#you draw three circles for the head torso and flank

[steakout-05]

rough pony hop animation made in flipnote :)

[amythedvdhoarder]

Protection - Part 3

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warning: Angst, mentions of injury and fluff

Summary: Bucky cannot bear that Y/N was hurt because of him. He has to find a way to keep her safe. Forever

Word Count: 1.6K

Author’s Notes: GIF not mine. Apologies for any errors. Still going slowly with this. Please feel free to let me know what you think, any comments welcome. Let me know if you want tagging.

series masterlist

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You turned the corner, gun in hand, staying close to the wall. Up ahead you could see Steve and Bucky silently moving through the empty warehouse. The intel had stated this was a HYDRA stronghold. Nothing indicated this, usually you had to fight your way in as soon as you left the quinjet but this place was quiet. Far too quiet.

Slowly you continued forward, carefully scanning the surroundings as you went. Coming to a stop, you surveyed the heavy metal door on the opposite wall. It seemed out of place, a camera above pointing towards the flashing keypad next to the door handle. This was the entrance to base.

Steve nodded at you. Moving towards the door Bucky and Steve flanked you on either side, offering you cover from any unseen danger. The camera meant they knew you were here, no point in being quiet. You attached the device and walked back slightly covering behind Steve’s shield, trying to take the 10 seconds before the charge blew to get refocussed.

Once the smoke cleared, the three of you looked at each other and nodded. Steve led the way, you followed with Bucky bringing up the rear. All of you hyperaware of what was coming. As soon as Steve pulled the door open, the bullets rained down. Steve drew most of the fire. Bucky stuck to the wall and started taking out some targets long range.

You split up, you headed down the corridor to your left. As you followed the route you had been briefed on, you could hear Steve’s shield thudding around and Bucky’s continued fire. There was A sudden movement in front of you, instinctively your finger curled around the trigger, a man grunted, crumpling to the floor. You were looking for the data room; the rumour was Hydra were trying to create their own AI similar to Ultron, your mission was to extract information and discover how far along they were.

Gun pointing straight ahead, you fired a couple more shots, taking down a couple of HYDRA operatives. You came up the door of your target. You kicked it open, immediately a bullet grazed your right shoulder, tearing open your black fitted uniform. Skin burning, you gritted your teeth taking down the man who had just fired at you. An arm tightened around your neck from behind. You bent over and used your momentum to crash your attacker onto the desk in front of you, jerking your left elbow into their temple. Their movement stopped instantly.

You jumped onto the chair at the other side of the room, plugged in the USB Tony had prepared and watched as HYDRAS security walls came down. It took an anxious 30 seconds to get the information and remove the stick, then once again, gun in hand you made your way back to the main fight. Bucky had positioned himself at the top of the corridor blocking anyone coming towards you in the data room. You patted him on the arm and he yelled to Steve. “We gotta go Steve!” Steve ploughed his way through the sea of agents blocking him and began leading the way out. Then gun fire seemed to step up a notch, the noise was becoming deafening, all 3 of you fighting continuously.

Steve had made his way back to the door, as you glanced around you noticed Bucky was falling behind still rapidly firing at the HYDRA agents. That’s when you spotted it, a sniper pointing directly at Bucky. It was placed on the balcony at the far end of the complex, the lens of the scope reflecting the light of the gunfire below. You shot forward and yanked Bucky behind you. The bullet smashed into your left shoulder, you screamed in pain collapsing back into Bucky. Your scream made him snap, he fired back at your attacker. You had no idea if Bucky had hit him, vision blurred by the pain. You clasped your right hand up to your shoulder as if to contain the agony. The bones in your shoulder were smashed, your arm hanging limp, blood running down from the wound. You couldn’t believe the pain or contain your screams. At least Bucky was safe, that was all that mattered, you kept thinking it over and over as you tried to hold onto consciousness. “Stay with me Y/N, oh god Y/N.” The desperate voice was becoming fainter. You were moving but you couldn’t understand how … “

“Y/N, it’s alright I’m here.” A soft warmth ran over your cheek. “Shush, it’s alright Y/N you’re safe. It’s just a nightmare.” You knew that voice, were you imagining it? There was a tickling sensation as someone’s breath was on your forehead then you felt lips being pressed to your sweat covered brow. “You’re safe Y/N, I’ve got you. I won’t leave you”. “Bucky?” your voice was barely a whisper, it was real. Your eyes lazily opened. Brilliant blue eyes were searching yours, a thumb was gently stroking your cheek. Your breathing was erratic and you could feel your heart hammering inside your ribs. “What happened?” you said confused.

“You had a nightmare, I could hear you screaming from next door”.  You started to sit up and Bucky removed his hand from your face, now stood next to your bed. You couldn’t help it, a blush swept across you face and your eyes shifted, embarrassed. Bucky was only wearing a pair of shorts, his brown hair tied in a bun at the nape of his neck. His bare torso was near to you. He was so close that you were aware of the heat radiating off him. If you reached out you could have felt …

“Y/N, are you alright” his voice snapped you back. Your eyes found his again. “I am going to be 10 seconds Y/N. I’ll be right back, I promise”. Bucky moved into your bathroom. A loss hit you as he left, but as promised he was back quickly holding a damp wash cloth and a glass of water. “I’m going to sit next you now, is that ok?” Nodding ever so slightly, you felt the mattress dip as he sat. He moved to glass towards your mouth and you sipped on the cool liquid gratefully. He put the glass down and turned his attention to your forehead, placing the damp towel to your head. He watched your face for a reaction.  A sense of relief hit you, you breathed deeply and your heart rate began to return to normal.

Bucky got started to move. “No” you cried. “Stay with me. You promised you would stay with me.” He chuckled slightly. “I’m just putting the cloth back Y/N, I’m not going anywhere.” He reached out and took your hand pulling it gently to his lips. He let go and took the wash cloth back to the bathroom as you sat up properly. He gently climbed back into your bed, he wrapped his right arm around you gently and you nestled into his body. Your head was resting on his chest, you felt the rise and fall with every breath and listened to his heart beat. The sensations relaxing you. He started rubbing small circles on the hand nearest to him, and you turned your head to look at him. He was gazing down at you so softly, you could see concern in his eyes. But there was something else there, something unsaid.

Bucky smiled at you and said “You should try and go back to sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow morning.” You sighed, you wanted him to stay with you, you didn’t want to be alone, to be without him. “Will you stay Buck?” He stopped drawing circles on your hand and started to pull himself away from you. He was going to leave you. A panic started to take over you. Watching as he shifted further still, he stood up. “I’m sorry Bucky, I shouldn’t have asked” your head fell, you couldn’t keep the sadness out of your voice. The covers moved next to you making you look back towards him. “Y/N I won’t leave you, just getting under the duvet doll.” Bucky’s tone was gentle, you could hear the smile in his voice. He moved closer and muttered “get over here.” You moved towards him and tucked yourself into him, your arm wrapping over his chest, clinging on as if your life depended on it. You breathed in the soothing scent of sandalwood and cloves coming off his skin and sighed. His arms wrapped around you protectively, you felt secure in his arms. Nobody could make you feel protected the way Bucky could.

