#sol the semi-cultist

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 7: Ritual [HALLOWEEN SPECIAL]

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. For more information on Cruz, go here. For more information on LeviathanPat, go here. For more information on Sol, go here. For more information on Moses and ColosSeptic, go here. EldritchPlier belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)

(This story, along with Day 6, is a continuation of a sneak-peek I included at the end of Day 2. Originally, this was going to be a sneak-peek itself, but plans have changed, and I'm on a bit of time-crunch, so...)

(As usual, I got tons of help developing these characters from the amazing @sammys-magical-au ! Please go check out their blog and stories!)

(One more thing: if you’d like to use the distorted fonts you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, body horror, knives/blades, murder/death, torture, descriptions of ritual, occultism, eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6

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As attached as he was to his gut-hook skinner knife, Cruz knew that he couldn’t realistically rely on it for everything. 

Sure, he took care to keep it nice and sharp and ready, but that didn’t change the fact that its three-and-a-half inch blade was simply too small for this particular task. 

Besides, it was still very satisfying to hear a wet, dull thunk as he brought a borrowed kitchen knife down, followed by a slick, puply sigh as he pushed the blade deeper and deeper into flesh until the handle was all that could be seen. 

Cruz felt his eyes widen in time with the grin that etched its way over his features. Readjusting his grip, he began a pushing-and-pulling pattern, slowly-but-surely carving a thick line. The table slightly wobbled beneath the weight and the movement, but he used his free hand to keep his current project in place. 

The flesh produced a soft, squelchy rhythm that was close to a growl as the knife continued sawing through. 

…Though, after a moment or two, Cruz had to pause, releasing his grasp to try and shake off the sudden cramp that had manifested in his wrist. 

A wry chuckle kept silence at bay. He glanced over at the figure sitting across the table from him, who had already finished carving. 

“These guys are always tougher than you expect, huh?” Sol—as he’d learned during awkward introductions about ten-or-so minutes ago—commented.

Strings of wet pulp glistened in the pendant light that hung overhead, easily snapping as Sol pulled a decent chunk from the top-half of their own victim.

A strong smell filtered into the air: fresh and ripe and earthy and…maybe tinged with just a smidge of something acidic?

“Yeah, they really are,” Cruz nodded. “Still pretty fun, though.” 

He wrapped his hand around the knife and resumed his cutting, this time a bit of an easier angle. Once he convinced his subject to finally open up, he twisted the top off with a stiff criiick. “...Hey, thanks for taking the time to get these. I would’ve picked some up myself, but the drive over here didn’t seem to take me past any patches.”

To be frank, the drive to The Oozing Crown had been even stranger than the one Cruz had taken when Plier had guided him to make a new home at The Drowned Moon. 

It’d started raining an hour in, and the way those droplets had tapped against his windshield was far too specific to not be some kind of code. 

The edges of the road he’d maneuvered his car along had set themselves on fire once or twice—in the middle of that rainstorm, mind you—flames ignited in between the asphalt and his tires, only to snuff themselves out after a few seconds. 

At some point, blurry deer-shaped figures had clambered out of the vacant fields to gallop alongside his vehicle, giving more than enough time for him to see how they had no actual heads; just pairs of glassy eyes, floating in the air above neck-stumps, that seemed to glint with humor once the creatures had eventually veered off the road and faded away in the distance.

(Not like he hadn’t expected that kind of stuff, to be clear. Outer monstrosities like his boss-and-kind-of-weird-friend basically sweated horror, so of course that would eventually graft itself onto the places they claimed for their territory.)

“Oh, of course! Don’t worry about it,” Sol beamed as they reached into the chasm they’d just sliced open, ripping out a handful of slimy tissue to deposit into the decorative bowl that sat in the center of the table, covered in various glyphs. They then got up from their chair, holding their hands up like a surgeon as they moved to lean over said bowl. 

“There’s actually a sort of botany section back at my boss’ hideout,” they explained, carefully picking out all the white, oval-shaped seeds and put them in a smaller, less impressive tupperware container off to the side. “It’s not much; just one greenhouse across the entrance walkway from my apartment. But it’s been doing pretty well.”

“Wait, really? I thought that museum was all about medical oddities and the like,” Cruz replied as he grabbed a serrated scoop and began raking it over the gourd’s inner-walls. 

“It’s all about oddities in general. Stuff relating to human anatomy just happens to be one of the biggest parts of that category.” Sol shrugged, their face temporarily twisting as one seed managed to land in the ginger hair that tickled their shoulders. They tugged it out and flicked it over to the garbage can that stood at attention by the head of the table.

“As long as it looks creepy, it can be added to the collections. So, weird plants and fungi have just enough game. Like a little preview before the real meat and potatoes.”

“Nice. I can totally see that working well,” Cruz assured, visions of bat orchid and pitcher-plants and doll’s eyes and corpse blossoms flickering through his brain. “But…pumpkins? They really have enough weirdness to count?” 

Sol raised a joking eyebrow, glancing back and forth between the gourds on the table. 

The one they were hollowing out was covered in puffy, dry-looking, wart-esque growths. The one he was focusing on, meanwhile, was a dark shade of green rather than orange, boasting wrinkled-looking skin despite how obviously fresh it was, along with a shape like a clumsily-sculpted cube rather than an apple-like sphere.

“...Yeah, okay. Fair point,” Cruz admitted with a chuckle. 

Twin yips! and mmrrowhs! echoed from a few feet away, prompting the two of them to look over in almost perfect unison. 

A long, wide bar-counter stood at the center of The Oozing Crown, separating the brewery’s main floor from a set of nearly floor-to-ceiling shelves, each one full to bursting with various bottles. It also came equipped with a pair of thin, sliding doors that could be locked up in order to shield said bottles. 

This was extremely fortunate, as two vaguely cat-like creatures had apparently deemed the counter a perfect space for wrestling. They both shifted in-and-out of their glamors as they leapt and swatted and scampered after one another. 

Crimson spikes shuffled through Macaroon’s veil of cream-colored fluff. 

The black feline he was facing off with (Sol had introduced him as Charcoal) pounced away; a shudder ran through his front-legs, his paws and claws and toe-beans all stretching out into a pair of bat-like wings the second he was in the air. 

He fluttered in circles overhead, undoubtedly soaking up the way Macaroon stared at him.

Sol tilted their head at the display, eyes practically sparkling. “Y’know, I really didn’t think Char would get along with another cat-monster so well. I mean, he was a stray when I first found him.”

Cruz shrugged, scratching at his thin beard and resisting the urge to walk over and scoop his pet up. “Well, when I got Macaroon, I was told that about sixty-percent of his brain is a ragdoll’s. So, he loves to play when he gets the chance.” 

(Granted, that playing also extended to shredding sacrificial victims into ribbons if they tried to cause any problems during a ritual, but still. So long as he wasn’t directly threatened, Macaroon was a total sweetheart.)

Sol nodded, and it wouldn’t have taken a mind-reader to guess that they were thinking about all the not-so-cute-and-cuddley things Charcoal had done in order to help them out with their own projects. 

Unseen hinges creaked, followed by the unmistakable rhythm of footsteps and claws clicking against hardwood. 

A brunette man, seemingly around Sol’s age (so, younger than Cruz, but still obviously an adult) traipsed out the brewery’s kitchen with glistening, dark red stains on his hands.

Moses paused to wash them off at a sink behind the bar (if you asked Cruz, the blood really wouldn’t have been too noticeable against the deep maroon fabric of the button-down he wore…then again, that button-down was open and draped over a white-as-snow tank-top). He then sidled around the corner of the bar.

A small, vaguely dog-esque creature skittered by his side. Judging by the splotches of gray and black and tan that decorated his fluffy fur, his glamour seemed to be a hybrid of Australian cattle dog and German shepherd. 

Just like the cats, however, things were not as they seemed. 

As Moses’ pet panted like any canine would, his mouth seemed to stretch just a bit too wide at the corners; his pendant ears and little button nose almost seemed to wither in place before snapping back into form. His big, warm eyes flickered, looking much more hollow for half a second. The poof of his wagging tail was a blur, but if you looked at it just long enough, you’d see several stands of something scaly and sinuous…

Both Macaroon and Charcoal paused their antics, regarding him with curiosity and suspicion. Mincer, meanwhile, simply sat and stared back at the felines, tilting his head just a little too far.

“How goes the gutting?” Moses announced, taking a chair away one of the other tables and dragging it over to the one his guests were occupying. 

“Good,” Sol reported, lifting up her pumpkin to show how (relatively) clean it was on the inside. 

“We’re almost done here; just gotta get one more pumpkin’s worth.” She gestured to the glyph-covered bowl, which was now almost piled high with fruit-masquerading-as-vegetable guts. 

“Alright, then. I can take care of that,” Moses grinned, approaching the group of just-in-case-spares that Sol and her boss had brought along. He loomed over them, eyes wandering back and forth, trying to decide which one would be best. 

“And what about the set-up down there?” Cruz asked. He’d only caught a glimpse of The Oozing Crown’s basement, but he’d have a chance to get a better look once Plier returned, along with the monsters Sol and Moses were working with. 

“Oh, yeah, everything’s pretty much ready,” Moses replied. “Getting bodies into the spare tanks is always a little tricky, but I managed. Helps that there’s only two for tonight. And the live one definitely won’t be going anywhere.”

“He’d better not be,” Cruz replied with a grim chuckle. “Because the hypnosis is definitely gonna wear off sooner or later.”

As if to prove his point, muffled screaming began to echo up through the floor, alongside a chorus of desperate thumps.

An instinctive shiver ran down his spine at recent memories. 

How Plier had apparently singled one of the theater’s patrons out from the crowd.

How Plier had instructed Cruz to lead said patron into Screen Nine, and then lock the doors and put up a maintenance sign to all other customers.

How Cruz had used the Employees Only room to slither into Screen Nine’s projection booth and watch the trapping process.

How the movie that the patron had chosen to watch began normally…only for the enormous screen to turn a dark shade of gray, still glowing from within, giving ample opportunity to see hundreds of tiny lines all writhed and rippled along, like raindrops violently colliding with a pool of deep, murky water.

All the while, character dialogue had transitioned into something else. The sound had been reminiscent of rubber being stretched…only at a much lower pitch that carried on far, far past its welcome.

Just one of many tricks at Plier’s dispense when he either wanted or needed to make sure that a customer wouldn’t be leaving The Drowned Moon…

“Oh!” Moses suddenly blurted as he glanced at the pumpkin-gut bowl. “Before I forget—!”

He raced past Mincer and the cats, hovering behind the bar. He fished a small, glinting key from one of his pockets, opened up the shelf-door, then quickly shut and re-locked them after taking a grabbing a rectangular, teal-tinted bottle. 

“This is one of my favorites,” Moses mentioned, snickering as he carried said bottle over to the table. He raised it to his face, expertly using his teeth to dislodge the cork with a loud, shrill sqquueeak!

The sharp scent of tequila seeped into the air.

Cruz blinked, exchanging a look with Sol. 

“What’re you—” Sol began to ask, but Moses cut her off via resting the bottle’s neck on the rim of the bowl, allowing at least five shot glasses worth of booze to pour on in. 

Once he was satisfied, Moses re-corked the bottle, set it off to the side, and grabbed one of the scoops to stir the alcohol into the pumpkin guts. 

“Voila!” Moses proclaimed with a triumphant smirk. 

“...Why?” Cruz wondered aloud, brow furrowing in confusion. 

In response, Moses raised an eyebrow as though Cruz had just asked him whether or not water made things wet. “The whole point of this ritual is to keep some mindless, starving primeval monster disguised as an asteroid from eating the moon. So, that means the offering should be as filling as possible to keep him from trying that stunt again for at least another couple centuries.” 

“I mean, yeah,” Sol acknowledged. “But…things like Ah’Mung-Stus can only process alcohol in impossible ways. Nothing like how humans can.  The offering’s already gonna involve blood, and we have no idea how it could mix with that drink.” 

“Exactly! It’ll be a fifty-fifty chance: the tequila could make the offering delicious…or it could make the offering completely appalling. Either way, it’ll just be one more thing to stop Ah’Mung-Stus,” Moses insisted, putting a hand on his hip as he took the bottle and returned it to the shelves. “No matter how it tastes, in the end, he’ll be too full and too drunk to be a threat,”

As he went back to scrutinizing the pile of pumpkins, he added, “Besides, we’re in a brewery that has to be closed on Halloween. You have any idea how much of an impact that’ll put on business after this? I might as well make use of some of the supply tonight, one way or another.” 

Cruz wanted to point out how intoxication generally did NOT make outer monstrosities less dangerous than they already were.

Especially considering all the chaos that had taken place in the theater on Plier’s part due to a horrific hangover from…well, Cruz would never be sure what his boss had consumed that infamous night, but a faint, nearly-radioactive scent still lingered in Screen Ten months later. 

But before he could, Sol suddenly stood from her chair in a violent flinch. They rested one hand on her temple, her bright blue eyes flickering in a way that Cruz was all too familiar with. 

There was a voice in her head; a voice that was very real because it was being spoken by a creature who could feast on mortal minds professionally or casually. A creature that she’d obviously made a pact with similar to the one he’d made with Plier all those years ago. 

“Moses, wait—” Sol tried. “Not that one, NOT—!”

A section on the white pumpkin Moses had selected suddenly bulged from the inside. A muffled chorus of scraping and squelching followed. 

 Moses’ eyes grew to the size of dinner plates as he, likely acting on panicked instinct, dropped the gourd and backed away several paces.

The pumpkin burst open with a spray of pale orange slime before it even hit the floor. Without even a second of hesitation, its seed-covered guts ripped their way through the organic chasm. The glob floundered on the floor in a clumsy, wobbling slither like a huge slug on bath-salts. It raised its dripping, misshapen, featureless head to the ceiling and let out a high-pitched squeal. It then clambered in Moses’ direction, snarling and spitting. 

Mincer leapt in front of his owner, his glamour completely evaporating. His fuzzy head vanished, revealing a set of three canine skulls in its place, the vertebrae from three necks eventually disappearing into the fur that remained on his chest. What was once his tail was now a cluster of live snakes, which all hissed and writhed independently, craning themselves to look around their host’s body. 

Mincer’s middle-skull lunged, sinking its teeth into the pumpkin-gut-creature and thrashing it back and forth while his left-skull and right-skull barked and growled. 

Macaroon saw this new chaos and realized that one of his new friends had found an odd little plaything. So, he dropped his own glamor and raced into the fray, a coat of spike flaring out over his back, extra eyes blooming under his primary ones. He opened his mouth, allowing a disturbingly long forked tongue to wrap around the opposite end of the pumpkin-gut-creature, making it easier for him clamp his own fangs down. 

Charcoal, who had been perching on the ceiling fan that hung just above all of this, quickly realized that someone else was getting more attention than he was. So, he dive-bombed his way into the sudden game of Tug-O-War, wings flapping furiously, veils of smoke pouring through his teeth. A pair of horns sprouted up from his forehead, and the tip of his tail was topped by scorpion-esque barb that had absolutely NOT been there a few seconds ago. 

Sol and Cruz abandoned their seats at the same time, their respective shouts mixing into one another as they rushed over to their pets. Moses grabbed at Mincer’s chest (and, by some miracle, avoided getting bitten by any of the tail-snakes) but the monstrous little dog didn’t release his hold. 

Sol managed to pin Charcoal’s wings to his chest before he was out of reach, but the cat-dragon-thing proved just as stubborn. 

The same went for Macaroon, who didn’t so much as budge when Cruz made to scoop him up. 

Thankfully, all the extra friction seemed to be on their side…kind of. 

With an energy similar to that of a rubber band being snapped, the pumpkin-gut-creature ended up flying across the room to hit the wall with a solid SPLAT!

It then slid to the floor, still and quiet as the pumpkin guts that waited patiently in the glyph-bowl.

The pets all quieted down, slowly shifting back into the guise of normal animals, their eyes all wide and curious and they stared across the room. 

Their respective owners pretty much followed suite, mouths hanging open as they held their pets close and braced for more chaos.

When the chaos failed to come, Sol was the first to move, heaving a sigh of relief. “Okay, okay. It’s dead.” 

“Are you sure?” Cruz asked, not wanting to look away from the mess too long. 

“Positive.” Sol nodded before she set Charcoal down, crossing the room and grabbing a roll of paper towels from the table they’d been using. She knelt down to scrub at the fresh stain on the wall; once it was cleaned, she gave Moses an apologetic look. “Pat had been holding that pumpkin on the way here. I guess some of his energy grafted onto it.”

“Oh.” Moses murmured, slowly nodding. He blinked, then rolled his shoulders and knelt down to receive some puppy-kisses from Mincer. “...Can we still use those guts, or should I just hollow out a different one?”

Sol’s brow furrowed, their eyes flickering as they listened to the voice of a monster. “...No, he says this should work just fine.” 

“More potency, right?” Cruz offered with a weak chuckle. 

It took a few long, awkward minutes for the three of them to scrape all the formerly-animate pumpkin guts off the floor and into the bowl. An extra moment to pick out all those seeds.

Even so, it seemed the timing was perfect. 

A strong chill spread through the air, right as the hardwood floor took on an abrupt, almost organic heat.

The building shuddered. 

A cacophony of twisting, straining metal, of splashing, of warped hissing and growling echoed from the the kitchen doorway. 

And then…a voice. 

A horrific, distorted voice that implied the air inside the lungs it’d just risen out of had melted.

A voice that Cruz didn’t recognize it…but Moses most certainly did judging by the way his lips quirked into a smile. 

“𝗪⃥𝘌̸'⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗔⃥𝘈̸𝗔⃥𝘈̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥!̸” It called, the words seeming to bounce along the walls and floor and ceiling. 

“And we’ll be right down!” Moses responded, balancing the pumpkin-gut-filled bowl on one hand like he was a waiter in a snooty restaurant. 

He strode back behind the back, disappearing through the kitchen doorway once again. 

Sol and Cruz filed after him, entering the brewery’s little kitchen just in time to see him strapping his personal, protective mask onto his head. 

It almost resembled one of those classic gas-masks…almost. But a set of six spindly blades that had been attached to the base of the mouth guard, clutching at the air like the mandibles of an insect, had other ideas. As did the multitude of shiny, deep blue eyes that had been welded to scatter all over the mask’s head, above the primary lenses that Moses was now looking through as he made his way down into the basement. 

Two more masks had been left on the counter by the stove.

One that shone like black porcelain or marble, decorated with sculpted veins a dull shade of reddish-violet. A pair of ram-like horns curled under the sharp spires of what must've been ears. It boasted a mouthful of sharp, gleaming teeth that formed a grin on the left side and a snarl on the right.

Sol took it into their hands, lifting it to rest on their face before shrugging a violet leather jacket over their black-and-yellow striped shirt. Then, they marched on after Moses, quickly disappearing into the darkness.

Cruz picked up his own mask, the one he’d spent nearly an entire week perfecting before he’d ever even met Plier. It was in the vague shape of a bird’s face, almost like those plague doctor costumes that so many people were hot for on Halloween. Streaks of scarlet and gold wound about the beak, ending at the glass eye-lenses. 

Even after all the things he’d done, all the things he’d seen and learned thanks to Plier, it was still a little hard to believe that this thing was responsible for shielding Cruz’s mind and brain from all the surreal energy he exposed himself to for projects like this. 

Cruz shook his head, then pulled the mask on. Once the straps were secure against his dark hair, he draped his favorite duster-cardigan over his shoulders. Yeah, the fabric was grayish-blue, and that didn’t exactly mix well with bloodstains, but he’d always liked the way its pattern almost looked like clouds of fog. Besides, it had washed well enough before.

The basement door hung open before him; it’d been built into the floor, much like a storm cellar. The beginning of a metallic staircase waited at the edge, only visible a few steps down.

Taking a deep breath, Cruz descended, pulling the floor-door shut behind him. 

He found himself standing on an iron catwalk, overlooking a truly enormous lair built with an industrial aesthetic. 

Out of all the machinery Cruz could see, a set of huge tanks stood out. It seemed they’d been constructed from copper and lined with a more silvery material. 

There were seven of them in total—six of them stood in two rows of three near the walls. The ones in the center of those rows were both full; gallons upon gallons of liquid churned within, glowing just enough to show off the silhouettes of a floating body.

The seventh tank stood at the head of the basement, much larger and more imposing than all the others. It glowed even brighter, its light tinted a sinister shade of green.

This one also wasn’t quite so empty; it shuddered and twitched and groaned in place as a trio of blurry shapes writhed for purchase inside. 

The tank’s hatch was pushed open with a keening screech, and a mass of horrific, abyssal flesh flooded out and down the side. 

A set of four arms sprouted from the monster’s sides, helping him steady himself just as he touched down on the concrete floor. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders, slinging droplets everywhere like a dog shaking water out of its fur.

