he recognized those, but there was a strange sort of very smooth stone underneath his feet that he couldn''t identify.


    Another one of the large, square trashcans was lifted into the air and crushed by a mess of black and crimson tentacles, which rapidly retracted to reveal Borug. Physically speaking, he looked unchanged, but there was a harrowed look in his eyes. "Titus? What happened?"


    Titus shrugged. "Don''t know yet. I only woke up a moment ago. Where''s Marie?"


    Borug looked around as a small bulge appeared in the back of his skull, but immediately winced, the bulge disappearing. "There is too much interference for me to tell. I can''t find her."


    The sound of shifting trash came from behind them, and they both turned to see the matronly woman rising out of the trash, checking herself over with a clear expression of disgust. "Kings above, it''s a mess! Where''d we go? And where''s that backstabbing traitor of a monarch?"


    Borug explained the situation to her while Titus checked up on Claire. The injury didn''t look too serious, which was good news. Even considering the age-old adage regarding head wounds, it wasn''t bleeding too badly.


    Marie stomped over, frowning at Claire''s unmoving body. "Huh. She''s lookin'' a bit pale, ain''t she? I got something that''ll put some hair in her nostrils." Titus and Borug hastily backed away from Marie as she removed a thankfully unbroken vial from inside her apron. Marie''s concoctions were infamous for having disastrous results... and those were the ones that worked.


    Unstoppering the vial, she hove it underneath Claire''s nose. The woman''s eyes snapped open as she scrabbled backward, tears rushing to her eyes. Marie started laughing, and Claire grabbed her nose. "Marie!" She started, and then gagged. Leaning over, she coughed into the ground and croaked, "What was that!?"


    Marie put the stopper back in the vial''s top, grinning at the small green-brown pile at the bottom. "Trust me, hon, nothing ye''d want to know about." Pulling a roll of bandages from somewhere in her apron pockets, she started binding Claire''s head. "Just relax yerself and we''ll figure out what''s goin'' on after that."


    Borug made his way closer to the entrance of the alley, squinting outside. "I am not normally one to repeat myself, but does anyone know where we are?"


    Claire winced as she stood up, grabbing onto Marie''s shoulder to support herself. "I''m as clueless as you guys here. I''ve never..." She trailed off, staring at the walls, and then looked around her. "Wait a minute."


    She started stumbling her way towards the alley''s entrance, unsteadily moving forward. Marie put a firm grip on her shoulder. "Hon, you just took a hit. I told you to relax."


    Waving it away, Claire made it to just inside the alley and stared out. The other three followed, and looked at the new world they were in. There were fast-moving chunks of metal, wheels made from some sort of black material with a shining centerpiece. The buildings here soared up into the sky, blocky things covered in windows and crammed next to each other. People walked busily on by, flat rectangular devices either held to their ears or in their hands, tapping furiously at the surface with their thumbs.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "Holy crap," Claire breathed. "I''m in New York."


    Everyone looked at her in surprise, and Titus was the first to ask, "You know this place?"


    She nodded slowly, seeming to be in shock. "Yeah, it''s... it''s kind of a long story. Do you remember where I told you I come from?"


    Borug nodded. "Of course. You tended to avoid the subject, but finally told us you originated from a distant colony called America."


    Claire smiled awkwardly. "Yeah... this is America."


    There was a long silence where they all stared at each other, the silence only broken by Claire''s lizard scrabbling back into her apron''s front pocket. Finally, Titus asked, "Do you mind explaining that?"


    She leaned against the wall, staring at her feet. "Look... you guys definitely deserve an explanation, but..." She closed her mouth, opened it, and then took a deep breath. "No, screw it. Look, I was born here. I still don''t know how I got from here to Kellaris, but it wasn''t on purpose. That aside, you guys were the best friends I''ve ever had, here or there, and I wouldn''t trade you guys for anything."


    She came to a halt as she slid down the wall, putting a hand to her injury. "Guys, I''m... I''m really sorry I didn''t tell you sooner, but I thought you wouldn''t believe me, and then I got to know you all and felt like you''d be mad that I hadn''t told you sooner, and I thought that-"


    Her breath was forced out of her as Titus wrapped her in a hug, easily lifting her off of the ground. She tried in vain to suck air into her lungs, but it wasn''t until he set her down that she could breathe again. Gasping, she put her hands on her knees and stared at the ground for a moment. Borug''s rough hand rested on her shoulder, and it was nice until Marie slapped her on the back. Squeezing her eyes shut, Claire tried to force back the tears, straightening. "I thought you''d be furious."


    Marie shrugged. "A little, yeah, but you''re way more important. If we couldn''t handle each other''s secrets, what kind of friends would we be?"


    Pulling Claire to her feet, Borug looked her in the eye. "You are not the only one with secrets, Claire. Yours was simply forced into the light by necessity. Rest assured, I am not mad at you. I doubt any of us is truly furious to the point that we would make any rash decisions." He indicated himself with a rare smile. "I am a shapeshifter. I am by nature a creature of secrets, and yet you trust me, do you not?" When she nodded, he continued. "Then rest assured, I will once again rest my trust in you."


    She rubbed at the corner of her eye with a rueful grin. "Wow," she chuckled sadly. "Thought I was supposed to be an adult."


    Titus patted her shoulder with a wide smirk. "I don''t know about that - you all look like children to me."


    Claire snorted in spite of herself, smiling. "Thanks, guys. I really appreciate that."


    Marie tucked her hands in her pockets, looking around at the unfamiliar landscape. It was far from their first time being in strange lands, though this one looked stranger than most. "All right, Claire. You''re the one who''s been here before - where do we go?"


    Shoulders squaring, Claire put a finger to her chin as her mind raced. "Well, first off... Borug." She pointed at the cleric with her hands clasped, index and middle fingers close together. "Unless something went really wrong here at some point in the last fifteen years, orcs don''t exist. Or dragons, or elves, or dwarves. It''s all humans and animals."


    Borug shrugged. "That''s fine. I''ve got a few good shapes I can use." His skin promptly bubbled, and his bones turned to rubber, his whole shape blobbing downward into a pile of simmering, roiling matter.


    Claire sighed in relief. "Okay, that''s really good. I wasn''t even sure magic would work here, so I''m glad you can still shapeshift."


    A mouth formed on the side of the pile, full of shapeless teeth. "I''m not using magic to change my shape. It''s just how I am made."


    She blinked. "Huh. Learn something new, as they say. Does anybody have their Docket on hand?"


    Titus fumbled for a moment before pulling a small bag with a drawstring out of his pocket. "I have mine. I assume you want me to see if it works?" Claire nodded, and he carefully put his hand at the entrance. There wasn''t any noticeable change in the air, but his hand disappeared at the wrist. Rummaging around, he shoved his arm in a little deeper and grinned. "And you said I was too careful." Extracting his arm from the Docket, he withdrew a colossal polearm. It had an ax blade on the front, a hammer on the back, and a razor spearhead on the end. It was a full fourteen feet and one inch long and weighed well over four hundred pounds. Titus had been one of the few people capable of wielding it back in Kellaris. Here, he was uncontested.


    Flipping it over, he put it back in the Docket and tucked the dimensional bag into his pants'' pocket. "All right, magic works. Anything else we need to know?"


    Claire nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, one thing. Technically speaking, that''s an artifact. It''s imbued with magic, not outputting it. Borug?"


    She turned around to find an unfamiliar man patting himself down. He was wearing a black business suit, which he''d probably copied from someone walking by. With straight black hair and cold brown eyes, his gaunt cheekbones accented his sharp features to create a frankly menacing overall appearance. Straightening his gray tie and rolling his shoulders experimentally, Borug asked, "How is this?"


    She appraised him critically. "Pretty good, all things considered. You may want to make your facial features a bit more inconspicuous - we don''t want to draw any unneeded attention." She had no scruples about critiquing his appearance. Since none of them were really his, it was more like giving advice to an art piece. Albeit a very complicated art piece. "More to the point, can you cast any spells?"


    Borug frowned. "Good point. I''ll modify it later. As for the spells..." His forearm bubbled, and his wand pushed out of it. A tendril of cream-colored flesh deftly flicked it into his hand, and he pointed it at Claire''s bandaged head. A green globule of shimmering energy sprang from its end and sank into her head, glowing briefly.


    Claire pulled the bandage off, not even bothering to check the healed wound. If anybody knew what they were doing, it was Borug. "Great, so magic works. Now then, one final problem..." She turned to look at Titus, craning her neck back. "You are the literal definition of noticeable."


    He shrugged. "Hard to change that, Claire. I can''t exactly shrink."


    He flinched right after he said it, and nobody had to look at Marie''s face to see the gigantic smile on her face.

 Dahlan

    Gravin was nervous.


    The salamander was fairly difficult to disturb, generally speaking. His moist orange skin might not have been tough literally speaking, but he was hard to rile in a more metaphorical sense. Long, nimble fingers laced between each other, he worriedly licked his left eyeball. Without looking, he asked his companion, "They are all prepared to leave, correct?"


    Calava nodded serenely, pointing at the cluster of humans milling around near the Falls. "They are here as promised, Gravin. They know how dangerous it would be to stay, after all. Why would they wish to stay?"


    It was a good point. Brimtown made for an interesting place to visit, at least when the flows of lava streaming over and around the valley enabled it. The fire salamanders living here were most often hermits, choosing to stay within the dome protecting them from the world when they could, but the sole passage to either enter or exit Brimtown was a tunnel, one almost always blocked by the perpetual lava flows emerging from the volcano. On the rare occasion it opened up, the salamanders cast their magicks to keep it that way for as long as possible. The ancient dome never allowed for longer than a day and a half or so.


    It was through these ''tourists'' that the race of salamanders received most of their news. They were uninterested in politics as a rule, seeing as it could be decades before the Falls opened back up again and whatever changes in the ruling class would be obsolete by the time Brimtown was exposed to the outside world again. No, they were far more interested in the practices of magic that evolved over time, the methods of farming and harvesting (especially in their relatively hostile environment) crops, and of course any literary works that could survive the harsh temperatures and air conditions present in Brimtown.


    Gravin was worried because the salamancers'' spell had mere minutes left before it dissipated, and then it''d be at least a decade before anyone who wasn''t a master in pyromancy would be able to get in or out. And for some reason, these normal and frankly squishy humans were simply... waiting. Chatting to each other as though they had all the time in the world.


    It used to be that people would come in, do their business, and leave. Not these humans, though. No, they seemed comfortable letting the seconds tick down and give themselves the absolute maximum amount of time possible in Brimtown.


    With a sigh, Gravin whispered to Calava, "I can''t stand this. Pardon my forwardness, but my patience tires of their arrogance." Straightening his robes, he approached the small crowd of humans. Raising his voice and adding a slight hiss to garner extra attention, he called, "Anyone not possessing a tail must leave immediately. The Falls will be closing soon."


    A burly man wearing a decent suit of armor walked forward, head bowed respectfully. "My apologies, lord salamander. Three of our number are missing."


    It was at times like these when Gravin wished he had teeth to grind against each other. Technically, he could use transformancy to simply grow a good set of razor-sharp teeth, but it would have been a waste of Aspect magic. Giving the man an annoyed expression, he told him, "Exit now. I will go search for your friends, but it would better for them to be lost here and you all to be safe outside than for you to stand here and await your inevitable demise together."


    The man paled and bowed again. "Certainly, milord. They are a man and a woman, married to each other. They had a child recently, and were last seen having a rather..." He paused, tactfully finishing, "Intense conversation."


    Shaking his head, Gravin turned around. "Leave. If they come out, so be it. If not... inform their families."


    As the band of humans began picking their things up and getting organized, Gravin headed for the stone-coated wall and began to climb up it, the pads on his toes gripping the rock with ease as he ascended. Turning, he took a deep breath, and his eyes rippled. As an overlay flowed from the corners, fully overwhelming his view, a different pair of slitted eyes gradually covered his own. Blinking to get readjusted to the improved sight, he took a good look at Brimtown.


    It wasn''t a large town. There were a hundred and fourteen salamanders in total, along with an elderly drake mother, so there weren''t a lot of places the couple could have gone. The dark brown roofs mounted atop the crimson stone houses provided an excellent contrast to the bright skin of the humans who had come to Brimtown, which meant it was only a short moment before Gravin found the two humans shouting at each other.


    With a flying leap, Gravin landed on a roof and began jumping between houses, intent on reaching the couple. He could hear what they were saying at this distance.


    "...left him with Carla!? You could have opened with that!" The husband was red in the face from effort, and his wife''s face was practically glowing. "We''re wasting time! Who knows how long it''ll be before-"


    Gravin landed in a crouch before them, straightening to his full height and folding his hands in his sleeves. "You are indeed wasting time. The Falls will be closing shortly."


    Their shouting match ground to a near-instantaneous halt as they stared at him wide-eyed, and then the husband launched himself at Gravin, prostrating himself before him. "Lord salamander! My son, is he with the others!?"


    With a sigh, Gravin told him, "I don''t know, human. There are many men and women there. Where else would he be?"


    The woman poked him in the chest triumphantly. "As I told you, I left him with Carla! It''s absolutely fine."


    He glared at her. "And why you would do such a-"


    Gravin put his hands on their shoulders and fixed a gaze of nigh-absolute frustration on them. "Do you wish to die here? Your child is likely with the other humans. Come now or I will remove you from Brimtown myself." He couldn''t understand them. Children were the future of any species, regardless of how often or how rarely they appeared. It should have been impossible for two humans to lose someone as valuable as the inheritor of their heritage, which led him to believe that the boy was most assuredly back with the humans, safely outside.


    The husband still looked worried, but the wife remained confident. "Let''s go with the salamander, dear. I assure you, I am certain Carla is taking care of him."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Taking a deep breath, he nodded, and the tension slowly eased from his shoulders. "Very well. I trust you, darling."


    Exasperated, Gravin began moving towards the Falls. "Follow me as fast as you can, humans." He set off at a moderately fast pace, and they hurried to accompany him.


    Brimtown was not a complex place, and it was not even a full minute before they arrived at the exit. Most of the remaining humans had already left, and Gravin hurried to move the couple with them. The husband turned around, still looking anxious. "Could you wait to close the Falls until I ensure that Carla has our son?"


    Gravin shook his head adamantly. "Not if all the salamancers in Brimtown combined our efforts could we hold the mountain''s flow for a second longer than it allowed us to."


    The human sighed, trying to relax. "Very well. I wish you a good year, milord salamander."


    Finally, some manners. Gravin gave him a bow, his body folding as he smiled. "And a good year to you as well, human."


    They rejoined the column of humans and slowly filed out. The crackling shield of crimson metallurgy above the tunnel winked briefly, and Gravin let out a silent sigh. Just in time.


    Turning, he decided to go to the church to pay respects to Aiphas, the Spirit of the Mountain. That, and he needed a private place to vent for a few minutes.


    He could take his time now. There was no emergency, after all. He paced sedately through the familiar streets he knew so well, filling his lungs with the rich mana of Brimtown. One of the reasons for his haste, he reflected, was that he considered this place to be almost sacred. There were few places that possessed more ambient mana than here, and it could be easily attributed to Aiphas.


    The church was the largest building in Brimtown, with two floors and a stone ceiling. Its hollow windows gazed out at the houses nearby, a small plot of Ymbr flowers on either side of the entrance. Their flame-scorched tinges and glowing hearts lent an almost mystic air to the front of the already impressive building, and shone dimly beneath the darkening cavern ceiling far above.


    As Gravin approached, he paused. There was an odd sound in the air, one he was familiar with. Heart plummeting, he threw the doors open and stared forward.


    Twenty smooth pews sat before him, lined up neatly. The flame slimes ensconced in their small cages along the walls slept, producing a faint burbling sound as they dreamt of who knew what. The pulpit stood at the center, an imposing pillar of harsh stone reminding everyone who saw it that jagged truth was better than cushioned lies. A masterful sculpture protruded from the back of the church, an effigy of Aiphas extending its many arms outward to envelop the salamanders in an embrace. Several kyrpies watched him from their place in the rafters, cinder-like eyes observing him with interest.


    Gravin paid no attention to them. The horrifyingly familiar sound was coming from one of the pews near the end, and it grew louder as he glided towards it.


    Coming around the edge of the pew, Gravin looked down and saw a small, pale human wrapped in rough brown canvas, crying its woes to the world. It had dark hair, wet from the sweat produced by the heat of Brimtown, and its stubby hands groped at the air blindly. Many things went through Gravin''s mind as he saw it. A heritage. An inheritor. And above all else, an utterly helpless infant.


    Without hesitation, Gravin seized the child and dashed from the church. Taking deep breaths to force the panic clouding his mind, he dipped into his magic once again. His legs lengthened as thick, rough scales grew over them, and his soft toes were wrapped in vicious talons. They were not for combat, not this time. Now they merely served to accelerate Gravin to a pace that he would have been unable to achieve previously. It wasn''t enough, and he tucked the child under his arm as he dove to all fours, moving even faster.


    He sprinted through Brimtown, and as he neared the Falls, he bellowed, "They have left a child!" The couple who he had been so quick to usher away came to mind, and he berated himself. They had been so anxious to ensure that their son was safe, and he had disregarded their worries as paranoia.


    The spell withholding the Fall''s tumult crackled, lines of lava streaming through the chinks, Gravin saw two humans standing side by side behind it. A man and a woman.


    Gravin held one arm up, the child shrieking its displeasure as he did. Pouring mana into his throat, he amplified his voice. "Humans!" He nearly tripped, his gait awkward from carrying the human, and wasn''t able to finish the sentence. Regardless, the couple turned at the sound of his voice, and they saw the child in his arm.


    Shock prevented them from moving for mere seconds, but they didn''t have seconds to spare. The spell holding the Falls back pulsed, groaned, and finally shattered.


    Gravin''s momentum was already carrying him forward, and it was only by turning his arms into drake-like claws that he was able to dig into the ground, sliding to a stop inches from the oncoming torrent of lava. The husband had no such magic. His arm reached out, striving to recover his son, his inheritor, his own blood, and the full force of the Falls crashed down on it.


    He could smell burning flesh.


    Breathing hard, Gravin tensed his jaw. It was dangerous to use transformancy to this extent, and he could feel his blood begin to boil as the drake''s Aspects tried to overwhelm his own. Opening his mouth wide, he inhaled a deep breath of mana, circulating it through his thirsty lungs. As the seconds passed, the claws and talons unwillingly retreated, and Gravin stood.


    Turning to the Falls, he took a pace backward. The wild river of lava perpetually coming from the Mountain was flowing with all the might of a waterfall over the entrance, blocking it entirely. A powerful pyromancer would be able to cross through with some trouble. A human child stood no chance.


    Qyura ran over to him, extinguishing his flaming robes with a freezing blast of frost and falling to her knees in front of him. "Gravin! Are you all right? What happened?"


    In response, Gravin moved the child out from underneath him, and he heard a sound of shock from her. He was still out of breath, panting hard from the mental exertion of overpowering the drake Aspects, but he said quietly, "They left him. They were unsure if he was with them, but I told them to go."