“It was about you Bucky” you breathed into his chest. “I thought I was going to lose you on that last mission. It replayed in my head, I was so close to losing you. I …” Tears started rolling out of your eyes and you started to shake. Bucky planted a kiss on the top of your head and moved hand moved slowly up and down your back. You stopped shaking, and the tears began to slow. “It’s alright Y/N, I’m still here. I’m not leaving you. You’re going to be stuck with me forever.” You tilted your head up to find his blue eyes staring back at yours. You gulped “I promise” he leaned down. His soft lips found yours.

You stopped breathing as he pulled away, his hand moved up to your face and wiped away the tears on your face.  He smiled at you “sleep now Y/N.” Your eyelids felt heavy and you burrowed closer into the man you loved. “Goodnight Bucky” you sighed. “Night Y/N.” As your breathing deepened, exhausted you fell into a peaceful slumber. Bucky looked at you one last time and whispered “I love you Y/N”, as he too closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

Taglist: @broco8​

[shantalangel]

Stories written on the wall of one of the rooms in the game Armikrog.

It’s about everything happened before the game, P’s parents life, how they met and how she appeared.

Reading sequence:

The Blank Miner. Part 1

The Blank Miner. Part 2

Tools, Weapons, Food, Plants, Medicine, Magic and Pets

A Meeting in the Woods

Punishment and Crime. Part 1

Punishment and Crime. Part 2

Punishment and Crime. Part 3

Desperation

Punishment and Crime. Part 2

Meva lead us to a narrow canyon, where walls stood adorned with strange carvings I could not decipher. Every angle was perfect and the walls were smooth as glass. I realized that the canyon had not been formed naturally. The canyon walls had been carved by the Dronk.

We came to a circle of polished white stones inlaid into the floor. Meva said that in order for us to see the Dronk, the stones must be stepped on in a precise pattern. Once this was done, the Dronk would come. Her grandfather had studied these stones and eventually discovered the pattern. The pattern had been taught to her when she was a child, as a sort of dance. She thought she was learning a kata or a family ritual. Not until much later did she realize it was the key to unlocking the Dronk's stones.

She completed the dance, and the final stone she stepped on sank into the ground two inches. I could hear the clinking of underground mechanisms as stone slid against stone. Spires of minerals covered in crystals sprouted from the ground in neat rows. Black, tangled orchards of petrified trees rose against the canyon walls. All was silent. We stood waiting for three hours. At one point, Meva pointed behind me, and I spun around to see three stone beings. They had a simple form, like a children's drawing. Their heads were huge rectangles with coarse holes cut clear through the head, allowing the light of the sky to shine through. Their bodies were rectangular stone. Their legs and arms were slabs.

Two Dronk pulled a third from a white stone monolith. They pulled out the body, setting it aside. Then they pulled out an arm and hung it on the body. This process continued until the third Dronk was completed.

"Do you see that, Tzurk? They're giving birth!" Meva whispered to me.

The newly formed Dronk was the same size as the other two, but he walked awkwardly, staggering as they guided his first steps. One of the Dronks used his finger to carve a symbol onto the new Dronk's forehead.

"You will hunt for us." He said. "Your name shall be Hunt."

When this was done, the Dronk turned to us. He welcomed Meva. He said he knew her, from long ago, when she had come to the valley with her grandfather. Meva bowed. The Dronk said he'd seen her as a baby, and he never forgot a bloodline. His name was Grel, he was the one who used the creation table and gave names.

Meva asked him if he could build a device for us to contain the heart of the mountain, and motioned for me to show him. Grel looked long and hard at the purple fuzz-ball, when I held it up to him.

Then he said, "We have no use for this, because we cannot die, but this has been hunted for by mortals for as long as time has spun. Everyone who found it before you, was either killed or vanished."

"Does this mean I will die also, or was I meant to have it?" I asked.

"Neither or both." Grel replied.

He motioned for us to follow him to the monolith, which he called, the Skeev Table.

Grel stirred the shiny white surface of the monolith like it was liquid. It didn’t move at all like solid rock. After a moment, he drew out a device that had an open hatch and two hinged arms on either side. Taking the purple fuzz-ball from me, he placed it in the top compartment and snapped the lid shut. Drel handed the device back to me, "These mechanical arms can pull the soul from one thing and hold it temporarily in the machine or transfer it into another object or body."

Grel put the corner of his stone head on Meva’s hand as if to kiss it. "Visit us again, Meva. Now go in peace."

Leaving Dronk

We left the Valley of the Dronk, and continued our trek to the cottage Quace had shown us on the map.

It was well off the main path, surrounded by thick woods; A much more inviting place to stay than the safe-house, and with no threat of turning into baby goats. The roof was tiled with bark shingles and the walls were of split logs. The front door was flanked by small windows.

Inside, the cottage was dry and warm. There was a rocking chair, a rug made of angora elephant, a framed bed, and a painting over the fireplace.

After dumping our packs on the bed, we went outside and explored the area around the cabin. Not far off, there was a grove of wild Mink-Mer trees. Their branches hung low from the weight of the fruit on them. I plucked one and we shared it, the sugary juice running down our chins.

To the south, a stream trickled down from nearby mountain peaks, run off from the thawing snows many miles above us.

I've looked back on our time in that cabin, and longed to return to those memories. It was the best time of our life. We were free from worry and concern, and our love continued to deepen. I can only think of one moment when it all went stink-bad.

The Baby Gardens

Meva went outside in the cool of the morning and paced off a large square field, then a second field in the shape of a giant circle. The square field was for boys, and the circular was for girls. By our custom it was mandatory to build both fields, and to decide which field would house the seed only after both were complete. Some couples demanded only males. Some demanded only females. Some demanded the exact same amount of each sex. Some decided to plant all of the offspring in one season. Still others chose not to plant any seed at all.

We had long walks around the two fields, Meva gleaning every weed from the area so that it looked pristine. All rocks and pebbles were moved to the outskirts of the fields, making an accidental sweeping rock path around them. She set up boarder markers of stick then drew a string taught between them. We gathered smaller sticks and placed them along the string to mark the border. She sang a song about the family inside the border, and how one day they would meet the family outside the border. The land was rich for reproduction.

It came time to plant. I exhaled, and a small sack lowered from the bottom of my torso. Where I am from, the sacks have three black marks on them; two of them look like circles for eyes and one mark below looks like a smile. Inside of the sack contains any number of seeds from one to ninety-nine. We are forbidden from checking the count of seeds in the sack, so the day of planting is always a surprise.

The next part of the planting ritual is up to Meva. She pokes her finger into the "right eye" mark of the sack, and the line that looks like a mouth opens up and says, "YAAAARRR!" then the number of seeds we are to plant that day come out of the mouth. In our case, one seed came out and landed in Meva’s open hand. Next she was to choose which field would receive the seed. Would it be the square field or the circular field? But before she could make her choice, something terrible happened. The seed withered in her hand and blew apart in a puff of smoke.