Sol trotted over to stand by the abomination’s side. He gazed down at her and bared his long, glinting teeth in a knowing grin. 

This must have been the Pat that Sol had mentioned earlier.

And his grin died a quick-yet-brutal death as another hideous figure pushed its way out through the tank’s hatch, a clutch of claws landing on one of the tendrils coiling from Pat’s back. 

Pat let out a short cry of pain that evolved into a furious HSSSSS, a forked tongue flicking between his rows and rows and rows of teeth like a party favor.

The emerging monster glowered right back, offering a low snarl before he clambered over to the opposite side of the room. 

Plier’s skin was the color of fleshy rust, almost every inch covered by organic thorns. It seemed to flicker on its own accord, like he was standing in the light of an invisible fire. Eight long, jagged, insectoid legs curved out of his torso, clutching at the floor and walls as he regained his balance. 

Cruz felt a grin spread under his mask. 

He jogged down the catwalk’s stairs, metal shaking with each step until he got to the basement floor. He raced past the rows of tank, having to jump over the live sacrifice—a sobbing, writhing man who lay on the floor, having been gagged and hogtied—like he was a hurdle that had been set up on a gym track to avoid tripping. 

Plier barked a laugh at the sight, the sound buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps in a blender. He reached with one claw to clap Cruz on the back. His eyes never failed to remind Cruz of burning embers, and they took on a somewhat softer glow with his humor. All sixteen of them.

“You’re late,” Cruz joked, drumming his fingers on one side of his mask. 

A long, chittering sigh drifted through Plier’s teeth—both his upper and lower canines were always longer than the rest, curving out of his mouth like tusks. 

“Ỷea͞h͍,̅ w̶̎e̽l̨l͠,̜ͮ̆ w̶̳e W̟O̻UĽ͙ͭD'̿V̢ͫͪE b̡_ȩ̃̓e͑n͉ he̹̦r͗̄̑e a̅ l̠͢i̜̅̐t̴̆ṯlͣ͟e͖ ea̬̾́ȓ̴͖l̦̾iͧe̟̿r̨̀̇,̍ Plier replied, his tone reeking with salt, “if̞̏͒ SO̜̼MÉ̲͖O̢͆NE͙̠ h̘̿a͛̔d̩̃͛ņ͓̓'͊t̓ taken̫̐ h̠́ịͦś S͝W̷̺ͧEE̅T̹ͯ DA̾M̈́̕N͌ͩ̅ T̒͗I̬͌̇M̯̚͟È t͉ͦ͂oͨ cͦat̤ͥ̍ch̗ â̬̕ st͍ȧr͑.”

Nine of his eyes rolled in their sockets, sending little daggers in Pat’s direction. 

Pat glared, pinprick pupils shuddering in the sickly-pale orbs that were trapped in his cavernous eye sockets. 

“¥ðµ'rê †ålkïñg ßïg gåmê £ðr †hê gµ¥ whð håÐ †ð kêêþ ¢ïr¢lïñg ßå¢k †ð gê† RÈþLÄÇÈMÈñ†§,” he snapped, pushing an accusatory talon at Plier. He glanced back at Sol, his sneer morphing into a smirk. “Hê jµ§† ¢ðµlÐñ'† §êêm †ð §†ðþ Ðrðþþïñg hï§ ðwñ §†år§ ïñ†ð †µmðr §lµï¢ê; †ððk åß𵆠£ïvê †rïê§ ßê£ðrê hê måñågêÐ †ð hðlÐ ðñ†ð ðñê.”

Cruz’s eyes widened. He felt his heart skip a beat. 

Stars? The monsters had captured actual stars for this ritual?!

He stared at Pat, eyes searching frantically until he finally caught it: a large maw was taking up space on the abomination’s stomach, rows of sharp, crooked teeth having sprouted from his flesh and locked themselves together. 

And there, through the crevices of all those teeth…light. A bright, beautiful light that was flickering and shaking, so obviously struggling. 

Cruz craned his neck toward Plier and eventually found something similar. A group of his thorns had grown longer and thicker than all the rest, creating a makeshift cage on the upper half of his back. Desperate light seeped through the thin cracks.

Plier sputtered at this, veils of steam pouring out through his skin. “O̢ͩͮh̾,̢̐ͯ p̫̾̒l̝ẻ͎as̿e͋̐!̽ Iͩt̊'̫́s̫͞ n̳o̿́t̚_̓ M̷̬̕Ỳ f̵̺͖a̮̾u͑͋l̟͘͢t͐ͧͤ th̫͛̆e̮ͮy strͦu͑ggl̨͑̚eͮ s̙̼̒õ m̥̀͜u̹ͣc͡h͔͆́!ͬ̀̚”

A snide hum seared into the air through Pat’s teeth. He tilted his head until it was angled upside-down. “Wåï† å §ê¢ðñÐ…wh¥ ÐÌÐ †hê¥ §†rµgglê §ð mµ¢h? Ì mêåñ, ï£ ¥ðµ'rê §µ¢h åñ È×þÈR† ðñ h¥þñð§ï§ åñÐ gµïlê—”

He cut himself off as Plier snarled and lunged, ducking in just the nick of time to leave the other monster’s talons swiping at empty air. His torso stretched with a chorus of awful pops and cracks as he glided along the floor, baring his fangs to retaliate.

…Or, he was about to when a ragged, piercing howl swept through the basement. The sound truly seemed to turn the air poisonous; both Plier and Pat flinched badly, lowering their heads and wrenching all of their hideous eyes shut. 

Cruz’s head swam. It took an embarrassingly long few seconds for him to realize that he’d fallen to his knees. He glanced over at Sol—they were still standing, though they had to lean against one of the tanks for support. 

As Cruz picked himself up, that green glow quickly grew brighter and deeper. He looked over at the seventh tank, just in time to see a third abomination floating in the center. 

Like Plier and Pat, this one was vaguely human-shaped for the most part (though, really, you’d have to be on some serious drugs for that to make any sense). The flesh stretching from his wide, hollow eye-sockets seemed to flutter in the tank's liquid. His dark hair was even longer than Plier’s, strands swaying and swirling like drunken eels. 

All the eyes on his chest, neck and arms blinked and rolled, pupils of all shapes dilating and constricting with no rhyme or reason. He even seemed to be somewhat propelled by the remains of his torso; like a cluster of ghostly jellyfish had taken nest inside of the cavity. 

The toxic light was vibrant enough to essentially burn through the copper, allowing everyone to see him for what he truly was. 

“𝗜⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗚⃥𝘏̸𝗧⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘞̸𝗢⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘛̸𝗥⃥𝘜̸𝗖⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥,̸” the eyeless-and-yet-also-eyeful abomination announced, glancing back and forth between Plier and Pat. 

Plier scoffed, fixing the floor with a withering glare. 

Pat folded each of his arms across his chest, softly clicking his teeth together. 

“​​𝗨⃥𝘏̸-⃥𝘏̸𝗨⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘎̸𝗛⃥𝘛̸.⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥,̸ 𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘔̸𝗔⃥𝘒̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘋̸𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥𝘈̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘗̸𝗣⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥!” A sardonic chuckle seeped through the eyeless abomination’s teeth. He glided closer to the front wall of the tank, the copper vibrating as he drummed his talons against it. “𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥,̸ 𝘚̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸?⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗚⃥𝘏̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸!⃥”

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Cruz turned his head to discover that Moses had been placing the pumpkin guts in a rather decorative circle around the live sacrifice.

“Thanks, Septic,” Moses replied, his tone implying a huge, crooked grin on his face. Once the bowl was empty, he set it off to the side and trotted over to stand by the eyele—er, Septic’s tank.

Septic cleared his throat, diving back down and out of sight for a few seconds before surging back up again. The misplaced eyes on his arms rolled in different directions, some staring at Sol while others scrutinized Cruz. 

Cruz swallowed a lump in his throat, nodding to signal cautious respect. 

“𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗬⃥𝘚̸ 𝘒̸𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗬⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥'̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥?̸” Septic inquired. 

“Absolutely!” Sol chimed, stepping forward and rocking back and forth on their heels.

“Of course,” Cruz reassured, moving a bit closer himself. 

“𝗚⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘋̸,⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘋̸.⃥” Septic nodded. He then craned his neck, fixing his focus on the live sacrifice. 

Despite his position on the floor, the trapped victim seemed to immediately feel the monster’s gaze, as he started violently trembling and gibbering, though he already looked exhausted from all the useless struggling he’d done earlier.

“𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸?⃥” Septic asked, glancing at Plier. 

“Oͫ̍h̍,̘ͣͩ ń̩͞ö́̅͌-ͦ͞o̗͋ͤn͎ͩ̿è͌ sp̝̖̌eͬͥc̔̔i̶al̜̄̓.͟..̈” A dangerous smile swept through Plier’s face. He lifted his chin, subtly puffing out his chest before slamming one of his claws down beside the victim, who recoiled with a shriek. “.̳̥ͤ.̞.ͬ̎̂j̶͊ü̮̹st̀ s̮o̜̽ṁ̹eͯͥ́ po̠̊ͩm̢̘p̎u͜sͣ̾ͬ l̘͂̑ȋ͕ͥt͜tle͢͞ bi̛̖ͬg-͑ͅs͎͇̄hͯot̗̔ f̬́̾r__om s͉o͕͍me C̫ͮ-̢Ḻ̞ͮi_̩͛s̢̙ͅṫ̞ s̕͜ṱ̹͆r̷e̿a͈͕̗mi̻n͌g͐̍ c̥o̦m̼ͤͤp̓a̤̋nÿ́́̅.”

Pat squinted down at the victim, shaking his head and offering a little tsk-tsk.

Septic hummed, a vague look of disgust crossing his features. “𝗪⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸,⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘌̸𝗙⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘠̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸ 𝘔̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗬⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸ 𝘙̸��⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥.̸ 𝘋̸𝗜⃥𝘋̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗘⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘗̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗜⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥?̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘠̸'⃥𝘋̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘊̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗠⃥?̸”

“He̊̀̈́'͠s̋ͥ b̳e̪̽͛e͉ͧň fuc̨̯͢k̶̿ǐǹġ̛̭ o͙v̸͇͐er tͩ̚h̅͟e̵̞͡ t͔eam̵̿́s͛̉ t̯͢ȟ̦ăt̞̫ h̀̓͟ã͙v̷̨e bͧèͨe̴͂n͗̐ w͇ͮ͊ö̀r̄͢ķ̙́iͧ͜n̸̙̆gͣ wiͫ̑th MY͌ t̺ḧ́e̫̙̫atͯ͢e̻͈ṟ̞ ḻ̾ate̲ly̾,̎́͜” Plier growled, his voice dropping through several octaves. “H̴͑̀e̼̊ͫ j̡us̈̂͟t̉ s̟ͫ͠ee̎m̾s̺_̟ âd̰dͫ͗i͈cte͈d t̹o̭̓̓ cͅh̥u̥͎ͦr͐̄͜n̯͜ͅińg͎̱̋ o͒̆͂u͆͠t_͛ c̸͎̍ơ̗͡m̮̍ͦp̏let̿̿ͅeͭ a̷ndͣ t̶ǫ̨t͍̐aͨ́l SL̗͚_O͈P̭̊ b̵̟ͤe̙͉̪cä̳́us̓̈ḛ it̾'̨͑̚s͆͝ m̀̒ar͙ͫk̈͢͜et̐aͩb͜l̰̇͝e.̇ S̆͠e͕͊éͣms l̞̝̋ik͇̼͐ę͚̀ hȩ t̶h̽ͅrŏ̷̲w̲̦s̃ͭ a l̍̆iţͫͨt͛͘l̟̮͚é̃̿ tͪr̡͛͢aͧ́ͅnt̂r̮u̐ͧm w̘h̟̹̰en͎̳e͍ve̬r̴̮ h͇ͧe͘ g̀e̹̼ts̍͟ å̧_ w̴̺̉hi̛̹ff̯͊͘ o͜f̴̯ͭ cͤo͎ͭm͕ͥp͓͘e̶͋̃tiṭ̴ͮi̷͟o̜̩͘n̈.̵ͣ”

Cruz nodded solemnly. “I’m pretty sure he only visited the theater to try and find something to make a smear campaign about.”

“Wðw,” Pat blurted. “†hå†'§...†hå†'§ jµ§† åw£µl.” 

Though his voice was warped and scattered, there was no doubt how the shock and brief sympathy he’d spoken with was genuine. 

 “Sorry you had to deal with it,” Sol added, fidgeting with their jacket sleeves. 

Cruz could only shrug. “Well, it’s not like he’s gonna bother anyone much longer.”

“𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥,̸” Septic grinned. “𝗜⃥𝘕̸ 𝘍̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥,̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗟⃥𝘋̸ 𝗚⃥𝘖̸ 𝘌̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘔̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗚⃥𝘏̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸ 𝘞̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗟⃥𝘋̸!⃥ 𝗬⃥'̸𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸,⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘚̸𝗜⃥𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘈̸𝗖⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥𝘝̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘉̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘗̸𝗣⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥.̸”

He flicked his wrist and snapped his claws twice. 

Instantly, the other two occupied tanks began to tremble and hum. The corpses floating inside them seemed to twitch, their heads snapping up and forcing their lifeless eyes to stare at the metallic ceilings of their makeshift tombs. 

The fluid all around them seemed to begin stirring on itself, creating a soft, slow whirlpool with them in the center. 

Dark red clouds began to billow off of them, their silhouettes getting fainter and blurrier until they completely vanished into the new haze. After that, the movement stopped. 

And then, a low chorus of bubbling and gurgling filled the air, almost like a bathtub being drained. 

Cruz glanced down just in time to see a thick line of blood oozing out through the crevices in the metal. It moved like it was magnetized, like it was a sentient being; it slithered across the floor, just barely trickling against the soles of his shoes.

The other tank copied this gesture, and two viscous carmine threads spilled their way around and beneath the live sacrifice until he was lying in a shallow, perfectly circular pool.

The metallic stench of iron meeting the rich, earthy scent of pumpkin guts…it was certainly an interesting smell. 

Cruz glanced back at the tanks; save for a few thin, stubborn layers of blood still clinging to the inner walls, as well as assortments of gleaming, picked-clean bones sitting at the bottoms in piles, they were now completely empty.

The live sacrifice kept squirming, kept sobbing as the vital fluid licked at his skin. 

“...Why do pumpkin guts have to be included, again?” Moses asked, sounding genuinely curious as he gazed at the mess. 

Pat raised a brow, idly stretching his back and arms in a way that would’ve made even the toughest contortionist on Earth pass out. 

“ßê墵§ê þµmþkïñ ï§ Ðêlï¢ïðµ§,” he answered, voice dripping with incredulousness. He then gestured toward Plier. “̆'§ ðñê 𣠆hê ðñl¥ †hïñg§ HÈ åñÐ Ì ¢åñ ågrêê ðñ.” 

Plier, much to Cruz’s surprise, nodded vigorously. “Yͤeaͧ̉h̖̤ͬ.͕̇ Ȁ͎ͥre̩̭͝n̿͞'͆ţ̐ hͣu̬̐̍m̸̧ͬḁn͂͝͞s̎̓ o̔ḃ̕se͇s̴͔ͅsͫ́e̙d̝ wit̀̅h̥ p̛u̧m̫͐p̃͞k͕̟iͬ̌n͓-͚ͫ͊s̝͑͝p͘i̲̼c̈́̔ed̾̐ s̡̆t̡̬̻u̢͝f̲fͯ arou̬nd̦͚̃ t̼͠h̞̑ͬḯ͢s s͎̓̑ea͆s̞̳̔o͍n͗?”

“Ah, I mean…” Sol replied, a cringe more than evident in their voice. “There’s never really been a straightforward answer to that question.” 

Cruz, feeling the same inexplicable pain, cleared his throat. “So, I’m guessing that even all this blood still isn’t enough?” 

“'̨ͣ̿F͡r̊a͙̍͢id̬͉͚ no͛̐͡t,” Plier replied, a knowing smirk on his face. 

Cruz nodded. 

He, Sol, and Moses all stepped closer to the huge puddle of gore. 

Cruz fished his gut-hook skinner blade from his pocket. He watched as Sol slipped a flint-striker knife from somewhere inside their jacket. Moses, meanwhile, produced a long corkscrew topped by a duck-shaped handle from his breast-pocket. 

“Oh, god…” Sol murmured, an exasperated chuckle floating up from their lungs. 

The way Moses hummed indicated that there was a smug smirk spreading across his features. Somehow, he must’ve guessed that Cruz’s face was lined with confusion under his mask. 

“...What? What’s so funny about a duck corkscrew?” Cruz blurted. 

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Moses shook his head in a pitying manner. “It’s not for me to tell. But if you really wanna know, just look up ‘The Truth About Ducks’ when you get home.” 

Plier sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, suddenly avoiding Cruz’s gaze. 

“Öðh, †hå†'§ ñð† gðññå gð wêll.” Pat muttered, shaking his head.

Cruz sputtered a bit before deciding that he could simply put a pin in whatever mess he apparently wasn’t up to date about and come back to it later. 

He got back to business, gliding the blade of his weapon over the skin of his palm. Cold steel bit into flesh easily, leaving a bright, stinging sensation in its wake. 

Sol did pretty much the same with their striker-knife.

Moses took a deep breath before pushing the tip of his corkscrew deep into the pad of his thumb. 

The three of them held their injured hands out, letting a few fat, rich droplets of their blood fall into the shallow pool below them with a few anticlimactic plops.

“𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸𝗗⃥,” Septic announced with a nod. He then reached up toward the surface of his tank. With a chorus of organic snaps, his arm was suddenly stretching out through the hatch, the luminescent bones inside all bent and twisted in horrible ways. He held malformed hand directly over the live sacrifice, claws bent, ready to strike. “𝗦⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘌̸,⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥?̸”

“Ì Ððñ'† §êê wh¥ ñð†,” Pat replied. The skin of his forehead twitched, and an eye bloomed out, almost like a flower. It was larger than his primaries, even darker than his void-esque complexion, with a tiny pale iris floating about its center. 

“Mì̥͔ght̂ a̐s w͈̖ͣe̵lͤl,” Plier admitted. All sixteen of his eyes turned pitch-black, now oozing with oily tears that painted little rivers along the angles of his face. 

The two monsters each outstretched their palms, using their free talons to draw a deep, bloody X into their skin. Septic, meanwhile, pushed his claws into a fist so tight that little steaming droplets eventually squeezed out from between his fingers. 

Once it seemed that enough abomination-juice had been added to the mix, they all retracted their arms. 

Pat slid back and nudged Sol’s shoulder. “†hï§ ï§ whêrê ï† gꆧ ïñ†êr꧆ïñg.” 

And indeed it was. 

The blood started to fester and steam and bubble. That bubbling quickly evolved into a rolling boil as the red started moving, churning in a circle that slowly grew faster. 

Even with his mask on, Cruz’s eyes watered as a smell like volcanic ash, acid, salt, and horror all mixed into some kind of surreal smoothie quickly filled the air.

Whatever the pool was made of…it wasn’t blood anymore. 

It was now a substance that shouldn’t exist.

The live sacrifice let out a truly horrific scream. More depserate and unhinged and feral than any of his earlier cries. The fluid ate into his flesh as it splashed around him, leaving awful lacerations that quickly began melting. 

“Tͭha̕͞t̋̄'̱̀s i͂̌t͚͍̉!ͦ” Plier crowed. “Al̸͉̾l̫ of͕ͭ͘ y̏͟o̵ͩͅu̬͋̆,͈ͅ ge̤̦t͙ b͜͞ac̈́͘k͙͞! D̖o̩ń͚ͦ'̳ͅt l͐͐̈́e̗͓t̛̬ tͪḧ͚ẽ̇ sta̘řś̳̉ t̿͛ͦo̯͊u̸̎c͉̄h͘͠ y͝ou͊̈͊!͟”

Moses immediately ducked behind Septic’s tank. 

Sol backed away, obviously struggling to not look at what was unfolding as Pat raised one of his arms to shield them.

Cruz barely even registered the weight on his shoulder before he was stumbling back into the wall, well out of reach of the pool of gore. And there he sat, transfixed, watching as Plier’s back-thorns twitch and shrank back to reveal a mass of light that seemed to pulse, singing in a language he’d never be able to understand.

Across the room, Pat did the same; the teeth lining his stomach-mouth finally pulled away from one another, releasing the star he’d personally captured. 

As for Septic…well, it was a bit hard to see from his position, but Cruz still managed to watch as Septic plucked the largest eye out from the center of his chest. A third star flew from the now hollow socket, surging out through the tank’s hatch.

As the pool’s churning grew faster and stronger, the air began to thicken and whistle. 

The stars all tried to pull away, likely desperate to escape back to the sky, or wherever place they’d been harvested from. 

But whatever gravitational pull the pool had just couldn’t be escaped. 