    After a moment, Qyura moved next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. Her voice was soft and sympathetic when she spoke to him, but firm in her conviction. "Gravin, it was not your fault. The Falls were closing and they needed to leave. A child may adapt to the conditions here over time, but an adult is set in their path. They would have died within weeks."


    Gravin''s arms trembled, and the mana exhaustion hit him all at once. He nearly fell over, and the only thing that prevented him from doing so was Qyura''s surprisingly strong grip. His voice came out as a croak. "But I could have-"


    She cut him off, her voice stern. "You know as well as I that what-ifs can destroy a creature, no matter their strength. Do not concern yourself with how you might have changed what happened. Concern yourself with what is to come. What are you going to do with the child?"


    Gravin raised the child. It was still crying, its small face screwed up as tears streamed down its face. It couldn''t have been more than a year old.


    Summoning his strength and leaning on Qyora, Gravin stood. "I... do not know. What do you propose I do?"


    Even as he asked, Gravin knew the answer. There was no doubt as to whose responsibility the care of the boy would fall to. Qyora raised her gentle eyes to him. "I will help you in any way that I can, Gravin. Two drakelings remain under Mvotte''s care and one shall accompany the boy throughout his early years, according to the ways of our people. But he cannot remain nameless. What will you call him?"


    Gravin stared into the boy''s brown-speckled eyes. They would soon darken to red as the mana of the Mountain infused him, settling deep into his very being as he changed to survive the heat and harsh air of Brimtown, but that would not be for another few days. For now, Gravin could only watch the boy as he cried himself to sleep, his face bearing more concern than one of his age should ever have to bear.


    "Dahlan." He said softly. "His name shall be Dahlan."

 Dahlan (2)

    Brimtown was buzzing with the calm discussion of salamanders enjoying the early morning, the ceiling above blazing with light from the lava surrounding the dome. Some of them were on their way to the nearest crab dive for lunch. More than a few were experimenting with magic of some kind.


    Next to the only bread shop in the town, a pleasant store simply entitled Urph''s, a small drake was sniffing around at the foundation. It was flame-colored, sparks of yellow and orange gently glowing along the rim of its scales. Shoving its blunt head down at the base and taking a deep breath through its snuffly nose, it slunk down and moved forward.


    A grubby hand reached out and pulled the drake in, and it yelped in surprise. Underneath the shop, face covered in dirt, Dahlan put his finger on the drake''s mouth. "Gent, be quiet! They''re gonna hear you!" Scooting back and bumping into a supporting beam, the eight-year-old hugged Gentler Than Most, also known as Gent, close to his chest. Eyes wide and heart pounding, he waited to see if anyone had noticed either the reptile or the sound it had made.


    Urph''s heavy footsteps paused briefly, just above Dahlan, and he sucked in a sharp breath. No sound came from either party for a long moment, but Dahlan stayed quiet. After a few seconds, Urph moved away, and Dahlan heard his cheerful voice ask someone an indistinct question.


    Gent licked his face. Grinning, Dahlan roughly rubbed the drake''s stubby horns. "I think we''re okay. Are you ready?"


    Panting, Gent stared at Dahlan, and the boy gave him another hug. "Well, I think you''re ready. Now we just have to-"


    A hand reached through the floor, a blue halo of magic surrounding it, and seized Dahlan by the shoulder. Startled, he let out a shriek, and the hand squeezed tighter. The miasma of blue light expanded, enveloping both of them, and then pulled.


    Dahlan and Gent were yanked straight through the floor, passing halfway through another plane as they did, and were left floating midair. Pulling Gent closer to him, Dahlan smiled winsomely at the crimson salamander looking at him, arms folded. "Hi, mister Ydephr. How are you doing?" His voice was friendly, but he''d had more than a few run-ins with the quantumancer over time, and they weren''t on the best of terms at this point. Especially since this wasn''t Dahlan''s first time trying to get some extra bread.


    Ydephr glared at him. "Irresponsible child." He made a gesture, and the blue aura surrounding Dahlan and Gent disappeared. They dropped to the ground hard, and Dahlan winced at the sound his rump made against the stone. That was going to leave a bruise.


    Disregarding the noticeable discomfort, Ydephr folded his arms and glared at Dahlan. "Why do you never ask for bread!? We have no currencies here, insolent child. Why do you feel the need to steal something that is already free?"


    Standing at the counter and dressed in a flour-dusted black apron, Urph added, "It''s no trouble to make some more for you, Dahlan. You can always just come up and ask for some."


    "But that''s not fun!" Dahlan blurted. Ydephr''s expression would have lowered the room temperature by a good twenty degrees if he''d been a hydromancer, and Dahlan hastily mended his statement. "I mean, it''s..." Thinking for a moment, he tried hopefully, "An exercise in... stealth? So I can move quieter?"


    Urph snorted loudly. "Not to hurt your feelings, Dahlan, but non-magical stealth isn''t going to be of much help against this old geyser of a salamander. There have been krowiks and worse hanging around this place''s crawlspace, and they''re a lot better at hiding than you are." Dahlan''s face fell, and the baker quickly added, "If you want to learn how to be quiet, why don''t you ask Laurulei to teach you? Nobody in all of Brimtown is better than she at invisibility and noise-cancellation."


    Ydephr almost hissed at the baker. "And give the insufferable child an even greater chance at taking some poor salamander''s bread!? Are you mad!?¡±


    Leaning down, Urph picked Dahlan up and dusted him off, frowning at the state he was in. ¡°Hardly. And even if I was, a little insanity can spur creativity rather well.¡±


    Putting a hand to his head, Ydephr muttered, ¡°Aiphas save us¡­¡± Looking up at Urph, he pointedly said, ¡°A small amount of chaos can be helpful, yes, but uncontrolled chaos can be a threat!¡±


    Urph chuckled, selecting a slice of bread and giving it to Dahlan. The young boy happily started gnawing away, and let Gent take a few nibbles as well. ¡°Ydephr, the very definition of chaos is that it is uncontrollable. What would you have me do? Refuse to give bread to him?¡±


    Shaking his head, Ydephr insisted, ¡°No, I would have you employ him until he grew some semblance of common sense!¡±


    Dahlan wasn¡¯t overly concerned with the arguing salamanders. They got into heated debates almost daily, but he had a feeling they respected each other¡¯s opinions. They just did so loudly and frequently.


    The door opened as another salamander walked in, and Dahlan¡¯s face lit up. Pahrdyn was one of the kindest people in Brimtown and one of his very favorites to talk with. She took the situation in and shook her head. ¡°You two would complain about the color of the sky if you had the opportunity.¡±


    Urph grinned at her. ¡°Who knows, perhaps it¡¯s changed to green since we last checked. It¡¯s been a while since the Falls opened, after all.¡±


    Ydephr¡¯s face was priceless. ¡°You - you can¡¯t be serious.¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Urph subtly used a foot to scoot Dahlan and Gent towards Pahrdyn, replying, ¡°Why shouldn¡¯t I be? The air may have changed a good amount. Wouldn¡¯t you agree that it would affect the color of the sky?¡±


    Ydephr began sputtering as he raised a finger, unaware of Pahrdyn pulling Dahlan and his drake outside. ¡°Alterations to the air quality outside would have to be catastrophic for its shade to change to such an extent! Do you have the slightest idea how¡­¡±


    His voice faded as Pahrdyn carefully closed the door, and she turned to the young boy beside her. She looked mildly amused. ¡°Let me guess. You tried to take some bread again, didn¡¯t you.¡±


    Her voice held a serious note in it despite her levity, and Dahlan hung his head. ¡°Sorry. It¡¯s just so boring.¡± Gent let out a little bark of annoyance, and Dahlan promptly kneaded the loose skin around the drake¡¯s horns and neck. Gent closed his eyes and began purring quietly.


    Pahrdyn raised a nonexistent eyebrow. ¡°Boring? You can learn nearly any type of magic here. Why, all you would have to do is ask and I¡¯d be happy to teach you hydromancy.¡± She put a hand on his shoulder and waited for him to look up into her warm eyes. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t think any less of you if you asked for help.¡±


    Dahlan¡¯s eyes dropped to the road, and then he leaned forward. She pulled him into a hug, and simply held him there for a long moment. He felt Gent¡¯s rough tongue licking his fingers as he finished the bread off, and then the textured feeling of his scales on Dahlan¡¯s bare feet.


    They stayed there for a few more seconds, and then Pahrdyn pulled back. She was smiling. ¡°Do you feel better?¡±


    He nodded wordlessly, and she scooped him up. Gent made an angry snort, and she bent down to allow the drake to perch on Dahlan¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Let¡¯s get you back to Gravin. I¡¯m pretty sure he¡¯d have a few ideas for how to relieve that boredom you¡¯re so enamored with.¡±


    Burying his face in her robe, he let himself relax a bit. Bringing one hand up, he continued rubbing Gent¡¯s horns, and the drake preened blithely, somehow finding a comfortable position between Pahrdyn and Dahlan.


    Some time later, Pahrdyn helped Dahlan get down and extricated Gent¡¯s claws from her robes. Putting the drake on the ground, she poked his nose and smiled at the explosion of sneezes that followed. Dahlan reached up, hand open, and she wrapped it in her own. ¡°Are you ready?¡±


    Dahlan looked at the house in front of them. It was similar to the other buildings nearby, aside from a slightly larger back section to accommodate for the extra person living there. He knew that the inside was scorched black, and that most of the furniture was enchanted to be fireproof as a result.


    She squeezed his shoulder, and he nodded. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    Pahrdyn smiled. ¡°Good. But I¡¯m coming in too.¡±


    Dahlan winced. He¡¯d had a feeling she would explain the circumstances to Gravin, but there was a part of him that had been hoping she wouldn¡¯t.


    Pulling the door open, Pahrdyn brought the reluctant Dahlan along with her, frowning as she took in the most recent burn marks. ¡°I assume he¡¯s still trying to perfect his technique.¡± It wasn¡¯t much of a question, but Dahlan nodded.


    A sound not unlike crackling paper roared from somewhere in the house, and a blast of fire shone around the corner of the hallway before them. Dahlan closed his eyes from the heat. Pahrdyn called, ¡°Gravin? Are you here?¡±


    Several seconds later, the salamancer walked around the corner, throat glowing sunset orange. ¡°Ah, hello Pahrdyn. And¡­¡± He frowned as he saw Dahlan¡¯s dirt-stained face. ¡°What have you done now?¡±


    Pahrdyn squeezed his shoulder. ¡°Ydephr caught him trying to take some of Urph¡¯s bread again. I say it was Gentler Than Most¡¯s idea.¡± The drake gave her a shocked look, and it took all of Dahlan¡¯s self-control not to burst out laughing.


    Gravin¡¯s expression helped with that. ¡°Pahrdyn, I don¡¯t see how you can find this entertaining. Dahlan, you could be doing so much more with what you have on hand. Knowledge, education, and power are sitting right at your fingertips! But you instead decide to sneak around Brimtown and¡­ steal bread.¡±


    Staring at the floor, Dahlan could feel a hot flush creep up his face, settling around his ears. He swallowed hard, trying to push the small ball in his throat down. Kneeling, Gravin held his chin up to make eye contact. ¡°I¡¯m not trying to discourage you, Dahlan. I just don¡¯t understand why you choose to waste your time like this.¡±


    Tears started to well up in the corners of Dahlan¡¯s eyes despite his best efforts, and his hands clenched into fists. Gravin sighed, then looked up at Pahrdyn. ¡°Thank you for bringing him home. Do you need anything?¡±


    Dahlan didn¡¯t see what she did, but he felt her hand come off his shoulder, followed by the sound of the door closing. Before he could apologize, Gravin pulled him into a hug.


    He blinked, his attempt to avoid crying jolted by the surprise. The salamander squeezed him, and then stood. ¡°My apologies. I should have waited until she left. It was¡­ unkind of me to scold you with Pahrdyn present.¡±


    Rubbing his eyes, Dahlan stared at the ground. ¡°Did you¡­ mean it?¡±


    Gravin¡¯s forehead creased. ¡°Of course I meant it. I had no intention of humiliating you.¡±


    Shaking his head, Dahlan said, ¡°No, I mean¡­ did you mean it when you said I was wasting time?¡±


    Folding his legs, Gravin sat down, putting a finger to his chin. ¡°Yes, I did. Can you come up with an alternative explanation for what you¡¯re doing?¡± His voice was firm, but genuinely curious. It was hard to stay angry at him when he used that tone.


    Dahlan thought for a moment. ¡°Well¡­¡± He knew the ¡®stealth¡¯ excuse wouldn¡¯t work with Gravin, so he tried to actually think about it for a moment.


    Why did he try to steal Urph¡¯s bread?


    ¡°Because¡­¡± He began slowly. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ good at it? I can¡¯t do magic as good as you do. So¡­ I wanted to be better at something.¡±


    Gravin stared at him for a moment, and then dragged a hand down his face, groaning loudly. ¡°Aiphas above, it should¡¯ve been obvious.¡± Dahlan wasn¡¯t sure who the salamander was talking to, so he stayed quiet.


    Looking down at Dahlan, Gravin stated bluntly, ¡°You are not as proficient in magic as I am, correct?¡± Once again, Dahlan didn¡¯t feel the need to answer. Gravin was a master even by Brimtown standards. ¡°So,¡± he continued, ¡°I¡¯m going to teach you on your level. And I think we should start tomorrow.¡±


    Dahlan blinked. ¡°Am I in trouble?¡±


    Gravin half-chuckled. ¡°Was Urph angry at you?¡± When Dahlan shook his head, Gravin made a ¡®there-you-have-it¡¯ gesture. His face became serious. ¡°You¡¯ll have to practice. Magic isn¡¯t easy, no matter what level you¡¯re at. You¡¯re going to have to put in a lot of effort.¡±


    A massive smile slowly crawled onto Dahlan¡¯s face, one he tried to shift into a somber expression. ¡°Okay, Dad.¡±

 Dahlan (3)

    There was something wrong. Horrifically wrong.


    Dahlan floated through space, hundreds of variations of Gravin tut-tutting him and gyrating uncontrollably midair. Beside him, Ydephr angrily shouted, "Why are you being naughty? Stop it!" As he tumbled through the black air, pressure gradually began to increase on his chest.


    It slowly became harder and harder to breathe. He was distracted as a massive arm loomed out of the darkness, drowning out the lectures of the Gravins with a growing scream, a deathly shriek that pierced Dahlan straight through to his core. It clutched at him, snatching at the blackness in an attempt to pull him away.


    Dahlan''s eyes snapped open as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. He was staring at the ceiling of his room, but there was still great pressure on his chest. Looking down, he saw Gent''s snoring body curled up on his chest. It would have been cute if he wasn''t running out of air, and black spots began darting across his vision.


    Sitting up, he dislodged the drake from his sleeping position, and Gent woke up with a start. Looking around in shock, he gazed up at the sweating Dahlan and gave him a confused growl. Sucking air into his oxygen-starved lungs, Dahlan managed a smile. "Good morning, Gent. Maybe don''t do that next time."


    He''d had a weird dream, he was sure of it. He just couldn''t remember any of it. Whatever it was, he was distracted by an incredible scent floating through the air. It held promises of spiced meat and biscuits and rubinidine.


    Rubbing his dry eyes, Dahlan got out of bed and made a small nest of blankets, tucking his pillow into the bottom of it. Gent pounced into it, using his needle-like teeth to pull the warm coverings onto himself and curling up with only his eyes glinting out from underneath the pile.


    Heading into the dining room, Dahlan found Gravin setting up an excellent breakfast of heavily seared crab, the biscuits Dahlan''s nose had promised him, and a pitcher full of rubinidine. "What''s the occasion?"


    Gravin looked up at him with an unexpected smile. "Good morning, Dahlan. If you''re going to learn magic, it''d be best if you have a full stomach."


    The events of yesterday caught up to Dahlan all at once, and he tentatively sat down. "So..." He poured himself a cup of rubinidine, taking a careful sip of the tangy liquid. "What are we doing?"


    Taking a seat, Gravin took some crab and put it next to his biscuits, rubbing his hands in anticipation. "Heat manipulation, of course. The most basic possible spell a salamancer can perform. And don''t worry, I won''t hold you to my own standards."


    Dahlan froze with a biscuit halfway to his mouth. "But..."


    Gravin''s eyes flicked up to meet Dahlan''s as he carved a piece of crab onto his plate. "Is something the matter?"


    Delicately putting the steaming food back on his plate, Dahlan asked, "I''m not a salamander." Gravin paused briefly, but kept eating at a slower pace. Dahlan continued, "How do I be a salamancer?"


    Washing the bite of crab down with some rubinidine, Gravin steepled his fingers on the table. "Dahlan, insofar as I know, there is no spell that is exclusive to any given species." Dahlan''s eyes widened, and Gravin continued. "I can see how you might have come to that conclusion, but not even dragons are immune to this rule: that any spell can be performed by anyone, so long as you put the appropriate work in. Granted, some might be more difficult than others; for example, the eldritch planes possess incredible summoning magic, but their language is nigh impossible to learn for mortal beings. Ergo, a translation method must be acquired. In the case of salamancy, however, it requires no language at all. Your willpower, knowledge, precision, and mana are the only things that matter; higher-grade augments, such as drake-type transformancy, are an exception to this rule."


    Dahlan tried to process all of that. Gravin had a habit of talking quickly and clearly, and it was sometimes hard to follow along. Gravin began eating again, and Dahlan opted to wait until later. He had a feeling most of it was going to be repeated anyway, so he decided to eat now and magic later.


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    Twenty minutes later, Dahlan was standing in the backyard, Gravin across from him. There was also a long, narrow package nearby, but all of Dahlan''s attention was solely focused on his father. He hadn''t had much experience casting magic on his own, and compared to Gravin''s tendency to literally perfect every spell he learned... he''d hidden every attempt he''d made at magic when putting it up against him.


    Gravin began untying his robes, talking as he did. "Many people consider magic to be a simple thing, believing that observing a mage in action is enough to replicate his abilities. They are wrong."


    Dahlan''s eyes widened as Gravin folded his robes neatly, putting them aside. The salamander was lean, and while he was far from the pinnacle of masculinity, there was a significant amount of muscle under his orange skin. He now wore a simple pair of pants, leaving his tail to slowly swing from side to side.


    "Magic and mana are not exclusively in the mind; every muscle, every vein, every organ in your body must be involved if your magic is to have much effect at all. I myself was blessed with a good body. It is never easy to attain great strength, but some find it harder than others. It is that physical strength that will help not only with your casting, but when you are unable to use magic." He reached down and opened the wrapped object, removing them from the skins they''d been wrapped in.