Shock came over Meva’s face as she considered the seed obliteration in her hand. She looked up at me to see how I would respond. I was not sure how to act. The first thing that came to mind was what people would call her from now on, "Obliterator." I pushed that word out of my mind because-- OBLITERATOR. No! Not Meva! She would not be known as an obliterator! It is true that other obliterators who did not want to be known by that name often claimed that they never tried to have children in the first place. But that was hard to do for the couples who more publicly built their square and circle fields in thickly populated areas. Sometimes the husband took the blame, claiming that no seed was ever produced from the sack in the first place. He would be known as "Seedless." That is a name so shameful that we would shout that curse to our enemies on the other side of the battlefield, "Seedless! Seedless! Seedless!"

Meva wept in my arms, and said I could leave and find another female. I told her that I would rather be married to even an obliterator than any non-Meva female!

She had the desperate idea to use the soul transfer device to put her into the body of a viable female, but the idea was wrought with difficulties. The first would be to find a female who wanted to be pulled from her body into Meva’s. Why would a female want to be removed from her own body? Perhaps if she had an incurable disease! If she was going to die anyway, she would want to switch bodies with Meva, then Meva could bring us a baby, and we could figure out something else to do with her incurable disease. Perhaps I could build her a mechanical body in which to house her soul in case of an emergency.

Meva was willing to do this, but I did not like the idea of using the soul transfer machine lightly. It was for emergencies, and it needed much more experimentation before we knew the limits of its power. I was not sure how trustworthy the housing device we got from the rock people would be. What would happen if the device failed? What would happen if the device killed the purple fuzz-ball in the middle of a soul transfer? I assumed the body would be obliterated, and the soul could be cast into the air, a homeless ghost in search of a body! No! Experimenting on Meva would not do! She was already sad enough by not being able to bring us children.

We did not turn the two fields under, but we did not keep nature from claiming the ground for the forest again. Trees grew in those fields, male trees where the square was and female trees where the circle field used to be. Rocks tumbled back over the ground, male rocks where the square field used to be and female rocks where the circle used to be. The weeds came.

Meva and I never brought up what happened in those two fields again.

Artism

Five years passed, and we had thoroughly researched the soul transfer device. I took most of the notes, and Meva formally put everything in her secret journal. We concluded our experiments, having grown weary of research, and put the soul transfer device in storage under the bed.

With the diversion of research over, I noticed Meva spent long hours staring out the window. She was looking at the baby gardens, now barely visible under a thick patch of weeds.

One day, Meva went outside to draw shapes in the soil using sticks. She told me it was a new art theory she was working on called Drawshapism. Then she pushed sticks into the ground and call it Stickism.

Not to be outdone, I piled rocks up in front of our cabin and called it Rockism.

Soon her stick artworks began to fill the yard, leaving little room for my rock expressions. With no place left on our property to properly display my art, I decided to pioneer a new undiscovered genre of fine art. I plucked pinecones from the surrounding trees and re-hung them from the branches. I called it Pineconeism.

Meva thought I was mocking her art. I asked her why she didn't think I was just mocking Rockism. She claimed intuition. She said that Pineconeism was redundant and derivative, which infuriated me.

Out of spite, I tied the pinecones onto the exact place from where I plucked them, inciting more criticism from Meva. She said she couldn't tell if the pinecones were growing naturally from the tree, or if I had plucked and tied them back onto the branch. I feigned offense and yelled, "You do not have an eye for art or you would recognize Pineconism when you saw it!"

She declared a new form of Pineconism, where the artist did not pluck the pinecone from the branch and retie it before declaring it a work of art. I thought this was obviously silly, and said as much. She yelled, "You are just jealous of my superior form of expression, Tzurk! You know that I have discovered an authentic movement known as Pineconism!"

"You are not even making art, Meva!" I yelled. "What you are doing is called NATURE, not art!"

She glared at me, "That is what all stupid people said about great art when it was first discovered! They did not have the mind to understand such things. I am shocked to know that you are one of those people!"

I pointed to the ground, "Fine! I just discovered Groundism! It is when the ground is just the ground. In fact, the whole world is already my work of art because it is all covered with the ground. I will sign my name to the world."

I snapped a stick from the ground, and signed my name to the ground.

Meva’s face turned red with anger, "You just broke off one of my stickist artworks!"

"Well, there weren’t any other sticks I could use to sign my name!" I shouted back, "Someone picked them all and stuck them into the ground!"

That night, Meva moved out of our bed and set up a pile of clothes to sleep on in the corner. I saw the stupidity of our fight and said so. But she would not talk to me, and would not return to our bed.

That night I did not sleep. When we slept together, I rested my hand on her hip. The empty space she left in the bed was haunting. I kept looking over at Meva in the corner, and could not believe I acted so stupid to her. I realized that she was really trying to be an artist. She needed to create. She hadn't started Stickism to spite me. She was expressing herself. I was the fraud. I was the one acting in spite.

That lonely bed was a warning that if I continued to disrespect my treasured wife, I may just end up alone… forever.

The next morning, I saw her stirring, so I went and lay down beside her. I apologized to her and admitted my spite.

She held up her hand to quiet me. "I curse my love of art. I put it before you. I forgive you, but I don’t want to pursue Stickism or my fraudulent form of Pineconism anymore."

She took my hand and placed it on her hip. She said, "I have a new form of art. I call it Tzurkism, and I will only ever be a Tzurkist!"

"And I am a Mevaist. I will only be obsessed with Mevaism forever!"

Research

I threw myself into the study of the soul transfer machine. Meva documented everything in a secret journal (Undisclosed location. Trust me, don’t even bother trying). When I first turned the machine on, we could feel it drawing power from the surrounding environment. If we used it too often, the surrounding trees would droop from exhaustion and the grass would lose its color. Though we didn't feel anything, it was my suspicion that the soul transfer machine could even be drawing its power from Meva and I.

With the use of some handmade baskets and some string, I was able to trap small spirds on which to experiment. We always had a few in cages along the back wall of our cabin, and took them outside when weather permitted. The first specimen I caught was an adult spird that looked healthy. We called him "Specimen A". I put him in one of the transfer machine’s claws, and had the other claw touching a rock. This was to emulate my first experience in the blank mines when I touched the purple fuzz-ball and went into the mountain.

I pushed the button to power the device, and it began to hum. Then, with a flip of a switch, Specimen A went suddenly limp, and the soul transfer machine cut its own power. Meva pushed her fingers through Specimen A’s feathers, feeling for a pulse. But there was none to be found.

We inspected the rock. I picked it up and held it up to my face. It was cooler than room temperature, but there were no visible signs that anything was different.

"If you are in there, little spird, hold on tight and we will bring you back to your body!" I said.

The claw of the machine was, once again, attached to the rock. The claw on Specimen A remained and we turned the machine on. With a flip of the switch, the spird sprang back to life. It's head snapped up, and it's feet clenched. We kept Speciman A in a cage just long enough to make sure there were no lasting side effects. Later that spring, we set Specimen A loose, and he built a nest in a tree that grew from what used to be our circular field.