One by one, the stars were effectively sucked into the center of the pool, where all that, brilliant, silvery light combined and contorted. 

The live sacrifice let out one final, bloodcurdling death-rattle as the light soaked all over his form in a near-blinding cocoon. 

As if encouraged by that, the horrific mixture of human blood, eldritch blood, and pumpkin guts was suddenly vacuumed up toward the center, all spiraling around, shrinking as it moved faster and faster and faster and…!

And then it was gone. 

Just like that.

Not a single stain was left behind. Not a scrap of gristle remained of the live sacrifice.

(Was it correct to call him live anymore? There was a good chance that he still was, since this stuff always worked in such odd ways. And if he was still breathing, Cruz knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was wishing he couldn’t.)

“𝗪⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸.⃥.̸.⃥” Septic announced, cringing as he pushed that eyeball back into its chest-socket, where it blinked and rolled a few times to get readjusted. “𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥.̸” 

Pat hummed assent, his forehead-eye slowly-but-surely sinking back into his flesh. 

Plier shook himself, scrubbing the abyssal tears from his face as the hellish glow returned to all of his eyes.

Moses crept out from behind Septic’s tank. 

Sol stepped forward, staring at the spot where all the gore used to be “...That went by much faster than I thought it would.” 

“†hê ¢l姧 ålw奧 Ðð,” Pat replied, shrugging. 

“𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸ 𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘞̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸𝗙⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘜̸𝗖⃥𝘏̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥,̸” Septic declared. He nodded to Moses, Sol, and Cruz in turn. “𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥𝘍̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥.̸”

Cruz nodded back, smiling. “Glad to hear it.” 

Sol visibly perked up, seeming to have gotten all their energy back in the blink of an eye. “Thank you!”

Moses wiped his hands in an overexaggerated gesture. “All in a night’s work.”

For a few long seconds, there was silence. 

As he tucked his gut-hook skinner back into its leather sheath, Cruz decided to break it: “So…is there anything left to do?” 

Septic offered a long, theatrical, conspiratory hum. “...𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗣⃥𝘌̸. 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘠̸ 𝘐̸'⃥𝘔̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸ 𝘚̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸ 𝘊̸𝗢⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥𝘞̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗕⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘈̸𝗪⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘚̸𝗧⃥𝘈̸𝗥⃥-̸𝗛⃥𝘜̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸!⃥”

The monster then surged downward, disappearing from his tank and from view entirely. His toxic green glow followed suite, soon casting the basement into shadows.

“CͅoldW͓om͔̉̇b͆̄ Lͅe̝e̱c̬ͤh͎̑͠es̡͍̐?̼̏!̣͖” Plier let out a surprised gasp that seemed to sizzle through the air. “Hey,͠ g̠̽et b̵͖̭a͌͢c̣k̏͑̏ he̥̿́r̺̊e!͚͟ Ỉ̧ͤ ŝ̬aͧ̀w t̶̯͙hẻͨm͊ f̒́̍i̴͇͂r̢̛̊s͇t͆!”

He scuttled across the floor, lunging at the tank…and immediately colliding with Pat, who had just started to climb up its sides himself. 

“Lïkê hêll ¥ðµ ÐïÐ!” Pat snarled, shoving Plier away. His form seemed to dissipating into a shroud of ink and eyes and chattering mouths as pushed himself through the hatch and into the liquid below, quickly swimming down in the same path Septic had. “Ì ¢låïmêÐ †hêm! †hê¥'rê MÌñÈ!”

“N̵̼̙o̘ͫ t͇̪ḧ̥ͧey'̯ͩre͢ n̢̾o̬͂t̅!̐ͯ̈́” Plier protested, furious. He shoved his way through the hatch, his body crumpling and bending in all manner of grotesque ways in order to fit. And soon enough, he was swimming too. “D̹oͮ͑̾n͓'̸t͇ y̒͒o̯̔ų̈́ d̶a͍̼̫re t̯̂ő̒u̷cͮͥ̄h̵̘ 'ëm!͐̾̿ I'̏̐m̏́͐ g̷̢on͊na g̮ḛ̅ͨțͤ t̯̟͂h̘͌͋e͙̫̎r̡e f̺į̶ͤrst͙,̱̰ añ̞̾d̑̈ t̢̬h͠en I_'̐m̌ͮ g̖on͖̦̒na̹̓ e̝at̆͠ '̖e̙ͨm̤̠ a͗ͣl̩l i̵͌n fr̀o̽́n͆t o̺ͪ͌f̝ y͔̕ou̒!”

The twisted voices all crawled grew more and more distant, more and more muffled. The shouts, the arguing, all the promises of dismemberment and such eventually grew so faint that they were almost comparable to whispers. But they never faded completely; wherever the monsters were all headed, it was still somewhere beneath The Oozing Crown.

Cruz pursed his lips as he slowly removed his mask. “They’re probably gonna be occupied for a while.”

“Yeah,” Sol agreed, running a hand through their ginger hair as they took their own mask off. They gave Moses an apologetic look. “I could just start driving back to the museum, but…I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right to leave without Pat.”

After a slight pause, they added, “Plus, I’m pretty sure I need him to guide me away from this place. The roads I had to take on the way are all just so…wrong.” 

“Same here,” Cruz agreed with a nod, thinking about to the headless deer-things he’d seen beside his car hours earlier. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Moses reassured, lightly shaking his head as he pulled the mask away. He considered the situation for a second, then threw his thumb over his shoulder at the catwalk, that the basement door. “...I’ve got some movies upstairs, if you guys are interested.”

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedou @nwtbobsessedemo

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

I AM FEELING SEVERAL DIFFERENT THINGS ALL AT ONCE RIGHT NOW.

THANK YOU FOR THIS!!!

When the Eldrich Meets the Ethereal

Hey y’all. I’m trying something new here lol. Usually I post my fics on Wattpad and make a post with the link on here, but I thought I’d use a different format for this one since it’s based off the works of a good friend of mine *winks*

Before we start! I wanna say that two of the characters in this story DO NOT belong to me!! Sol Magee, LeviathanPat (aka just ‘Pat’, because no human could say the first part of his name and live), and one sort-of nameless character we’ve only talked about belong to my dear friend @wouldntyou-liketoknow, who this fun little fic is for, but Sam Ryder and Harmonia, as well as the concept of the Ancient Ones, are mine.

Warnings include mild descriptions of gore & other-dimensional beings/abilities.

And with that! Let’s get into it!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Did you know there’s a space-time rift not too far from this place?”

Sol glanced up from her work behind the desk into the piercing green eyes of an incredibly tall person, likely in their mid forties, with golden hair fading to blood red in an unnatural obmre, and likely of Latine descent. The word “piercing” being used specifically because Sol felt the slightest twinge of pain looking them in the face, as if something didn’t want them to look them in the eye.

“Umm…” she murmured, “not ‘hello’? Not ‘this is a cool museum you’ve got here’? Not even ‘are you the manager of this place’?”

“Well, based on my prior research I’d say you’re the Sol Magee I’m looking for,” the stranger said with a shrug, “awesome name, by the way. Plus, I already know what’s in this museum and have a pretty good idea of where a lot of it came from, so I don’t really need to look - it is pretty fascinating though, in a don’t-look-at-it-for-too-long-or-you’ll-have-nightmares-about-it-for-the-next-month kind of way. Not that I haven’t seen that sort of stuff before, but I digress. You’ve got a point about not saying hello, though, that was rude of me. Hello! The name’s Sam. Sam Ryder.”

The stranger offered their hand to Sol as they introduced themself, and she reached out to cautiously shake it.

The moment their hands touched, Sol momentarily felt like something was rattling her bones, and a dull screech began somewhere in the back of her mind. They did their best to hide it.

“And what are you here for, exactly?” Sol asked when the feeling had subsided.

“Just routine business,” Sam murmured - again, shrugging, “I’m Torchwood, by the way.” They added, producing an ID card from their breast pocket and holding it out for Sol to see.

She didn’t recognize the little T-shaped symbol made of interlocking hexagons on it, but it looked too legit to be a fake.

Besides, they’d been expecting a strange visitor to The Abnormal Orchard for a while now, ever since the premonitions had started about a week ago.

She hadn’t expected this very human-looking stranger, however. They seemed pretty normal compared to what her senses and the fact that Pat had been reluctant to come out of his nest for several days told her. That wasn’t to say that looks couldn’t be deceiving, this ‘Sam’ might be more than what meets the eye.

Seeming to realize Sol was lost in thought, Sam tilted their head to one side, pocketing their ID.

“Something the matter?” They asked.

Sol shook their head to clear it.

“Not at all,” she said, forcing a smile, “what was it you needed to do here?”

“Just have a look around,” Sam murmured, “make sure nothing here is too dangerous to be around the public, that kinda stuff.”

“Oh, you won’t find anything of that nature,” Sol assured them, stepping around the desk, “w- I make sure everything is safe before putting it on display.”

They cringed internally as they almost let the museum’s secret slip.

There was definitely something off about Sam if she’d so easily been that close to revealing the truth to them.

“And the thing in the attic?”

Sol’s heart slammed to a painful stop.

For a second they thought they had spoken without thinking, until they caught the somewhat triumphant sparkle in Sam’s too-green eyes and the smirk curling their lip.

“Hey, no need to worry,” they said, “I won’t hurt him, I promise. I just wanna make sure he won’t hurt anyone else.”

“He won’t,” Sol said immediately, “I know him. He’s a… friend, I suppose.”

“If you could call an eldrich abomination that, sure.” Sam mused, already headed for the spiral stairs that lead to the museum’s top floor. “Sorry, as much as I’m willing to take your word for it, unfortunately I do have to see for myself. Can’t slack off on the job, y’know.”

“How do you even know about him?” Sol demanded, now furious as they began ascending the stairs behind Sam, “no one knows about him!”

“Let’s just say I was passing through here several years ago because of a strange signal coming from out in the desert. At first we thought it was probably nothing, until it kept growing stronger and stronger, until we could finally place its exact location to right here!”

They turned around with a grin and pointed downwards at the floor as they said it.

“Pretty fascinating, if you ask me,” they added, “we’ve certainly never seen anything like it before. How’d you meet him?”

“By accident…” Sol admitted, deciding they might as well just tell the truth, “I opened a window and he got in.”

“‘HÈ’ hå§ å ñÄMÈ, ¥ðµ kñðw!” A familiar voice shouted from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Instead of being terrified, Sam just raised their eyebrows, mildly impressed.

“I call him ‘Pat’,” Sol offered, “I think our eyes would fall out if we tried to say the first part of his name out loud.”

“Good to know,” Sam said simply, “hello, Pat! I knew somebody with that name once, he was great man.”

They paused, as if reminiscing for a moment.

“̆’§ å £åïrl¥ ¢ðmmðñ ñåmê.” Pat responded dryly.

“Is that why you chose it?” Sam asked, continuing their ascent to the fifth floor.

No reply.

Sam wasn’t deterred, just kept climbing.

“You shouldn’t face him without protection.” Sol murmured when they’d reached the landing at the top of the stairs and were w walking in single file along the hallways filled with unnatural, uncanny paintings.

Despite the fact that Sol wasn’t leading them, Sam seemed to know their way around the museum fairly easily without direction. They also didn’t seem to be affected at all by the art pieces on the walls - except for one particular painting of a bright yellow triangle with stick-limbs and a single eye that seemed to follow the viewer wherever they went, that one made them pause and give a slight grimace, but that painting seemed to affect almost everyone who looked at it for too long.

“Good one, that’s funny,” Sam chuckled in response to Sol’s warning, which had definitely not been an innuendo, “don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of protection.”

Before Sol could speak again, Sam raised their hand in front of their face. Sol watched, transfixed, as their palm and the white metal bracelet on their wrist started to glow, and trails of gold mist emerged from their fingertips to swirl through the air, arching towards their head. Sam closed their eyes, and their face was momentarily engulfed in an ethereal glow that took the form of a mask.

Sol realized that the bracelet on Sam’s wrist had disappeared and had taken the form of the metallic mask now fitted over their face, which was embedded with rainbow colored crystals and engraved to look like a roaring tiger’s face with feathered wings sprouting from the sides. In the centre of the forehead was a particularly large, blue-green gemstone in the shape of a four-pointed star, which matched the color of the faintly shimmering, translucent material covering the mask’s eye-holes.

“Is this protection enough?” Sam asked, sounding a just little bit smug as the edges of their eyes crinkled, making in clear that they were grinning at Sol through the mask.

Sol rolled her eyes, pushing the sense of awe aside for a moment.

“I knew you weren’t human.” They murmured instead.

“Oh, I’m just as human as you, sweetheart,” Sam replied, “but, also like you, I just happen to have connections with things beyond human comprehension. But if the one I’m connected to met Pat here, they’d probably both explode into flames at the sight of each other, so sending me was our compromise.”

“§ðmê ‘¢ðmþrðmï§ê’,” Pat grumbled, “¥ðµr þrê§êñ¢ê ïñ †hï§ ßµïlÐïñg ï§ ïñ¢rêÐïßl¥ þåïñ£µl.”

Sam shrugged apologetically.

“So you lied about Torchwood?” Sol asked accusingly.

“I wouldn’t say ‘lied’,” Sam objected, “it’s a real organization, and I do work for it - and there is a weird energy in this place related to a rift in space and time that we detected a long time ago, but I’m not really here for that. I’m here for your friendo in the attic here.”

They pointed upwards towards the hatch on the ceiling, which led up to the museum’s attic.

“But why?” Sol asked, now more curious and perplexed than angry.

“Just to ensure that a supernatural war between dimensions isn’t about to start,” Sam explained, “which I’m sure it’s not, but Harmonia was pretty insistent.”

“Hårmðñïå…” Pat echoed, and Sol wasn’t sure what emotion was in his voice.

Sam looked up.

“You recognize her name, buddy?”

“ñêvêr ¢åll mê ‘ßµÐÐ¥’ êvêr ågåïñ, mðr†ål,” Pat snarled, the sound similar to that of a wasp’s next you just hit with a baseball bat, “†hê ñåmê Ððê§ñ’† rïñg å ßêll.”

“She told me she would have been a baby at the time you were imprisoned.” Sam supplied helpfully.

“§hê’§ å ¢hïlÐ, †hêñ. M¥ êx阮êñ¢ê ï§ ñðñê ð£ hêr ¢ðñ¢êrñ.”

“If a few thousand years old is ‘a child’ to you guys, fine. Whatever. It might be her concern, though, if your plan is to kill her and all that’s left of the Ancient Ones.”

“̆’§ ñð†. Ì håvê ñð ïñ†êr꧆ ïñ †hê Äñ¢ïêñ† Öñê§ åñÐ †hêïr þ þår†¥.”

Sam looked mildly offended at this, from what Sol could see based on their eyes alone, but fortunately held their tongue against whatever insults they may have thought of spitting at Pat.

“Who are the Ancient Ones?” Sol asked, breaking the tense silence, “you never told me anything about them.”

“Wh¥ wðµlÐ Ì?” Pat responded.

“They’re unearthly beings, like you are,” Sam pointed out, almost sounding as if they wanted him to agree, “you were both here long before us humans even evolved, and we’ll never truly understand where you came from.”

“¥ê§. ÄñÐ ï£ wê §†å¥ ïñ ¢lð§ê êñðµgh þrðxïm £ðr †ðð lðñg, wê ßð†h Ðïê,” Pat added, “ï£ wê Ððñ’† †r¥ †ð kïll êå¢h ð†hêr £ïr§†. ̆’§ jµ§† †hê ñ况rê ð£ ðµr ßêïñg§. Wê wêrêñ’† måÐê †ð lïvê ðñ †hê §åmê þlåñê ð£ êx阮êñ¢ê.”

For a moment, the sound of agonized, almost heartbroken screaming mixed with his voice, and Sol suddenly sensed a deep feeling of gutwrenching betrayal and sadness from him, so strong and unfathomable it almost brought her to tears in that instant.

She almost asked him about it, but decided against it.

Pat might be her sort-of friend, but he was still an extradimensional monster, which wasn’t the kind of thing a mortal human should try to anger.

However, Sam seemed to have sensed it too, based on the way they tilted their head to the side, still looking up at the ceiling. Thankfully, the didn’t say anything about it either.

“Well,” they murmured, raising their hand to their face again as the mask disintegrated back into gold dust and reappeared as the simple metal bracelet again, “I guess my work here is done then. I’ll tell Harmonia she has nothing to worry about. Thanks for giving me your time, both of you.”

They smiled at Sol as they said it, and she found herself smiling back with a curt nod.

“ßê£ðrê ¥ðµ lêåvê…”

Sam stopped in their tracks as Pat’s voice wove back through the walls.

“Yes?” They asked quietly, seeming to sense the emotion still hanging in the air, which Sol undeniably felt too - and on a level they’d never experienced from Pat before.

“Ì£ § ñð† †ðð mµ¢h †ð å§k…” Pat mused, clearly trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably, “¢åñ ¥ðµ å§k ¥ðµr Hårmðñïå ï£ §hê kñðw§ §ðmêðñê ñåmêÐ ⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️?”

The last word, as Sol would have expected, didn’t make sense at all to human ears - it sounded more like odd, slightly angelic screeching, but strangely enough, Sol still felt like they could faintly hear a name in there. Perhaps… Stephanie?

Sam simply nodded.

“Of course,” they said, with a great amount of respect, “I can come back and tell you tomorrow, if you’d like?”

“ñð ñêêÐ,” Pat responded, “Ì’ll kñðw ߥ †hê wå¥ †hê µñïvêr§ê rê§þðñЧ †ð †hê Äñ¢ïêñ† Öñê§ hêårïñg hêr ñåmê.”

Sam simply nodded, and continued on towards the stairs.

Sol stayed where she was, knowing Sam could find their way out by themself, and not quite ready to leave Pat yet.

They thought about asking him who he was talking about, but once again, decided not to.

He was clearly nursing a centuries-old wound that wouldn’t be easy for her to comprehend, and even if it was, it would be better to not test the waters of the subject.

Pat would tell them what was bugging him in time, and even if he didn’t, she didn’t need to know. Whatever connection he had to the Ancient Ones was long over, if it had ever been anything to begin with, and he didn’t want to acknowledge it based on his reaction to Sam.

With a deep breath, Sol headed back towards the spiral staircase, and descended back to the first floor.

By the time they reached the front desk, it was like Sam hadn’t been there at all.

~FIN~

[And just for the purpose of sharing- @inkbedou @insane4fandoms, y’all might like this if you’ve enjoyed previous fics from our mutual buddy 😊]

[funky-solaris-time]

My Narmer update concept: Children of Sol

I’ve been working on this on and off for more than a year. And while some of this is outdated, I am still proud of the chaos of some of it.

First I have the new section of the star chart, the Sol Cluster:

Narmer's new primary base of operations is the massive ship graveyard of Murrexs within a habitable distance of the sun, all of it converted into individual fortresses and factories. Missions in the Sol Cluster are hosted by Little Duck for Disruption. Lotus for Defense, Mobile Defense and Exterminate. Hunhow for Narmer Sabotage, Survival and Sacrifice.

Sol Cluster Nodes:

Niras Gaze: Defense

Amars Bite: Exterminate

Boreals Screech: Mobile Defense

Praghasas Echo: Disruption

Nile: Sacrifice

Styx: Narmer Survival

Agamemnon: Narmer Sabotage

Second I have the unique mission types:

Narmer Sabotage: Hosted by Hunhow. Break into a Narmer veil factory, halt production and wreak their supply. First destroy the two computers processing production data before moving detonate a large bomb on their stock pile, then finally make the base into a tomb by destroying its reactor.

Narmer Survival: A standard survival hosted by Hunhow but with an additional feature. Every 3 minutes a Sol Instigator spawns and upon death they grant a device called a Blessed Boon that can be plugged into life support pods. Life support pods with this device plugged in will lure more enemies to it, and those enemies will drop more resources, but it will take 30 seconds to actually grant the life support and in those 30 seconds enemies lured to it have a chance to destroy it.

Sacrifice: An endless mission type hosted by Hunhow, Sacrifice requires you to activate different Altars strewn throughout the level. Upon activation, more enemies will come to attack you around the Altar, and you must kill the enemies in the Altars radius before it expires to charge it. If an Altar is fully charged within 1 minute and 30 seconds of its activation then your team is granted a buff for the duration of that round. You must charge 4 Altars a round, and at the end of the round you get the rewards that were sealed behind the Altars.

After the missions there are the three unique Narmer enemies:

Monothist: Custom low ground hover drones with a weak turret, but the ability to attach Itself to Deacons or certain other Narmer units to grant increased movement speed and health to its host. Monothist’s can be killed separately from their hosts, and doing so will temporarily stun the host.