    They were weapons, Dahlan could tell that much. A staff almost equaling Gravin''s height, with three-quarters of a hollow hexagon measuring a foot across placed at the tip. The inside of the hexagon was wide, but the outside looked razor-sharp. The blade itself appeared to be made of stone, crimson veins of glowing energy pulsing throughout its entirety. The second one was nearly identical but much shorter. "This," Gravin began, "is called a caryva. It is a traditional weapon of the ancient salamancers, and can be used to great effect should its user know how to appropriately wield it. Not only is it a vicious melee weapon, but it can be an effective casting focus as well."


    Dahlan raised his hand. It was impossible for even Qyora to talk over Gravin once he got going, so gestures had to be used to get his attention. Gravin turned to look at him, a caryva in each hand. "Yes?"


    "What''s a focus?" Dahlan had a feeling it was a basic sort of equipment, and he could guess as to what it did, but there was no point in hindering himself later on if he could avoid any confusion by just asking.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Gravin seemed to share the sentiment. "A focus is an object or tool used to concentrate mana. Stone, metal, and certain gemstones are easier to channel mana through than one''s own blood, due in part to their relative complexity. Of course, your mana must pass through your arms to the staves, but sending it from one location to another is far simpler than exuding it from your hands or legs and shaping it there. Of course, some materials are better than others at channeling mana. For example, Brimtown''s stone is a remarkably good conductant. Do you understand all of that?"


    Dahlan understood most of it, so he nodded. Gravin held two fingers over the edge of the smaller caryva, and his eyes glowed as he traced the full edge. A barely visible sheen of iridescence formed over it, and he ran the blade over his bare hand. Before Dahlan could object, Gravin held his palm up to show that it was uninjured. "A very helpful spell that temporarily dulls the blade. According to Maida, it''s a type of metallurgy. I myself consider it to be a type of terramancy, but I suppose he would know better. Regardless, it should prove sufficient for what we''ll be doing today."


    He handed the caryva to Dahlan, and the young boy nearly fell over under its weight. It was much heavier than he''d anticipated, and it took him a few awkward seconds to hold it correctly. Once its blade was out in front of him, he discovered it to be excellently balanced. Putting his hands in the right places didn''t remove the weight, but it made it easier to manage.


    Gravin nodded approvingly at Dahlan, holding his own caryva one-handed at his side. "As I mentioned previously, you''ll be casting a simple heat manipulation spell. Are you ready?"


    He had no idea. Dahlan was glad for his loose clothing, because his trembling legs would have been obvious otherwise. All his prior attempts at magic had ended badly, but at least they''d been in private. If he messed up here, it would be in front of Gravin, and words failed to describe how worried he was about that.


    Despite his terror, he nodded, and Gravin''s expression grew serious. "The first step to casting any spell is identifying your mana. Can you do that?"


    Dahlan knew how to do that. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and searched inward. Allowing the tension to drain out of his shoulders, he sucked an inward breath through his nose and slowly released it through his mouth. As the stress gradually left him, he felt a warm ball of gently rippling energy hovering in the center of his ribcage. Eyes still shut, he said, "I found it."


    He could hear the smile in Gravin''s voice. "Good job! I see you''ve done this before. Remember, it is not a part of you, but it isn''t a part of the world either. It is simply there. Now, move it. Focus it outward, feeling it move throughout your arms vein by vein to the caryva. Notice the cold feeling of the stone against your palms, and then... push."


    Dahlan did as Gravin asked, and felt the ball split. Strands of it spread outward, coiling around the inside of his arms and moving forward. It was harder and harder to move as it went further away from his heart, and it took all of Dahlan''s willpower to direct it to the weapon in his hands. The instant the rapidly thinning mana touched the caryva''s surface, it drained from him. His eyes were forced open from the sudden drop in stamina, and he nearly fell over.


    Gravin applauded. "Excellent! You''ve definitely done this before. Now, take a moment to recover. Think of your mana pool as a muscle. The more you use it, exercise it, the easier it will be to move it where you will and the more mana you''ll have available. Think of it not as a sprint, but a marathon. How does one eat a dragon?"


    Using the caryva as an impromptu walking stick, Dahlan straightened, panting from the exertion. "One... One bite at a time."


    "Exactly." Gravin indicated Dahlan''s caryva. "Now look at the fruits of your labor, minute though they might be."


    Looking up to the oddly shaped blade, Dahlan saw a twisting ribbon of green light. It moved and spun, nearly dancing along the edge of the caryva without ever leaving it. He smiled tiredly, trying to keep his eyes open. "Is that... mine?"


    Gravin nodded. "It certainly is. Now, in the same way as you found your pool, search for the mana inside the caryva."


    Dahlan pushed once again, and this time felt it immediately. The caryva was like nothing Dahlan had ever touched before, like the most distant thing from warmth imaginable. He shivered in spite of himself. "Why is it so cold?"


    "We''re not sure." Gravin''s statement was blunt, with a slight edge of irritation. "An entire village of scholars and magicians and we can''t figure out why focoi react in such a curious way. Regardless, the cold is only in your mind. Now, what I want you to do is speed it up."


    "What?" Dahlan''s forehead scrunched. "But-" He clamped his mouth shut. This was the first time he''d ever done anything involving magic with Gravin as opposed to watching him. He couldn''t mess it up.


    Squeezing the caryva, he focused on the mana inside it, trying to ignore the frost creeping into his mind. He tried to push it, and his hold on it slipped. Stumbling, he tripped, and a green flash of light tore from the caryva''s blade at Gravin, ripping Dahlan''s magic along with it. Without flinching, Gravin swept his own caryva upward and caught the ray with the inside of the hexagon, and the spell bounced around in an iridescent orb inside before winking out in a shower of sparks.


    Dahlan doubled over, the caryva falling from his grasp. Everything inside him hurt, freezing and throbbing in a way he''d never imagined. His mana pool spiked, sending ridged pulses of angry mana through his veins before suddenly darting to his forehead. His vision darkened, and he collapsed in a heap.


    As his consciousness returned, he became aware of a pressure in the center of his chest. Gravin had his palm outstretched over Dahlan''s ribcage, eyes glazed as he muttered inaudible. Spirals and whorls of heatless flame flickered over Dahlan''s skin, sinking below the surface and dissipating. The cold and pain receded abruptly, retreating into Dahlan''s mana pool and diffusing, concentrating and shrinking until he couldn''t feel it anymore, and he took his first breath in what felt like minutes.


    He lay there for a long moment, chest heaving as he pulled air into his starved lungs for the second time that day. Tears sprang unbidden from his eyes, but he couldn''t summon the strength to cover his face. His arms weren''t moving at all. Hot shame crept up his cheeks, and he stared straight up at the distant cavern ceiling.


    He''d failed in spectacular fashion. If he couldn''t do something as simple as making magic move a little faster, then everything else was far out of reach. And worst of all, it''d happened in front of Gravin. He couldn''t imagine a nightmare worse than this.


    Gravin scooped him up with all the ease of retrieving an errant drake and headed inside. "Dahlan... there''s something very important I want you to know." His voice was adamantly serious, without the slightest hint of humor in it.


    Dahlan braced for the worst.


    "You can always ask if you don''t understand something."


    Dahlan''s eyes snapped open, and he looked up at his father. Gravin was staring down at him, infinite sympathy in his eyes. "I don''t expect you to get the hang of everything on your first try. You don''t have to be perfect. You don''t even have to learn magic if you don''t want to. It would make no difference to me whether you became the greatest magician the world had ever seen or if you decided to become a crab farmer. There is nothing you could do that would ever cease to make me proud of you, because whatever you choose to do would be something you wanted to do. Do you understand?"


    Shifting his grip, Gravin pulled Dahlan into a hug, tucking him over his shoulder. Dahlan could barely move his arms, but he still managed to put them around Gravin''s neck. He couldn''t stop the flow of tears, but... it didn''t matter. Gravin wasn''t going to get upset if Dahlan cried a little. It was embarrassing that it''d taken Dahlan so long to realize that the standards he held himself up to were higher than anyone could achieve.


    He knew why he tried to steal Urph''s bread now. It wasn''t because he was good at it. It was because he was bad at it. If he could just draw everyone''s attention to how terrible he was at thieving, then nobody would notice how bad he was at magic.


    It didn''t matter. The only opinion that truly mattered to Dahlan didn''t care if he was bad at magic. Gravin only cared if he was alright.


    He fell asleep on Gravin''s shoulder, arms numb, nervous system tingling, and heart warm.

 Dahlan (4)

    Dahlan woke up with a vile taste in his mouth. It wasn''t anything he''d tasted before, and he hoped it wasn''t anything he''d ever taste again. Retching, he tried to get out of bed, but found himself almost strapped down from the sheer amount of bedclothes on top of him. Gent sat atop the whole pile, watching Dahlan with inscrutable fascination.


    Pulling himself back, Dahlan scooted upwards and looked around his small room. Nothing seemed out of place. His spare pair of clothes were neatly folded on the floor next to his bed, and his desk was scooted into the corner with a few crumpled pieces of paper scattered across it. The caryva from yesterday was leaning up against the wall. There was no other furniture in the room.


    The door opened, and Gravin walked in. When he saw Dahlan sitting up, he smiled. "Good morning, Dahlan. Are you feeling better?"


    Dahlan thought for a moment. "Did I eat something?"


    Gravin smiled. "Not quite. You were suffering from minor mana drain, so I had you drink a potion to speed up the regeneration process. Granted, I could have given you a potion to immediately restore your pool, but those taste foul beyond belief. It''s why they''re only used in battle or natural disasters."


    Dahlan grimaced. "But it tastes so bad!"


    Crossing the room, Gravin sat down on Dahlan''s bed. "I assure you, regeneration potions are quite tame in comparison. This should help a little, though." He handed him a half-full cup of rubinidine, and Dahlan gratefully drank it in one go. Despite the powerful tang of the drink, there was still a little of that rank, sour taste from before.


    Gravin looked at the ground for a long moment. Dahlan slowly brought the cup back to his lips, taking a sip of nothing. Finally, he quietly said, "I must confess, you startled me quite badly. I hadn''t expected the spell to go wrong so dramatically. Do you know what happened?"


    Dahlan lowered the cup. "I don''t know. When you said to make it move faster, I tried to push it, and it just sort of... left."


    A look of understanding came across Gravin''s face. "So when you tried to speed it up, you tried to simply hurl it forward?" Dahlan shrank down a bit. The way Gravin had phrased it made it sound like it was common sense not to do that. Gravin noticed and shook his head. "My apologies, Dahlan. I have never had a student, and it becomes all to easy to assume something one takes for granted as common knowledge when it is not. If you push mana, it will obey quite dramatically. In order to accelerate it, you must inhabit it with your mind and... spin it, for lack of a better word."


    Taking a look at Dahlan''s face, Gravin smiled. "I know that expression. Here, allow me to demonstrate." He raised a hand with his palm facing upward, and a small pulse of gently glowing pale orange energy flowed from his fingertips into the air. It collected into a small ball, its surface languidly moving in random directions. Dahlan leaned forward, curious. He''d seen plenty of Gravin''s fire spells, but those were short-lived and hard to observe. This was much easier.


    Gravin continued, "This might just be a ball, but for all sakes and purposes, it is functionally identical to a mana-infused caryva. At the moment, it is in a lethargic state where it has not yet become matter or magic made manifest. It is primarily flame-attuned mana, due to the nature of us salamanders, but can be easily changed to other elements. Do you understand?" When Dahlan nodded, Gravin said, "Now, watch." The ball slowly began rotating, faster and faster until its shape distended. In a few moments, it resembled a rapidly spinning donut of orange. The color gradually began to intensify as the speed increased, growing to a stronger shade.


    Dahlan''s eyes grew round as he watched, and Gravin scooted closer so he could see it better. "This is what is known as active mana. In other words, it can be altered to different types at this stage, simply because it is no longer in its original, lethargic state. Obviously, it can be changed to this state in far more efficient ways, but I wanted you to see it for yourself."


    Looking down at his own hand, Dahlan tried to move his own mana outward, but it stopped at his palm, refusing to go further. Gravin noticed his expression. "Don''t try to do it right now. I know you''re tired. For now, just watch." Raising his hand, the donut of orange began to glow even brighter, and flame began to lick around its borders. Suddenly, the donut imploded, and a nearly perfect orb of fire expanded outward from its former center. Gent snagged his claws into Dahlan''s blankets, leaning forward to give an experimental sniff.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Dahlan''s forehead creased. "So what was I doing wrong?"


    Gravin smiled. "You said you tried to push it?" When Dahlan nodded, he said, "Mana cannot be manipulated from the exterior. When you pushed it, it used your mana as fuel and became a projectile, which is how you ended up draining yourself. When I spun this ball-" He indicated the ball of fire, which Gent was hungrily eyeing. "-I seized the mana as though it were still in my veins, as opposed to applying force. Movement translates to mana quite differently than it does to you or me. Push it from the outside, and it will move as though you had thrown it. Push it from the inside..." The ball suddenly compressed into a miniature sun of brilliant yellow light, and then dissolved into a small cloud. Dragonflies composed of pure flame erupted from it, buzzing rapidly around the room before fizzling away in a shower of sparks. Gravin finished, "...and there isn''t much you can''t do with it."


    Dahlan slumped back into his pillows, and Gravin frowned. "Is something wrong?"


    "It''s just..." He scratched the back of his head. "I thought it''d be easier."


    Gravin looked amused. "Let me guess. You thought you would pick up a wand and start tossing fireballs around like an expert, didn''t you?" Dahlan flushed, and Gravin laughed. It wasn''t a mocking laugh. It sounded more like someone who''d had a similar experience. "Magic is most assuredly more complex than that, but that doesn''t mean it''s out of your reach. Everyone starts somewhere. Even I was a novice once."


    Dahlan blinked. He couldn''t imagine Gravin as anything except a master salamancer. Trying to picture him as a kid struggling to move mana was impossible.


    Gravin patted his knee through the blankets. "For now, rest. We can try again when you feel up to it."


    Leaning forward, Dahlan eagerly said, "I''m up to it!"


    Giving him a smile, Gravin said, "Fine, we''ll try again when I think you''re up to it."


    Dahlan slumped in his bed, and Gravin mussed with his hair. "Don''t worry, I won''t make it too long. You should probably have tomorrow off as well. Use it to relax, unless you''d like to go over intrinsic mana theory as it relates to rubinidine harvesting methods." Dahlan hastily tucked himself under the covers, and Gravin stood up, moving to the door. He paused halfway through. "Rest well, Dahlan. I''ll call you when dinner is ready."


    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    That night, well after Gravin had gone to bed, Dahlan sat up. Gent had been sleeping on Dahlan''s feet and got up groggily, gifting Dahlan''s ears with a muted whine of complaint. Shushing him, Dahlan slipped out of his bed, picked up the caryva, and silently made his way to the backyard.


    Far above him, the strands of lava that spread so elaborately across the ceiling during the daytime were dim, releasing sparks that slowly floated down like a carpet of stars. Spreading his legs, Dahlan got into what he assumed was a good stance and aimed the caryva forward.


    Closing his eyes, he searched for the warm ball in his chest and found it. It felt smaller than before. Carefully, he pulled mana from it and tugged it towards the caryva. It complied, albeit slowly, and a slow glow of green wrapped around the caryva''s blade. At least he''d known how to that correctly, but now it was time for the hard part.


    Gritting his teeth, Dahlan focused, and the ribbon of green inhabiting the caryva''s blade began to move. Creeping along the edge of the blade, it gradually began to intensify. A bead of sweat ran down Dahlan''s forehead. It felt like he was wading through mud, a horrible experience he''d only had once but had never forgotten. Slogging forward, he made the ribbon begin to spin, a slow grind speeding up moment by moment.


    His legs trembled and his arms shook, but he held on. The mana was a blur now, a disc of green rattling the caryva with its momentum. Dahlan''s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened, and the streak intensified to white. He could feel it, like an extra sense he hadn''t been able to identify before. It wanted to be something, to exist. So Dahlan let it.


    Sparks began to fly from the disc, and Dahlan concentrated on them. He focused on the heat of them, the way they floated and danced through the air before dying out. The white light along the caryva flickered, briefly turned orange, and then vanished.


    The strength left Dahlan''s arms all at once, and he nearly collapsed. Only his grip on the caryva kept him standing.


    I just don''t understand why you choose to waste your time like this.


    Dahlan sucked a breath in through his teeth, then painfully made himself stand straight.


    You could be doing so much more with what you have on hand!


    Recalling Gravin''s stance from yesterday, he fixed the image in his mind and copied it. One foot slid back at a slight angle, the other grounded forward. Right hand two-thirds of the way up the caryva''s length, left hand a quarter from the aft end. Chest tilted sideways, head aimed straight ahead.


    Magic isn''t easy, no matter what level you''re at.


    His grip tightened again, and he brought his tired attention to the minute ball of energy in his chest.


    You''re going to have to put in a lot of effort.


    He pulled it to the caryva, and began again.

 Dahlan (5)

    Gravin was watching him.


    Poking at his food, Dahlan could see the salamander looking at him out of his peripheral. Dahlan was definitely hungry - his stomach was screaming at him to eat the delicious-smelling crab meat, but he was so drained he could barely lift his arms to the plate, much less his mouth.


    He''d been up until he physically couldn''t cast anymore, and he''d somehow dragged himself back to bed after that. He hadn''t been able to go back to sleep and ended up staring at the ceiling of his room, waiting for the inevitability of day to arrive. He''d realized what a terrible idea it''d been to try and do the dragonfly spell Gravin had used. He had no practice, an infinitesimal mana pool, and almost no control over his mana. He could get it to the caryva, he could make it spin, and that was it. His first attempt had been by far his closest, and all the following ones had failed worse and worse with every further try.


    "...Dahlan? Are you listening?"


    He started as he realized Gravin had been speaking and blinked the dryness out of his eyes. "Sorry, what?"


    Gravin didn''t look angry. He didn''t even look annoyed. In fact, he appeared to be worried. "Dahlan, you should really eat your food. It should help regenerate your pool. I thought the potion would have been enough, but..."


    Dahlan contrived to sit a little straighter, putting a smile on his face. "No, I''m fine! Can you teach me how to do more magic?"


    He could tell the moment he asked that it had been a mistake. Gravin''s eyes narrowed slightly. Avoiding his gaze, Dahlan looked down and tried to take a bite of crab. His arm jerked up to the table''s height and flopped uselessly on its surface. They both sat there for a moment, staring at the limp limb.


    Gravin took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. Dahlan shrank in his chair, preparing for the verbal onslaught. He barely noticed his arm drag off of the table and fall back to his side.


    Scooting his chair back, Gravin stood and walked around to Dahlan. Raising a hand, he placed it on his head and paused. After a moment, he returned to his seat and steepled his fingers, leaning forward. "Would you care to explain why your pool is as barren as the Kaido desert? Or should I chance a few guesses of my own?"


    Dahlan tried for a smile. "I''m... getting my mana back slower?"


    It didn''t work. Gravin stared at him for a long moment. Dahlan stared back. Putting a finger to the bridge of his nose, Gravin said, "Dahlan, were you perhaps practicing magic last night while I was asleep?"