It was not clear exactly what happened in the event of soul transfer. We were not sure if the soul got extracted from the body, and that caused the heart to stop, or if the soul transfer stopped the body’s heart, which released the soul to be transferred.

[believerindaydreams]

yay I wrote an ending! Again!

It is moar endery than last time tho and pleasingly spooky

Arcade

He's legitimately unclear at this point what's real and what isn't.

Christine for instance has abandoned the use of her sniper rifle altogether, relying on a power glove to take on the hordes of feral ghouls that populate the Dunwich Building. She's a trained Brotherhood assassin whose capabilities he's not privy to- how can he guess if her punches and war cries are her own, or impelled by something past the grave?

And the swish of a heavy coat behind him, the cock of a heavy-duty handgun, the sounds aren't there if he stops to listen properly. They're in the fraught moments, when his attention is too bent on surviving a fight to contemplate distractions.

And Boone. Arcade's almost certain his lover isn't here at all; he wouldn't be here empty-handed, with nothing to defend himself. The shoulder of his survival armor is sodden with dark liquid, his breath doesn't mist in the unwholesome chill.

Nothing can persuade him to use the blood-sight down here. It's not hard to see glowing ones, even in the dark.

Christine leads them down through offices and hallucinations, broken dreams and broken steel overlapping. Her instinct's smooth, unerring; not a wasted movement or wrong turn.

Somewhere along the way he gives way to temptation, takes a folded overcoat from his doctor's bag. The pestilent chill needs something sturdy to ward it off.

Christine watches with amusement, her bared teeth white in the dark; and forces shapeless scribal robes over her stealth suit. The hood reminds him of an illustration he'd seen in a burnt book once, an executioner holding the axe.

The dripping from Boone's wound is audible now, in still moments. He doesn't complain.

They're getting closer- the works of humanity have given way to those of nature, caverns lit by ethereal blue fire and populated by the dead. He and Christine cut their passage forward, each step bought with an unholy life, a guttural cry; and his clean holorifle becomes useless without scientific microfusion to support it. He takes out his ripper instead, slashing limbs that don't bleed and bodies without reason, and fights to preserve the ghost he can't even be sure accompanies them.

There is no silent peace to mark the end of their quest, or none he can hear at least; just a dead end, and Christine's voice as they circle, protecting each other's backs. "This is it. Cover me, I'll use the book."

He is certain the word should have been destroy, not use; but the difference is academic in every sense, with the continued influx of ghouls pressing them. There's too many of them. He can see the fallen remaking themselves, disembodied hands scuttling back to tattered limbs, heads rolling slowly back to torsos. They'll never survive this onslaught.

"I have it," Christine says. "It requires two."

She's read ahead and he hasn't; but the intent of the ritual knife she holds is anything but ambiguous. Arcade fends off a glowing one's attack by lopping it in half, wonders how he can buy breathing space from her.

"Christine. Christine, you don't want to do this."

"Yes, I do." She moves in for the kill, and all that saves him is the ridiculous inadequacy of her small knife, compared to all the weapons

His ripper catches it in mechanical teeth, only to shatter into a mess of gears and flying debris. She binds him to the obelisk, with a heavy twine woven from punga vines.

"Please don't...don't. Veronica's gone, this isn't going to bring her back."

"You want me to be rational," Christine says, a tear mixing with the sweat and blood running down her face. "You want me to give up a one in a million chance to bring my lover back, because you live and breath. Arcade. I'd kill my way through a hundred as good and pure as you, for the faintest chance of seeing her one last time."

She swings in the blade for the kill, one sure slash towards his throat; and Veronica Santangelo blocks it. Pushes the knife back on its owner.

"Not again...I can't have a Follower die for me again..."

Christine lets go of the knife, holds Veronica in a sobbing, ecstatic embrace; and then there is finally silence, a moment of pure peace before Veronica draws the knife down, through the back into the heart.

The knife rings out, as it clatters to the floor; the book falls with an obscene rustle of pages. The rest is ash and dust.

Arcade frees himself with a fragment of his ripper, grabs the ritual objects in a vague hope they'll fend anything away, give him power. The mass of ghouls running towards him don't seem impressed.

What does impress them is the unmistakable sound of a 10mm bullet piercing a rotten skull.

Arcade gives up. Calls in the blood-sight the way Boone had warned him never to do, alone and unmoored; and can see the mass of undead approaching this spot, a horde, a flood. The wanderer poised against them.

And somewhere, very far up, a warm human life with a beating heart. A beacon back to everything sane.

"For the Enclave," Autumn says quietly, reloading his pistol.

Arcade meets his gaze, one last time; and throws him the overcoat before running for dear life.

*****

Boone is sleeping outside the entrance when Arcade makes it out, peaceful and untroubled. There's no wound on him.

Arcade shakes his head, liberally avails himself of the medicines and chems Boone's thoughtfully hauled along. What's left should still see them back to Point Lookout, if they're careful.

"You waited for me," he says, when Boone wakes up.

"Sure." The sniper lifts a lid off a pot, sniffs it. "Made that stew you liked."

"Beer and mole rat meat, wasn't it?"

"Something like that."

They eat under a dark sky pockmarked with stars, and the food is warming and the book looks like a book. He thinks he can go back and forget all this, if not forgive it.

"Christine died down there?" Boone asks, around a mouthful of potato.

"Yeah. She...she didn't want to live, without Veronica."

Boone does something that can really only be described as cuddling up to him, flank to flank and an arm against his back. "Glad you disagreed."

"...I think you may have saved my life down there."

There is, he thinks, something very restful about being able to say that and just being offered more soup in response.

"Radio's been buzzing," Boone says after a while. "Seems somebody blew up the Citadel. Funny thing is, nobody's claiming credit."

"Not even the Enclave?"

"Judah came on to say...denouncing in the strongest possible terms, something like that. Three Dog is saying the Brotherhood should sue for peace, whatever suing means."

"I'm not sure that will end well. An Enclave-Brotherhood alliance could be a terrible thing."

"You gonna go back to Raven Rock and do something about it?"

It doesn't take him so long as a breath to make up his mind. "No. You know what? I want to take this book back to the people who were worshipping it, and give them some tips about not letting it be stolen next time. Then I want to weed my herb garden. Then I want to organize the Boardwalk library, and lie in the sun with you and Manny and Carla and Daisy, and just...be. Finish my stimpak research. Stop taking every ill of the wasteland on my shoulders, because there'll never be an end to it."

"Sounds like a good plan. Home."

"Home."

They fall asleep together, for once; and no denizen of the wasteland comes to harm them.

[phoenixalmighty]

Shaping Two Futures

@girlgeniusevents

This was written for Girl Genius Event Week 2019, Day 7: Niche Crossover/AU Day. The crossover in this case is the Geneforge games.

—

General Alwan gazes upon the dormant portal. “And you’re sure it will open into somewhere in Terrestia?”