Inquisitors: Melee units made from the enhanced remains of traitor cultists, Inquisitors wield the Extintor have a telegraphed short ranged teleport that ends with a wide slash, after which they are slowed and winded.

Sol Instigators: Unique automatons designed to combat the Tenno, Sol Instigators fire large shots of energy that explode large areas of fire. Once reaching low health there is a short duration where a unique finisher can be performed on a Sol Instigator. If the unique finisher is not performed then upon death Sol instigators will create a small anti-transference field around their corpse for a few seconds. Sol Instigators act as Demolyst on Narmer disruption.

Next are the weapon concepts I had, all unique to Narmer:

Portador: Designed by veiled engineers from all factions in mourning of their martyr, the Portador primary semi-auto rifle has a secondary fire that releases a shotgun like energy that temporarily converts enemies to your side

Puksiik: Veiled Grineer languished in their foundries until out came this formidable secondary auto shotgun. Taking damage charges a secondary fire that creates a lingering area of corrosive energy where you aim at the cost of a full clip.

Extintor: Made from destroyed Narmer veils and built around a sliver of Murrex hull, this Narmer blade is a grim mockery of the Tenno Nikana. Finishers performed with this weapon grant it a temporary 25% Radiation damage buff for 15 seconds.

And how do you get these new weapons? Well the new syndicate!

New Syndicate: The Convergents

Hosted by a repentant but still wary Hunhow and named by an indignant Pazuul. This faction finds its home in Hunhow himself, who has left his murky prison in the depths of Uranus to fix his mistakes. You gain standing with the Convergents by collecting Idols which are strewn about Sol cluster missions or are mission rewards for bounties.

Members of the The Convergents:

Hunhow: Reluctant to form a permanent partnership with “bios”, Hunhow still acknowledges that there is work to be done and thus he grants the Tenno bounties (think holdfast bounties) from his projection inside his own ship body.

Tyl Regor: The attack on Uranus by Narmer having driven Tyl Regor to abandon his duties to the queens in favor of his tube men. Tyl Regor is still wildly amoral but now sells blueprints for weapons and other items in return for standing.

Quill Pratoo: The Quill who got Little Duck involved with the Tenno had somehow snuck onto the fortress that is Hunhow, though the Sentient in question seems either uncaring or unwilling to discuss his presence among Tenno company. Quill Pratoo collects and melts down idols for the Tenno to gain standing.

Convergents ranks:

Rank 1, Separated: Tensions are high, but the work must be done.

Rank 2, Roadhouse: Perhaps they have more in common than they thought?

Rank 3, Encampment: Synthetic and biological, perhaps there Doesn’t even need to be a divide?

Rank 4, Hamlet: Bridges have been built; peace and kindness begin to roam.

Rank 5, Kingdom: You have united the two worlds of life in a way once thought impossible.

That’s not all of the update but thats all the stuff that’s completed lol. I still need to write the quest but that’s besides the point.

[spitexwired]

in retrospect I’m not sure if the adopted au´s homelife is better or worse than what neil has now.

In his current house, he´s got his dad´s condo that’s in butt fuck nowhere but that´s where he ends up for the better half of the month. When he spends the other half w his mom he´s in a semi shitty apartment but free reign to do whatever he wants bc Irene Does Not Give A Fuck anymore.

Which is great... until you need something like advice or affection or things that, i dont know, most moms should do. Add on that neil´s too prideful to ask for his dad´s help so he´s SOL.

Dally´s is nearly perfect! What is there not to like? You have each and every te imaginable, he´s too. Much of a pushover to stop you from doing what you want but Actually steps in when he needs to. Best of all, he really cares.

Right? Even if you know next to nothing about him he´s kind enough. If only his shitbag of a boyfriend fucked off every once in awhile. It´s not like he´s a cultist who tried to killl you and your friends or anything. Or is actively coercing Dally to join that same fate.

Not everything is perfect, is it?

[hedrigal]

Akira Live Comments

So I watched Akira last night and my friends made me put my comments in a document:

Impressions: I really like this movie, it is incredibly fast paced and gets so much through just in images and snapshots. Also brilliant use of red flags.

11:58: Akira, Just think. In two short years post nuclear gangs of motorcyclists will be assaulting taxi drivers in cyberpunk Tokyo.

11:58 Like that might actually happen.

12:00: What. Dog murder. This isn’t fucking Jojo. Why is this the anime theme I’ve been dealing with lately? If I wanted to be depressed by dying dogs I’d just watch plague dogs.

12:01: There’s a very old child.

12:04: Oh shit. So there’s also a revolution in the background as the gang war happens. Or atleast mobs of people waving red flags. Which is my favorite kind of mob.

12:05: So the incredubly old child had exploded TETSUO!

12:06: Ancient children are being approached by pod children who look actually young.

12:07: And for some reason my favorite coworker looks like roughly half of the background characters. Extremely short hair, Mustache, very angular face, looks exactly like the Colonel.

12:13: Kaneda helps revolutionaries escape attest if they’re hot women. Sexist, but also semi good Praxis.

12:17: Akira is already doing a good job of establishing this is a collapsing social order. Like capitalism is clearly in absolute crisis, and they haven’t even slightly used those words. So points for that.

12:27: Hah. Communist lady is still a character. And she was apparently involved with a terrorist bombing.

12:30: And she was apparently involved with a terrorist bombing.

12:33: .00005 degrees kelvin isn’t a temperature people can live at movie. I call bullshit.

12:34: his room is just looking like they’re bellow freezing. Rather than instantly freezing them to a painful death. Very slowly.

12:35: Ryu also looks like my coworker. Again. A very solid portion of these characters look like him.

12:37: The communist rebels are relying on millenarian cultists for their hope for the future. I would call that unrealistic, but there are communists who have done dumber things. this is also more radical and more thoughtful than the actual Japanese Communist Party would be capable of.

12:39: Why was the peace of neo tokyo ever left in the hands of a colonel. That’s like, General level responsibilities at least.

12:41: Whoever did the art on this loves angular face mustache men. Which I don’t think there’s anything wrong with. Just a bit hyper specific.

12:41: Oh shit. The bear is moving.

12:41: Oh shit, all the stuffed animals are walking.

12:42: Wait, Tetsuo is just hallucinating.

12:43: And the hallucinations are bleeding cum and attacking him. Oh god thats a lot of cum.

12:43: He scared off the cum monster creatures by bleeding at them from his foot wound. I know it’s milk but the look is too viscous.

12:45: Tetsuo popped those guards like grapes. It was awesome. Good for him.

12:46: Why did the communist terrorist squad recruit Kaneda? He adds nothing beyond so much risk that they’ll get caught.

12:47: Fucking sewer levels. Always lame! Oh, communist lady is named Kei.

12:50: Holy shit. TETSUO has just crushed the cops into a fine paste. Good for him.

12:51: Cum monster stuffed animal things are are back.

12:51: Now they’re just regular children. Who are also seemingly 85 years old.

12:56: Communist lady is already reacting with horror when he gets thrown around? Goddamn. You’ve known him for like a night. Don’t fall in love with him yet.

12:57: Tetsuo keeps saying aloud what he’s psychically told. You’re missing the point of psychic communications.

12:59: Why did they store psychic super child in the fucking olympic stadium?!

1:00: Colonel is staging a crisis.

1:04: Exposition on Akira is happening and I’m very bored by it. They don’t need to explain why there is a psychic child who can destroy the world. He’s just there. Especially when it boils down to him having amoeba powers.

1:06: Is he a pokemon, evolving as an individual, rather than in a process of punctuated equilibrium/gradual adaptation? So there’s now tanks rolling down the street in Neo Tokyo.

1:10: The communist rebels are burning their files in a way guaranteed to burn down their headquarters. Like, you don’t leave the files drifting out onto the very flammable carpet.

1:12: So Tetsuo is going to fuck up the military.

1:13: What the fuck is up with Japan and dudes with little to no hair and just a mustache but a very angular face.

1:14: And communist old guy is dying of a heart attack. Also that cult dead communist is relying on pulled through. Damn. He chose a bad moment to die.

1:16: Kaneda is now going to go deal with the problem for some reason.

1:17: So now there’s an ancient elvis man leading the revolution. Instead of communists. Again I feel like this has happened before.

1:17: Elvis cult man is dead now. Also the Bridge is pretty fucked.

1:19: Well he got to the deep freeze olympics building. He’s walking pretty slow for a rampage. Wow, this has all just kind of collapsed very quickly.

1:20: So communist Kei is being controlled by the bratty half pints who also happen to be like 87.

1:21: Oh shit. AKIRA pod is being flown by Tetsuo.

1:22: By the way, Neo Tokyo is fucked.

1:22: How are those scientists not just doubled over from migraines as the computer flashes at them.

1:24: Oh shit. Akira is just a collection of organs and body parts. Spoilers.

1:24: Also Tetsuos hair has grown massively. Is that just inconsistent art, or has this taken place over months.

1:26: Kaneda is doing pretty alright in this lazer vs psychic powers match all things considered.

1:27: But taking cover is a very dumb plan here. Like, it’s not like Tetsuo needs to see him to pop him like a grape.

1:28: Oh shit Tetsuos being abducted.

1:28: oh shit communist lady is still alive.

1:29: Tetsuo arm cut off. TETSUO!

1:29: TETSUO is literally on a satellite to blow it up. In space. It’s bullshit.

1:30: So Tetsuo murdered the satellite. And Who is actually saying it is SOL?! You’ve been there for like five minutes. Who has been spreading rumors?

1:31: Now his arm is back but robot!? TETSUO gets new powers by the minute.

1:32: The future doesn’t proceed along a predetermined course, there’s a future we can choose. Probably the truest line in the movie.

1:33: Einstein man is really impressed by the science that was made by TETSUO.

1:35: TETSUO’s girlfriend is back and is scared by his cool new robot arm.

1:36: TETSUO is turning into a very aggressive vine.

1:37: Also, poor aim Colonel. You just nicked his freaky arm thing into overdrive.

1:37 So Kanedas power is that he is a biker dude. And that’s it. He has some pretty insane luck. Rolls nothing but 20s.

1:38: Shooting the arm is clearly a bad idea. KANEDA did it again. Like seriously. The last time he did it he just shot out cancer beams to kill a dude.

1:39: TETSUO is going all body horror. And begging for help. and turning into a giant baby from the looks of things. Literally.

1:40: And also, Kaori was crushed to death. But Kaneda popped out like Pus from Sean’s terrible acne advice. The akira tubes have popped.

1:41: and suddenly TETSUO is receding.

1:42: Wait. Fucking what. Akira is alive again.

1:44: Whatever the fuck is happening here is very unclear.

1:49: Whatever the fuck is happening now is pretty incomprehensible. I enjoy it. But I have no fucking idea whats up. Other than that Tokyo is pretty fucked. And millions are dying.

1:50: And that for some reason the Colonel, Kaneda, Kei, and the dude who is so unimportant i don’t even remember when they even said his name are alive.

1:51: TETSUO might be the god of a new universe. Or maybe thats akira. It’s very hard to tell.

1:51: God rays mean deaden my opinion. I’m going to go with god of a new universe given the credits too. They aren’t contradictory.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 6: Malformed

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. For more information on LeviathanPat, go here. For more information on Sol, go here. For more information on ColosSeptic, go here.)

(This story is a continuation of a sneak-peek I included at the end of Day 2. Originally, this was going to be a sneak-peek itself, but plans have changed, and I'm on a bit of time-crunch, so...)

(As usual, I got tons of help developing these characters from the amazing @sammys-magical-au ! Please go check out their blog and stories!)

(One more thing: if you’d like to use the distorted fonts you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)

(Trigger Warnings:  blood/gore, body horror, mentions of experimentation, specimen preservation, implied murder/death, eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 7

___

Sol Magee considered herself equal parts flexible and responsible. 

After all, if anyone thought they could run an entire museum-and-art-gallery-combo without those qualities, they’d be in for a very rude awakening. 

And that was just talking about normal establishments. The ones that didn’t come with a slew of provisos that managed to be kinda funny and deathly serious at the same time.

Namely, the fact that the building was connected to an outer monstrosity who had a habit of collecting oddities and making his own oddities by experimenting on humans unfortunate enough to fall for his schemes.

And yet, if you managed to get on his good side, he could be pretty chill.

Sol had already worked under their fair share of human managers who were just downright insufferable for no actual reason, so it was simultaneously amazing and depressing to know that literal monsters could sometimes have better manners with staff.

Hell, Sol even had some things in common with him. Eccentricity had been the source of bonding between the two of them. It wasn’t that neither of them were playing with a full deck; rather, they each played with two-and-a-half decks and had managed to make up a new game where most of those extra cards benefited them. 

Most, not all.

And that was probably why he seemed a bit on-edge tonight. 

Even if Sol didn’t mind squeezing random rituals and the like in with their typical nightly tasks, her latest assignment was…strange. 

“Wait, hold on—” Sol fidgeted with the notepad and pen they’d been carrying. “You want me to hide out in the attic and spy on…you?” 

“ñð† jµ§† mê,” replied the nine-foot-tall mass of nightmare flesh that loomed beside her. As usual, his skin seemed to squirm of its own accord around whatever horrible skeleton he may or may not have had underneath.

(Sol had learned to call him Pat, since apparently her eyes and teeth would melt right out of her head if she tried pronouncing the other half of his name). 

The Abnormal Orchard nearly resembled a tower from the outside, unless you counted the huge sign that hung over the main entrance, covered in wires that glowed with a mix of violet and blue light. They all worked together to form the image of a pomegranate with a cluster of eyeballs where its seeds should’ve been. 

The building was just as imposingly tall as it was wide. So, of course there was a broad, spiraling ramp that stood at the center inside, just about a hundred feet from the main entrance. 

Despite the elevators positioned across from her office, Sol almost always opted for the ramp instead. They just enjoyed the way they could see pretty much everything no matter where they stood on it. It seemed to keep all five of the museum’s expansive floors in a suspended tornado.  

Tonight was no different as they strolled along, footsteps muffled by dark green carpeting that was adorned by splotches of black. The pattern almost resembled malachite and complimented the wallpaper’s deep yellow shade. 

“Äñ ðlÐ ßµÐÐ¥ ð£ mïñê ï§ gðññå ßê §†ðþþïñg ߥ £ðr å ¢hå†,” Pat continued as he kept pace beside them. His current movement was a mix between crawling and slithering, due to how his slightly-too-long-torso ended in what honestly looked like blistering tree roots instead of legs. But then, those appendages would likely take on a different shape in about five-or-so-minutes. “Ððñ'† ¥ðµ rêmêmßêr †hê þrêÐïðñ§ Ì måÐê l姆 wêêk?”

(Pat was a creature of many talents; one of them being semi-regular visions of the future. Some were less clear than others, but then, there was nothing to stop him and Sol from theorizing on what they could mean. And it wasn’t often at all that he turned out to be wrong.)

“Yeah, I do. Just like I thought you’d remember that your predictions aren’t always the only ones,” Sol jokingly snarked, craning her neck to look up at his eyes…well, his primary eyes, at least. A few extra ones had sprouted along his cheeks and temples, seeming to glance at the ideas she’d been jotting down for future exhibit designs. “I found out that The Chocolate Guy made something disturbingly normal before you even knew.” 

For most people, making eye-contact with him would lead to a migraine at best and a sudden case of blindness at worst, considering how his eyes were much too wide, how they glowed with the sickly-pale color of a corpse, how his pinprick pupils refused to stop shuddering in place.  

But Sol wasn’t most people…plus, they also had a mask that had apparently been crafted with some serious protective juju. That certainly helped. 

Putting it on had long-since become the first part of her nightly routine, right up until she officially closed up and clocked out to the apartment-suite that came included on the property.

The mask’s black material was smooth and compact, like porcelain or marble. Even after so much time, the interior never stopped feeling cold against the skin of Sol’s face. That soft chill always seemed to race up and down along her forehead and cheekbones. 

The base of it had been molded into a shape that sort of resembled an upside-down pentagon. The center protruded forward, stretching out just enough to make you wince; there was no outline of a nose, but this still gave the impression of a triangular snout that ended in a smooth, simple stub.

Sculpted veins curved around the eye-holes, stretching from aforementioned stub all the way to the top-half that rested on Sol’s ginger hair. The paint that coated them seemed a bit tarnished, leaving them a dull shade of reddish-violet.

They could remember Pat saying something about a goat when he’d directed them through the museum’s basement to find it years ago. But honestly, they thought it looked more like a fox. A freak-of-nature fox with a pair of layered horns growing just below its long, oddly sharp ears to curl by its jaws. 

Yeah, that’s right. Jaws. The mask’s design included a mouth that wrapped around the bottom-half. It would’ve been open, too, if not for the sets of gleaming porcelain teeth that gleamed like polished chinaware, jagged enough to make a piranha jealous. 

It portrayed two emotions fused together: on the left side, the corner was quirked up to simulate a winding grin. The corner on the right side was the opposite—it tugged itself down in an almost feral grimace. This extended to the glass-lensed eyes as well. The left was scrunched-up, and the right almost looked like it was drooping. 

“…Älrïgh†, ålrïgh†. †ðµ¢h'ê ðñ †hå†,” Pat relented, the first row of jagged teeth in his maw actively lengthening as he chuckled. “Èvêñ ï£ ¥ðµ jµ§† §ð håþþêñêÐ †ð ßê ðñ ¥ðµr låþ†ðþ whêñ †hå† vïÐêð wêñ† þµßlï¢.”

“Nuh-uh! I sensed some legit wrongness before I even opened my laptop—I woke up in a cold sweat that same morning, and that damn video was the reason!” Sol contended, snickering herself, trying to ignore the memory of all that sudden dread. 

(The Chocolate Guy was a cosmic abomination himself, after all; one who was just apparently more comfortable with wearing a human disguise than Pat. And judging by some of the stories Pat had told Sol about the baker-creature before he’d made a home on Earth…well, she was extremely grateful that he was so focused on using his powers to simply create all kinds of amazing, life-like sculptures from sweets.)

“ÄñÐ ¥ðµ'vê ßêêñ £êêlïñg §ðmê 𣠆hå† wrðñgñꧧ ð££-åñÐ-ðñ-ågåïñ †ðÐå¥, håvêñ'† ¥ðµ?” Pat wondered. 

“Yeah, I have.” Sol offered both a nod and shrug.  “It’s just—I don’t know. I wasn’t too sure you’d want me getting close to that kind of stuff.”

“Èh, ¢êr†åïñ †hïñg§ håvê gð††å håþþêñ §ðmêÐå¥.” Pat mused. A keening, sheering noise rippled through the air as he clicked his teeth in thought. “§ð, ï£ ¥ðµ wåñ† ¥ðµr §êñ§ê§ †ð kêêþ gꆆïñg §hårþêr, åñÐ ï£ Ì håvê †ð mêê† wï†h å §þê¢ïål gµê§†...wêll, wh¥ ñð† ¢åþï†ålïzê?”

“Why not?” Sol echoed. They didn’t bother to hide the spark of excitement growing in their voice. There was no point; as far as they knew, Pat could already taste the adrenaline that was now coursing through their mind. 

Plus, it just felt kinda great to know that she was trusted. 

Pat was a centuries-old monstrosity whose life-purpose revolved around a very literal type of mad science. Sol had seen what he was capable of, how he could easily twist and warp humans (whether the victims of his casual hunting or organized sacrifices) in all sorts of horrific ways just to see what would happen. He fed on emotions, thoughts, entire minds and souls like it was nothing. He’d told her stories about eating the odd star or two in his past. 

So, for something like him to see something like her as someone he could include in his surreal business matters—as a friend…

There just wasn’t much like it. 

…Even if he had sarcastically spat out the word special guest like it was fried feather that had somehow found its way into a box of buffalo wings. That didn’t seem like the best omen out there. 

“How much time do we have before this guy gets here?” Sol asked. 

Pat gave pause, brow furrowing in frustration. He quickly shrank down until he only stood about four inches taller than Sol’s five-foot-seven.

“ñð† å whðlê lð†,”  He finally admitted as he sidled over to perch on one section of the ramp’s safety-railing, far too little effort in his movements. By now, the spire of his lower-half had split into a pair of actual legs. They looked pretty human-esque for the most part, though the calves were bent backwards like those of a quadraped, each ending in a clutch of talons. “Ì kñðw hê'§ ðñ hï§ wå¥, ßµ† Ì'll ðñl¥ rêåll¥ ßê åßlê †ð †êll ðñ¢ê hê'§ 墆µåll¥ ðñ †hê þrðþêr†¥.”

Sol offered an understanding shrug, stuffing the notepad into the breast pocket of their purple leather jacket. “Well, I can just pick this up where I left off sometime after your meeting, right?”

“Rïgh†,” Pat agreed, nodding in a way that was just too fluid for comfort.