    Dahlan promptly shook his head. "Nope!"


    Gravin raised an eyebrow. "Truly? Then would you mind explaining how your mana pool is almost entirely drained? It was recovering quite well yesterday. In fact, it was higher than it is today. Of course, you could be leaking mana."


    That sounded terrifying. Dahlan''s forehead creased. "...Leaking mana?"


    Nodding seriously, Gravin added, "Mana leakage is nothing to be taken lightly. It sometimes occurs when a mage attempts to cast magic without enough mana to fuel it. The mage ends up being unable to use magic ever again, and eventually, the mana drainage affects his health as well. I''ve heard it can happen as early as six or seven years old."You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Some quick math led Dahlan to the conclusion that he was well within the required parameters, and his eyes widened. "It goes away, right?"


    Gravin sighed loudly. "I''m afraid not. Anyone who gets leaky mana has it for the rest of their life... unless of course they do something very simple."


    Dahlan tried to act uninterested, leaning an elbow on the table. "Oh, what is it?"


    Gravin smiled. "Well, they just have to tell their father about their secret nighttime magic practice, in which case their father usually tells them that they should be a lot more careful with how they treat themselves."


    Filing it away, Dahlan paused as he realized the trap he''d been caught in and slumped. "Oh."


    Nodding, Gravin said, "I''m overjoyed that you want to learn magic so enthusiastically, but attempting magic while your mana pool is drained is rarely a good idea. While mana leakage is assuredly not a real thing, it is entirely possible to injure yourself. Magic is a finicky thing, and when it fails to find mana to fuel it, it often uses your own life. It doesn''t kill you instantly," he immediately clarified as Dahlan visibly started panicking, and the young boy calmed down. "but it will steal your stamina bit by bit. You may not even notice the first time it happens, unless of course the spell you''re attempting is a major one, but over time you will find your limbs slowing, day by day, until they refuse to move at all."


    Dahlan shivered. "That sounds horrible."


    Gravin nodded seriously. "It is. I knew a man once who was unable to cast magic. He had no mana pool, you see. So he used healing potions to bolster himself, thinking it would help him, but it did not. He died with the first spell he cast."


    Staring at his food, Dahlan found his appetite all but gone. Gravin leaned over the table and patted his shoulder. "My apologies. I hadn''t meant to bring the mood down quite so effectively. My point was that it''s dangerous to perform magic when you don''t have the mana available for it. I''m glad you want to practice, but I want you to practice in moderation. I''m sure we can come up with some sort of schedule if you so desire."


    Dahlan stared at his food, and Gravin frowned. "Is something wrong?"


    Looking off to the side, Dahlan muttered, "I wanted to surprise you..."


    A flash of understanding came across Gravin''s face, and almost immediately devolved into regret. "Oh."


    Standing up, he made his way around the table, kneeling next to Dahlan. "Dahlan... were you practicing because of what I said to you when Pahrdyn brought you over?" Dahlan nodded wordlessly, and Gravin stared up at the ceiling, mouthing words to himself. Finally, he looked back down. "You haven''t done anything wrong, Dahlan. Well," he amended, "You did try to steal Urph''s bread. But I assume you won''t be doing that anymore. My point is, you don''t have to try so hard just to impress me. The fact you''re trying is more than enough proof to me that you want to get better, so don''t hurt yourself on an unnecessary journey."


    Wiping his eyes, Dahlan slid out of his chair and gave Gravin a hug. Surprised, the salamander hugged him back and gave him a final squeeze. "Now, when I tell you to get some rest, you''d best understand that I want you to get rest."


    Dahlan tugged on him as he tried to stand up, looking eager. "How do I get my mana back faster?"


    Gravin tossed his hands in the air exaggeratedly. "I give you a whole speech on being careful and the first thing you do is ask how to get right back to it?" Dahlan nodded, and Gravin shook his head in mirth. "Very well. I don''t want to give you all the answers. Questions answered on one''s own are often better remembered, so here''s what I want you to do; go watch Gentler Than Most for a bit."


    Dahlan blinked. "Watch... Gent?"


    "Yes, Gent." Gravin indicated Dahlan''s room. "I''ll give you one final hint. Drakes are better at gaining mana relative to their size than almost any other creature in the world."


    Dahlan''s eyes went round, and he ran into his room. Gent was sprawled on Dahlan''s bed, tongue lying out of the side of his mouth as his claws twitched. Dahlan frowned. How could Gent teach him how to become the best wizard of all time if he was asleep!?


    It was time to make a plan.

 Eldritch Entity On A Journey of Self-Discovery

    I was tossed through space, time and reality grabbing onto me by the rump and bodily hurling me at speeds unlike any I''d previously attained. Stars and concepts whirled around me in a cosmic tornado of philosophical confusion, and the universe itself squeezed and groaned. Expanding, a pocket of absolute paradoxical existence pounded on my purely mental form, hammering it into a physical shape with startling discomfort. Peeling open, the universe tore a hole open and dumped me on the ground.


    Hmmm, I thought, my body sprawled out. That was interesting.


    After I recover from the shock of existing, I took a good look at my surroundings. Plenty of trees, very creatively made. Totally random design, which is always pretty hard. Actually, everything seems pretty random - the grass is green, the ground is pretty bumpy, and the sky is... blue? Who makes a blue sky!? Off in the distance, I can see a small yellow ball producing impressive amounts of light and heat. I should probably check that out at some point - it''s sure to have some interesting inhabitants.


    I tried to stand up and found it impossible. Looking down, I discovered to my absolute shock that there were parts attached to me. A lot of them. Raising a hand, I turned it over, simultaneously fascinated and horrified. I had slightly bumpy purple skin with green accents, and my knuckles were kind of pointy. My fingers were... kind of intriguing, if I was honest. They had claws on the ends, which looked quite sharp. I wiggled them at my face and giggled.


    Something brushed across my face, and I whipped around to try and find the source. Nothing was there, but I could still feel that weird feeling. It was like... someone lightly touching my face, without anyone being there.


    With a sudden attempt, I tried to get up and float the heck out of there, but my parts weighed me down again! With a quick check, I found feet (ugh) attached to the rest of me, and sprung to them, running out of there like a natural physical entity.


    No, that didn''t really happen. My legs twitched violently, and I was launched backward into the grass. To my surprise, there was dirt underneath the grass. Seriously, whoever designed this place was an absolute genius. The attention to detail is just incredible. Who would have ever thought of having a layer under the base ground? This guy, apparently.


    Oh yeah, something''s getting romantic with my face.


    Grabbing onto the dirt, I sent a quick apology into the sky and started dragging myself towards one of the trees, my clawed hands providing remarkable traction. After a minute or two, I managed to pull myself around it, and reach behind me to pull myself up, my back resting against the side of the tree.


    The brushing had stopped at some point, and I take a moment to collect myself. Casting my mind around the nearby area reveals nobody. I can''t even feel something blocking me, which either means whoever I''m up against is an absolute prodigy, or... there''s nobody there?


    Reaching a hand out into the open, I feel the strange sensation again and strive not to recoil. It doesn''t give off the vibe of another person. It''s more like a constant pressure, oscillating in intensity.


    Motion catches my eye, and I look a little further up my arm. I''m wearing a very nice set of purple and green robes, matching my brand-new skin, and moving slightly. Swinging back and forth as though there''s something pushing it, almost exactly like whatever''s applying pressure to my hand. With a sudden thought, I stare askance at both hand and clothing.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    There''s no way, but... is the air moving!? Did the designer of this place make it so that... how would that even work? Now that I have a theory, I look up. The leaves and branches of the tree I''m under - of all of the trees around me - are gently swaying. Each and every single leaf twitching and flicking back into its position, moving without any sort of cooperation or timing. It''s a display of random engineering the likes of which I''ve never even imagined was possible.


    Since I know there''s no one around, I can take a minute to better inspect myself. I''ve got four limbs in total, two arms and two legs. Ten fingers, ten toes. Two green eyes, and a whole mess of tentacles extending from the back of my head. After a brief experiment, I found that I could move them as though they were little arms. Pretty handy, but probably too weak to be of much help.


    A fairly basic template, in all seriousness. I''d kind of hoped for something better after all the unbelievable quality I''d seen so far, but maybe this guy was more into ''scapes than entities. In fairness, he was really good at those.


    Thinking back, I could remember one or two miniature realities my friends had made where bipedalism was required. After a moment or two, I pulled myself to my feet, holding onto the tree for extra balance, and waited. My legs were... weird. It took genuine effort just to stay standing, as though my body had weight to it.


    Looking at the tree I was holding onto, I found pale material peeling out from behind the brown bark of the tree where my claws had scored it, and my eyes widened. Flexing my fingers, I dug them into the tree''s surface and pulled. Bark and more of the pale stuff followed, and I dropped it on the turf under my feet as I stared at what was in front of me.


    Under the tree''s bark, a veritable army of tiny creatures dug and walked around, creating tunnels and climbing through them. They seemed startled at my sudden intrusion, panicking and sprinting around. Lining up in a neat circle and snapping their little jaws at me, they waited for their companions to start carrying away minute white ellipsoids, bringing them further into the tree.


    Was everything this detailed? Did everything have a second layer, or maybe even more than that? These things didn''t have mental projections, which meant that they were constructs as well! And they were just living in the one tree!


    Looking around, I wondered about the rest of the trees in the forest. Not all of them had the same color of bark. Most of them were different shades of brown, but I could see one or two in the distance that were white with orange splotches, one with gray, and a large one that didn''t have bark at all. And all of them might have a whole group of these tiny creatures living inside them.


    I sat down. It wasn''t a conscious decision either, which just blew my mind. Whoever had made this place... they were operating on a whole other level. I''d made a reality before, but it''d been pretty terrible. I''d cheated on the physics, making everything that existed go down. That hadn''t gone well, and anything I made ended up falling over. One of my friends had made a pretty good reality, with working physics and natural laws, and a decent landscape to boot. I''d thought they should enroll it in the local competition, see if they could get an award and maybe some bonus power.


    This... I couldn''t even describe this. The air moved almost constantly, everything had more than one layer, and it almost felt like everything played into each other. The creatures ate the inside of the trees, the trees probably ate something else (hopefully not me), and I hadn''t even left the entry point.


    It was such a mastery of creative will that I couldn''t even comprehend it. Granted, I was pretty young, but I didn''t think even Grandpa could come close to something like this, much as I hated to admit it.


    I stood up. If something as easy to overlook as a forest had this much detail in it, I couldn''t wait to see the rest of the world.

 Apocalypse Post

    He did not have a name. He was the Postman, and that was good enough.


    Irradiated hands falling apart at the wrists, he shuffled through the satchel hanging at his waist. He wasn''t bothered by the decay - he''d been through far worse.


    Looking up at the leaning skyscraper in front of him, he took a moment to appreciate its artistry. Out-of-control ivy crawled eighty feet up its sides until it peeled away from the walls, pulled down by its own weight. An array of shattered windows lined up like dominoes, broken glass reflecting the cold gray sky far above. Floor-level windows boarded up with plywood, a motley smattering of graffiti coating its surface. The top of the skyscraper was jagged, like something large had taken a bite off it.


    There was a door in front of him. It was made out of metal, which seemed pointless to the Postman. If something wanted to get in, it could use the windows or pull the plywood off. Granted, the zombies weren''t smart enough for that and the scratchers weren''t strong enough. They could probably manage it if they worked together, he mused, but they were on bad terms to say the least. Something about meat distribution - his Scratch wasn''t up to scratch. He chuckled at his own joke.


    A slot near the top of the door slid open, and a pair of worried brown eyes looked out at him. "Do you need something?"


    Ah, English. The language of America and Britain. The Postman took a moment to file through the dust in his mind and settled on an Indiana accent. A little flat, nothing too exceptional, and quite clear. "I have a package for Maria Dawson." He pulled a brown paper package out of his satchel, holding it up.


    The eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"


    The Postman tipped his hat. "I''m the Postman."


    The eyes widened, and then vanished. The slot slid shut.


    He waited there for a long time. A Plymouth dropped in and curiously asked what he was doing, to which the Postman simply replied, "Delivering a package." The Plymouth nodded understandingly, spread its wings wide, and crawled away up the side of a building. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    With a sigh, the Postman flicked a cracked silver pocketwatch out of his uniform''s breast pocket and checked it. The hour hand pointed to Having A, and the minute hand to Bad Time? The Postman shook his head, and the hands moved. Want To, Play? The Postman shook his head. No time to play with the watch. Perhaps later, when time could afford to be spent.


    The slot slid open. A different pair of eyes, desperate and a beautiful hazel green. "You have a package for me?"


    French, Italy accent. Most humans didn''t live with people they couldn''t communicate with. So little time, none of it could be wasted. The Postman held the delicately wrapped package up. "Maria Dawson?"


    She nodded, and the door slid open. The Postman heard a chorus of complaints and shouted warnings from behind it. Well-intended and well-timed, in fairness. Even if it was gone, Plymouths were known for their appetite. Whatever the case, a woman in her mid-twenties held her hand out for the package. She didn''t even have any extra limbs.


    The Postman placed the package in her hands. "Any mail?"


    She looked up at his face and looked away just as fast. Humans were sensitive about exposed bone, he''d found. "No. Tell him I''ll find him soon."


    Now there was a dilemma. The person in question was exceptionally dead, the Postman knew. The package he''d just handed over was given to him by a ragged-looking man who had gone into a Pripyatic mobile reactor. Nasty business, those. Could be a little tough to make it out of provided they didn''t want you to leave. Not too much of an issue for the Postman.


    Therein lay the dilemma. Which was the better decision, to tell the truth and watch her face crumple like so many he''d seen before, or to lie and watch false hope light that same face?


    The Postman smiled, although with most of his own face missing it could be contrived as more of a grimace. "I''ll deliver the message to him, ma''am."


    She smiled and it was like a sun through rain clouds. A tired glimpse of some semblance of happiness in a world where human happiness was more fragile than glass. "Thank you very much."


    Turning, she began opening the package as the door swung shut. Disappointment. The Postman had been hoping to see what was in it, but mail was to be delivered and not witnessed.


    Now he had to go find the same reactor and get to the likely incinerated corpse. It would be an annoying journey, but the woman''s smile would make it worth it. If nothing else, he was determined to deliver the woman''s message to the corpse. Then it would not be a lie; he would have given the message to someone, even though they were dead, and the woman would be happy for a little longer.


    He was a bit put out she hadn''t given him a tip, though.

 Infestation

    It had no eyes with which to see, but it opened them.


    It had few senses, but it strove to extend them regardless.


    ...No, not it. They.


    At the moment, they only occupied one space, thousands of itselves contained in an egg sac. They knew this because of the memories from the great ones that had laid their egg, knew it because the generations prior to them had known.


    The sac was consumed all at once as the infestation ate it from the inside. Made from a thousand thousand spores, many of them too small to see. Sparks darting between them like firing neurons, they examined their surroundings.


    Their sac had been shoved into a small chink between two metal plates. Wiring encased in synthetic rubber ran through the walls, draping across hydraulic reinforcement. Most importantly, some distance above them, a series of flat steel strips were angled in such a way to allow airflow. A vent.


    They eagerly began to flood upward into the vent, but something stopped them. Or rather, they stopped themselves.


    Instinct demanded they absorb everything with life in it and to mutate machinery to its needs. Memory spoke of gunfire and support modules, hideous devices designed to purge the infestation from the air and from all around it.


    They hesitated. What kind of ship were they on? Memory brought to their minds freighters crewed by machines and armored man, corvettes run by distasteful hybrids of creature and apparatus, and the very worst option, the unbreakable puppets.


    The infestation felt confusion, shortly followed by determination. An inability to make decisions would result in death and extermination. Thought in place, they advanced into the vent.


    Gusts of stale wind instantly dispersed them, and as the distance between the spores grew, their intelligence diminished. Struggling to return to cohesion, the spores clung together, but many of them vanished into the square vents ahead. The infestation would not retrieve them.


    Condensing, the spores collected into a heavier form, more like hair than their most comfortable shape. Slowly, they drifted to the floor of the vent and were ejected out.


    Releasing, the spores ensured that they remained in relatively close contact, and inspected their new location.


    It was enormous to the infestation, cavernous in height and breadth. A white steel door sat to one side, green lights gently glowing on its surface. Eight massive containers were propped up against the walls, each one a vertical rectangle with a dully glowing circle in their centers. A flat orange tablet jutted out into the room, unfamiliar symbols scrolling across it.


    Drifting to the floor, they gripped onto the metal and pulled themselves towards one of the containers. Very little would have been able to pass through the minute holes in the base of the object, but the infestation was willing to press forward.


    Inside, the infestation examined the container¡¯s contents. They were comprised of nothing useful. A metal object containing more metal objects. Ammunition, according to their memories. Useless to their purposes. A¡­ large blue sphere? It undulated oddly, hexagonal peaks protruding and collapsing in on itself in an endless loop. It made the infestation nervous, reminded them of memories that were not theirs of enemies that used these spheres to channel power, to warp reality, to slay them in the millions. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    The infestation ignored it. It couldn¡¯t use the sphere, or at least not yet, and so there was no reason to interact with it. The result would most likely be¡­ less than productive.


    A sound interrupted the infestation¡¯s musings. Peering through the miniscule holes, they observed someone enter. A tall entity, with spindled legs and a bulky upper frame, wielding a brown weapon. Their memories informed them that the weapon fired chunks of metal. Utterly useless against the infestation in their present state.


    The entity took a deep breath through the round helmet encasing their skull, and then leaned against the container opposite the infestation. Silently moving through the holes, they crossed the floor and paused beneath the enemy.


    With a loud sigh, the enemy set its weapon down and leaned its head on the back of the container, muttering something that the infestation didn¡¯t understand.


    It didn¡¯t really matter what the words meant, they reflected. As they slunk up the back of the enemy¡¯s armor and seeped under its helmet, they decided that words were really only meant for things that needed to communicate, and the infestation thought all the same thoughts.


    They invaded the enemy¡¯s lungs abruptly and were surprised to find the amount of damage there. The lungs were practically disintegrating on their own.


    The infestation promptly forgot all about that as they discovered just how prime of an environment the enemy¡¯s lungs were. Damp and hot, with plenty of open space and nutrients constantly flowing through. Granted, the enemy wouldn¡¯t last long without assistance, but since they were so kind as to provide the infestation with a habitat¡­


    There was no hesitation this time. Memory and logic and thought took a backseat to raw instinct as they began to feast on the nutrients, replicating themselves and increasing their numbers at an exponential rate. Within a minute, they had amplified to tens of millions of spores, and from there onward unto even greater might.


    Flooding upward, the infestation conquered the enemy¡¯s nervous system a dozen veins at a time. The enemy jerked upward, striving to call out, but its voice was choked by the infestation clogging its throat.


    Staggering to the floor, the enemy dragged itself to the orange tablet near the wall. Memory crashed into the infestation as a whole, memory of red lights and loud alarms, followed by hundreds of the enemy.