Next to him, Baron Klaus Wulfenbach shrugs. “I can’t be sure of anything until I’ve seen it working with my own eyes. The only previous work we could base the technology on was from the English Sparks who have been working on higher-dimensional travel; we’re lucky that the energy readings we got from you in the aftermath of your passage inspired some of the Sparks who saw them to use the unique signature as a homing beacon, and it still took two years. I’ve looked over the design, though, and I believe it should work.”

Alwan nods and resists the urge to sigh. “I’ve felt this before, this uncertainty about whether a new technology or magic will work the way its creator says it will. I hate it — more so when the course of the future could hinge on it.”

The Baron looks pensive. “I must confess that I find it a refreshing change from the challenge of running a continental empire, if only because the new thing is occasionally something that will help me instead of making yet another mess that I have to send someone to clean up.”

“Even if it does work, you shouldn’t start celebrating just yet,” Alwan warns. “The Shapers may have great power, but the rebels stole some of it for themselves and spent years building up forces in secret, and with the element of surprise on their side, they were able to take much of eastern Terrestia. Given the chaos and general unpredictability of the strategic situation last I knew of it, I can make no guarantees about the state of any part of the continent.”

The Baron opens his mouth to reply, but whatever he is about to say is cut off by a shout from one of the technicians near the portal’s control panel. “Herr Baron! The portal is ready to be turned on!”

“Then what are you waiting for? Do it!”

Alwan looks over his shoulder to check the hundred soldier clanks behind him. All seem ready. They will come through alongside him and the Baron in case they come across any rebels or other unsavory characters.

In most cases, Alwan would be reluctant to have the leader of the nation he wants to ally with come into a potentially dangerous situation such as this. However, he has seen the rebels fight, and he has seen the Baron fight, so he is not concerned for the Baron.

The edges of the portal glow blue. The area inside flickers the same color before resolving into a forest where beings — some human, some not — dart between the trees, casting spells, breathing fire, spitting acid, swinging swords, and generally trying to kill each other. The combatants of one side wear no emblem; those of the other wear the distinctive three-part circle that the Shapers use as a sigil.

The Shapers still fight. Good. Alwan will render aid to ensure they win.

Without waiting for the Baron’s signal — they have already agreed that Alwan, as the one with experience in this land’s methods of war, shall have military command of the Baron’s forces unless the Baron overrides him — Alwan barks, “Clanks! Forward! Aid the Shapers!” As the clanks raise their rifles and charge, aiming for the rebel soldiers, Alwan scans the battlefield for any high-value targets. He finds one in the form of a drayk, a twenty-foot-long creation that a Europan might call a dragon if its wings were large enough to allow it to fly. Though creations of both sides almost never bear any sigil to declare their allegiance, Alwan knows that any drayk on a battlefield will be allied with the rebels; their existence is illegal under Shaper law, and any Shaper finding one is duty-bound to destroy it, though this is easier said than done.

On his own, Alwan would find it difficult but doable. With the Baron at his side, killing the drayk will be a nearly-assured success.

With the Baron close on his heels, Alwan sprints for the drayk, drawing his sword. While on the way, he observes that the Shaper forces, while as surprised as the rebel ones, are beginning to work with their new allies with admirable quickness. Excellent. He gets close to the drayk and strikes at its eye, but it jerks its head back and breathes a gout of flame at him and the Baron. Alwan rolls to the right, the Baron to the left, and they move to flank the beast. It turns to face Alwan, lashing at the Baron with its tail.

Alwan can see the logic in choosing to face the Shaper rather than the unknown, but that was the wrong move; the drayk should have gotten out of the flank as quickly as possible, as turning its back on the Baron is at least as certain a death sentence as turning its back on Alwan himself. The Baron proves it by leaping over the swiping tail and driving his sword into the drayk’s back. It roars in pain, thrashing about to try to dislodge the Baron, but he is gripping the drayk’s wing joints to avoid being thrown, and the distraction gives Alwan an opening to ram his sword through the roof of the drayk’s mouth. Alwan shoves the head off his blade and searches for the next target. As luck would have it, the target finds him.

Alwan’s magical senses warn him of the incoming spell just in time for him to duck and let it fly over his head. He spins to face its source: a woman with a cold, angry, arrogant sneer on her face, clothed in a robe that imitates those worn by the Shapers themselves. A rebel lifecrafter, whose waxy, cracked, glowing skin shows that she has been illegally Shaped again and again, past the point where the well-known mental effects become more trouble than they are worth.

The lifecrafter waves a hand, and a flash of light heralds her creation of a battle alpha: a large, strong, red-furred, moderately-intelligent humanoid that is often used as a shock trooper. Alwan has no time to make any creations of his own before the lifecrafter is casting another spell at him, this one a bolt of ice. He darts to the side to dodge it and calls to the Baron, “You handle the battle alpha! I’ll take the lifecrafter!”

He has told the Baron enough about Terrestia during the years he has spent in Europa that the Baron already knows which is which, as if it weren’t obvious enough from context. Battle alphas are strong, fast, and tough, but the Baron has taken on more dangerous foes in single combat and prevailed. He will have no problems defeating the creature.

Alwan closes range with the lifecrafter. He could draw the sidearm at his hip and shoot at her from a distance, but she will be used to fighting at range, and he does not know if the armor she undoubtedly wears beneath her robe will stop a bullet. Getting close will, hopefully, push her to start making mistakes. Three more dodged spells, and Alwan is upon her. A slice across her torso is deflected by what feels like chitin armor. She makes her panic evident with a sloppy blast of fire that Alwan barely even has to dodge before stabbing his sword through her armor and into her stomach.

He considers it a minor personal failure that he lets his guard down enough for her to punch him in the face, shove herself off his sword, and cast a healing spell on herself, but it matters little. She could have augmented that punch with magic; that she did not think to shows just how rattled she is. Alwan will kill her without much more trouble.

The lifecrafter thrusts out her hand, and acid mist sprays from her palm at Alwan. He aborts his lunge in favor of getting out of its way; an ice bolt he might have been willing to take, but acid he is much less sanguine about. Instead, he tosses his sword to his left hand and draws his sidearm. Now that he knows her armor is chitin, he knows it will not stop bullets, and her look of shock when he puts three rounds into her center mass is his cue to finish her off by decapitating her.

He looks around. The Baron has long since killed the battle alpha, and the Wulfenbach clanks are helping the Shaper forces mop up the last of the rebels. There is little left for him to do other than make contact with the Shaper commander so that the diplomacy can begin.

—

“Ah, Greta. Is that the report on Baron Wulfenbach’s excursion into Terrestia? I’ve already read it, but I was wondering if you had any insights I was missing.”

Greta sips at her coffee before she answers Prince Tarvek. “To give you insights you’re missing, I need to know which ones you have.”

“General Alwan’s belief that a Shaper-Wulfenbach alliance will crush the lifecrafter rebellion seems a little optimistic to me, considering that he knows Wulfenbach has enemies who would love to ally with the rebels.”

Greta smiles. “Ah, but he doesn’t know that those enemies know where he went or that they can get there themselves, and I’m almost certain he doesn’t know that I’m here. After all, I didn’t learn of his presence in Europa until we’d been here for two months, and I’ve taken pains to stay beneath the empire’s notice. Given what he knows, his conclusion is fairly reasonable.”