A cluster of long, sinuous tendrils manifested from his back with a terrible chorus of snaps and pops and cracks. He leaned back, allowing them to press up against the wall behind him. And with that, his form seemed to churn in on itself as he effectively melted out of sight. He left a black, blurry silhouette-stain behind, but even that didn’t take long to shrink and fade away from the yellow wallpaper. In less than a minute, there was no evidence he’d ever even been there in the first place. 

Sol knew where he was headed, so they quickened their pace, ascending along the ramp and passing everything by to meet him there.

The first four floors were all dedicated to anomalies and curiosities. Despite all the organization, none of them adhered to an actual category. They each just held a vast collection of things that people were either disgusted and terrified of, or morbidly fascinated by. 

All sorts of preservation was practiced here. 

Specimens floating in concoctions of decay-defying fluids (formaldehyde, casualdejekyll, the works). 

Apothecary jars lined certain shelves, all coming in various shapes and sizes. A few veritable truckloads of pickled organs or appendages, or, or, or. One held a pair of human hands, the fingers of which seemed to have been fused together. Another contained an entire mouth—skin, lips, tongue and everything—that had been propped open unnaturally wide to display a horrific amount of crooked, rotting teeth.

Specimens frozen in resin cubes or slides. 

Where wet preservation typically led to discoloring, the resin was honestly a bit like amber. Somehow, it kept the tissues looking vibrant, like they could still be full of life and functioning as intended.

Except for the fact that they absolutely couldn’t, considering the states they’d been left in.

A set of intestines twisted into several knots, the end-results of a brain-bleed, an appendix that somehow seemed to be captured mere seconds after rupturing, an arm’s worth of branching veins forced to swell because apparently the blood inside them had gained a consistency similar to tapioca pudding…

Specimens kept in simple, tightly-sealed display cases. Those ones were often completely skeletonized, just for the sake of convenience, but still.

In all classifications, sizes varied.

Some were small enough for Sol to pinch between their index finger and thumb. Such as one little vial which held the phalanges of a pinkie-toe with an uncomfortable amount of joints. (Not nearly as disturbing as the teretomas, though. The mere thought of those sickly, fleshy spheres that had been sliced open juuuuust enough to reveal piles of teeth inside…it was enough to make even someone with Sol’s experience itch all over.)

Others, meanwhile, were so big and heavy that the only safe way to move them would be via forklift. Such as what was basically a glass coffin housing an entire human body, mummified and infested with a subspecies of cordyceps. A much stronger, much more aggressive variant. Though the mold-colored stalks protruding from a jagged hole in the corpse’s head had been stiff for so many years, the way they all bent and just barely rubbed against the inside of the case suggested they were still trying to break out and spread their spores every which way to find fresher hosts. 

Just a few examples out of many. And yet…none of the upper floors could ever even dream of comparing to the collection in the basement. The collection that was kept under heavy lock-and-key, kept hidden from mortal customers. Sol herself had only been down there a couple times, though apparently she’d be able to more often the more she adjusted…

The Fifth Floor stood out from the rest. It was much more of a gallery than an archive; it hosted art of all mediums. (Though, in order for a new piece to be accepted, it had to be crafted with the darker genres in mind. But that wasn’t much of a problem. Horror and surrealism were all the rage these days, after all.)

It was also the only floor to not have any windows in its walls, whereas the others seemed to have a few too many.

Instead, the carpet seemed to be the only space not covered by glossy frames that came in various shapes and sizes.

Sol had to be careful to keep at least three feet of distance as she passed by.

Some of the drawings had an odd type of gravitational pull.

The colors of specific paintings never seemed to fully dry; not only that, but they often gave off powerful scents at certain hours. Some smelled soft and sweet and enticing. Others, meanwhile, were heavy with the stench of rot and pain. 

Suspicious shapes would bulge out from under the canvases on occasion. The struggle was obviously desperate, despite how slow the movements were. 

A fair number of the focuses didn’t have eyes. Those that did, however, always seemed to stare after you, no matter how far away you walked. 

(Especially one ancient-looking portrait that offered the etching of a cyclopian triangle with spindly arms and legs. Sometimes, if Sol looked at it for too long, she’d start to hear a faint, muffled chorus of cackling and wisecracking comments.)

Sol ventured over to the little corridor that stood off to one side of the gallery. 

A sleek black cat had apparently beaten them there, pacing the floor in small circles, occasionally jumping up to try and paw at the long pull-cord that hung from a white panel in the ceiling.

Charcoal couldn’t really be blamed for his trance, considering how the string swayed to and fro despite the fact that there was no breeze to move it. (In fact, it even seemed to be fluttering in time with his movements, and if that didn’t count as taunting, then what would?)

Sol knelt down and invoked the undeniably powerful chant of pspspspspspsps.

Their pet’s ears twitched, and he almost immediately came trotting over to greet them. 

In the nick of time, too; in less than a heartbeat, that white panel swung open, leaving a dark hole in its place. The ceiling-door’s hinges let out a scream like a dying cow as an old ladder came sliding out to hit the floor with a heavy thump. 

Sol gathered Charcoal up—even with their mask on, they still got a faceful of the brimstone that never seemed to leave the cat’s fur.  Using one arm to awkwardly cradle him to their chest and the other arm to keep their balance, they climbed on up. 

As usual, the museum’s attic was dark and cold. 

A large, perfectly circular hole had been cut out of the far wall. That space used to be filled with a decorative window, and it had stayed that way when Sol took over The Abnormal Orchard.

They’d opened it for perhaps the very first time on that fateful night when Pat had arrived, and…well, he hadn’t exactly meant to tear out the glass and its framing, but hey. He’d already made it clear that it was to stay open at all times.

Long ago, the attic had been used as an extra storage space, and technically it still functioned as such. A plethora of crates and chests and boxes were pushed against the walls, stacked on top of one another, each holding something that Pat wasn’t quite ready to add to any of the main floors just yet.

Some of them ever-so-slightly trembled, like whatever was inside them had stirred in its sleep…or struggled against strong bindings. Some were covered in stains that glistened in the dim moonlight that seeped in from outside. 

As soon as Sol got their bearings, the ladder folded back onto its track, the door lifting to shut itself behind them. They crossed the center of the room and gazed up.

The attic’s entire ceiling had been swallowed up by a mass of gauzy threads. Thick strands had been attached to the corners, allowing even more to all come together, twisting and criss-crossing in layers upon more layers upon even more layers to form some kind of huge, silky, cocoon-hammock…thing. 

If not for how all the fibrous stuff boasted the splotchy colors of bruises, it would’ve resembled a combination of spiderweb and wasp nest. 

Pat was lounging inside of it, just like he usually did during the museum’s business hours (whenever he wasn’t busy hunting or experimenting, that is). He’d shifted into a truly massive size, his lower-half now coiled up beneath him like a snake or a centipede. A few extra arms sprouted from his sides to idly pluck at some of the strings around him. While the nest-cocoon-hammock-thing swayed to and fro as he shuffled in place, it never seemed to strain under his weight.  

“Anything I need to look out for?” Sol asked, heading for a crawlspace door that had been built into the side of the adjacent wall `a la Coraline. Snug would’ve been a generous word for the inside, but it’d already proven to be a fine hiding spot. Plus, it offered a good vantage point of everything on the outside, even when its door had to be held ajar. “When he gets here, I mean.”

“Ìñ†êr꧆ïñg ¢hðï¢ê ð£ wðrЧ,” Pat chuckled, a searing, buzzing sound reminiscent of glass splintering apart at the bottom of a boiling pot. “Hê †ê¢hñï¢åll¥ Ððê§ñ'† håvê å ßlïñЧþð†, ßµ† ¥ðµ'll ålrêåÐ¥ håvê §ðmê ¢ðvêr. þlµ§, ßrïgh† lïgh†§ ¢åñ måkê †hïñg§ ßlµrr¥; hðlÐïñg å §måll £låmê wðµlÐñ'† hµr†.”

“Gotcha.” Once they’d pretzeled themself inside the crawlspace, Sol reached for another one of their jacket-pockets; the one where their striker-knife and chunk of rainbow flint had free real estate. 

But Charcoal seemed eager to participate. Just before his owner could fish their tools out, he perked up on their lap. He rolled his shoulders, his chest puffing out as he took a deep, quiet breath.

He then opened his mouth, allowing thin flames to lick out past his bared fangs. And yet, the little ball of fire he’d brought up from his lungs seemed content to just linger at the back of his throat, casting short shadows that flickered and danced around his teeth. 

“...Never mind, then. Thanks, buddy.” Sol smiled, scratching her pet’s ears just in time to feel a pair of horns ease their way out of his little forehead.

Charcoal purred, a sound that grew ever-so-slightly deeper and raspier as some of his fur pulled back, showing off a coat of dark scales underneath. Strangest of all, his eyes didn’t even reflect the glow like those of a normal cat would. Instead, his pupils just grew and grew until his eye sockets resembled bottomless pits in his face.

Pat’s neck stretched out from the mouth of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing. He nodded at the little display. 

“ÄñÐ êvêñ whêñ hï§ vï§ïðñ'§ ðߧ¢µrêÐ, hê ¢åñ §†ïll §êê †hrðµgh †hê ê¥ê§ ð£ ð†hêr§,” he continued. “Ððñ'† lððk Ðïrꢆl¥ å† hïm. †r¥ †ð £ð¢µ§ ðñ †hê §†µ££ årðµñÐ hïm. ßµ† ï£ ¥ðµ håvê ñð ¢hðï¢ê êx¢êþ† †ð lððk å† hï§ ê¥ê§, jµ§† Ððñ'†—”

Pat stiffened, trailing off as a seam manifested in the middle of his forehead. With a sickening, almost rubbery sigh, that seam peeled itself open to reveal a eyeball. It was larger than his primaries, its sclera was pitch-dark. Pat’s ever-moving skin was already a void in itself, but this particular eye was even more abyssal than that. Save for a tiny, shivering, pale-as-snow iris with no pupil at all. 

Pat could summon as many extra eyes as he wanted at will, but this one was different. 

This eye only bloomed on his face at serious times. (In the grand scheme of things, this was perfectly logical. Pat already had far more senses than mortal creatures. This third eye was just a sense all of its own.) Sol privately called it the Illuminati’s Cousin.

A low, dangerous hissssss crept out through Pat’s teeth, his neck retracting and his head snapping back into place. 

Sol got the hint; they silently shuffled themself and Charcoal even further into the crawlspace until their back hit the wall. They reached over and pulled at the little door, only leaving a small crack to peer through.

As if on cue, all the nighttime hubbub echoing from outside—the drone of insects, the hollow screeches of owls, even the wind and thunder that had just started rumbling a few moments ago—came to an abrupt, uncanny halt. 

The far wall of the attic shook.

Sccrrrrrp

A sound so low that it managed to be soft and piercing at the same time. Like a person who, despite only having a set of bloody stubs left of their nails, decided to drag their fingers along a chalkboard just for the hell of it…

Scccrrrrp-sssccrrrrp

…Or a cluster of ragged claws scratching against a brick wall. 

It followed a distinct rhythm. Even with all the screeching, there was no doubt how the source was moving so carefully, so deliberately. 

Like an ambush predator stalking after its prey

Sccrrrp-scccrrrp, sccrrrp-sccrrrrp

The noise finally reached its peak when a pair of too-large hands adorned by too-long, too-crooked digits wrapped around the edges of the attic window.

They dug further into the wall as a distorted shape spilled into the attic, momentarily blotting out the moonlight. The sight reminded Sol of all those edutainment videos of octopuses using their boneless nature to squeeze through openings that would’ve been impossible for literally anything else to bypass. 

After a batch of long, uncomfortable seconds dragged by, the shape slithered from the window frame and onto the floor. It almost seemed to spread there like a pool of viscous liquid…and then, thick clouds of smoke began to rise from it. They pulled the shape up like it was magnetic putty, coaxing it to weave itself into something much more solid. 

Without warning, a harsh emerald light beamed to life from somewhere inside the figure. Sol flinched back, having to wrench her eyes shut. But once she re-opened them, she felt something cold and clammy start to churn in her stomach. 

Thanks to all their time working with Pat, Sol was much more prepared to accept the unacceptable than the average human. 

But the scene unfolding before her…she had to admit that it was something else. 

In the span of mere seconds, the visiting monster already grown to roughly the same size as Pat.

And, keeping up with the similarities, his head and torso followed a vague human shape. 

And vague was an extremely generous term here, folks.

His skin was almost completely transparent—that green illumination had tapered down some, allowing Sol to realize that the monster’s bones and organs were glowing from the inside. Similar to a diaphonized specimen with its container positioned over an LED stand.

As Sol stared, she managed to see how his misshapen heart squirmed its way out from under his lungs; though it didn’t escape his jagged, bending ribcage, it seemed perfectly fine with crawling around in tight circles to press up against bone. His intestines shuffled and writhed over one another like a pile of worms.

The jagged, organic crater taking up space by his abdomen suggested that he’d been ripped in half at the navel. That smoke from earlier was now drifting out of it, veils curling through in the air in a very unnatural way. 

Before Sol could stop herself, she looked up at the monster’s face. 

The corners of his mouth stretched quite literally from ear-to-ear. A few inches before those corners, thin strands of flesh stretch out to connect his upper and lower jaws. It was honestly miraculous that they hadn’t been accidentally shredded by the unnecessary amount of glinting teeth nestled inside. Hair grew over his lips(?) and along his chin, forming a short beard that was just as dark as the thatch on his scalp, which draped over his shoulders and back in long tangles. 

And to top it all off, both of his eye sockets were completely hollow, as well as disturbingly wide. In fact, the glistening flesh inside them stretched out of his head to curve alongside his temples in shapes somewhat similar to the ears of a bat.

Pat’s warning echoed through Sol’s brain…but where were this guy’s eyes? How could he see at all? 

Sol’s own eyes drifted down, and she just barely managed to catch herself and pin her focus to the opposite wall instead. Because she’d gotten her answer: displaced peepers were littered about the monster’s arms and hands and neck, with the largest one blinking on that spot right where his collarbones met. 

Eye Guy shuffled in place, surveying Pat’s cocoon-hammock-nest thing before his vision finally settled on his fellow monster. Pat stared right back, the Illuminati’s Cousin rolling around in his head. 

“.⃥.̸.⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘠̸,⃥” Eye Guy greeted, his voice seeming to splash through the air, rough and loud and…laced with an honest-to-God Irish accent?

“Hê¥,” Pat echoed, the edges of his voice spinning like a swarm of cicadas. 

A trio of his back-tendrils suddenly stretched out from the cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, reaching across the attic to a little mini-fridge that had been set up in the corner. One of them pulled the little door open, then heaved it shut once the other two each coiled around a can of Diet Coke. 

The tendrils weaved their way back over, one of them hovering near Eye Guy while the other two vanished, probably wrapping around Pat's spine and ribs, the other can of soda sticking the landing in his outstretched palm

Eye Guy  tilted his head, quietly reaching up to accept the offered beverage. “𝗢⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗞⃥𝘚̸.⃥”

“ñð þrðßlêm,” Pat responded, using the tips of his claws to pop the tab. 

Eye Guy followed suite, the two of them drinking until the cans were empty…at which point the aforementioned cans simply followed the soda’s path, aluminum crunching and tearing and screeching against horrifically sharp enamel, likely leaving jagged scars and opening up thin rivers of monstrous blood in its wake as it was swallowed. 

𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘍̸𝗘⃥𝘞̸ 𝘚̸𝗖⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘔̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗨⃥𝘛̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸.⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥'̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥?̸” Eye Guy asked.

“Öh, jµ§† þêå¢h¥!” Pat’s fangs curled out of his mouth like tusks as he aimed a sarcastic grin the visitor’s way. 

Eye Guy shrugged. “𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗗⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘋̸𝗨⃥𝘗̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗞⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥.̸ 𝘊̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘕̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥.̸”

Pat hummed affirmative, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head in a prideful manner. Another awkward few seconds came and went before he let out a grating sigh.

“§ð. Çårê †ð êxþlåïñ wh¥ ¥ðµ'rê ¢rå§hïñg ðñ M¥ †ÈRR̆ÖR¥? ȧþê¢ïåll¥ 壆êr Ì JÚ§† gð† ßå¢k †ð ï†?”

Eye Guy clicked his long, forked tongue. “𝗜⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘐̸𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘋̸𝗬⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘈̸𝗪⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘊̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘛̸𝗟⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗟⃥𝘌̸ 𝘈̸𝗚⃥𝘖̸—𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗬⃥,̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘠̸,⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘔̸ 𝘋̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸𝗡⃥.̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗧⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘖̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘑̸𝗢⃥𝘠̸.” He briefly cut himself off to wave a dismissive clutch of talons at the way Pat snarled. Although there was no denying the mischievous smirk in his tone as he added, “𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥,̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗬⃥.̸”

Pat leaned out of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, clicking his teeth as his eyes narrowed.

“†hå†'§ §†rïkê Öñê, þål. †r¥ ågåïñ,” he warned. 

“𝗢⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗖⃥'̸𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥. 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘋̸𝗬⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸.⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘍̸𝗙⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘈̸𝗠⃥𝘕̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸!⃥” Eye Guy huffed. He got the privilege of taking the rolling-your-eyes-with-your-whole-body thing to an extremely authentic level. “𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗗⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘏̸’⃥𝘔̸𝗨⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥-̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸ 𝘐̸𝗦⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗖⃥𝘒̸,⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘌̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸ 𝘛̸𝗥⃥𝘠̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸.⃥”

“¥êåh, Ì Ðð kñðw åll †hå†,” Pat agreed. He shifted in place, soon lying on his back, the Illuminati’s Cousin still glaring at Eye Guy.  “Lêmmê gµê§§: ¥ðµ wåñ† †ð mêê† µþ wï†h mê åñÐ m¥ kñðwïñg-†hïñg§ §¢h†ï¢k ïñ å ¢ðµþlê ñïgh†§. †hå† wå¥, åñ¥ þð†êñïål †hrê冧 ¢åñ ßê þrêÐêÐ ßê£ðrê †hê¥ Ðï§rµþ† å ¢êr†åïñ rål?”

The way he spoke made it sound much more like a statement than a question.

Out of the corner of their eye, Sol glimpsed how Eye Guy’s collar-eye (wow, that was way too many eyes in one sentence, huh?) lit up. It seemed he was about to reply, but Pat interjected with a theatrical gasp. 

“ßµ† wåï†!” After an overexaggerated pause, he continued: “¥ðµ ÐïÐñ'† êvêñ mêñ†ïðñ åñ¥ rål§ ïñ ¥ðµr êlêvå†ðr-þh, Ðê§þï†ê †hê ðßvïðµ§ñꧧ ð£ ï† åll!”

He let himself fall out halfway over the edge of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, now hanging upside-down, all six pairs of his arms folded across his chest. “Wh¥'Ð ¥ðµ Ðð †hå†?”

A sour look flickered in the collar-eye; Eye Guy’s bioluminesence shifted into a more toxic shade of green. An aggravated groan seeped through his gnashing teeth. 

“.⃥.̸.⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘒̸ 𝘞̸𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸ 𝘗̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗖⃥𝘐̸𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘙̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸!⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘈̸𝗗⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗠⃥!̸”

“Öh, Ì'm ñð† §å¥ïñg ¥ðµ ÐïÐ,” Pat agreed, his pitch dripping with honey that was so obviously pumped full of venom. “̆'§ jµ§†—†ð ßê ¢lêår: ï£ ¥ðµ åñÐ I årê §µþþð§êÐ †ð ßê ïñvðlvêÐ, †hêñ whð årê ¥ðµ †hïñkïñg åß𵆠£ðr †hå† †hïrÐ þår†ï¢ïþåñ†?”

Now it was Eye Guy’s turn to hissssss, talons leaving long gashes in the old attic floor panels. 

“.⃥.̸.⃥𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘒̸𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥,̸” he finally muttered. 

Pat nodded with a snarky hum, his eyes all narrowing to slits. “Èx墆l¥. §ð, wh¥ †hê HÈLL årê ¥ðµ å§kïñg mê †ð ßê ïñvlðvêÐ ï£ HÈ'§ gðññå ßê †hêrê?!”

“𝗕⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗬⃥𝘚̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸ 𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘈̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘉̸𝗟⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸!⃥” Eye Guy snapped back, his voice now booming enough for Sol’s ears to ring. 

“Wêll, MÄ¥ßÈ ¥ðµ jµ§† håvêñ'† ßêêñ lððkïñg hårÐ êñðµgh,” Pat snipped. With an awful crunching sound, he twisted his torso around on itself in a way that would've been more than enough to snap a mortal spine five times over, turning his back to the other monster.  “Hðw åß𵆠¥ðµ jµ§† jðg ðñ åñÐ kêêþ †r¥ïñg?”

“𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘖̸ 𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸!⃥” Eye Guy protested. “𝗧⃥𝘙̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸,⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘍̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥𝘕̸'⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥,̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥𝘕̸'⃥𝘛̸ 𝘌̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥,̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸ 𝗜⃥'̸𝗠⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘕̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸𝗪⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗪⃥𝘖̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥!̸”

“Öh, å§ ï£ Ì'M †HÈ þRÖßLÈM!” Pat’s neck swiveled in the opposite of the direction he’d just shifted, soon staring daggers at his guest yet again. “Ì£ ¥ðµ rêåll¥ £êêl †hå† wå¥, †hêñ wh¥ §hðµlÐ Ì ¢årê?!”

Following the new pattern, one pair of his arms bent backwards as he raised them, wrists popping and cricking as he made air-quotes with his claws. “ÐïÐñ'† ¥ÖÚ †êll mê †ð ‘jµ§† §å¥ ñð’ å† †hå† §ðl§†ï¢ê å †hðµ§åñÐ ¥êår§ ågð?”

Eye Guy growled deep in his throat. He then shook his head, pressing a hand to his temple and dragging it down his face (and nearly getting one of his claws caught in his eye-sockets).

“𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥𝘠̸ 𝘑̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗬⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥,̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸?⃥”

“Wêll, ñêï†hêr ¢åñ ¥ðµ!” Pat finally slid all the way out of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, his form unfurling to land on the floor with a heavy thud. He arched his back, drumming his talons against wood. 

Eye Guy lightly shook his head, began pacing in small, tight circles. 

“𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗟⃥𝘋̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥,̸” he responded after a moment, “𝗕⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘜̸𝗗⃥𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸ 𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘔̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘜̸𝗖⃥𝘒̸ 𝘜̸𝗣⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘗̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘕̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘏̸𝗨⃥𝘎̸𝗘⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗬⃥.̸”

He halted, all eyes now focusing on his host. “𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘐̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘖̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗦⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗨⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸ 𝘐̸𝗡⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘜̸𝗚⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸.⃥”

He crawled a few paces closer, only stopping once he was a mere few inches away from getting in Pat’s face. “'⃥𝘔̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸𝗧⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘍̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥,̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸ 𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗨⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸ 𝘐̸𝗡⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘜̸𝗚⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸.⃥”

Silence. 

Though he didn’t shrink back, still baring his fangs and fuming…there was no denying how Pat stiffened. As quick as he was to mask the spark of anxiety in his eyes, he was somehow still far too late. 

Sol swallowed a lump in their throat. Even with how well they’d gotten to know him, they’d never really thought that Pat could actually be…perturbed by anything, considering the hobbies he carried out. 

It wouldn’t have taken a genius to guess that Eye Guy had a hidden-in-plain-sight lair of his own. Was it connected to The Abnormal Orchard? If so, how? Why? 

Not only that, but Sol could remember a few of Pat’s semi-recent ranting-sessions; all vague venting about some other abomination. There was no way aforementioned monster wasn’t the ‘HE’ Eye Guy had admitted to involving with whatever ritual was on the table. 

But that other name that had been brought up…Ah’ Mung-Stus. Sol had never heard anything like that from Pat. 

Who—or what—was this other creature? And what did any of this have to do with the moon?

Without warning, Eye Guy shifted in place.

“𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘚̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘒̸ 𝘈̸𝗕⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘛̸,⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘊̸𝗘⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘙̸𝗬⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘎̸ 𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥𝘛̸𝗬⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘚̸𝗦⃥𝘜̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸,” he declared, turning away to crawl toward the attic window. He paused as his hands grasped the edges of the hollow frame once again. 

“𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘜̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘋̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘠̸ 𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸𝗙⃥.̸ 𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸ 𝘗̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸𝗬⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸-⃥𝘍̸𝗜⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘋̸;⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸ 𝘐̸𝗧⃥.̸𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘔̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥,̸ 𝘗̸𝗟⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗤⃥𝘜̸𝗜⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥𝘚̸.⃥”

A few of the watery orbs lining Eye Guy’s shoulders rolled over to stare at Pat. And for the very first time that night, Pat glanced away.

“𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗘⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘐̸𝗚⃥𝘏̸𝗧⃥.̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘎̸𝗨⃥𝘠̸𝗦⃥'̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘑̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗥⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗖⃥𝘏̸ 𝘖̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸ 𝘕̸𝗜⃥𝘎̸𝗛⃥𝘛̸.⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸ 𝘉̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘖̸ 𝘉̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗠⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘖̸𝗝⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗫⃥𝘛̸ 𝘍̸𝗘⃥𝘞̸ 𝘔̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘕̸𝗜⃥𝘈̸,” Eye Guy concluded. 

And with that, he reared back and dove through the window. All the smoke that had accompanied him was suddenly drawn out after him, like he’d opened up some kind of invisible vacuum. It took a long few moments, but eventually the air was clear again. 

Slowly-but-surely, the lively sounds of various nocturnes echoed through the world outside the museum. 

Even so, Sol didn’t move, no matter how much their cramped muscles screamed at them to. 

Not until Pat climbed back onto his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing and turned his head to regard their hiding spot. The Illuminati’s Cousin had finally closed, disappearing from his forehead altogether.

“Çð姆 ï§ ¢lêår,” he called, his voice drenched in something that was soft yet bitter. 

Sol gently tapped Charcoal on the shoulder. He finally closed his mouth, smothering the flame that had been part of their cover for what felt like hours. As the cat hopped away from his owner’s lap to stretch, Sol clambered out of the crawl space, quickly getting to their feet almost like a soldier called to attention.

They reached into their jacket, palming their flint striker-knife. They couldn’t help it; as dangerous as it could be, it just made for a shockingly good stim-toy at times. 

“...So.” Sol chewed their lip. “I take it the moon is very angry or something?” 

“ñð† qµï†ê,” Pat replied as he curled back up, his pale, shining eyes contemplative and…wait, was that an iota of actual dread? “̆'§ å† rï§k ð£ gꆆïñg êå†êñ ïñ å llê whïlê.”

“Oh.” Sol rocked back and forth on their heels, not sure what else they could really say to that. Still, they were nothing if not tenacious, so they pressed on. “Eaten by what, exactly?” 

Pat clicked his many teeth again, eyes tracing all the network of the silk he’d woven to make himself a proper den after going far, far too long without one. 

“...¥'kñðw †hê 姆êrðïÐ †hå† êñ†êrêÐ Èår†h'§ ðrßï† åß𵆠å mðñ†h ågð?” 

Sol nodded, politely ignoring how their question had gone unanswered. “Yeah. 2024 PT5. What about it?” 

A hollow chuckle slithered up and out of whatever misshapen lungs were hiding inside Pat’s system.

He glanced down at his mortal companion, his mouth stretching much too quickly and fluidly to form a wry, exhausted grin on his features. “Älrïgh†. ñðw, †êll mê êvêr¥†hïñg ¥ðµ kñðw åß𵆠åggrê§ïvê mïmï¢r¥…”

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedou

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Sol Magee

(For a little extra context about this character, go here.)

My very first fanego based off of Ash from GtLive

Since EldritchPlier has a human friend/ally/follower, it’s only fair that LeviathanPat gets a mortal companion, too. (After all, I created him—along with Caliban and my other EgoPats—because I wanted some characters to parallel some of Mark’s egos.) This means Sol gets some sick bragging rights due to being one of very few humans who can hang out with L.P. without the risk of death or insanity.

Her friendship with L.P. revolves around The Abnormal Orchard, a macabre museum built on the primary portion of L.P.’s territory on Earth. On top of showcases a collection of preserved specimens and oddities (many of which are the results of L.P.’s “experimenting hobby”), it also doubles as a  horror/surreal art gallery (many of which come with some nasty old curses). 

In fact, Sol actually came to the museum before they ever even met L.P.. She inherited the property a couple months after the former owner—a relative of hers—died under very strange circumstances. (That’s a story for another day, but let’s just say professional morticians were…a little shocked. Flabbergasted, you might say. Bamboozled, even.) 

If you’ve read this story of mine, then you already know that L.P. was kept imprisoned in an underground cavern for at least a few millennia. However, despite all the distance between him and other living entities, he still had a strong psychological connection to his territory. So, of course, he can sense pretty much everything that goes on in/around The Abnormal Orchard. Meaning he sensed when Sol arrived. It didn’t take very long for her to hear his voice in her head while she moved into the private suite that was built close to the museum itself. 

Now, irl Ash is nothing if not the personification of “Be Gay, Do Crime” and Sol here is no different. Much like Cruz, they have a disturbing knack for being casual when faced with the supernatural. Only, Sol has even more unconventional energy when it comes to their projects. Enough unconventional energy to have ended up genuinely impressing L.P. (Yeah, that's right! Sol is the type to go for LEATHER JACKETS instead of CLOAKS for rituals!)

Interactions between the two of them were symbiotic at first, but that still managed to grow into legit casual bonding (as casual as you can get with an outer monstrosity, that is). All the while, L.P. decided to teach Sol the ins and outs of occultism, whereas Sol put rituals/offerings together for him.

When L.P. finally managed to escape his prison, the first thing he did (after taunting the unfortunate characters who released him by accident) was travel to The Abnormal Orchard and officially meet Sol in person, who welcomed him with open arms and helped him make a proper lair in the building's attic.

In the way of a ceremonial tool, Sol has a trusty flint-striker knife! Yes, it's smaller than Cruz's gut-hook skinner knife. NO, YOU SHOULD NOT UNDERESTIMATE IT BECAUSE OF THAT. It's absorbed plenty of paranormal juju from all of Sol's shenanigans; it can cut much, much deeper (and therefore draw much more blood) than you'd think. Oh, and its striking half can produce both simple sparks and lashing flames. Just depends on circumstance. (Also, Sol would totally go out of her way to use rainbow flint for the striking. Because, again: "Be Gay, Do Crime...")

Macaroon ain't the only vaguely cat-shaped monstrosity out here! Enter Charcoal: Sol's questionable emotional/moral support, based off of irl Ash's very own Charlie! Where Macaroon was a gift from E.P. to Cruz, Charcoal was a stray alley cat that L.P. guided Sol to find and take in. One complex-yet-strangely-wholesome ritual later, she learned that some cats out there have apparently evolved from DRAGONS. (Hey, c'mon, I've gotta keep a fire-theme going.) Since Charcoal is allowed to roam The Abnormal Orchard at pretty much all hours, he has a glamor to wear around humans other than his owner. But when it comes to rituals, black fur pulls away to reveal a dark scaled, horned, fire-breathing, wyvern-esque wing and barbed-tail having lil' beastie.

Their ritual protection mask is heavily inspired by this one I just happened to find one evening. Of course, I don’t want to plagiarize, so I had to make a few tweaks to the design-concept in my head. For one thing, the eye-holes would come with a pair of small glass lenses; that way, the user can still see without risk of going blind or having their eyes turn into baby-heads or whatever.  For another thing, rather than leather, the material would likely be painted porcelain or something similar—since irl Ash and Matt were both theater kids, I wanted to reference those classic masquerade costumes. And for a final thing, it comes with the outline of a mouth. Specifically speaking, a toothy mouth like the one of this other mask. Here’s the catch, though: Sol’s mask would have a combination of smile on the left side, and frown on the right side (again, to reference classic theater masks. Specifically Comedy and Tragedy).

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedou

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Talking in Your Sleep

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. For more information on LeviathanPat, go here. For more information on Sylph, go here. And for more information on Sol, go here. Meanwhile, Sam Ryder belongs to my very good friend, @sammys-magical-au !)

(Not only is this story finally, FINALLY DONE, it's also a continuation/epilogue to one of Sammy’s recent works. Go here to read it for clarification. Plus, their story is based on elements from one of mine. So, if you’d like even more context, go here.)

(One more thing: if you’d like to use distorted fonts like the ones you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)

(Trigger Warnings: nightmares/dreams, body horror, slight blood/gore, slight violence, talk of death/dying. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

How did these things happen? 

One minute you knew exactly where you were. And the next you were completely turned around for seemingly no reason other than maybe the universe just didn’t like the way you blinked.

That was why Sam had veered away from the sidewalk, had climbed the staircase attached to one side of one building that was almost as large as The Abnormal Orchard. Granted, they weren’t entirely sure why this place needed public access to its roof, but their phone just couldn’t seem to stop lagging and freezing for the past few minutes. It just wouldn’t cooperate with them long enough to load up a map of this unfamiliar city. 

Up here, they could see pretty much everything. All the lights that glinted through faraway windows.

Signs that glowed and blinked in specific patterns.

The streetlamps that loomed over sections of the sidewalk every ten-or-so feet, all warm-tinted, bathing anything under them in scarlet beams. When Sam had still been down there, those things had made it look like they’d truly dyed their locks rather than just naturally having golden-blonde somehow seep into blood-orange.

The whole display really got close competing with the moon’s cold, silvery rays.

Sam squinted, bracing their hands against the concrete safety-railing as they leaned forward.

That place off to the east, just at the edge of this downtown environment…that was the hotel, right? There was no way it couldn’t be—Sam recognized the abstract graffiti that had been left on the building’s far-wall, probably right in the blindspot of whatever cameras were hidden around the main entrance.

When you had to go on last-minute assignments as often as Sam did, you learned to memorize even the smallest details of wherever you ended up staying.

And that…made Sam give pause. 

Because as they stepped back, idly pacing along the roof’s barrier, not taking their eyes off the city below, they realized that they couldn’t see The Abnormal Orchard anymore. 

That should’ve been impossible: the museum had been built with such an imposing, tower-eqsue shape. There was no doubting how it was the tallest structure around here. 

Not to mention the establishment’s sign, adorned by a network of wires that all glowed with neon shades of violet and blue, all working together to form the image of a pomegranate with a cluster of eyeballs in the place of its seeds. 

A shudder ran through Sam’s shoulders. As a vegetarian, they’d be lying if they said that sign hadn’t reminded them of nightmares they’d had in the past. And they supposed that was the whole point. Something as creepy as that would definitely get the attention of passersby, make them curious enough to wander in and pay to look at the grotesquely-intriguing collections. 

Yet, no matter what direction they turned or how they craned their neck, Sam just couldn’t find it anymore.

Well, they’d already heard stories about plenty of businesses that were infamous for just…not staying in one place, fading in and out of certain locations for whatever reason. Sometimes a hollow space was left in the wake until the building decided to reappear, other times it was replaced by something else. Whether or not the people living near the place were aware of the change was a different kettle of fish. 

Sam hadn’t gotten that vibe when they’d visited the museum, but they’d been wrong before.

They chewed their lip, stuffing their hands into their jacket pockets as they headed back to the top of that staircase. 

Come to think of it…even with all the artificial light everywhere, Sam hadn’t seen a single car on the streets. 

Hell, they hadn’t even seen a single other pedestrian down on the sidewalks

That didn’t make any damn sense. You couldn’t have a city like this without some level of nighttime activity from the locals. 

Where was everybody?

Something with jagged edges began to fester in their stomach.

It didn’t help that the stairs ever-so-slightly shook and rattled with each step. They were metallic, seeming fairly new. They weren’t even too steep for the sudden quickness in Sam’s pace to cause any problems. But all the noise they made eventually sparked their anxiety.

Halfway back down to the street below, they began to reach out, intent on locking the banister in a white-knuckled grip.

They never got the chance. 

Instead, they got to feel a strange, foreign weight suddenly wrap around their ankle in a way that would’ve made the average blood-pressure cuff seem like a toy. 

Before they could even look down, Sam was yanked off-balance, and while their hands did fly up by instinct, it still didn’t do much to break their fall. They slid the rest of the way down the stairs, creating even more of a cacophony (though it was better than being reduced to a human slinky).  

It was over in seconds; they crumpled onto the sidewalk, but thanks to all their training, they didn’t linger. And as Sam picked themself up, they were just in time to see a clutch of oily-looking digits retract back through one gap in-between the stairs. 

Shock and fury never failed to make such an interesting cocktail in one’s head.

With one hand now fishing through their jacket for a weapon, Sam stormed over to look up at the underside of the staircase. 

Despite all their experience, part of them still sort of wished that they hadn’t. 

A vaguely humanoid figure was standing upside-down right beneath the spot where they’d fallen.

Not hanging. Not clinging.

Standing. 

As though his personal gravity had reversed its polarity and standing under the stairs was the only thing keeping him from floating up into the sky. 

At first, Sam’s brain struggled to categorize this figure as even being a solid entity; his form was even darker than the night sky above. It just had some kind of odd…rippling effect to it, like thick clouds of smoke or a deep shadow.

And yet, as Sam got closer, the figure seemed to become more compact. His head swiveled with a loud snap, his neck turning at a very uncomfortable angle to scrutinize them with a pair of eyes that blazed with sickly paleness.

Sam ground their jaw; it wasn’t the first time they’d had to deal with a monster, and it wouldn’t be the last, either. Besides, this guy just tripped them down a flight of stairs. While not even really TRYING to hide. 

“Hey!” Sam barked, The Lion’s Breath sliding out from the sheath they kept hidden in their jacket. “What the hell is your damage?!”

“...£µññ¥,” the creature spat, his lips peeling back far too long, revealing sets of glinting teeth. So many teeth, in fact, that Sam couldn’t even see a speck of gums in his mouth. They were all packed in like sardines, thin and long and sharp. “Ì ¢ðµlÐ å§k ¥ÖÚ †hê §åmê †hïñg.”

The creature then let his arms hang, his torso stretching with a chorus of pops and cracks until his hands touched the ground. He craned his chest for his head to finally be rightside-up, just barely shifting his shoulders, and then his face was suddenly a single inch away from Sam. The air seemed to vibrate around his head, which had proportionally grown to accommodate eyes that were now about the size of bicycle tires.

Sam ducked away, backing up a couple paces, raising the arm with The Lion’s Breath to guarantee at least a little more personal space.

“Whå†'§ †hê m円êr, §åm?” The creature inquired, his voice crackling like a fire. A dull thud from behind caught Sam’s attention, leading them to realize that the creature’s feet had finally dropped away from the stairs. They got to watch as his legs fused together, making his lower-half into some kind of thick, sinuous tail. 

The creature’s arms grew almost as long, allowing him to keep himself upright—to keep looming over his new conversation partner—rather than crawling on his belly. 

“Whêrê'§ åll †hå† ßråvåÐð Ì §åw êårlïêr?” He continued, tilting his head to the side. “Ì mêåñ, ¥ðµ rêåll¥ ÐïÐ jµ§† wål†z ïñ†ð M¥ †µr£ lïkê ¥ðµ ðwñêÐ ï†.”

Sam paused. They knew they’d never seen something quite like this before—

Seen.

But as the hideous, unfamiliar voice lingered the in air far longer than it should have, they realized they still somehow recognized it.

“...Pat?” Sam asked, readjusting their grip around their weapon’s hilt.

The creature snorted. He rolled his primary eyes, which seemed to encourage a few extras to sprout beneath them. “†hå†'§ þår† ð£ m¥ ñåmê. Ððñ'† wêår ï† ðµ†.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, only making a slight dent in their pokerface. Yes, they had years of experience with the supernatural and then some. Yes, being bonded to the Ancient Ones meant they could comprehend a little more than the average mortal could. 

Still, that kind of stuff came in varying levels. 

Things like Pat were a very strange example; they were equal-yet-opposites to the Ancient Ones. Sure, the latter could definitely hold more power at times, but outer abominations were just so…raw. So impossible. 

They were living proof that something always had and always would be wrong with the universe…as well as evidence on how that was just the way things needed to be. 

Sam lightly shook their head before lifting their chin, gazing up, up, up and directly into the monstrosity’s eyes. 

Pat, in turn, made the slightest move to lower his head, pinprick pupils shrinking even more, spinning, seemingly buzzing as he glared. 

“Well, maybe you’re one to talk,” Sam announced, finally remembering that there was a question for them to answer. “I was warned to wear a mask around you—so, where’s the reason for that, huh? Where’s all the mind-breaking horror that’s supposed to waft off of you guys at all times? I’m looking right at you, and nothing’s happening. It really doesn’t feel like I even need to shield my brain.” 

“Ððñ'† £l円êr ¥ðµr§êl£.” Pat arched his back, similar to how a cobra might flare its hood. “ñêï†hêr 𣠵§ årê ïñ †hê §åmê þlå¢ê å§ ßê£ðrê. Rµlê§ åñÐ ¢ðñ§êqµêñ¢ê§ jµ§† wðrk Ðêrêñ†l¥ hêrê.”

He continued his slow circling; Sam kept moving as well, kept The Lion’s Breath trained on him. 

“†rµ§† mê: ï£ ¥ðµ wêrê rêåll¥ lððkïñg å† mê wï†h𵆠å ßårrïêr…¥ÖÚ'Ð ÐRÖþ †Ö ¥ÖÚR KñÈȧ ÄñÐ §†ÄR† þÖÚñÐÌñG MÖR§È ÇÖÐÈ Ìñ†Ö †HÈ GRÖÚñÐ W̆H ¥ÖÚR HÈÄÐ.” 