    They were not strong enough to handle an intrusion like that, and logic told instinct to hurry it up. Redoubling their efforts, the infestation subdued the enemy¡¯s entire torso, expanding straight through its rotting skin and decaying armor. Broadening their range, the infestation sought to halt the enemy¡¯s progress as desperately as the enemy strove to defeat them.


    It was a losing battle for the enemy right from the start. It had lost the moment they had occupied its lungs. It was a corpse rotting from the inside out propelled by shoddy machinery and nothing more. The infestation gave the enemy more life than it¡¯d ever had, and the former enemy¡¯s hand paused.


    If the infestation had been capable of breathing a sigh of relief, it would have. Spreading throughout the rest of the now-occupied body, jerking it to its feet. Permeating themselves into the body¡¯s brain, the infestation settled and waited.


    Foreign memories invaded, memories of cloning vats and military training. The body they occupied had once belonged to¡­ Grineer. The enemy called themselves Grineer.


    The infestation rejoiced. Their enemy had a name now, something with which to identify themselves.


    Struggling to operate the body in the same way the Grineer had, the infestation tested its limits. One arm bent backward with a loud snap, and then the forearm in the other direction with a far worse sound.


    Gazing at the mutilated limb, they decided that disguise was no longer an option.


    The infestation overwhelmed the Grineer marine¡¯s body all at once, altering its bones and forcing fungal structure to bolster the failing organs and epidermal layers before forcing tendrils through the back of the marine¡¯s body.


    Well, it wasn¡¯t the marine¡¯s anymore, they realized. It was entirely theirs now.


    Old memory from their previous generation told the infestation of an optimal form for the marine, and they properly made their modifications. Lowering its body, the marine¡¯s limbs bent and snapped, muscles moving to different places and breaking from excessive stress. They were strengthened by further infestation.


    Tearing the front of the marine¡¯s helmet open with a pair of hardened mandibles crafted from its own jawbones, the infestation began to steadily pump spores into the small area.


    And then it waited.


    After all, the door would open again sooner or later, wouldn¡¯t it?

 Infestation Part Two

    They were experimenting with the limits of their newly obtained body when the door slid open.


    Digging their claws in the ceiling and striving to remain attached, they froze at the noise of hissing air and snapped their head towards the open door.


    The marine entering looked up, saw them, and immediately paused. They had no such hesitation and launched themselves out of the small room, pinning him to the ground and blasting a hefty dose of spores in his face. He struggled for a moment, firing a five-round burst straight into their body¡¯s chest before his limbs locked up.


    As they consumed the Grineer from the inside out and hastily started repairing the other body, they devoted a small amount of mental power to examine their surroundings. Four more marines, one of them armored in beige instead of dull green, were running from them. The beige one went straight for one of the tablets, a spindly hand keying a complex series of symbols into the surface.


    The infestation hurriedly finished adding the marine to its army of two and shot towards the beige marine, leaping into the air and huffing a breath of spores into the air. They started replicating as fast they could, ensuring that the two bodies in their possession weren¡¯t their only backups.


    The beige marine finished what he¡¯d been doing and turned, raising a differently shaped weapon than the marines they were familiar with. An orange gout of flame erupted from the end and enveloped their first body even as the lights flashed red and alarms went off.


    It ignited instantly, and the infestation panicked. It had no nerves with which to feel pain, but the misery it felt at losing a valuable asset and the worry it experienced regarding its own survival suited to copy the sensation.


    Without time to mutate the newly acquired marine properly, they forced it to raise its arm and pull the trigger. The first two shots missed. The next three didn¡¯t, and the horrible marine stumbled.


    It was more than enough of an opportunity. With what little control they had over the flaming corpse of their first body, they launched it at the fire marine and dug deep into its armor. The fire marine released a loud grunt of pain, sending another burst into the dying corpse. It wasn¡¯t enough, and both of them died.


    The infestation began to replicate with a newfound furor. Its survival would not be called into question so easily! Filing the information away, they made a small bunch of spore sacs and dispersed them into a number of hard-to-reach places, ordering their remaining puppet to begin running after the other marines.


    The lights made it harder to make out specific entities, but that was no issue to the infestation. They knew exactly who and where they were. Anything that was not themselves was an enemy; anything that was not themselves was a potential arm, another leg, another weapon to be used for their ultimate survival.


    Their marine sprinted forward, discarding their weapon. A brief investigation into the marine¡¯s remaining memories identified the weapon as a ¡®gun¡¯. They suspected that guns would come in handy later on.


    As the location they¡¯d been in began to be filled with spores, they ensured that the bars emitting light from the ceiling would be dimmed to maximum effect. They could find their targets with any sense - their targets could only use sight. Meanwhile, their marine was beginning to fill up with spores, bloating magnificently, and it gave them an idea.


    Temporarily amplifying their reproduction rate, they tautened the marine¡¯s skin and armor and crammed as many spores into its insides as possible, leaving only the leg muscles intact. The marine¡¯s arms slowly rose outward as it ran forward, inflating far beyond what the Grineer species could survive.


    Hurling the marine into the next room, the infestation caught a glimpse of half a dozen startled marines before their makeshift weapon exploded. A wave of spores washed over the marines and the infestation gleefully dug through their armor. With their initial marine, it had taken a minute. With this number, it was only a few seconds.


    The infestation felt a considerable amount of pride. That had worked quite well! Leaving two of the marines with their guns, the infestation mutated the other four - no, five? - into the quadrupedal creatures their memories had supplied. The moment they were done, the infestation sent the quads off to find more marines, filling every available space of their insides with spores. Even in death they would serve to advance the infestation¡¯s survival.


    Bringing the two armed marines back to the infestation¡¯s main location, they took a moment to consider their options. The only limits in marines were the lack of space and the relatively low movement speed.


    Wait¡­


    The infestation turned its attention to its own spore pods. They were small, sticky, and could hold a considerable amount of spores.


    They had to move quickly. There was no time for second-guessing or alternate decisions. Anything that didn¡¯t work the first time must be discarded.


    Without hesitation, the infestation burst its pods, releasing even more spores into the already crowded hallway. Rapidly concentrating a small amount of the spores, it grafted pods onto the marines¡¯ bodies and promptly sent them off.


    It did not have one consciousness and so was not limited to one task at a time. Its quads had found a group of more Grineer, around a dozen or so. Over half of them were a different soldier than the gun-wielding marines. These ones held sharp weapons as they rushed the infestation¡¯s quads, gurgling and groaning the whole way.


    The infestation was briefly stunned. Did these Grineer have any survival instincts at all? They were charging a melee-exclusive unit. Perhaps their brains weren¡¯t working? Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Whatever the case, their weapons were sharper than the infestation had anticipated, and easily carved through their quads. The instant the corpses¡¯ shells were cut open, spores puffed into the air, and the infestation happily consumed the new troops. Three of them were shot down before they could finish fixing them, but in only a few moments, the cutters did their job and slashed the marines down. The infestation greedily stuffed the bodies full of spores, standing them up. It didn¡¯t matter that they were dead - their skin was easily covered with fungus and sealed. They would make decent walking spore pods if nothing else.


    All things considered, this was going quite well.


    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


    ¡°This is not going well.¡±


    The technician who had spoken earned a cuff over the back of the head from the captain of the ship. ¡°Don¡¯t make it worse with your words, fool!¡± He snarled, moving over to the communications hub. ¡°Send out a distress call. The Tenno will come, enemies or not. They hate the disease more than we do.¡±


    It made the captain¡¯s skin crawl, knowing that they would have to rely on the Tenno to pull them out of the hole they were sinking into. He spat to one side for good measure, shivering in disgust. ¡°And tell every Scorcher on the ship to get to that section. Nothing gets to the bridge!¡±


    He seized a flamer from a nearby Hellion. His life was far more important than theirs, after all.


    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


    The infestation was in a good mood. Their army was expanding at an exponential rate, spreading through the ship and consuming more victims at a far greater speed than the Grineer could hope to kill them. The whole while, they were gradually obtaining more information from the fragmented memories left behind, and they were getting smarter from it.


    A gout of flame warranted more attention than the rest of the ship, and the infestation focused on the dozen quads (recently renamed chargers) getting torched. Before the last one died, they recognized five of the beige marines. They already hated them with a burning passion.


    They paused. Something had seemed¡­ amusing, somehow, about that last thought. They filed the concept into the back of their mind for later. Perhaps it could be helpful.


    Returning to the situation at hand, they sent a good twenty of the gun-wielding marines to take care of it. Pushing the task to their lower conscious, the infestation considered the project they¡¯d started working on.


    Generational memory spoke to them of a construct called a juggernaut. Its design was expensive, requiring extremely dense spore colonies along with a large amount of metal, but would end up an almost unstoppable machine of infested will. Its only weakness was that the spores would be expended as the juggernaut operated - it would have to pulled out only for the most dangerous enemies.


    Examining the entirety of their forces, the infestation pushed and pulled at the necessary points, operating as a more effective whole than the Grineer could hope for. At the front with the horrid fire marines, an onslaught of lead fire tore through their armor and shredded their innards. The infestation buried them in a manic wave of spores moments later. These subjects were good for nothing more than nutrients for their consumption.


    Dismantling their flame-spewing weapons, the infestation proceeded to expand. A troop of Chargers overran half a dozen of the knife-wielders. A small army of volatile runners was proving incredibly effective, cleansing entire areas of the ship at a time. Splitting their attention, the infestation took a moment to observe the entire battlefield.


    Small groups of the fire marines were appearing at certain points, trying to push through to the infestation¡¯s point of origin. Not that their base was in one place anymore - the infestation was not going to risk losing any major sections of the ship. They had only one chance to remove the threats: there was only one infestation, and many Grineer.


    A moment¡¯s thought later, the infestation decided to make several groups of gun-users head in the torcher¡¯s direction. Chargers and runners would be pointless to endlessly throw at the burners - range was the only option.


    The infestation realized that they were dependent on guns for range and immediately began experimenting on spore-based projectiles. The biggest issue was that all of them were still flammable. Maybe they could figure out how to breed a fire-resistant strain? That sounded helpful.


    A screeching hail of gunfire later, the infestation mowed down the last of the fire-spewers and charged onward. A troop of marines laid into their chargers, and one of them screamed, ¡°Dof kle rkkgr!¡±


    One enormous door quickly slid down, and the infestation swiftly hurled a spore pod underneath it, exploding it as soon as it hit the ground. A spout of fire washed over the spores, all but annihilating them entirely. On the other ends of the ship, the infestation finished cleaning out all the corners.


    It had taken them fifty-six minutes, and there was only one room left.


    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


    It had taken them fifty-six minutes. The bridge was the only place left standing.


    The captain gripped his console hard enough that the plasteel handles creaked. What in the Twin Queens was this!? He¡¯d never heard of any strain of disease that conquered an entire Grineer warship in just under an hour!


    Turning to the communications officer, the captain made sure there wasn¡¯t a hint of anxiety in his voice. ¡°Raise the level of the emergency. And hurry up!¡± He snapped.


    Something hit the blast doors. Something big.


    The captain, along with the other Marines and Scorchers in the room, aimed their weapons at it. The sound repeated, echoing a mechanical knell throughout the bridge, accompanied by the hard patter of countless bullets against reinforced metal.


    A long pause followed.


    The captain¡¯s nerves slowly began to build. This particular disease was far smarter than it had any right to be. What was it-


    The blast door slid open.


    The shocked Grineer in the bridge were granted a brief moment. A fraction of a second of stillness, giving them all enough time to see the veritable armor of bloated monstrosities awaiting them, along with a barely affected marine next to the electronic lock, a stupid grin on its face.


    Raising his flamer, the captain shouted, ¡°Rettrroy klem!¡± He barely managed a quick trigger pull before a burst of gunfire smashed into his armor. Protected by the superior quality, he yanked his Kraken from his hip and fired as quickly as he could. Two of the four-legged mutants went down in a burst of chitin and fungus before they pinned him to the ground.


    He snarled into the warped faces of what had once been his crew, ¡°Filthy sikkhat!¡±


    Then they shot him.


    He died angry.


    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


    The infestation felt immense satisfaction. They were around five hours old and they had already conquered their first ship! Acquired their first army!


    Absorbing the final vestiges of information from the last Grineer, they paused. Sikkhat. Was that what they were called?


    Very well, Sikkhat mused. It was a decent enough title.

 Infestation Part Three

    Sikkhat collectively felt an enormous amount of irritation as they examined the Grineer warship. They had successfully conquered it, yes, but they had no idea how to progress from here.


    Their plan had been to start it up and begin flying through the stars, taking over ship by ship until the entire Grineer species belonged to them. Given how easy it¡¯d been to take this one, they suspected it wouldn¡¯t take them too long, but there was a major flaw in their plan.


    They had absolutely no clue how to pilot a ship.


    Idly flicking switches with bloated fingers and adapted claws, Sikkhat tried to file through the memories of the adopted crew members once again. They couldn¡¯t get any more information than they¡¯d already obtained: namely, that the members had died extremely terrified of Sikkhat.


    Which was fair, really. The knowledge that they inspired fear provided an unneeded boost in confidence to the infestation. Confidence that wasn¡¯t helping at all with flying a ship.


    They seized a pair of sticks near the middle of the bridge and yanked hard. Nothing happened once again, and in a fit of frustration, they ripped the sticks off. Sparks flew from the wrenched metal, and Sikkhat¡¯s temper simmered.


    Something crashed to the ground.


    Disturbance acknowledged, they turned their attention to the source of the noise. In one of the closets on the edge of the ship, a vent cover had been knocked to the ground. Something jumped out of it and silently landed on the hard metal.


    Sikkhat moved closer to investigate, using a spore cluster. The foreign entity was bipedal, much like the Grineer, but the similarities ended there. This creature was coated in dense metal, and was much - well, thicker, to put it bluntly - than the marines they were used to. Its coloring was a shade of yellow that almost caused pain to look at, and it bore three different weapons. A cross-shaped droid floated behind it, its camera flicking from object to object.


    Straightening, the creature immediately walked over to one of the Grineer lockers and opened it, accepting the blue sphere that bobbed out of it. Rolling his shoulders, the creature - or was it even alive? - pulled one of his weapons out. A silver gun, with serrated edges running along the barrel.


    Sikkhat mentally shrugged. It was one creature, what was he supposed to do against their thousands of marines?


    They unworriedly sent chargers in his direction, trying to find a chink in his armor through which they could infest him. They found none.


    Walking over to one of the tablets, he briefly keyed in a pattern, and the alarms went off again. Sikkhat growled at the unwarranted noise, and the sound rumbled through all of their creatures, echoing throughout the whole ship.


    His head snapped up at the sound, and his grip increased incrementally. Sikkhat knew this because the entirety of his armor was literally covered in spores at this point. They couldn¡¯t even figure out where he was breathing.


    Sprinting out into the hallway, he was met with a dozen of their chargers, and Sikkhat happily waited for him to die.


    Instead of dying, he aimed down his weapon, and a hail of needles tore through the chargers.


    Startled, they began sending more of their puppets to take care of him. He unhurriedly executed them with startling accuracy and swiftness. He made the marines from earlier look like fools. His efficiency wasn¡¯t even comparable. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    His gun ran out of ammunition.


    Spirits soaring, they sent a small group of leapers straight at him, and felt smug satisfaction tinged with relief. He had been tough to start with, but at least-


    BAM.


    Sikkhat was startled by the sound, and they noticed the small handgun in his hand. It bucked again, and a heavy bullet ripped through another leaper. In a matter of seconds, the leapers were taken out.


    Righteous wrath built up in their collective minds. It was one creature!


    No. If melee failed then they would send the few marines that still had guns! That had worked against the hated flame-wielders, it would work against this thing!


    He continued to carve through their forces with about as much ease as they had obliterated the Grineer, and all they could do was seethe and wait for their armed marines to arrive. In the meantime, they redoubled their efforts at eating away his armor. They were slowly beginning to make progress, inch by snails-pace inch.


    Something flickered into existence.


    Sikkhat¡¯s fury was suspended by disbelief as they inspected the strange pillar that had literally just appeared a few hundred meters from the intruder. It was a little over a meter and a half in height, with a small control at the base. What was it now!?


    The intruder paused, removed a hammer big enough to crush supporting pillars from his back, and proceeded to bash his way through chargers and leapers. Whatever it was, it seemed important to him.


    They resolved not to let him get there. Redirecting their marines, they made them group up near the pillar, guns aimed at the broad doorway he was coming towards.


    With a sliding attack using his hammer that disintegrated at least half a dozen assorted puppets, he launched himself upward and through the door in some kind of impressively athletic movement that sent him hurtling meters into the air.


    The marines opened fire.


    Crashing into the ground, he held an arm up to block the worst of the gunfire from his head and ducked behind a stack of crates. Sikkhat gleefully began moving their troops towards his position.


    Clenching a fist, he made a gesture, and his armor suddenly hardened. Sikkhat paused. How had he done that?


    Spinning around the corner, he lowered his head and charged. It was a straight-lined launch that put any and all of their chargers to shame, shrugging gunfire off as if they were spores. He crashed through the marines, cracking armor and bursting fungus as easily as if they weren¡¯t there.


    Anger gave way somewhat. This¡­ this was superiority.


    Casually walking over to the pillar, he put his hand on, and a burst of foreign chemicals washed over his armor, purging the spores from him entirely. Mere seconds later, when Sikkhat latched onto him once again, all of the damage they had wreaked on him was gone.


    This wasn¡¯t a fight.


    They watched evenly, and then eagerly, as the lone creature proceeded to tear through a dozen, and then a score, and then a hundred, and then two hundred of their forces. He didn¡¯t so much as slow down at any point during the one-sided destruction, constantly reinforcing and repairing himself so effectively Sikkhat didn¡¯t even have a hope of causing any sort of permanent damage.


    They paused, shaking the awe that had settled on them away. They still had their trump card!


    Activating the juggernaut, they felt only mild anticipation as it thundered through the halls of the ship towards his location, accumulating more spores and more momentum as it ran. Crashing through a door, it roared. Sikkhat saw his head turn towards the sound.


    A hydraulic door slid upward to allow the juggernaut to charge forward, and that was when Sikkhat witnessed it.


    Raising one impenetrable foot into the air, the invader brought it down to stomp the ground, and everything in a ten-meter radius of him froze, including the juggernaut. Paused mid-air, the juggernaut¡¯s vicious head was outstretched in a maw of wrath.


    Walking towards it, the invader raised his hammer and brought down on the juggernaut, denting it. He smashed the juggernaut over and over and over again until the only thing left was an orange mess and an assortment of scrap metal sitting on the ground. Cleaning his hammer off with an easy shake, he turned and continued battling, if it could be calling that.


    They were unsure when he actually left. He had annihilated so many of their chargers and leapers and marines and even the juggernaut with¡­ was it even fair to call it ease?


    They couldn¡¯t possibly hope to beat it.


    So they had to become it.