Tarvek nods. “Though no less wrong for it. What little Alwan saw of Terrestian tactics seems to be about the same as you remember from two years ago. Not much to talk about there, except that the presence of a human lifecrafter means the rebellion hasn’t been completely taken over by the drakons —” Tarvek breaks off as Greta shakes her head. “— no? Why not?”

“From Alwan’s description, that woman had overShaped herself in search of ever more power, which is exactly the kind of thing that the drakons would encourage... not that it was uncommon among lifecrafters who had no contact with the drakons.”

Tarvek frowns. “How do you come to that conclusion? I was under the impression that self-Shaping had no drawbacks.”

Greta gives Tarvek a look. The rest of the conspiracy hasn’t been sharing everything with you, has it? Dangerous, to keep one of the two people their whole plan rests on out of the loop. “Oh, it has several, and that’s why I only did it sparingly when I was in Terrestia.

“There are two types of device that are used to Shape a person in the way that rebels do and Shapers forbid: Geneforges and canisters. A Geneforge is a pool of charged, distilled essence and various equipment and machinery to keep it functional. When used, it grants some basic abilities, such as the ability to shoot fire from one’s hands or heal minor wounds, and lays the groundwork for future changes. Canisters are, well, glass canisters that contain essence of a similar type to Geneforges, but most only grant a single ability, though what that ability is varies. Unlike a Geneforge, a canister is single-use and portable, so people have to keep making them, but they can go to their users instead of the other way around.

“Both Geneforges and canisters work by rewriting part of the user’s being, although which part I’ve never been entirely clear on. However, if you overuse them, the side effects include arrogance, shortened temper, loss of empathy, and megalomania, and they’re addictive to boot. Use few enough, or space them out far enough, and you can avoid most of it.” This is what Greta did, and it is why she retained enough of her faculties to rise as far in the rebellion’s ranks as she had before coming to Europa.

Tarvek hums as he takes in the information. “I see. And you said that the drakons would encourage using too many of these?”

“They would. They care only for their own power, but they use the reason I joined the rebellion, which is to make Terrestia a place where creations would have more rights than the Shapers give them now, as a smokescreen to get more people to fight for them. If they get more lifecrafters to overuse canisters, that would allow them to take those who believe as I do about Shaper tyranny and make them forget those beliefs in favor of their own quest for ever-greater power. Hopefully the human rebels retain enough influence within the greater rebellion to have kept that from happening so that a rebel victory doesn’t result in a state as tyrannical as the Shaper government but headed by the drakons.”

Tarvek is silent for a moment. Greta waits for him to marshal his thoughts until he says, “I see. Moving on to the strategic situation on Terrestia, it looks like the rebels hold the eastern part of the continent and the Shapers the western part, but the rebels are making a push from Burwood Province into the Okavano Fens. That seems like an ideal place to send military aid to the rebels.”

The continent of Terrestia is shaped roughly like a square with the middle taken out and peninsulas jutting east from the top and bottom of the eastern side. Burwood Province and the Okavano Fens border the inland sea on the north; on the southern shore, the rebels hold most of Illya Province in the east, and the Shapers hold the Storm Plains in the west. Greta nods at Tarvek’s assessment. “It does, though we would need to ensure that the source of that aid doesn’t leak to anyone who shouldn’t know it.”

“Obviously. We’d also need to keep it from Wulfenbach that we were moving troops to parts unknown.”

Greta absently nods at Tarvek’s words, but her mind has been taken elsewhere by the shift to the topic of a Valois-rebel alliance. Like the rebellion, the Storm King conspiracy could usher in an era of peace and a better government than the one that already exists; also like the rebellion, the conspiracy has many who would rather simply place themselves at the top of the new order without doing anything to make the lives of the common folk better. She had been trying to maneuver the human rebels into a position of greater power than the drakon rebels before coming to Europa, but with a Valois-rebel alliance, the complexity of ensuring that the best parts of both groups come out on top will likely put it beyond her ability.

But Tarvek wants to help people, and he just might be able to pull it off.

And so, as the conversation shifts to the nearly-complete portal device through which Greta will soon travel to Terrestia, she is already considering how to persuade the young prince to help her ensure that both revolutions succeed without coming full circle.

[coeurlkin]

Sahasrara.

The first impact rang out through the ruined temple as fist met fist, both men's knuckles crashing together, leaving the pair stood there. A simple action meant to test the mettle of any who stood before them. If either had fallen in that moment, there would have been no doubt as to their unworthiness.

Both men had their reasons for being there, for answering the call, but only one would see their ambition come to pass. Wyra'to locked eyes with Vilbrand, the intensity of his gaze matched, the straining of bone against bone finally giving way as the Highlander took the offensive.

Vilbradr let out a cry before spinning to the right, pushing further into Wyra'to's fist with his own whilst spiraling around with his other arm, the back of his hand screeching as it cut through the tension towards it's target, only to be met with the back of Wyra'to's forearm. The momentum of the strike was absorbed by the muscular Keeper's guard. Still, the wolf pushed himself onwards. His right leg bursting upwards from the floor, his body still turning as he sought to lash out with a high kick, the movement only just allowing him to move out of the path of a solid right jab. The Keeper had rooted himself in place with his knees bent, every muscle tensing at the presumed moment of impact, only to then relax once he failed to connect. The two men span to face each other, Vilbradr twisting into a spinning heel kick, Wyra'to kicking upwards and intercepting the blow with his shin. The strike rattled his bones, forcing the Keeper to grit his fangs. Vilbradr was strong, that much was obvious, but above all else, he was DRIVEN. To succeed, to claim victory. To accept defeat would be to accept death. Death... 

The thought lingered in the Keeper's mind for long enough, the momentary lapse being seized upon near instantly by Vilbradr. A left fist, and then a right struck the Keeper - once in the abdomen, the next in the chest, breaking his guard and sending him back a few paces. Onwards, the Highlander twisting on the spot and lashing out with the bottom of his boot, planting it square in the centre of Wyra'to's chest, pushing his foe further and further away.

The onslaught caught Wyra'to off guard, his muscles aching from the impact, his bones rattled and flesh bruising beneath the garb. Despite all of this, neither man had drawn for their weapons - Vilbradr's claws still lingering at his hips and Wyra'to's hands as yet unaugmented, the pair intent on testing each other, probing for any weakness, poring over every ilm of the other's body for some sign of weakness, something to capitalise on... Again, Vilbradr was upon him, descending upon Wyra'to with a downward swing of his right fist, missing only by a fraction of an ilm. His flank was exposed, now was the time to act, now was the time to strike back! A solid hit draws a grunt from Vilbradr, an elbow striking him in the side of the ribs, only for the Keeper's left knee to soar into his stomach, followed by an attempted jab to the throat which he narrowly avoided. Backstepping, Vilbradr span off to the side to put distance between the pair before calling out.

"Your master taught you well... But come, what say you? Shall we truly begin?"