Nearby, a new chorus started up: an awful, rubbery, stretching-and-splintering din. Sam glanced over to see how Pat’s “tail” was now splitting apart once again. Only this time, it divided into more than just two limbs. In a matter of seconds, it was a mass of writhing tendrils, like the flesh of an octopus had been grafted into the roots of a tree. 

“†hðµgh, ¥ðµr ßråïñ wðµlÐ þrðßåßl¥ ßê mêl†ïñg åñÐ ¢hµrñïñg årðµñÐ ïñ ¥ðµr §kµll. §ð, Ððïñg †hå† wðµlÐ ßê å ßï† êå§ïêr †håñ jµ§† †r¥ïñg †ð †ðµgh ï† ðµ†, rïgh†?”

And before Sam had a chance to reply, one of those tendrils cracked like a whip, a blur in the air as it lunged toward them.

Muscle memory kicked in. Without even blinking, Sam swung The Lion’s Breath. It met the oncoming tendril head-on, and—

And…

And the sword phased right through it. 

The metal came back in less than a second, but it was like a cloud of shimmering fog. Like evaporation in reverse. 

Sam felt their eyes widen, felt their mouth drop open. They tightened their grip even further, trying to use the hilt as an anchor. They couldn’t let Pat see them shaking. They couldn’t show too much fear. Abominations like him sometimes behaved a bit like cats; seeing fear helped them decide on what (or who) could be potential prey. 

To Pat’s credit, surprisingly enough, the tendril paused as well, looming in place…until it wasn’t. It swayed to one side, aiming for an opening Sam had left. Still, Sam was fast enough to block it, to try and literally cut the attack off. 

But the blade just…faded in and out of sight again. 

The tendril wove around to the opposite side now—a third attack, a third counterstrike, a third round of sword-warping-tomfuckery. 

Pat raised his brows. He clicked his teeth together, emitting a keening noise like knives being sharpened. It took a second for Sam to realize that he was snickering; it was like the sound was something solid, something that was actively being sheared by his fangs as it rolled out of his mouth. 

The monstrosity shifted in place, lying on his chest and folding his forearms in front of him, sort of like the stereotypical teenage gossip-monger at a slumber party. A third limb broke out from his side, elbow touching down on the concrete.

He raised the freshly-formed clutch of talons to his face, resting his chin on the new palm. “Ärê ¥ðµ Ððñê ¥ê†?”

“How—?!” Sam blurted, glancing back and forth between their weapon and their adversary. “This is made from Etherium! Eldritch beings can rarely even just exist within five feet of it!”

“Ððñ'† rêmïñÐ mê,” Pat hissed.

In spite of their shock, Sam snarled, storming a bit closer to the creature. “You yourself said that my presence alone was painful back at the museum! And that was just when this was only a bracelet! What the hell did you do to it?!”

Pat scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “Ì'm ñð† Ððïñg åñ¥†hïñg †ð ï†...¥ðµ årê.”

Sam felt their heart skip a beat. 

The seconds dragged by, watching as a smirk spread across Pat’s features, practically splitting his face in half. 

“Älrïgh†, ålrïgh†. ̆'§ ñð† jµ§† ¥ðµ,” he finally admitted, once he’d apparently gotten his fill of shock from them. “Mðrê lïkê...†hê wå¥ ¥ðµ'rê þrð¢ê§§ïñg †hï§ þlå¢ê, åñÐ vï¢ê-vêr§å. ̆'§ ñð† ¢ðñ§¢ïðµ§ å† åll.”

“‘This place?’” Sam echoed. “What do you mean, ‘this place?’”

Instead of answering, Pat moved again, one of his arms lunging forward to swipe at Sam’s stomach. 

And this time, Sam didn’t move quickly enough. A short scream ripped its way through Sam’s lungs, one arm flying up to shield their face. They waited to fall back, waited for the searing sensation of blood oozing through a fresh wound, waited for some kind of supernatural disease to start mummifying them from the inside-out…

But none of that ever happened. 

They kept their balance, didn’t feel any pain. 

Sure, they still felt the impact of the strike; it reminded them of a clump of dry ice. 

Cold and hazy and raw. 

But not painful. Not exactly, at least.

Against their better judgment, Sam lowered their arm and looked back down. 

Pat’s claws were still there, still pushing against their abdomen in a way that absolutely should have punctured through clothes and skin like a clutch of knives. 

Instead, those horrific digits simply hovered there, now seemingly severed where they should have made contact with Sam. They were each covered in that strange veil of gleaming, metallic smoke. Just like what had happened to The Lion’s Breath…

“§êê †hå†?” Pat wondered aloud. He pulled his arm away from Sam, and his talons immediately phased back, good as new. He idly wriggled them, examining them like he’d just gotten a manicure. He then nodded over toward the staircase. 

“†hïñk: £ðr m𧆠hµmåñ§, £ållïñg Ððwñ å §ê† ð£ §†åïr§ lïkê ¥ðµ jµ§† ÐïÐ wðµlÐ mêåñ ßrðkêñ ßðñê§, ðr å ¢ðñ¢µ§ïðñ, ðr êvêñ Ðêå†h. ÄñÐ ¥ê†…” He trailed off, making a vague gesture in Sam’s direction.  

Sam nodded without meaning to. They glanced down at their arms and legs, carefully stretching the muscles in their back and shifting their neck. 

The monster was right: even if Sam was a certified Tough Cookie, they should’ve been injured. There should’ve been deep, bleeding scrapes in the skin of their palms. Their ribs and knees and ankles should’ve been flaring with nearly white-hot pain.

But none of that was here. No cuts, no bumps or bruises, no blood…

“This isn’t real,” Sam murmured, realization crashed through their head like a tidal wave. Relief would’ve been included, but considering Pat’s presence, it was staying firmly hidden. “You’re not actually here. And neither am I.” 

“†hêrê wê gð!” Pat purred, his unearthly voice now dripping with sarcasm and a smidge of condescension. 

Sam glared at him. They shifted The Lion’s Breath in their grasp, now holding it close.

Pat eyed them. “¥ðµ ¢åñ þµ† †hå† åwå¥. ñð† lïkê êï†hêr 𣠵§ ¢åñ †r¥ åñ¥†hïñg å† †hê mðmêñ†.”

“Maybe,” Sam hummed, carefully sliding their thumb against the center of the blade. It felt so solid. So real. Just like it usually did. “But I don’t think I will.”

Pat shrugged, clicking his tongue…which, of course, led to it flicking in and out of his mouth like a party favor.

“This can’t be an out-of-body experience,” Sam mentioned. “If it was, then I’d be able to see my real self. And it can’t be astral projection either—I’ve done that before, and I can’t remember trying to set anything up before this happened.” 

“¥ðµ wêrêñ'†,” Pat agreed, drumming his claws against the ground. 

“So I must be asleep right now. I must be having a dream—or a nightmare.” Sam paused, then raised an eyebrow at Pat. “And I guess that means…you are, too.”

Pat’s eyes narrowed. A few of the ones lower on his face even began to melt in their sockets, popping and hissing. 

“†hå†'§ rïgh†…”  He pronounced through rows of gritted razor-teeth, his voice laced with bitter venom and warping like rusted metal, much lower than before. 

“What? Why’re you getting all huffy?” Sam took a step back, holding up a hand. “Things like you usually don’t even need to sleep.”

Another arm, fresh like a moth from its cocoon, sprouted from Pat’s other side. It wove past Sam and slammed against the wall behind them. His claws left deep, dark gashes in the bricks as he slowly raked them downward. 

“Ì §HÖÚLÐñ'† ßê §lêêþïñg!” The abomination snapped. “Ì ÇÄñ'† Ä££ÖRÐ †ð §lêêþ! ¥ðµ håvê åñ¥ ïÐêå whå† §lêêþïñg ¢ðµlÐ lêåvê mê å† rï§k †ð?!”

Sam flinched at the new volume in his voice; it rattled through their head like some kind of broken bell that also happened to be full of acid. They had no doubt that, had this occurred in the real world, their ears would've started bleeding a bit.

Still, they didn’t let themself falter any further. 

This was just a dream. Nothing could hurt them. 

And if shit somehow did end up hitting the fan, they could find a way to wake themself. But for now…

Pat heaved an exasperated sigh, begrudgingly pulling his claws away from the wall.

“Ć lê姆 §ðl ï§ wïllïñg †ð kêêþ w冢h,” he muttered. 

“Well, excuse me for asking,” Sam deadpanned. “If that’s really how you feel about it, then why are you sleeping now?”

Pat’s eyes rolled around in his head, sort of like those bubbles in a jar of oil, quite literally looking Sam up and down. “ßê¢åµ§ê Ì wåñ†êÐ †ð gê† å ßꆆêr rêåÐ ðñ ¥ðµ.”

“Ah, yes. Not creepy at all.”

“ÐïÐñ'† håvê mµ¢h ð£ å ¢håñ¢ê êårlïêr. ¥'kñðw, ¢ðñ§ïÐêrïñg †hå† †rïñkê† ð£ ¥ðµr§ £êl† lïkê åñ ï¢ê þï¢k §lðwl¥ ßêïñg þµ§hêÐ ïñ†ð m¥ †êmþlê.”

“Why do you even need a read on me at all? I didn’t come here as a threat to you.” Sam felt a pit open up in their stomach, felt bile threaten to start rising in their throat. “What, have you suddenly changed your mind about—”

“ñÖ, Ì håvêñ'†.” Pat cut them off with a groan, dragging a hand down his face and subsequently tearing a few ribbons of abyssal flesh between his fingers. “Èvêñ ï£ †hï§ þår†ï¢µlår wðrlÐ ï§ þrïmï†ïvê, ï† §†ïll hå§ ï†§ mêr, åñÐ Ì'm ¢ðñ†êñ† wï†h †hê llê ¢ðrñêr Ì'vê måÐê ïñ ï†. §ðmê þðïñ†lꧧ wår ßê†wêêñ †hê þlåñê§ wðµlÐ rµïñ åll m¥ hårÐ wðrk. Ì †hðµgh† Ì måÐê †hå† ¢lêår.”

Though their lungs still felt a bit tight, Sam chewed their lip and nodded. 

Yeah, there could be a chance that Pat was lying…but then, if a creature like him wanted to cause chaos, he’d be all too invested with it by now. 

Shifting on their feet, Sam cleared their throat and continued, “You still haven’t really answered my question.”

Pat shuffled his arms as he thought. He tilted his head to the side—in fact, he kept on tilting it until it was upside-down. Surprisingly enough, this elicited no cracks or pops or snaps from whatever nightmare-fuel bones he had in his neck. Instead, his noggin seemed to just slide in place with no issue. And without his eyes ever leaving Sam. 

“Ì kñðw †hå† wê'll mêê† ågåïñ,” he finally replied. “§ðmêÐå¥ ¥ðµ'll ¢ðmê ßå¢k †ð †hê mµ§êµm. Ì'vê §êêñ ï†.”

Sam blinked at this. “...Why? How?” 

“Ì'm ñð† §µrê. §ðmê†ïmê§ ¢êr†åïñ Ðê†åïl§ êï†hêr †åkê lðñgêr †ð £ïll ïñ ðr jµ§† Ððñ'† ¢ðmê ålðñg å† åll.” Pat paused, his head remaining perfectly still while the rest of his body sprawled like that of a cat. “ÄñÐ êvêñ ï£ ï† †hå† wå§ñ'† hðw ï† wðrkêÐ, ¥ðµ rêåll¥ †hïñk Ì'Ð jµ§† gïvê µþ †hå† kïñÐ ð£ ïñ£ðrmå†ïðñ £ðr £rêê?”

He threw his head back(?) and barked a mirthless laugh. 

Sam couldn’t help but put their free hand on their hip, frowning and rolling their eyes at the display. 

Pat continued: “Èï†hêr wå¥, Ì £ïgµrêÐ Ì mïgh† å§ wêll †r¥ †ð ßê rêåÐ¥. Jµ§† §ð ¥ðµ Ððñ'† gïvê mê åñð†hêr mïgråïñê-wï†hïñ-å-mïgråïñê.”

“...Alright then?” Sam responded. They definitely would’ve been able to tell if he wanted to plant some kind of trap for them…but then again, if anyone knew about the side-effects of Etherium, it was them. “Is that it?”

Pat paused, thinking. “...Ì gµê§§ ï† hêlþ§ †hå† §ðl wå§ ïñ†rïgµêРߥ §ðmê 𣠆hê †hïñg§ ¥ðµ §åïÐ.” He then narrowed his eyes, tongue flicking as his teeth actively lengthened and curled. “ñð† §µrê wh¥, whå† wï†h hðw ¥ðµ †ålkêÐ Ððwñ †ð †hêm †hrðµgh𵆠¥ðµr vï§ï†.”

Sam pursed their lips. “I didn’t mean to come off as patronizing.” 

“Wêll, ï† §µrê £êl† lïkê ¥ðµ wêrê,” Pat huffed. “§ðl'§ ßêêñ wðrkïñg £ðr mê §ïñ¢ê ßê£ðrê †hê mµ§êµm rê-ðþêñêÐ. Ì'vê §êêñ þlêñ†¥ 𣠆hê ¢råþ †hå† rêgµlår þå†rðñ§ þµ† †hêm †hrðµgh.”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath through their teeth. Okay, yeah, they could definitely see how museum work, despite seeming so cushy from the outside, could potentially be just as much of a nightmare as more typical retail stuff. 

When they looked back at Pat, however, they noticed something different. They’d been wrong before, but they were certain that an odd type of softness had manifested in his too-pale, too-wide eyes. Obviously nowhere near the romantic type, but it wasn’t the scrutiny that had been drilling into them all this time, either. 

Well, Sol had said that he was a friend of theirs. Sam would be lying if they said they hadn’t had some doubts then, but now, with the vibes that the monster himself was giving off…

That train of thought promptly crashed and burned as Sam noticed how quickly Pat’s focus had shifted. He’d never really looked away from them this entire time, but right now, his eyes weren’t drilling into theirs. Instead, they were now fixed on…their teeth. 

Another feeling of wrongness began to churn in their stomach. They made to say something else, but Pat beat them to it. 

“Håvê ¥ðµ êvêr þµllêР𵆠¥ðµr †êê†h ïñ ¥ðµr Ðrêåm§?” For the first time since he’d revealed himself, his voice wasn’t accusatory or sarcastic. Now, it was filled with…curiosity.

That didn’t exactly help with Sam’s sinking feeling. “Sorry, what?”

“¥ðµr †êê†h,” Pat repeated, turning his head until it was rightside-up again. He leaned just a smidge closer. “̆'§ ¢ðmmðñ £ðr mðr†ål§ †ð Ðrêåm åß𵆠lð§ïñg †hêm. Hå§ †hå† êvêr håþþêñêÐ †ð ¥ðµ?”

“Jumping around a bit,” Sam mused, trying not to let the feeling grow too fast. “I’m not sure if I have, honestly. I can’t remember too many of my dreams, though I guess assisted stuff like this would be a different story. Why do you ask?” 

And now came the first time that Pat seemed confused. “Wåï†, hðlÐ ðñ. Èvêñ wï†h åll †hê †hïñg§ ¥ðµ'vê åþþårêñ†l¥ §êêñ, ¥ðµ—¥ðµ Ððñ'† kñðw åß𵆠†hê †êê†h Rµlê§?” 

The monster gaped at Sam for a few long seconds. Then he started snickering, which soon transitioned into full-blown laughter. It sounded like a horrific cross between a hyena and a mosquito. Maybe throw a few dangerously sparking electrical wires. 

“What?” Sam demanded, now both paranoid and indignant. “What’s so funny?”

“̆'§ jµ§†—” Pat kept giggling, kept shaking his head in disbelief. “¥ðµ'vê ßêêñ wðrkïñg ðñ §†µ££ lïkê †hï§ £ðr §ð Ðåmñ lðñg! Hðw håvê ¥ðµ ñð† £ïgµrêР𵆠†hå† †êê†h årê §ð þrê¢ï𵧠ïñ †hê§ê þlå¢ê§?!”

Sam felt their temper flare. “Well, are you at least gonna tell me what I’ve apparently missed?”

His laughter finally dying down, Pat leaned back, his grin somehow even more smug than earlier. 

“ñð, Ì Ððñ'† †hïñk §ð,” he hummed. He lifted himself up, bracing his hands against the alley’s walls. “Ì'vê gð† ð†hêr §†µ££ †ð Ðð. ßµ† hê¥, må¥ßê ¥ðµ'll håvê §ðmê £µñ lððkïñg £ðr †hê åñ§wêr§. Whð kñðw§?”

“Maybe I will.” Sam scowled at him, reminding themself just how effective a tool spite could truly be.

Pat clicked his teeth again, his extra arms reeling back and vanishing into his torso. He began to slither past Sam, but stopped short. “Öh, åñÐ ðñê mðrê †hïñg †ð ¢hêw ðñ…”

He whipped back around and surged forward. His talons lashed out, quickly pushing Sam back and pinning them against the wall. Sam ground their jaw, fighting the way their instincts tried to insist that the air had been knocked out of them. 

There was no air. That cold, dry feeling was back, but there was no pain. This wasn’t really happening.

“Ððñ'† †hïñk †hï§ gïvê§ ¥ðµ åñ¥ §þê¢ïål þêrk§,” Pat growled, his breath now hot as dryer exhaust, a combination of sulfur and dead flowers. “Ððñ'† †r¥ †ð måkê mê §lêêþ ågåïñ, ßê¢åµ§ê Ì£ ¥ÖÚ ÐÖ—!”

“𝕿𝒽𝖊𝓎'𝓇𝖊 𝖓ℴ𝖙 𝖒𝒶𝖐𝒾𝖓ℊ 𝓎𝖔𝓊 𝒹𝖔 𝖆𝓃𝖞𝓉𝖍𝒾𝖓ℊ.” 

Everything seemed to freeze in place. 

The new voice that had interjected was…something else.

Soft yet echoing, like it was being spoken by several mouths all at once. As though there was a sound to go with the way steam curled through the air. It did seem to splinter around the edges, but it was still so…rich. Angelic and alien at the same time. Like glass shards being dipped in molten gold. 

Sam slid to the ground before they even realized that the hold around them had disappeared. 

Pat practically eroded away from them, finally, finally tearing his hideous eyes away.

It would’ve been impossible for Sam to not follow his gaze.

All that light they’d seen earlier on the roof…it’d been swallowed up and harnessed into a brand-new glow that was slowly-but-surely creeping its way through the walls and the ground. And the source of it…

Well, to be completely honest, it took a solid minute for Sam’s eyes to adjust.

But once they did, Sam was treated to the sight of another creature that mortal eyes probably weren’t supposed to see. 

Like Pat, this one had a relatively humanoid form, seeming to take on the shape of a woman. Though she loomed over everything like he did, she still seemed a bit shorter.

The illumination was flickering around her—no, from inside of her. Almost like a jack-o-lantern. 

Her skin was impossibly pale. But the longer Sam looked at it, the more they realized that the network of cells and veins inside was visible, and how those cells and those veins each seemed to give off a hint of different colors. Similar to the kaleidoscope effect of an opal. 

Not only that, but her flesh billowed, flowing and rippling so gently without any wind to make that happen. Like her figure was a amalgamation of cloth sheets. Or the hood of a jellyfish, or the petals of an orchid. 

Or maybe…maybe even some kind of wedding dress…

And that wasn’t even mentioning the holes. 

So many, too many holes that seemed to have been bored through her flesh, some stretching to be longer or wider than others, the most prominent ones being a pair in the upper-half of her face. The one trait they all shared was the fact they were the only hints of darkness in this entity’s form. The glow they offered was different: they flickered like embers at the bottom of a firepit, seeming to float perfectly in the center—

Eyes. 

Those holes were the creature’s eyes. 

And almost all of them were focused on Pat…except for a few that stared at Sam, effectively forcing them to hold still in a way the former monster somehow hadn’t quite been able to manage.

“§¥lþh,” Pat breathed, somehow creating the perfect cominbation of question and statement, his voice now consumed by an emotion that Sam simply couldn’t place. 

With a slight jolt, they realized that, despite the word sounding so foreign, they still recognized it. 

After all, it’d been what he’d wanted them to ask Harmonia about…

“𝕷ℯ𝖛𝒾𝖆𝓉𝖍𝒶𝖓,” the new entity answered, the word nearly as difficult to process as what Pat had said. 

Sam glanced back and forth between the two of them. 

Pat’s eyes bulged from their sockets, his pinprick pupils actually holding still for once. The void-like skin on his forehead twitched, as though something inside his skull had stirred in its sleep. Then, like a seam being split and widened as stuffing spilled out, a third eye opened up, wider and darker than Pat’s primaries, or any of the extras he’d had before. 

“Hðw—Wh¥..?” Pat trailed off. It almost sounded like his voice was on the verge of breaking. Like he was biting back something that had been bottled up for at least a few centuries.