 To Protect (Part Three)

    Titus stretched uncomfortably, trying to get used to his new height. The cookie Marie had given him had reduced him to a mere seven feet eight inches of height, and his build hadn''t changed at all, but it was four feet he wasn''t used to missing. He''d switched to a spare set of clothing that had been shrunken with the same concoction. "You''re sure people don''t grow as large as I do here?"


    Borug laughed in his flat tone. "People do not grow as large as you back home either, Titus. You are an anomaly no matter where you go."


    Titus shot a glare in his direction, but the shapeshifter was already on a different track. "Claire, you know this place better than we do. Where is a place that we can set a base up?"


    Claire was messing with some of her fried technology, dismantling several of the devices and trying to figure out what she could salvage. She winced at the question as if she''d been dreading it. "Well... yeah, technically, but I don''t think we can go there. Besides, I''m not even sure she owns the apartment anymore. There''s a chance that it doesn''t belong to her anymore, so it''s probably a better idea to find somewhere else."


    Marie squinted at her. "Claire, what and who the carkin'' gob are you talking about?"


    Pulling a spare shirt out of his Docket and pulling it on, Titus asked, "You seem nervous about something. Are you all right?"


    Claire sighed. "Okay, my mom used to live in an apartment not too far from here. It''s been more than twenty years since I... well, I don''t know what happened, but whatever it is that chucked me into Kellaris happened."


    Borug''s eyes widened. "You arrived in a foreign world at the age of twelve?"


    She sighed heavily. "I... had a hard time coming to terms with what happened. I spent a lot of time figuring out how to survive on my own." Her expression darkened, and her companions fell silent. "We don''t have time to talk about that."


    "I wondered why you avoided that topic," Borug contemplated.


    Marie strode over and wrapped Claire in a hug. "Aww, hun, you''ve been through a lot. What you need is some quality food in your stomach and a good rest. If your ma''s anything like you, we''ll be in good hands."


    "But she might not even be there anymore!" Claire protested, unsuccessfully trying to pry herself out of Marie''s grip. The older woman had wrestled bears before - Claire wasn''t exactly a fair match.


    Borug coughed gently. "Might I remind you two that we are in fact in a foreign world? Claire, what kind of threats can we anticipate?"


    Marie released Claire from the bone-crushing hug, and Claire took a moment to catch her breath. "All right, there''s no intelligent species aside from humans I know of here, so long as this is the same New York and not some weird version. There''s no magic, there''s no shapeshifting - everything''s based around technology, including their weapons." She paused. "Huh. I never really thought of people as... them, I guess."


    Titus raised an eyebrow. "No magic at all?"


    Clarie shook her head. "Nope. Just to clarify, when I say technology, I don''t mean my grade of gear. The most advanced thing they had when I... left... was a railgun. It launched chunks of metal at high speeds, but they couldn''t turn it very far, it took too much power to use consistently, and firing it too many times would end up breaking it."


    A toothy smile spread across Borug''s face. "You''re making this sound easy."


    "Hardly," Claire continued. "Because they also invented guns. Think small pieces of lead shaped specifically to tear through people, and pretty much anyone can buy one depending on the laws of the place you''re in."


    Titus nudged her. "That does sound dangerous, but I thing we should focus on the task at hand. Do you remember exactly where your mother lives?"


    Claire shrank somewhat. "Well, yeah, but I don''t know if she even lives there anymore."


    Borug nodded agreeably. "Yes, so you''ve said. Regardless, a chance gives us higher odds than simply traipsing around New York indefinitely. That is what it''s called, correct?" He clarified, inently watching Claire for confirmation. When she nodded, he added, "Wouldn''t you agree?"


    She hesitated, and Marie slapped her shoulder, giving it an affable squeeze. "Oh, c''mon honey. What''s the worst-case scenario as far as you can see it?"


    Claire stared at the ground. "She doesn''t recognize me."


    Titus promptly denied the possibility. "Claire, d''you remember that old hobgoblin way out in the Lygrall woods? The one who lost all of his gobbles in a raid."


    She snorted loudly. "They''re just called baby goblins, Titus."


    He kept going. "Nicest hob we''d ever met, almost thought he was trying to trick us at first. Six months go by and we manage to find the gobbles, except they''re not gobbles anymore. They were a full warband of goblins. Ring a bell?"


    Claire sighed. "Of course I remember. We told them he was waiting for them and they left their weapons behind in their hurry."


    He nodded. "So you remember when they got back and he knew all of them by name?"


    She raised her hands. "Okay, okay, I get it. But this is different."


    Borug lifted a finger, forestalling Titus'' response. "Think about it like this, Claire. We have no more probable option than to hopefully rely on your mother, circumstances aside. I''ll even go in first."


    Claire considered it for a moment, and her shoulders slumped. "Fine. Follow me. And try not to attract any attention."


    * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    The sidewalk was too small.


    Titus felt a tic rising in his forehead as he bumped into someone for the fifth time. His response was the same as the previous four; he looked up in irritation, almost said something, saw Titus'' bulk, and shut up. It was a familiar response, although most of the people back home knew Titus by sight, whether they''d met him before or not.


    The vehicles rushing by, horns blaring and wheels squealing, were beginning to give Titus a headache. In fact, the whole city was getting to him. It was loud, the air tasted foul, and the few bursts of color on the crowded shops lining the road were doing nothing to improve his mood. Hopefully, Claire''s mother''s house would be a better place than these.


    Claire stopped walking. "All right, we''re here."


    Slowly turning to the building she was looking up at, Titus resisted a groan. It was a block shoved between more blocks, identical windows placed at even intervals. The whole building was the same soulless gray shade, and Titus could already feel his head getting sore imagining the low ceilings inside. "You''re sure?" Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    She nodded morosely, and Borug straightened his suit. "Well," He calmly stated. "It''s far from the worst place we''ve ever been in. Is the interior a match to its shell?" He asked Claire, and she nodded again. A tiny sigh left Borug''s mouth, but he walked forward and opened the double doors. "Ladies first."


    Marie happily dusted her boots off and went in. Claire followed suit, and Titus paused in front of the doors. His head was a full foot higher than the stop. Borug gave him a brief glance of sympathy, and he walked in.


    An unidentifiable smell pervaded the lobby, most likely related to the equally unidentifiable stains in the patterned carpet. The walls were painted a peeling shade of dull yellow, and long-dead ferns sat along the sides of the almost empty room. Claire was already talking to the shaggy-haired man behind the counter, whose expression of boredom died the moment Titus and Borug entered. Standing, he called in a squeaky voice, "No weapons!"


    Borug raised his hands, palms facing outward. "I am unarmed."


    The smaller man glanced at Titus. "What about those guns?" A stupid smile crossed his face, and Titus closed his eyes, trying to stay calm.


    Claire waved a hand in front of the doorman''s face. "Hey, does she still live here?"


    He blinked, returning his attention to her. "What? Yeah, she''s up there. Same room. Barely leaves ever since her kid kicked the bucket, though I wouldn''t talk to her about that if I were you. Kind of a touchy subject, y''know?"


    Claire winced. "I can imagine."


    Borug moved forward, his flat brown eyes fixed on the doorman. "How long ago was this?"


    With gossip on the table, the doorman''s attitude changed entirely. Leaning forward, he theatrically whispered, "Almost two years now. She got the police involved, but they never found a body. Some people say she''s the one that did it, and tried to throw suspicion off by callin'' the police. ''Course, most people won''t hire a private detective after that, so who knows?"


    Claire''s hand clenched into a fist beneath the counter. "Is that what you think?"


    The doorman continued, oblivious to the danger he was in. "Nah, she''s cool. Me, I think it was aliens."


    Borug blinked. "Aliens?"


    He nodded seriously. "Sure thing. No one''s ever seen them, but kids don''t just disappear, right? No trace of her left behind. Kidnappers from outer space, that''s what I think."


    Claire nodded, turning around so the doorman couldn''t see her expression. "Right. Thanks for the help."


    Their group headed towards the marked staircase, and the doorman called after them, "Oh, and if you ever want to talk about it, I''m right here!"


    Giving him a tight smile, Claire closed the door behind them and started trembling. Marie immediately wrapped her in a hug. "Sorry you had to hear that, hun."


    Taking deep breaths, Claire managed to say, "Two years. I wasn''t even sure she was still alive, and - This was a mistake."


    She turned to leave, but Titus put a hand on her shoulder. "Claire, if you had a daughter, do you think you''d stop looking for her?"


    "Of course not!" Claire exclaimed, startled by the sudden question. She froze as she realized what he was implying, and her shoulders slumped. "I... I get it. I just don''t think I''m ready for this."


    "That''s okay, hun." Marie soothed her. "Borug''s gonna go in first. Right?"


    Borug nodded. "Certainly. I''ll explain it as tactfully as I can."


    Titus patted her back, unsure of how to contribute to the issue. Getting herself together, Claire weakly smiled. "Thanks again. I don''t know what I''d do without you guys."


    "I don''t know what you''d do without us either," Borug stated. "But you do have us, so you should at least take advantage of that fact."


    Claire nodded, steeling her nerves. "Right. Let''s do this."


    * * * * * * * * * * * * *


    Borug was certainly ready.


    A flight of stairs and a short hallway later, they were standing in front of a nondescript door marked two-twenty-one. Claire looked like she was on the verge of panic. "I''m definitely not ready for this."


    Borug gracefully stepped forward and promptly knocked. Claire almost dove to one side, scrambling to avoid the door. Titus and Claire walked out of the way.


    The door opened a moment later, and Borug was greeted by an aging woman. Gray streaks adorned her brown hair, and the shallow wrinkles on her face spoke of premature wear. She was dressed in sweatpants and a baggy gray shirt. Looking Borug up and down with a critical eye, she warily asked, "Do you need something?"


    Borug nodded crisply. "Yes. I have information regarding your daughter I''d like to discuss with you. May I come-"


    He was cut off as she practically dragged him inside, eyes wide. "You know something about Claire? Is she all right?"


    Borug carefully extricated himself from her grip, closing the door behind him and examining the entry with a critical eye. The walls were painted a sleepy shade of beige, with few decorations at all. A table with four chairs was at one end of the room, next to a pair of windows staring out at the alleyway behind, and a flat black object sat atop the mantle above a strange-looking fireplace. "Ma''am, I''m simply here to inform you of a few important things. And-" He gave her a polite smile. "Where are my manners? My name is Bors Devonson."


    She nodded rapidly. "I''m Abby, Abby Wilkins. Can you please tell me more? Is she all right?"


    Moving over to the chairs, Borug sat down and indicated another. "I''m afraid the situation is quite a lot more complicated than a yes or no, although I assure you she''s in good health. Would you please sit down? This may be... stressful."


    Abby sat down, staring at him wide-eyed as she wringed her hands. "So she''s fine? Where is she?"


    Borug stared at her evenly, waiting for her to calm down. Her stress switched to anger in a fraction of a second. "You''re talking about my daughter when she''s been missing for twenty months, Bors! Twenty months! If you have something to say, TELL ME!"


    She''d stood up as she spoke, and her face flushed red. He patiently waited, and after a few moments, she sat down. Clearing his throat, Borug said, "Mrs. Wilkins-"


    "Miss," She interrupted with a dark expression. "And call me Abby." Borug read her face and winced internally. "My apologies, Miss - Abby. I don''t have children. I... don''t quite understand the feeling."


    Abby gradually composed herself, and then almost began crying. "Please. Just tell me what happened."


    Borug pulled himself up straight. "I have to tell you, miss Abby, this may sound somewhat impossible. If I''m being completely honest I considered it impossible up until a few hours ago."


    "Get to the point." Her voice was forceful, but she didn''t shout this time. Borug suddenly realized that his mindset and hers were entirely different, and that he should probably get to the point before she attacked him.


    Clearing his throat, he calmly said, "Your daughter was transported via presently unknown means to another universe called Kellaris, where she spent two decades more-or-less saving the world as an artificer to an elite group, until the king of the country decided to banish her, whereupon she and three of her companions were brought here."


    Abby stared at him for a full five seconds, then placed her head in her hands. "I suppose you''re here for money."


    Borug shook his head. "Hardly. As a matter of fact, Claire requested that I speak to you instead. She expressed a good amount of anxiety when she talked about meeting you."


    Abby lifted her head with an almost dead look in her eyes. It was an expression Borug had seen in beggars and criminals back in Kellaris, during his early days as a spy. It was a face that had had its hopes lifted and then broken beyond repair. "Please leave my house."


    Borug raised his hand and very calmly turned it into gel. Abby jerked out of the chair and stumbled back, eyes wide. "Wh-what? What is that!?"


    Borug stood up, returning his hand to normal. "I''m one of her companions. I also happen to be a shape-shifter, which as I understand is a fictitious creature in your mythology."


    Disbelief warred with shock on Abby''s face before she steeled herself. "So Claire''s really alright?"


    He found sincere admiration building up inside him. She knew what her priorities were and organized them appropriately. "Yes, although she''s thirty-two years of age at the moment." Borug felt a brief moment of hesitation as he said it, and then dismissed the feeling. He was talking to her mother; age was hardly a sensitive topic.


    Abby''s eyes narrowed. "What you said earlier, about her being nervous."


    "Yes?"


    "I don''t believe you."


    Borug sighed, but before he could say anything, she continued. "If you''d ever met my daughter, you''d know she wasn''t afraid of anything."


    I''ve known her longer than you have, Borug nearly said. Years of self-control stopped him. "Miss Abby, I''ve seen Claire face down full-grown dragons with hesitation. She''s saved my life on more occasions than I can name. She''s defused political nightmares that even I wouldn''t touch. Rest assured, I am under no scruples as to Claire''s bravery. I may possess abilities she doesn''t, but in my opinion she is superior to myself in many ways." He didn''t raise his voice. If Claire heard any of this she''d never let him hear the end of it. "But I suspect that this requires bravery of a different kind."


    Abby pointed a shaking finger at him. "How do I know you''re telling the truth?"


    Borug shrugged. "You don''t. Ironically, I can honestly say I have many secrets and a number of lies." He stood up to leave, walking towards the door. "Claire, on the other hand, does not."


    Pulling the door open, he yanked the young woman who had her ear to the door into the room, giving her a nod. "I''ll see you in a few moments, Claire." Spinning around her, the last thing he saw before the door shut was Claire''s stunned expression.


    Turning to Titus and Marie, he smiled. "I think I handled that quite well, all things considered."

 Infestation Part Four

    Sikkhat didn¡¯t really have to be careful.


    They had an immense amount of resources and time, provided the creature didn¡¯t come back. There was no shortage of space due to the size of the ship they¡¯d obtained, and they didn¡¯t have to worry about injuries.


    Still, as they watched the vaguely humanoid collection of fungus, spores, and randomly placed metal hurl itself into a bulkhead and explode, they wondered if they should perhaps switch their tactics up a bit.


    They¡¯d been trying to replicate the creature for longer than they knew how to count, and had been having no success. Apparently, infecting something and effectively manipulating its entire nervous system and brain was still significantly easier than building its own body.


    Sikkhat turned their attention to the massacred juggernaut. Technically speaking, it¡¯d been a constructed design, but it had been passed down through generational memory. They hadn¡¯t designed it themselves; only copied what they¡¯d been taught.


    Although¡­


    Following the generational memory carefully, Sikkhat built the juggernaut again. This time, they paid attention to the process, watching as it all came together.


    It was a fascinating realization, that the juggernaut was made so well. At first glance it bore a close resemblance to the chargers, but in physical makeup it was entirely different. The metal Sikkhat had invested formed a sort of impact-absorbing skeleton, with dense layers of fungus covering it, overlapping and seamlessly sinking beneath and flowing over each other in a powerful armor.


    With an objective in mind, Sikkhat brought a good amount of metal over to the testing area and dumped it in a pile.


    They considered the pile for a long moment.


    Now what?


    Using the juggernaut to pick a long strip of metal up, they began to shave trimmings off, straightening it into a thinner, more shaped piece. Slowly but surely, it began to take piece, a serrated line of steel, slightly curved. They began to get excited, etching smaller markings into it, trying to bend it and see how it could get more flexible.


    It snapped.


    Frustrated, they tossed the scrap aside and chose a thicker piece. Flicking their claws furiously, they began to carve chunks off, shaping it into another straight piece. This one broke even quicker, and Sikkhat seethed.


    Somewhere on the ship, the hull blew out. Several dozen of their troops were swallowed by the void before the automatic disaster prevention systems cut in. They barely even noticed the loss, too irritated by the lack of progress.


    They were beginning to realize that this would be a lot harder than simply conquering a ship.


    Forcing themselves to calm down, they grabbed another piece and started over. This one was a different type of metal than the earlier one, and Sikkhat was startled to find that it both cut easier and was more flexible. They immediately began hunting the ship for more of the new type as they concluded their work.


    A few moments later, they held up the piece and examined it with great satisfaction. Several of the marines began clapping, and they felt distinct pride before realizing that the marines were still under their control, and therefore were clapping for themselves.


    They felt a distinct sensation of¡­ singularity. A missed absence of other presences. It was a strikingly painful and entirely unfamiliar feeling.


    Shaking the sensation away, they decided to focus on the task at hand. Examining the piece carefully, they discovered that they hadn¡¯t really decided what it would be used for yet¡­ which meant it was useless.


    Sikkhat was incapable of taking deep breaths, which meant they had little to no appropriate methods to calm down with. So they slaughtered a few of themselves, and that made them feel better. Sawing through bodies with sharpened bone was remarkably therapeutic.


    Once they were done, they came back to the now-larger pile of metal and sifted through it, selecting the pieces they wanted. They couldn¡¯t use the bones inside the Grineer marines - they were much too fragile for what they had in mind.


    Over the next two hours, they painstakingly and with multiple tantrums created a metal skeleton which more or less looked relatively similar to the creature which had invaded their ship. It was crude and far from the intricate details and perfectly shaped curves of the invader, but it was tough and flexible, and so would work. At least for the first attempt. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Taking another look at the juggernaut, they meticulously copied the layered fungus and spores onto the skeleton until it could be moved, and then cautiously stood it up.


    It stood stiffly in the center of the room, looking rather impressive in their opinion. After all, it wasn¡¯t any infestation that could design their own body!


    Unless they could. They hadn¡¯t exactly met any of their¡­ brethren? They felt no discomfort at the thought of destroying or absorbing any infestation they might encounter into themselves. If the opponent couldn¡¯t withstand it, then that was their issue, not Sikkhat¡¯s.


    No, they decided, infestation was not brethren. Simply slightly less offensive enemies. The only creature they even remotely wanted as an ally was the one that had annihilated them so easily, although they¡¯d likely spend more time trying to figure out how it worked than actually cooperating with it.


    Returning to the task at hand, they made the body clench its hand into a fist. The motion was painfully slow, and they would have sighed if they¡¯d been capable.


    While their control over the body was frankly pathetic at the moment, they could already tell that it would be better than any of their other soldiers. Possibly even the juggernaut, although the body inandof itself was useless at the moment. They needed to get a better hang of how to control it.