A challenge.

Wyra'to felt his blood start to boil, his pride screaming out at him and blotting all other thoughts from his head, his stance shifting as the pair circled each other. The stillness lasted only a moment before being shattered by a pair of twin releases - both men's bodies blazing out through the darkness as they opened each of their six gates. Vilbradr stood with his right weapon held outwards, his left remaining at his side whilst his weight shifting to his right leg, three long claws protruding outwards. A sinister glow radiated off of weapons, all instinct screaming at Wyra'to to keep his distance... An impossibility. This was a challenge. A trial. It would be met in kind. Wyra'to's own fists took form, the coeurl heads he had grown so accustomed to blazing into life, sneering, snarling and burning bright. 

The pair circled one another, holding up their respective guards, waiting, watching... Until finally the Keeper made the first move. No more subtlety or hesitation, now was the time to act as his master had taught him to! A right, then a left, and then a right, a flurry of punches carving through the air and towards Vilbradr, only to be met with the backs of the blades, each punch blocked with an apparent ease. Still, the Keeper had to keep going, fist meeting metal over and over, ringing out through the chamber, the sudden bursts of air pressure causing the flames to waver and dance. Shadows grew and shrank as the men moved around the arena, Vilbradr taking the opportunity to lunge outwards with his claws, only to either miss or have the weapons deflected at the final moments. 

Blow after blow, strike after strike, neither man able to get the edge over the other. Wolf and Coeurl, locked in a dance of fists and fury spanning the whole of the arena, back and forth, neither of the men willing to give any ground or quarter whatsoever for what seemed like an age... But this could only last so long. One would have to break eventually. Vilbradr’s next move saw to that. 

A sudden, explosive release of aether knocked Wyra’to off of his momentum, forcing him back and sending him crashing to the floor, scrambling to get to his feet. He recognised the technique almost immediately the Arm of the Destroyer – but there was no time to admire his foe’s form, this was not a friendly match between comrades. This was a duel to the death. This was a matter of his survival.

Wyra’to was barely able to get onto one knee before his foe was upon him once again, a heel crashing down towards him, only to skim past his ear and shatter the stonework before him instead, giving him an opportunity to strike back with a rising uppercut. Vilbradr was taken aback by the Keeper, the strike to his chin breaking his focus and leaving him wide open to a barrage of body shots, rib punches and swipes, before finally ending with a dual fisted lunge at his chest, snarling coeurl heads searing him before he was able to recover. Staggered, Vilbradr took a few further steps back before calling out at the Keeper.

“The traitor taught you that, then? What it is to study under one who fought so valiantly under Theodoric’s banner!”

“Yer wrong! Master did what’e needed ta survive, ta keep th’ faith strong... What’a th’ Elders who took dere lives in dis place? Wouldja besmirch dem too?”

“Better to die by your own hands than live with the shame of betraying your brethren! The shame of Sandwalker ends today, with you!”

Vilbradr’s rage grew and grew, a righteous anger – here stood a man who claimed to be of the Fist, yet learned under one who had betrayed it. So many had fallen to that man, and yet Wyra’to still followed him, still took his instructions, still stuck with him in spite of it all. To Vilbradr, he was no better than a henchman. A lackey. It imperative that he win, for the sake of all those who lost so much on that fateful day. He was upon Wyra’to in a flash, an inhuman burst of speed carrying him across the arena before the Keeper could even so much as blink, let alone form any tangible type of defence. Great swipes of his claws, raking strikes rending fabric and flesh like they were one and the same, each motion spilling the blood of his foe across the floor of the arena. Wyra’to screeched, his arms coming down to try and block off the strikes, his left fist shooting directly into Vilbradr’s cheek with enough power behind it to shatter bone – yet the Highlander would not submit. 

The pair traded blows, relentless, claret staining the stonework, the scent of sweat and iron permeating the air in the room which only seemed to grow denser and denser with each passing moment. Wyra’to’s breathing grew heavy and laboured, cyclas in tatters across the floor, his shoulderguards having long since been discarded and his . Vilbradr too was suffering, his torso exposed, bruises and burns covering much of his body. The scent of burnt flesh hit him HARD, the fire in his eyes still burning in spite of it all. He had far, far too much to lose to let this pretender lay claim to what was rightfully his. Why even bother coming? Why even attempt to answer the call? Blood trickled from his lips as he spoke again, each word dripping with venom. 

“It ends, here. Pretender.”

He moved towards Wyra’to with a predatory glint in his eyes, prowling, stalking his prey. This wasn’t a man, this was a beast, one dedicated entirely to the hunt. Wyra’to stood on the spot, dazed and weary, his vision blurry and fading through the continued blood loss. The haze which had descended upon him was torn away in a heartbeat as he felt something sharp, a very sudden pain which rocked him to the core, a set of claws having torn through his body just beneath his ribs. Everything burned before going numb, his fangs locking together and his fists going limp. The coeurl heads fizzled before going out entirely, his body hanging there, suspended on the claw until it was torn from him. Knees met the floor, the wound pouring out and covering his right side, his left arm weakly rising to try and staunch the flow. This was it, he thought. This was how it all wound end. Weak. Afraid. Alone. His Master, his friends, those he loved and cared for... There were no tears. Not a sound.

Only silence.

Vilbradr took a step back, then another, then another, putting a comfortable distance between himself and his foe. He’d done it. He’d won... Yet why did he not feel any different? Here he was was, victorious, his foe at death’s door, and yet the seventh gate was not his. Why? Why was this happening? Was he unworthy? No, it had to be something else... The highlander turned to face the statues, the air growing thicker and thicker as he called out. Why, O Rhalgr? Have I not done enough? Have I not pleased you by striking down the right hand of a despot? A warmonger? A criminal? His voice cracked, exhaustion giving way to desperation, body finally reacting to the myriad of wounds which covered it. His gaze shifted back to the Keeper... No, it couldn’t have been. There was no sound. No breathing. No obvious sign of resistance, and yet he could feel something. Something which shook him to the pit of his stomach. 

The man forced himself forwards, towards the Keeper, dropping both of his weapons as he advanced. There was no way. Then it happened. A dull glow at first, growing brighter by the second, right in the centre of the Keeper’s forehead, followed by a sudden gust as the air began to move around the pair. The light continued to grow, Wyra’to’s body starting to stir, his fists clenching once again, the flow of blood slowing down before coming to an outright stop, allowing him to rise to his feet, albeit slowly. One step, and then another, the Keeper moved forwards, forcing Vilbradr back, fear overwhelming the Highlander.

“No... No!”

Both men had felt the call. Both men had come here, to this sacred place, with something to prove. Vilbradr had come for vengeance. Wyra’to had come for forgiveness. The understanding had hit him in what he thought would be his final moments, a sudden clarity. It would be impossible for him to ever set everything right, this much was true, but he was not his Master. He was his own man, able to serve Rhalgr in his own way. Able to protect those he cared for, to teach, to ensure that those who came after him would never repeat the mistakes of their forefathers. Vilbradr kept scrambling back as the figure before him moved, aether flooding into the severely wounded Keeper’s body, the sight before him both terrifying and majestic in it’s own right. He had tried his best, but it wasn’t enough. His ambition wasn’t enough. 