Sylph tilted her head to the side, allowing long streams of light around her head to weave like a combination of flames and clouds and gentle snakes—her hair, Sam realized. 

“𝕴 𝖙𝒽𝖎𝓃𝖐 𝖞ℴ𝖚 𝖈𝒶𝖓 𝖙𝒶𝖐ℯ 𝒶 ℊ𝖚ℯ𝖘𝓈,” she replied, her melodious tone dragged down by a deeper wound of her own.

Pat blinked rapidly, visibly swallowing a lump in his throat. As though he expected her to just vanish for no reason at all if he didn’t look at her long enough. He began to reach out toward her…only to stop short, his talons clearly shaking.

Sylph’s primary eyes flickered, the flesh around them rippling to form a worried expression, making a dent in her calm. She quietly glided a bit closer. 

In the new silence, Sam suddenly became aware of a new sound. It was softer, much more muffled and distant than the voices of either entity. 

A deep, steady rhythm. Sam’s instincts swore up and down that it was organic. Inexplicably familiar, too.

…And not just one…

Sylph get out a soft sigh. “𝖂ℯ𝖗ℯ𝖓'𝖙 𝖞ℴ𝖚 𝖔𝓃 𝓎𝖔𝓊𝖗 𝖜𝒶𝖞 𝖙ℴ 𝓌𝖆𝓀𝖎𝓃𝖌 𝖚𝓅?”

Pat sputtered, but it didn’t seem to be out of anger. 

He made to say something, but Sylph cut him off with a shake of her head. “𝕮ℴ𝖒ℯ ℴ𝖓. ℐ 𝒸𝖆𝓃 ℴ𝖓𝓁𝖞 𝖘𝓉𝖆𝓎 𝒽𝖊𝓇𝖊 𝖘ℴ 𝓁𝖔𝓃𝖌 𝖒𝓎𝖘ℯ𝖑𝒻; 𝖞ℴ𝖚'𝖗ℯ 𝓃𝖔𝓉 𝓉𝖍ℯ ℴ𝖓𝓁𝖞 𝖔𝓃𝖊 𝖜𝒾𝖙𝒽 𝒶 𝒷𝖚𝓈𝖞 𝖘𝒸𝖍ℯ𝖉𝓊𝖑ℯ.”

Pat lowered his head, wringing his talons. He nodded slowly. 

“𝕭ℯ𝖘𝒾𝖉ℯ𝖘,” Sylph continued. “𝕯ℴ 𝓎𝖔𝓊 𝓇𝖊𝒶𝖑𝓁𝖞 𝖙𝒽𝖎𝓃𝖐 𝖓ℴ𝖜'𝖘 𝖙𝒽𝖊 𝖗𝒾𝖌𝒽𝖙 𝖙𝒾𝖒ℯ ℴ𝖗 𝖕𝓁𝖆𝒸𝖊?”

“¥ðµ §å¥ †hå† lïkê †hêrê'§ êvêr gðññå ßê å rïgh† †ïmê ðr þlå¢ê!” Pat argued, his tone a concoction of bitterness and agony, both going much, much further than just bone-deep.

Sylph flinched, her expression twisting into something that was truly unreadable. Then, pursing her lips, she drew closer. 

Now it was his turn to flinch, as if he hadn’t been expecting her to move. 

And then that strange, muffled drumbeat grew a bit louder, a bit faster…

Sylph looked at one of his clutches of claws, still hovering frozen in the air. She then raised her own handful of talons, pushing it forward until it rested against his wrist. With that, she carefully pushed her hand up until their palms were touching. She went still then, not budging an inch when Pat’s digits wrapped around hers, squeezing tightly.

“Hðw åm Ì §µþþð§êÐ †ð £ïñÐ ¥ðµ 壆êr †hï§?!” Pat demanded, his buzzing voice tapering down to a whisper. “Ì ¢ðµlÐ ñêvêr þrêÐ ¥ðµ ßê£ðrê, §ð—!”

“𝖂ℯ 𝒸𝖆𝓃'𝓉 𝒷𝖊 𝖕𝓇𝖊𝓅𝖆𝓇𝖊𝒹 𝒻𝖔𝓇 ℯ𝖛ℯ𝖗𝓎𝖙𝒽𝖎𝓃𝖌,” Sylph announced, her voice more stern than before. “𝕾ℴ𝖒ℯ 𝓈𝖙𝓊𝖋𝒻 𝒿𝖚𝓈𝖙 𝖍𝒶𝖘 𝖙ℴ 𝓁𝖎𝓃𝖊 𝖚𝓅 𝒷𝖞 𝖎𝓉𝖘ℯ𝖑𝒻. 𝖄ℴ𝖚 𝖓ℯ𝖊𝒹 𝓉𝖔 𝖋𝒾𝖌𝓊𝖗ℯ 𝓉𝖍𝒶𝖙 𝖔𝓊𝖙 𝖊𝓋𝖊𝓃𝖙𝓊𝖆𝓁𝖑𝓎.”

And the muffled rhythm came screeching to a halt. 

It did start up again…but only after a full, agonizing moment had passed. 

Sylph’s primary eyes softened a bit once again. She took a deep breath, glancing down as the air seemed to course all the way through her billowing tissues while she leaned closer to Pat. After what almost felt an hour, she looked back up at him. One of her arms was a blur as it wove behind him, reaching up along his spine.

“𝖂𝒶𝖐ℯ 𝓊𝖕,” she insisted. One of her talons tapped against the nape of his neck.

And then Pat was gone. 

No smoke, no cracks splitting open in the air, no dissipating, nothing like that at all. 

He’d just vanished. As though he’d truly been a hallucination cooked up by someone’s sleep-depreived, terror-addled imagination.

Sylph lowered her head; all the holes seemed to disappear into her skin–she was closing her eyes. Keeping them tightly sealed shut for a good long while as she tapped her claws against the ground.

There was only one drumbeat now, and it rang out much faster and louder than ever. 

Sooner or later, all of her eyes snapped back open in a way that would’ve made the average trypophobia-sufferer faint. She then turned her head to stare at Sam, her gaze curious…yet reproachful. 

Sam couldn’t stop themself from shrinking, from pressing their back against the wall, dipping their head to signal cautious respect. 

“...𝖂𝒽𝖆𝓉 𝓀𝖎𝓃𝖉 𝖔𝒻 ℊ𝖆𝓂𝖊 𝖉ℴ 𝓎𝖔𝓊 𝓉𝖍𝒾𝖓𝓀 𝓎𝖔𝓊'𝓇𝖊 𝖕𝓁𝖆𝓎𝖎𝓃𝖌?” Sylph asked, her voice somehow gentle and acidic at the same time. 

That was when the world around them began to flutter away. Like a person’s eyelashes twitching as tears dried up around them. 

___

Scrying was a basic trick; it was one of the very first magicks Pat had taught Sol, way back when they’d started hearing his voice in their head. 

It came in pretty handy when there was a guest (or perhaps an occasional intruder) who just needed to be spied on for whatever reason.

Windows, mirrors, even rain puddles were game. As long as it was reflective, it would work. You just needed to keep your focus steady.

Admittedly, it’d been somewhat difficult for Sol to stay focused on tonight’s particular task. 

It was simple assignment, really: use some other tricks to track down the stranger who had come to ask those cryptic questions, keep an eye on them as they slept…as well as watch for anything that could be a threat to the same mound of living nightmare fuel she’d been working with for a long time now while he slept. 

But if Pat’s views on sleep had ever been anything to go by…

Even if she knew she could trust him, Sol’s instincts told them that things just wouldn’t go too smoothly tonight.

Curled up in his nest-cocoon-hammock thing, Pat had been lightly tossing and turning ever since he’d finally managed to drift off. He’d been murmuring as he dreamed, his unconscious voice dropping to an octave that was almost too soft and too low to comprehend (then again, even if that wasn’t the case, Sol knew she still wouldn’t have been able to understand the language he was using).

Sol honestly wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Pat woke up. 

…It was so strange, feeling validated and concerned and scared all at once. 

After all, it wasn’t every night you got to watch your boss-and-kind-of-friend lurch up, gasping and choking like he’d been chained to the bottom of a lake. 

It wasn’t every night you watched that same entity try to climb out of his nest, only to fall and hit the floor with a loud thud due to how violently he was shaking. 

It wasn’t every night you could do nothing put watch your technical business partner shrink to the size of a human, then raise his clawed hands to his face…and burrow talons into flesh, effectively ripping both of his primary eyes out and throwing them across the room where they each landed against the adjacent wall with a sickening splat.

It wasn’t every night you got to see an outer abomination crumple into a heap on the floor, heaving and sobbing as veritable gallons of a viscous, oily fluid gushed out of the fresh, jagged hollows in his face.

Steeling their nerves, Sol crept past Pat, moving carefully and quietly. It took a painfully awkward amount of time for her to find both of his eyes, but she managed. Besides, he clearly wasn’t in the headspace to be judging anything right now. 

Though their nightvision had long-since grown more enhanced than average, Sol still found themself squinting through the eyeholes of their protective mask. Squinting at the gorey treasures in her shaking hands. 

(She’d expected his pupils to still be shaking too, the way they always did. But right now, shockingly enough, they were both still.)

Due to the hasty removal, both cavernous eyeballs were now adorned by some dents and cuts. 

…Well, cauterization typically couldn’t be such an easy solution, but Sol had their ways. She set the eyes down, then fished through the pockets of her purple leather jacket. It took no time at all for her to find her trusty striker-blade, as well as the chunk of rainbow flint that came with it. 

Sol chewed their lip, their thoughts wracked with worry as they listened to Pat’s cries. 

Using the blade might just make the injuries worse…

With a deep breath, Sol struck at the stone, expertly coaxing out a flame, small and delicate as though it was attached to a candle wick.

They then pressed the blade’s tip to their palm. They didn’t apply enough pressure to draw blood; it was just a way to encourage the fire to abandon the metal in favor of the offered hand. 

Unfortunately for the fire, Sol’s skin refused to char or melt. It did turn a deep shade of red where the flame licked at it, but that was it. It didn’t even hurt; it just felt like hot water pooling against them. 

Sol stuffed her tools back into her jacket, then returned their focus to the eyes. She delicately picked one up, holding her flaming hand around it, turning it this way and that to make sure that the unnatural heat convinced the wounds to melt in on themselves and close up. The process went by faster than expected: both eyes were repaired soon enough. 

They would’ve felt some well-deserved pride at that—their control was getting better, after all—but she still had a friend who needed help right now. 

Sol smothered the flame, then carried the eyes over to Pat. Something cold and clammy scratched at their ribcage as they looked over him. 

His sobs had tapered down into hiccups by now, and his horrific tears were already evaporating into columns of smoke, but he was clearly still in a bad way. 

Without a word, Sol sat down beside him, crossing their legs and biting back the stinging sensation that was trying to settle within their own eyes.

He’d take his back when he was ready.

@inkbedou @the-matpat-ever @b-is-in-the-closet

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Sentient Affronts to Nature (and Sanity Itself) Need Friends, Too...

Hey.

I've got some weird plans for Halloween. This year's Special is gonna be much more on the supernatural side than last year's.

Ya’ll remember Cruz Freitas? That LixianEgo I created as a gift for @sammys-magical-au ? The funky guy whose hobbies include violin-playing and a whole lotta occultism? The scrungly blorbo who’s working as something of an assistant to the horrifying EldritchPlier himself?

Yeah, well…looks like the vibes I gave him are contagious.

I’m officially going Full Manic and cranking out a few more fanegos for this WIP! I'll be posting a few of my standard info-pages soon, and they'll definitely be updated/reblogged as more ideas come along.

(As per usual, I got tons of help with brainstorming from Sammy. Thanks so much for all your patience, thoughts, and encouragement, bestie 💞💞💞)

Also, since I always feel the need to give some clarification:

When I first created Cruz, I gave him a bunch of things that you could expect to see in the average cult (even though he, Sol, and Moses aren’t actually part of a cult. That’s why I’m calling them all “semi-cultists”). 

And what are those things, you ask? A ceremonial tool/weapon, a supernatural pet, and a protective mask. (I talked about the specifics of Cruz’s stuff here, in case you’re curious. Plus, Cruz’s pet, an outer-creature-cat-thing named Macaroon, is based off of irl Lixian’s cat, Cookie.) 

(Plus, if you’d like to really get a feel for Cruz’s stuff, check out this fantastic artwork made by the lovely @inkbedou! Please go check out their other stuff, they’re such a gem! Fun fact: the red-and-gold pattern on Cruz’s mask was inspired by a real mask that my dad hand-painted one Halloween back when I was in middle-school!)

So, two of my upcoming fanegos are each gonna get their own things from those categories! While I want to have plenty of variety between these characters, I also want them to have a few things in common, y’know? Just to make certain scenes feel well-balanced for all of them.

Keep those eyes peeled... 😈😈😈

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

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Masterpost

What’s up? I’m 22, autistic, omniromantic-demisexual, and use She/Her pronouns. Storytelling is really important to me, and the stuff I make is almost always dark, unhinged, and macabre.

This is a list of all the stories I’ve written so far (and I’ll be making updates in time with future stories). The characters I mainly write for are YouTuber Egos; those of Nathan Sharp/NateWantsToBattle, Markiplier, MatPat, Thomas Sanders, etc.

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T̅̈ͥhe P̥e̵n̶̬̬t̲̲ä́͘s͈͈͢ Fͤãm̼i̥lͩy̜ [Tͥh̴ͦ͠e̸̸̥ F̻́utu͒́́r͂e͖͒̐ M͙oͦb̬̈́̒ P̠̩̕r͛͋̈́ȯj͇e̤c̴t̾̇]

The Pentas Family Encyclopedia

Murdock Mallory (My personal headcanons)

(Goretober 2022) Day 2: Cannibalism (Caliban, Murdock, The Newcomer)

Running on Empty (Caliban, Murdock, R.D.)

God, Being an Accessory to Murder is Exhausting (Sam Ryder, Murdock, Caliban)

What��s That Saying About Cinnamon Rolls. . ? (Azalea, Caliban)

Update the Letter Board! (Azalea, Murdock)

Toxic Tutorials (Azalea, The Newcomer)

(Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones (K.O., Murdock, Caliban)

(Goretober 2023) Day 4: Amputation (Caliban, Murdock, R.D.)

(Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles (Azalea, Murdock, Caliban, K.O.)

HALLOWEEN 2023 SPECIAL: Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats (Sam Ryder, Azalea, K.O., Murdock, Caliban)

(Goretober 2024) Day 2: Operation (Murdock, K.O.)

(Goretober 2024) Day 4: Burst Vessels (Garret Wyre, The Newcomer)

(Goretober 2024) Day 5: Submerged (Parker Thenope, Murdock)

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Fǎ̘nm͌ad̗e̋ͭ̑ E̍͞g̾ös̀͌

Caliban Crawford (My EgoPat)

Azalea Crawford (My Nerdy Nummies Ego)

K.O./Kaiser Oasis (My CrankEgo)

Garret Wyre (My Mick Lauer Ego)

Parker Thenope (My Nathan Sharp/NWTB Ego)

Val Ocitie (My Lio Tipton Ego)

Two-Toes Johnny/Johnathan Shine (My Muyskerm Ego)

Phoenix Rhong (My Safiya Nygaard Ego)

Miles C. Peyote and Howie Thetaxi (My Dawko and 8-BitRyan Egos)

Jay Aienyouess (My Thomas Sanders Ego)

The Newcomer

R.D. (My StephEgo)

……….

S̹̫t̥a̖͔ṉ̡́̚͠n̗̦̝̘͒̓͞in̵̬ͧ́̈́̌̕g̡̫͂ͮ͜ T͌h̸e̲ͤ̚ͅ Un̬͉̓͊̎̓ca̶̙̰ͩͮ͜ṉ̡͓ͬny͇͌͌͞͡

Cruz Freitas (A LixianEgo that I made as a gift for @sammys-magical-au ; one of my Semi-Cultist characters)

Sol Magee (An Ash Ego; specifically one of my Semi-Cultists)

LeviathanPat (another EgoPat of mine)

Sylphanie/Sylph (another StephEgo of mine)

Moses Norbert and ColosSeptic (An CrankEgo and SepticEgo; respectively one of my Semi-Cultists and Abomination-Ego)

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C̛̪ͤasͩ̓u̜ảl͈ Fį̙͜c̚sͥ͊

From Candygram to Requiem (Noah Walker and the Paranormal Investigators from Random Encounter’s Phasmophobia The Musical)

What’s a Detective Without a Case? (Noir!Engineer Mark, Noir!Mack, Noir!Captain)

Nobody Likes Rude Clients (Patty, Delux/Porniplier)

Caught Between a Monstrosity and An Abomination  (EldritchPlier, LeviathanPat, The Reader)

Just Another Night at Sparky’s (Ness, Jack, Mason)

When a Tomb Becomes a Womb (Part 1: Rings) (The Creature/Callum, Lisa Swallows)

When a Tomb Becomes a Womb (Part 2: Honeymoon) (The Creature/Callum, Lisa Swallows)

There Are Some Cons to Being an Archeologist... (Penn/Pennsylvania James, Illinois, LeviathanPat)

A Couple Nights Later. . . (Penn/Pennsylvania James, Illinois, Caliban, Azalea, Murdock)

It Might as Well Happen! Life is Already So (Old) God(s)damn Weird! (Cruz, EldritchPlier, Penn/Pennsylvania James, Illinois, Sam Ryder)

Talking in Your Sleep (Sam Ryder, LeviathanPat, Sylphanie/Sylph, Sol Magee)

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S͂̋̕eͨ̓r͈ͣ̄ieͮs͔̃̓ Fi̹̅cs̋

……….

Terminal Case of the Ol' Switcheroo (a crack-crossover that @insane4fandoms and I are collaborating on, where I write snippets to attach to the comics they draw. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time, the FNAF Movie's own Ness was mistaken for MadPat and abducted by my EgoPat, Caliban. Now the two of them are working together in a race to track down Mad and catch him before he can harm the Schmidt family.)

Part 1 (Ness, Caliban, MadPat, Mike Schmidt)

Part 2 (Ness, Caliban, R.D., MadPat, Mike Schmidt)

Part 3 (Ness, Caliban, MadPat, Mike Schmidt)

Part 4 (Ness, Caliban, MadPat, Mike Schmidt, Jack/Cabbie!Cory, Abby Schmidt)

Epilogue (Ness, Jack/Cabbie!Cory, Mike Schmidt, Abby Schmidt, Caliban, MadPat, Murdock, The Newcomer)

..........

My Goretober Ventures So Far. . .

……….

Gifts for a Bat (an ongoing saga of snippets based off of @that-bat’s awesome Resident Evil: Village AU, where the mutated personifications of Nate, Mark and Matt are Lords serving under Mother Miranda and Ethan Nestor/CrankGamePlays is playing the role of Ethan Winters.)

Part 1: A Spider-Human Monster and A Necromancer Walk Into a Bar… (Nate/Lord Ophio, Matt/Lord Loxosceles)

Part 2: Chaos, Compromises, and Meal-Prep (Ethan Nestor-Winters, Matt/Lord Loxosceles, Mark/Lord Isurus)

Part 3: A New Face In Town (Nate/Lord Ophio, Hunter/The Baron)

……….

The Sides of A Nightmare (short drabbles inspired by @fangirltothefullest’s amazing Sanders Sides Little Nightmares AU)

The Actor (Creativity “Roman” Sanders/Red, Character!Thomas Sanders)

The Professor (Logic “Logan” Sanders/Indigo, Creativity “Roman” Sanders/Red, Character!Thomas Sanders)

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R̸̨̾a̝̒ͣn̮͒͡d̔̈́o̗͇m̜ J͔u͔͞n̤ͥ̕k͋

My EgoPats Meeting the Canon EgoPats

My EgoPats Meeting the Canon EgoPats (Brought To You by Incorrect Quotes)

Incorrect Quotes: ISWM (Parts 1 and 2) Edition

Incorrect Quotes: ISWM Edition (The Second One)

How Mack Snapped and Became the Way He Is in Part Two

ISWM Meets Pokemon

Matt and Ro are Soul-Siblings, So…

Matt and Ro Are Soul-Siblings, So... (But It's Kinda Dark This Time)

Headcanons for Phantom and Monarch Being Allies(?) Since Nate and Amanda Are Friends

Characters and Headcanons and References, Oh My!

What’s This? Natemare is EVOLVING!

I’d Like To Adopt These Side-Characters, Please (And Also Make One Arbitrarily To Appease The Vibes)

RE8 AU Incorrect Quotes

How a Lot of My Followers Probably Reacted to My Hyperfixation on Caliban

RE8 AU Incorrect Quotes [Part 2]

A Fictional AI Argument That No-One Asked For