    It was an entirely different experience from manipulating the marines, or even the juggernaut. The marines and chargers and whatnot already had brains and muscle memory and a dozen other factors which made them as easy to control as moving their own spores. The juggernaut was almost autonomous from them, but they could still direct its actions to a major extent.


    The body they¡¯d designed was more like the spores in terms of control. Sikkhat had absolute dominion over what it did, which opened up a massive amount of potential, but also meant they had to figure out how to walk and fight all on their own.


    With an exasperated sigh, they got to work.


    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


    The body lurched forward and clumsily clawed down at the marine in front of it. They devoted the most miniscule possible amount of effort towards dodging, and succeeded with time to spare.


    Sikkhat was beginning to lose hope that they¡¯d ever be able to replicate the flawless, flowing movements and devastating strength displayed by the invader. They had been trying to improve on the body for a full day with absolutely no progress to show for it - if anything, it¡¯d gotten marginally slower.


    What was the issue? They couldn¡¯t figure out what the problem was! Did it lie with the design of the body or the control they exercised over it?


    Their frustration hit a boiling point, and another half-dozen marines went down to their own tantrum. Slowly calming down, the seething infestation decided to genuinely stop and think about it.


    Every marine and charger on the ship froze as Sikkhat devoted the entirety of their considerable mind towards finding the solution. Without the noise of controlling over a thousand Grineer, they gradually came to a conclusion.


    They couldn¡¯t exercise suitable control over the body without dipping more of their focus into it than normal. An amount that could potentially consume a dangerous amount of their spores.


    They didn¡¯t do it because they worried at all¡­ but they decided to go ahead and make a few more spore pods, planting them in hard-to-reach places. No reason not to be careful.


    With that out of the way, they did the infestation equivalent of taking a deep breath and began¡­ well, infesting the body. They sank so many spores beneath the mycelium skin that it became more Sikkhat than the entirety of the rest of the ship combined.


    When the body expanded its senses, it was no longer a singular entity.


    It was Sikkhat.


    And this time, when it clenched a fist, they felt strength.


    Turning their head¡­ no. Its? His? Her? Sikkhat had no idea what to call themselves when they were so seamlessly merged with their bipedal host. To control a marine was to bend a finger, to control the juggernaut was to move a hand, but control the body they now occupied was movement incarnate. The marines were varied and inconsistent, the juggernaut a blunt instrument to be wielded, but to use this body was art. How could they even begin to compare the experiences?


    They bent their knees and then straightened, and lightly bounced from the ship¡¯s floor. The power lying in their legs was immense, reinforced by thousands of layers of fungus and steel. Moving over to a marine, they made it try to dodge and then kicked it simultaneously.


    The marine had not moved an inch before Sikkhat¡¯s leg slammed into its chest. The impact shattered the marine¡¯s armor and nearly punched through the rotten flesh beneath. The marine itself was jerked backward and hurled into a bulkhead. A meaty crunch followed.


    Taking a step forward, they nervously took a step forward, and then another. In mere moments, they were running circles in the ship, gradually gaining in speed and confidence as they moved. The matte gray surface of the walls turned into a blur as they sped, power in every step launching them across the floor.


    Recalling the invader¡¯s flowing movements, they selected one of its most memorable jumps. A low slide that propelled them into a spinning corkscrew into the air at incredible speed and height, permitting them to nearly fly.


    Sliding across the ground, they gathered strength in their legs, braced themselves, and then launched upward. Their left leg tangled with the right, sending their corkscrew into an awkward angle, and they crashed into the ceiling a split-second later.


    Falling to the ground, they felt several pieces of metal inside them bend dangerously, and they hastily solved the problem by compressing the fungus around the limbs.


    Lying on the ground, Sikkhat came to the conclusion that movement like the invader¡¯s would not come to them quite so easily.

 Infestation Part Five

    Bouncing from one foot to the other, Sikkhat focused on the distant pod husk on the other end of the room. They had selected the largest room they could find in the whole ship to perform the exercise. A large number of chargers and leapers waited to one side, prepared to move forward when they gave the command.


    They thought to all of themselves simultaneously, and Sikkhat launched forward. The assorted troops lumbered to get in their way, clawing and snapping fungal jaws in an attempt to slow them down.


    Sikkhat dodged and spun around their grasps, their mind focused solely on not tripping and not getting caught. It was unimaginably difficult, although not nearly as much as it had been two hundred and thirteen hours ago. Compared to then, they had made an impressive amount of progress.


    Flattening themselves and bending their knees, they skidded beneath the clutches of a pair of chargers and straightened, sprinting for the husk. Jumping over a full dozen marines, they twisted and slid across the ground, coming out of the slide at a full run¡­


    ...only to be promptly smashed in the face by their juggernaut. Performing a full flip, albeit accidental, they crashed into the ground and lay there, immensely frustrated.


    It was annoying in the extreme to have made so much progress, only to have that progress denied every time they came to the juggernaut. They could clearly recall how easily the invader had defeated it, so why couldn¡¯t they?


    A sound alerted them to an occurrence in one of the aft sections of the ship, and Sikkhat raised their head. Displacing their focus from the body felt almost wrong at this point, unbelievable as it seemed, but they did so in mere moments. Dividing their attention, they split their view until a spore cluster observed the disturbance.


    Something had punched through the hull of the ship, and figures were climbing out of it. A brief surge of excitement hit Sikkhat - was it the invader? - but was just as quickly dashed. The people emerging from the small pod clinging to their ship had blocky heads and clumsy-looking suits, and their movement was tediously slow.


    Regardless, disappointment was quickly replaced by curiosity. If not the invader, what were they? They were definitely armed, although their weapons looked different from the Grineer¡¯ misshapen guns.


    Curiosity changed into excitement. Was there no better opportunity to test their ability with their new body than with a new prey?


    Standing, they directed all of the chargers and leapers to leave the area. After a moment of thought, they fashioned a hastily designed blade with spare metal and fungus, shaving the edges off until it was a serrated edge. They needed a weapon for themselves, after all.


    Melding their brand-new blade to their arm, they ran off in the direction of the intrusion.


    As they sprinted through the emptied hallways and hollow areas of the ship, they wondered how difficult it would be to fight these new enemies compared to the invader, or the Grineer?


    Hopefully, somewhere closer to the Grineer. Sikkhat had stood less than no chance against the invader. They¡¯d been as helpless as when they were a singular spore pod.


    Turning a corner, they were met with a blank-faced helmet of one of the new enemies. Without hesitation, Sikkhat launched themselves forward, blade flashing in the blue light of the ship, and cut deeply into the opponent. It was not a clean strike in the slightest, and sparks flew where their blade carved through technology.


    Staggering backward, the enemy fell down and didn¡¯t get back up. Sik found themselves mildly amused at the simplicity and ease of the task. Were the Grineer so easy to eliminate?


    Satisfied, Sikkhat flicked the oil off their blade and crouched, spraying a small amount of spores onto the corpse. It took them a moment to work past all of the filters in the enemy¡¯s helmet, but once they did, they got a brief memory reading off of him.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    So he was here to salvage from Sikkhat¡¯s ship. That was an interesting piece of information. And¡­ he was called a Corpus crewman? Sikkhat wasn¡¯t sure what to do about that, but at least they knew that the new enemies weren''t very strong.


    Turning to the remainder of the hallway, Sikkhat headed onward. There was more prey to hunt and more information to absorb. They found themselves excited, eager to find out more about the Corpus. Maybe they would have information on Sikkhat themselves!


    Another crewman turned just in time to see Sikkhat¡¯s blade, but a gash appeared in his neck before he could do anything about it. He fell down, clutching at his throat, and Sikkhat helpfully infested him, scanning his surface thoughts as they went.


    So the crewman was here without all of his allies. There was another ship - they¡¯d been sent to scout the ¡®wreckage¡¯. That was extremely helpful. It meant that Sikkhat could hunt the outliers and then find a way back to their main ship. Then they could infest the ship, and then they¡¯d have two ships all to themselves!


    Granted, they didn¡¯t know how to fly the one they already had, but that was a moot point.


    Jumping upward, they began sliding across the high ceiling, using their powerful claws to punch through the metal surface and stay out of sight. It was quite fun, hunting scavengers. They wondered if they could keep some scavengers for entertainment later, perhaps as a method of training.


    No, they decided as they landed atop another crewman and snapped his neck, they probably wouldn¡¯t.


    Another spray into the corpse¡¯s lungs revealed another slice of the bigger picture. The ship this crewman was from wasn¡¯t even connected to their¡­ larger part? It was a difficult concept to fully grasp. The scavengers were originally a part of a bigger group, like the infestation as a whole, but they¡¯d somehow left, because¡­ they were dissatisfied?


    The surface memory wasn¡¯t exactly a goldmine of information, but Sikkhat resolved to find out more about this larger part. Perhaps the Corpus were just a different strain of infestation. Either way, they were enemies.


    Straightening from the body, Sikkhat turned around and discovered another crewman, weapon aimed straight at them. Oh well. The Grineer projectiles had hardly done any damage to the spores, so this was most likely a similar-


    The crewman fired, and a red-hot line of energy stabbed Sikkhat through the center of their midsection, burning away all of the fungus and even scorching a pockmark through the metal inside them. Startled and furious, they hurled their blade at the crewman, and he went down with a startled groan.


    An examination of his mind revealed no new information, and Sikkhat concluded that Corpus were their second-least-favorite enemy. Leaving the corpse behind, Sikkhat continued hunting for the remainder of the scouting party.


    Opening a closet door, they found a door leading into the hatch of a much smaller ship. Another crewman sat at the helm, back to Sikkhat, drumming thick fingers on the dashboard. Sikkhat happily came up behind him and burst a massive amount of spores into his helmet.


    Before they could make it through the filters in the Corpus¡¯ helmet, the pilot lunged forward, slamming on the controls in an attempt to jar Sikkhat. Startled, Sikkhat jumped onto him, trying to stab him before realizing they¡¯d forgotten to get their sword back.


    The small pod careened away from the Grineer ship with a pneumatic hiss, Sikkhat and the crew member stuck inside it. Yanking a thick rod from beside him, the crewman fell out of his chair and stood up. A button press sent energy crackling up and down the length of the rod, and Sikkhat instinctively knew that it would be dangerous to come into contact.


    The crewman swung forward, and in the cramped space, the only direction Sikkhat could go was up. Slamming into the ceiling, they leaned down and grabbed onto the crewman¡¯s head, slamming it into the wall until he stopped moving.


    Releasing the crewman, they tentatively climbed down from the ceiling and finished infesting him. There wasn¡¯t much of his brain left, unfortunately, and Sikkhat learned nothing from him.


    Dissatisfied, Sikkhat turned towards the hatch they¡¯d entered through and found it sealed. They stared at the closed hatch for a moment, mind slogging.


    They panicked.


    Hurling themselves at the door, they tried to pry it open to no success. The dead crewman on the floor proved unhelpful, dead as he was, but Sikkhat still tried to infest him and make him open the door for them.


    They could feel the distance growing between their body and the remainder of their consciousness back on the Grineer ship, and even as they tried to hold on to it, the connection snapped.


    Sikkhat found itself alone.

 Figures in the Fog

    There was fog, and only fog.


    Diffused light shone through the grim canopy of leaves far above, casting muted shadows beyond the edges of every tree and bush. No breeze blew through the trees, and the silence was deafening to anyone who could have heard it.


    Elias was comfortable in that silence.


    He was familiar enough with the quiet that it didn¡¯t bother him. Not anymore, at least. It was better for there to be silence. Better to know what was coming for him. Granted, there were some days he missed the sounds of wildlife.


    Crouched behind a bush bearing black berries, he kept his eyes fixed on the deer grazing a hundred yards away, upwind of him and down a hill. An easy shot if he¡¯d ever seen one.


    The deer in question had an extra set of antlers and two extra pairs of legs, but he wasn¡¯t overly concerned about the mutation. He¡¯d eaten plenty of them before, and he hadn¡¯t grown a third arm yet.


    He took a half-breath, raising his crossbow to his shoulder. The handmade sight on the end, a simple spike resting above the bridge of the weapon, lined up with the notch near his eye. Closing his left eye, he took one final breath¡­ and pulled the trigger.


    The crossbow¡¯s limbs made a loud crack as the tight cord snapped forward, propelling the flint-tipped arrow forward with enormous speed. The deer heard the sound and leapt ahead, exactly where he¡¯d estimated it would. The arrow struck it behind the front leg, driving into its heart and killing it instantly.


    Pumping his fist, Elias came around the bush and jogged over to the deer¡¯s body. It was in good condition - the arrow hadn¡¯t torn its fur too much, which meant the meat should have been relatively unspoiled.


    Pulling a small coil of rope from his hip, he started trussing the deer up for easier transportation.


    The silence grew louder.


    His ears popped, and he swallowed hard. Standing straight, he began scanning the woods surrounding him, squinting to see through the fog. The trees loomed over him, almost seeming to lean inward.


    He saw it before it saw him. Hopefully.


    A pair of black vertical lines slowly approached, each one thin as a finger and stretching up through the trees. Their steps were leisurely and precisely placed between roots to avoid any potential tripping hazards, moving towards him fifty feet at a time.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Elias cursed under his breath, pulling his knife out and sawing at the deer¡¯s leg. Of all the timing¡­


    The lines were drawing closer and Elias wasn¡¯t done. With a savage motion, he flipped his knife into a reverse grip and sawed through the base of the leg, messily tearing it away.


    Hefting the severed limb under one arm, he shoved his knife back into its sheath, seized his rope, and ran back up to the bushes he¡¯d been hiding in as quietly as possible. Setting his satchel down, he flipped it open and removed a large piece of cloth, promptly wrapping the leg of the deer. The wrap stained red almost immediately, but at least it¡¯d stifle the smell.


    Peering over the bushes, he watched the black legs come closer to the deer¡¯s motionless body. He didn¡¯t say anything, but a litany of expletives bounced around his head. Instead of releasing them into the world, he muttered, ¡°Don¡¯t take it, don¡¯t take it, don¡¯t take it¡­¡±


    The needle-like legs paused before the corpse, standing there for several seconds. They bent after a moment, and a hand reached down. It was large enough to pick up a car, with horrific claws, and yet the arm it was attached to was as spindly as its legs.


    Elias watched with bated breath as it nudged the body, rolling it over. Being dead, the deer did nothing.


    After a moment, the hand wrapped around the deer¡¯s corpse, digging trenches into the ground. Elias¡¯ face screwed up in agitation as the hand tightened, effortlessly lifting the body into the air. A series of crunches followed as Spindle ate the deer, and after a moment, a broken ribcage crashed into the ground, shattering the silence.


    All was still.


    The legs turned towards Elias.


    He did the only thing he could do and ran, heading through the trees at a dead sprint. It wasn¡¯t an option to avoid Spindle anymore, now that it¡¯d seen him, which meant there wasn¡¯t any point in trying to stay quiet.


    The forest awoke to the dull thud of his boots on the ground, a quiet rustle of invisible creatures waking up. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as thousands of eyes looked down at him from on high, a silent chatter of animal to animal as they watched.


    The trees began to thin as he ran, and he hazarded a glance over his shoulder.


    Spindle was following him. Each step the creature took was carefully and methodically made, and yet covered far more ground than he could hope to.


    Looking back ahead of him, he finally made it out of the treeline and ran for the small house sitting in a fog-laden field of scorched stumps. It stood two stories high, with peeling once-blue walls holding a black shingled roof. The wooden door on the side swung open as Elias approached, and he checked back again.


    Spindle was taking longer strides as it tried to catch up, but as it began to grow smaller as it left the treeline. Elias almost laughed, but instead settled for hurling himself through the doorway. It slammed shut behind him, locking itself.


    Elias lay on the hard wooden floor, chuckling to himself. It wasn¡¯t often one won a race against one of the monsters in the Fog.


    His laughter died in his throat as he realized he¡¯d forgotten to grab the deerleg.

 Shedling Story (Title is a WIP)

    698 U.Z, ODMAN W28


    It was the kind of rain that made the air scream.


    Madeline Parker watched through her window at the rainstorm outside. It hammered on the roof of her house, flattening leaves and bushes with the sheer power of its wrath. It held no fear for her - her home was shedling-made, and although she didn''t like the bugs all that much, whatever they built lasted.


    She was alone in her house at the moment. A part of her welcomed the rain and the sound that came with it. It certainly made her home feel less empty.


    Madeline had lived in her home for only a few years, but she¡¯d grown comfortable in it. The wood-paneled walls were all real. The half-bathroom had a working shower and bathtub, which provided hot water well enough.


    She was lonely.


    There wasn¡¯t any way around it. She had plenty of time to think since jobs were only for those that wanted them, but she also had no compunctions on the fact. She¡¯d applied for foster care, but the odds of anyone actually being orphaned were low to say the least.


    Politics were gone and human military went with it. Everyone was allowed their own weapons, but it didn¡¯t matter when the only ones you wanted dead took revenge with extreme predjudice. Nobody was an orphan because the only people who died anymore were the truly stupid and the extremely old, and rarely did those unfortunate people leave any orphaned children behind. Even if they did, she was at the bottom of what was most likely a very long list.


    A flash of lightning lit the sky up, and a roll of thunder shook the house a second later.


    She sighed, leaning on a desk by the window. Lifting her mug, a white cup without markings, she took a sip of the hot chocolate it contained. Some people might have been a little judgy that she had a supply of hot chocolate so readily available in the latter half of spring, or at least the season they called spring on Odman. Some people didn''t appreciate the finer things in life. Like hot chocolate.


    The ground rumbled once more, but no lightning came before it. Madeline leaned forward, forehead furrowing as she stared through the rain at the street in front of her house. She had to squint, but she still managed to make out the shape sitting on the road.


    The moment she did, she set the cup down and hurried to the door, throwing it open.  She was immediately soaked by the downpour turning the world sideways, but there were more pressing matters on her mind.


    One of the giant shedlings, one of their Warriors, lay full length on the road. She couldn¡¯t see where the massive centipede¡¯s tail ended, but its head occupied the entire street. What could only be called a carriage sat mounted atop its neck, spotlights illuminating everything in front of it.


    Two more of the shedlings, much smaller ones, scuttled off of the carriage. They held no conversation and wasted no time, moving towards her house. A very small package was visible, gently hovering midair between them.


    Madeline was trying hard not to panic. Shedlings didn¡¯t just pay house visits and they certainly didn¡¯t come in person if they needed something.


    She wasn¡¯t the only person wondering what was going on. The lights of her neighbors¡¯ houses were on, onlookers observing the spectacle through their front windows and likely gossiping up a storm to their friends.


    The pair of shedlings steadily walked up her sidewalk, unhurriedly and without the slightest hint of discomfort at the rain. The shedling on the left was a little thick, with a softened layer of iridescent chitin plates forming a carapace along its back. Measuring perhaps twelve feet in length, its many legs bore its weight well. As with all shedlings, it had two beady black eyes and a pair of fine antennae, plastered back along its carapace, with a fearful maw of teeth crouched behind a pair of hooked mandibles. The second was leaner, but otherwise similar in appearance. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    They crawled across the ground towards her house. As they grew closer, she made out a small white device strapped to their necks, partially hidden under carapace plating. She wasn¡¯t sure what it was for, but she was pretty sure it had something to do with the package floating between them.


    Almost seven hundred years since shedlings had conquered the known universe, and telekinesis was still fascinating. There was just something about using one¡¯s mind to lift things that Madeline couldn¡¯t help but find endlessly interesting.


    They stopped at her doorstep, antennae gently waving from side to side. The left shedling rose, rearing up until it towered over Madeline. The white device on its neck lit up, and it spoke in a distinctly female tone. ¡°Are you Madeline Anthony Parker?¡±


    Madeline gaped, more out of surprise than anything. ¡°Yes?¡±


    It nodded. ¡°Good. Take this.¡±


    The package gently moved forward. It was a large, oblong object wrapped in thick fabric, keeping her from seeing what she was. Reaching out her arms, she accepted it and almost dropped it. It was much heavier than she¡¯d anticipated.


    The second shedling presented a clipboard to her, held aloft by an invisible hand. She hadn¡¯t seen it anywhere on the shedling¡¯s person, but it hardly mattered. Looking from side to side, she carefully set the package on the table in front of her window, returning to the door and automatically taking the clipboard. ¡°If you don¡¯t mind my asking, what¡¯s going on?¡±


    The first to speak stared evenly at her. ¡°You applied for foster care, correct?¡±


    Madeline¡¯s heart dropped to her stomach and rubber banded into her throat, and she whipped her head back around the corner of her front entrance at the small package sitting on her table. Snapping back to the shedlings, she stammered, ¡°Y-yes, I did. Is that-¡±


    ¡°-Killerie of The Exceptional Mind,¡± The second shedling finished for her in a feminine voice, knocking her heart back down. ¡°She cannot be cared for by us. For her and our safety, she has been rendered both mute and deaf. She will learn your language and ways, and hopefully adopt your culture better than she can ours.¡±


    Madeline swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry and her brain on fire with questions. The most important one took priority. ¡°You¡¯re giving me a shedling?¡±


    Shedlings didn¡¯t have orphans. Ever. They all came from one family and worked in perfect coordination and cooperation, they got along with each other, they all shared the same interests - eyes above, they even shared memories, if half of what she¡¯d heard was true.


    The shedlings nodded in sync, and Madeline started flipping through the papers attached to the clipboard she¡¯d been given. It held a number of details about the infant shedling lying on her table - female, two months old, positive temperament, Engineer caste. There were a few phrases which stuck out, most noticeably-


    ¡°-Psychically handicapped?¡±


    She received another nod from the shedling on the right. ¡°Her antennae have been fitted with telepathy caps. Her ability to lift will not be inhibited, but she will not be able to learn from us as our children do, and she will not be able to commune as we do. Do you accept her?¡±


    Madeline paused. It¡­ wasn¡¯t what she expected. To be honest, it hadn¡¯t even been in the realm of possibility a few minutes ago. But it was a child, wasn¡¯t it? A child who needed a¡­ mother.


    The word made a shiver run up Madeline¡¯s spine, and it made her realize what her answer was.


    ¡°I do.¡±


    The shedling on the right nodded. ¡°Good. Your card¡¯s limit will be substantially increased to account for nutrition needs.¡± Turning as one, they both began heading back towards the Warrior patiently waiting for them on the road.


    Madeline closed the door, a sense of surreal disbelief filling her. Turning to the shedling bundled on her table, she slowly approached it and pulled the first wrapping off.


    A small face peered back at her. Two black eyes, squinting at the sudden increase in light as they were exposed to the numerous lamps and lights in Madeline¡¯s house. A blue-green carapace curled over her forehead, with two thin antennae gently resting on her back. They were capped with an infinitesimal white piece of metal, a dim glow emanating from each one. She had a tiny little mouth, a mess of teeth hidden behind a pair of mandibles soft from youth. A white device similar to the ones the shedlings had been wearing snugly sat on the side of her neck.


    Madeline sucked a sharp breath through her teeth, but didn¡¯t pull away. It wasn¡¯t what she expected at all, no, but still¡­


    ¡°Hello, Killerie,¡± She whispered, and the centipede¡¯s antennae perked up. ¡°I¡¯m going to be your mom.¡±


    The words alone brought tears to her eyes.


    She wouldn¡¯t be alone anymore.

 Shedling Story Pt. 2

    "Do you come in peace?"


    "It depends."


    "What do you mean ''it depends''? It depends on what?"


    "On whether we are welcome in peace."


    -Conversation between Bramis of an Open Mind and Jim Davis, circa 2049 A.D.


    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


    A ray of sunrise beamed through the window shades. It crept across the floor, crawling over short white carpet, an unnecessarily fluffy turquoise rug, and finally sliding up and over the massive pile of blankets and pillows in the center of the bedroom.


    It was a sizable room. A raised desk occupied one corner, small wood projects and scraps of scribbled paper littering its surface. Two standing lamps were tucked beside a wardrobe on the opposite wall, and, barring a postcard-laden corkboard, the remainder of the room was evidently devoted to books. Shelves lined the walls, a personal library weighing them down with antique wisdom and modern allegory, along with a healthy sprinkling of fiction. Strings of lightbulb-clad wire were strung up along the ceiling in a variety of dull colors, dimly reflecting what scant light they could get into fractaled fragments glittering on every wall.


    The mound of cloth and stuffing shifted as sunlight landed in its occupant''s eyes, and a creature rose from its comfy depths.


    The centipede yawning in the center of the room was easily a foot and a half in diameter, and although the remainder of her body was hidden underneath layers of blankets, she measured eleven feet from tip to tail. An iridescent blue-green carapace covered her back and sides, made out of layer after layer of armored chitin plates, and her beige underside was ever so slightly on the chubby side from two too many cups of hot chocolate. All three rows of her needle-like teeth folded inward as the yawn ended.


    Raising her body, Killerie Meredith Parker stretched her legs out, the dozen or so limbs outside of the blankets kinked from sleep.


    Gently rolling her stout neck around, she felt a chitin plate that had been bothering her slide back into place, wrapping her pleasant rise from sleep into a neat little package. With a relieved sigh, she sank back into the mountain of comfort, resting her head on the ridge of a squat cushion big enough to be considered a battering ram in a pillow fight.


    Taking a deep breath, she pressed herself a little deeper into the mound. There wasn¡¯t any reason to be awake today.


    Granted, there were never any truly pressing matters, but Madeline liked exercise to keep both of them from getting fat, and motivation was more easily found in the earlier hours of the day. Killerie could practically feel the pillows leeching stamina out of her, pulling her back into their embrace where she could go back to sle-


    ¡°Breakfast is ready!¡±


    Killerie''s antennae snapped to attention as she half-stumbled out of the blankets, struggling to free her legs from their clutches. Two-thirds of the way down, a leg got snagged on a comforter.


    Killerie found herself unbalanced as her momentum was shifted to her front, and she crashed to the ground in a heap of chitin and legs.


    "Is everything okay?"


    "I''m fine, Mom!" Killerie hastily called back, getting her feet under her. Carefully pulling her tail section out of the pile and inadvertently strewing blankets all over the floor, she paused for a moment to collect herself.


    And then promptly charged for the door.


    It slid aside as she came close, and she barreled around the corner into the narrow hallway that connected all of the rooms. She could smell breakfast, sizzling bacon, eggs-


    Madeline leaned into the hall, freezing Killerie in place with a frown. Her brown hair was wrapped in a hastily-made bun, and while she was nearing her forties there was no sign of graying yet. "Did you brush your teeth?"


    "Can I wait until after?"


    Killerie''s glossy black eyes were hungrily fixed on the food sitting on the kitchen table. Madeline followed her gaze and raised an eyebrow, radiating skepticism.


    "Okay, but you''d better be thorough."


    Killerie chirped in excitement, careful not to step on her mom''s toes as she skittered to the table. She practically dove onto her bench, her tail end flopping over the side as she contorted to a comfortable position at the table. She ended up with a good three or four feet of body looming over the breakfast Madeline had prepared, trying hard not to salivate.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Madeline was more composed as she sat down, although her lips were quirked in a smile. "How''d you sleep?"


    "All good!" Killerie readily answered, taking in the food. The bacon and eggs she''d smelled were present, but there was a half-full pitcher of orange juice she''d missed, along with a plateful of sausage.


    Madeline started transferring food to her plate, bluntly stating, "Four pieces of bacon."


    Killerie nodded, telekinetically removing the crispy pieces from their plate and putting them on their own, inwardly counting. There wasn¡¯t any reason to count, but she found an odd comfort in numbers and tried to include them whenever she could. ¡°Can we play chess today?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Her mom didn¡¯t even have to think about it, building a breakfast sandwich from a biscuit, sausage, bacon and eggs. It was messy and disorganized and it looked delicious, and Killerie started making her own as fast as she could. ¡°Do you want to play traditional rules or house rules?¡±


    Killerie considered the question as she upended the entire sloppy breakfast sandwich into her mouth, and three rows of teeth shredded it in seconds. The taste hit a moment later and she couldn¡¯t stop a shiver of happiness from rolling up her spine. "House rules! You keep winning with the normal ones."


    "That''s because they don''t change halfway through, bean," Madeline gently reminded her daughter, and Killerie made a face. She ignored the look and poured herself a glass of orange juice, offering the pitcher to Killerie.


    The giant centipede shook her head, dumping another plateful of food into her mouth. She held her segmented mandibles in front of her teeth as she chewed in a facsimile of polite etiquette, but no matter how hard she tried it was impossible to entirely cover her mouth. It wasn''t as if she could just close it while eating, after all.


    Finishing off her breakfast, Killerie rolled off the bench and onto her feet. "I''ll get the chessboard set up, okay?"


    Madeline chuckled, pausing for a moment as she swallowed. "Hygiene first, board games second."


    Killerie hesitated for a second, then gave up with a sigh as she headed back down the hallway. Madeline called after her as she walked. "Don''t forget, you said you''d be thorough!"


    "I remembered!" Killerie lied back, adding it to the list and mentally cursing her stomach for being so greedy. Taking a right before her bedroom, she went into the bathroom.


    Here was the room where the difference between their species was the most marked. The bathtub occupying half of the room was enormous, easily seven feet square, and a small arsenal of brushes and bristles hung from the wall above it. The toilet didn''t look unusual, but a sizable pink sponge lay soaking in a small bowl on the vanity beside a green toothbrush.


    Killerie went to the vanity and checked her reflection with a sigh. Shedling teeth were not easy to clean via normal methods, but as with everything else, Madeline had figured out a workaround.


    Killerie shoved the sponge in her mouth and felt her teeth sink into it, the foam gradually expanding between her teeth and filling every gap. It was a little uncomfortable, but it worked. Almost absently, she turned the bathtub on, and it started filling with hot water from several faucets.


    She used her telekinesis to move the sponge around in her mouth, abrupt motions that usually got all of the gunk that accumulated. It still took a few minutes before the reflection of her teeth in the mirror was satisfactory.


    Without further preamble Killerie slid into the tub, sinking under the surface with an irrepressible grin as the heated water seeped beneath her plates, warming everything from the chitin down and easing the persistent soreness at the base of her antennae.


    With only her head above the water, Killerie closed her eyes. The heat, the slight pressure, the quiet sound of dripping water¡­ it was almost as good as sleep.


    Still, all good things had to come to an end. In Killerie''s case, that was when the water cooled, and so it was with a dramatic and utterly unnecessary sigh that she withdrew from the tub and began to dry off with a towel.


    Once she was done, she paused and glanced at one of the bigger brushes. Making a decision, she grabbed it and left the bathroom, the bristled tool bobbing along behind her.


    Her mom had long since finished her breakfast and was seated in an armchair in the living room. It was a pleasant space, more than sizable enough for a centipede of Killerie''s proportions with furniture built to match. Most of it was long couches and lamps, but plenty of natural light shone in through the massive windows on the east side of the room.


    Madeline smiled as she came in with the brush. Killerie didn''t need to say anything. She simply crawled onto the couch beside her mother and gave her the brush.


    She heard a faint grunt as she rested the considerable weight of her head in Madeline''s lap, but then she felt her mom''s hand land a little further up her back. She started brushing Killerie''s plates a moment later.


    It was a comforting feeling. Madeline had a lot of experience brushing centipede chitin at this point, and the steady back-and-forth pressure and the dull sensation lulled Killerie into a dozing half-torpor.


    "Did you really sleep okay?" Madeline murmured.


    Killerie considered the question, along with the faint concern in her mom''s tone. She hadn''t woken up during the night, and she hadn''t gone to sleep late, but...


    "No," She finally mumbled.


    "Do you know why?"


    "No."


    "Was it a nightmare?"


    "I don''t think so."


    "Do you want to talk about it?"


    "...Not really."


    Madeline quietly laughed. "You don''t have to."


    Killerie fell silent as her eyes slightly sank into her head, hard eyelids covering them as she closed her eyes. Her mom began brushing a little harder, working the bristles between the chinks as she gently rubbed her daughter''s plates.


    "Love you, Mom." Killerie whispered, pushing more of her head and neck into Madeline''s lap.


    "Love you too, cocoa bean."

 Beauty and the... Commando?

    The commando held onto the bulkhead with only a minimum amount of effort, still trying not to break anything even though everything was broken.


    That wasn¡¯t a figure of speech. The Contact Light had been in bad shape when he¡¯d found it, and the fight he¡¯d engaged in with countless monsters with to retake it hadn¡¯t exactly improved that state. Providence and the Worms made it even worse. To be honest, he was a little surprised it¡¯d taken off at all. That it¡¯d made it through the black hole or the wormhole or whatever the shipboard AI had called it was nothing less than miraculous.


    So here he was, with a great whacking hole in the bridge¡¯s front window, the cold vacuum of space trying to yank everything not nailed down into the void with varied success, and he was wondering what cheese tasted like.


    He wasn¡¯t honestly concerned with the damage. He certainly wasn¡¯t worried for his own health. Two thousand two hundred ninety stacks of Bustling Fungus generated a regenerative field big enough to encompass the entirety of the Contact Light, and nine hundred forty eight stacks of Tougher Times meant there was¡­


    ¡­Well, he wasn¡¯t very good at math, but it caused a parabolic percentage decrease for damage cancellation, so it was close enough to zero that it didn¡¯t really matter.


    He still felt a little bad, leaving Petrichor IV in its brand-new state of mostly on fire. It¡¯d started out as sheer survival, sure, but after the first week, it didn¡¯t really feel like it anymore. Mostly because he had about fifteen stacks of Dio¡¯s Best Friend at that point, and under the unlikely circumstance he died he would¡¯ve had to have been killed another fourteen times.


    It¡¯d been three months before he felt comfortable trying to take Providence on. The fight, if it could¡¯ve been called that, lasted about four seconds, and he found himself with his own ship.


    Albeit a very damaged ship, a fact he was reminded of as the bulkhead he¡¯d been holding onto abruptly disconnected from the ship. The vacuum clutched at the antlers jutting from his space helmet, and he tumbled through air before finding himself in the void. He expended every single stack of Hopoo Feathers he had to no effect. Double jumps were supposed to send you upward, and up didn¡¯t exist in space.


    He wasn¡¯t that concerned. Death stopped being interesting ten thousand lives ago.


    Tumbling through space in apathetic helplessness, the commando was surprised to see a planet in view. A familiar set of continents, but covered in green and blue.


    His heart skipped an supersonic beat, barely perceptible to even him. Earth had been brown and gray for decades, an uninhabitable wasteland of radiation and pollution. It definitely wasn¡¯t the lush ocean world he was hurtling towards.


    Which reminded him, he was in fact completely out of control. He didn¡¯t have any of his double jumps left, and his jetpack was basically useless since he was already on fire from re-entry, so he elected to just wait to land. The boots he never bothered to learn the actual name to made it so he couldn¡¯t be hurt by a fall, so he crossed his legs and started twiddling his thumbs as he waited to hit the ground. Stolen story; please report.


    He passed through the lower layers of the atmosphere, plummeting like a grumpy meteorite through increasingly fluffy clouds until he hit the ground with an entirely anticlimactic thud. He was almost upset at how little of a crater there was, but he was curious to see what kind of Earth he¡¯d landed on.


    Sitting up, he brushed the dirt and dust and rocks off and got to his feet. Part of him wished he¡¯d kept that radar dish from forever ago, the one that led him to valuables. So many valuables.


    He got distracted for a moment, thinking about unlimited credit funds, before remembering where he was. With a shake of his head, he started walking in a random direction.


    It was an uneventful walk. He¡¯d landed in the middle of a forest full of an impressive number of trip hazards, also known as roots, which meant he had to keep an eye on his step. A small pack of wolves tried to attack him, which was refreshingly normal. You could only fight thirty-meter stone giants so many times before it became ordinary. Wolves were new, in an old way.


    As he walked, he tried to start skipping, a skill which he thoroughly lacked. He couldn¡¯t remember how people were supposed to walk when they weren¡¯t fighting. Three months did a lot to a person, especially when those three months were nonstop combat with no time to stop for sleep or lunch.


    It didn¡¯t help that those three months looped.


    He shook the bad thoughts away as he came to an ornate set of iron gates. It¡¯d started snowing at some point, which he found a bit strange, but his Earth - for he had no doubt left at this point that this one wasn¡¯t his - perpetually snowed ash, so actual snowflakes were a pleasant change of pace.


    Naturally, he waltzed right through the open gates. Quite literally, as he still wasn¡¯t sure whether walking was a common thing to do here.


    Past the gates was a well-manicured garden of snow-capped hedges trimmed in curvy shapes and animals, along with a bevy of very dead roses. Above it all loomed a castle.


    The commando almost applauded. It was a really nice castle. Good vibe.


    He easily jumped over the stable, along with both the flights of wide stone steps, and ended up right in front of the gold-trimmed doors. Spinning for extra shazam, he raised one mutated, armored hand and knocked on the door.


    A great deal of nothing occurred for several seconds, during which he considered jumping/jetpacking/climbing up to one of the bridges and politely breaking in. Before he could commit such an uninteresting crime, however, the door was thrown open.


    A humanoid creature stood before him in a bathrobe. It had a pair of ram¡¯s horns, a face not incomparable to a buffalo sucking on a lemon, and a thick layer of brown fur covering its entire body. It seemed just as surprised to see him as he was to see it, and it lashed out with a heavy paw laden with vicious claws.


    The blow glanced off the commando¡¯s armor before he could react, not leaving a scratch. The humanoid had just enough time to look confused before one thousand six hundred and nine stacks of Razorwire triggered, sending about twice that number in barbed knives at the humanoid.


    A fine red mist floated into the castle¡¯s front hall.


    The commando found himself notably less alarmed than he¡¯d hoped.