There was barely time to utter a prayer, with Wyra’to’s hands cupping down at his right side, a singular coeurl head blazing into life, energy crackling off of the sneering, snarling visage. It grew and grew, until the power within could no longer be contained, the platform starting to tremble. The Keeper threw both hands forwards with a ferocious snarl, his broken hands parting, the maw of the beast opening as a torrent of aether burst towards Vilbradr. A cascade of burning light. 

In that moment, he was illuminated. 

This... This was the true radiance of the Destroyer. Even as he felt his body break apart, his skin peeling and burning, his blood boiling, bones crumbling to ash, he was thankful to have been given this chance. To feel the Destroyer in all his glory. Everything grew numb, and then nothingness. All that remained were the shreds of Vilbradr’s garb, his weapons, a bloody, charred smear on the floor. Wyra’to’s body too grew still before giving out entirely. Blood tinged his vision, his chest shaking, his hands burning and raw from the sudden outpouring of energy. Exhaustion struck him. Everything hurt. Every ilm of his body was in absolute agony. Whatever had happened could be answered for later. Now, he would rest.

Perhaps a bell. Perhaps a sun.

Perhaps forever.

[ikesenhell]

The Surge

This is part seven of To Honor And Protect. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here. NOTE: Some of this is violent/gory. While I would hope it isn’t considered excessive, you are forewarned.

On the western border, a second patrol was dispatched. 

The first one hadn’t come back from their simple reconnaissance. Some in the barracks grumbled about stupid greenhorns, out getting drunk. Some of them sighed and wondered how you could get lost on a straight path. But the officers worried silently, bolstered by Mitsuhide Akechi’s warnings. 

They found the first body halfway down the track. Were it not for his uniform boots they might not have recognized him at all. The mangled ruin of his torso scatted halfway across the grass, entrails wound around the tree where they found the second one. As for the other three, no amount of searching did any good. 

But clutched in the ruby-red, dripping fist of their unlucky comrade, they found a slip of paper. No--not paper. The men recoiled in fear when they realized it was skin, peeled raw from something inhuman, and branded deep into the flesh was an arcane sigil. 

Mitsunari wasn’t allowed a book in his cell. He tried asking, but they refused, doubtless on the grounds that something in it would assist his skills. His request for a piece of chalk was equally refused. 

“Look,” he sighed at the jailer. “I can’t do anything with that aside from draw. I just want to do a little bit of math to keep myself occupied.”

The soldier stared at him sideways. “How can we trust that you won’t make some kind of summoning circle with it?”

“That isn’t even how it works. I’d need something sharper than chalk to do anything.” 

No amount of words could convince them to fill his request. Defeated, Mitsunari took to counting bricks and calculating them with imaginary equations, solving each with frustrating ease. Time eked by. Each hour passed in agonizing slowness, and even trying his hand at meditation did little for his rushing thoughts. What of the Princess? Was she okay? His last vision of her was her tears, and he couldn’t take that. He’d made her cry. How could he forgive himself?

After a week, Kennyo and the King came to visit, flanked by Nobunaga and Hideyoshi. 

“Your Highness.” Despite his stiffness, Mitsunari forced himself to kneel. 

“It’s alright, Ishida.” The King motioned for him to stand. Kennyo was less forgiving. 

“Mage.” He thrust out a piece of paper, a symbol scrawled on it. “What does this mean?”

Mitsunari squinted at it, craning his neck forward. Hideyoshi coughed.

“My lord, he needs his glasses.” After a pause, the King nodded and Hideyoshi stepped forward, presenting Mitsunari with one of his pairs. 

“Oh! Thank you.” Settling them on his nose, he stared at the symbol again. It was... familiar. A thousand thoughts raced through his brain, sorting through each with calculator precision. Well, the symbology certainly wasn’t of a healing kind. It didn’t have the shape or make of a summoning spell in the strictest sense, nor was it some kind of dangerous contraption...

“I’m waiting.” Lord Kennyo snipped. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a bit longer.” Mitsunari answered as kindly as he could. He didn’t blame the man. How could you trust someone who used blood as a tool? “You have to understand, magical sigils aren’t easy to unpack. Each mage has their own that needs to be deciphered. There isn’t enough unity, obviously, for a uniform system to establish itself.”

“One of our patrols was attacked to the west.” Nobunaga explained. “Mutilated beyond recognition. Three are still missing. One had a piece of skin clutched in his hand, branded with this.”

Oh. Mitsunari hesitated, taking another look at the symbol. “Well...”

“Well?”

“I...” He paused. “I’m sorry. This will sound like a ploy, but I need to see my books.”

“You have books on this?” Kennyo raised both brows. 

“Yes. How else would I learn? I have to do some research on this. If I’m correct, this could be quite bad indeed. I think this is a repeat of the Great Army.”

All save Nobunaga paled. A hundred years ago though it was, the Great Army was not forgotten. It was the single reason for the banishment of magic in the whole region. Once, a great general had made a monstrous army of horrific, twisted creatures of flesh and blood, sending them into the world to destroy and conquer. But though all knew the history, what the books did not detail was how the combating armies stopped the surge--or how the creatures were made in the first place. 

“How?” Lord Kennyo demanded. “We outlawed and burned all the books we could find.”

“Respectfully speaking, not terribly well.” Mitsunari smiled. “I had a whole library of them growing up. May I get to them, please?”

Apparently they knew they had no choice. Reluctantly, the King motioned to the jailer, who unlocked the cell and freed Mitsunari. 

“But you stay in irons,” Kennyo added.

“Lord Kennyo,” Nobunaga noted, amusement in his voice, “If Mitsunari can create shields with blood and take lives, I highly doubt a mere manacle would stop him. If he’d cared to kill us, he would have done so long before now.”

Mitsunari didn’t add to the point (which was terribly correct, if he really put his mind to it). The King sighed and simply set them forward to the library.

They presented him the sample of flesh, which he sat in a clear box on the massive library table, and set to work. The King had the whole of the place locked down just for him, and the silence settled him. Sometimes Mitsunari wondered how he felt more akin with pages than people. If souls were concrete things, he swore his was made of paper and bled ink. Among his kin, he could lose himself.

Hideyoshi visited most, bringing him food and forcing him to eat. Nobunaga brought updates and Mitsuhide further information. Otherwise, the intrusions were few, and the problem weighty enough to keep his interest.

That was likely why he didn’t even notice the door open one day. 

In fairness, he was up on a ladder, poised with a book and balanced just so against the railing. A chair shuffled. Food said his unconscious mind, conjuring a Pavlovian response to Hideyoshi’s coming and goings, and so he gingerly stepped down, never shutting the page. There was too much to absorb. Feeling his way to the table by memory, he settled down into a stool and groped around for a pen, and--settled his hand on another hand. 

“Sorry!” He jerked it back, glancing up to flash a smile at Hideyoshi. But it wasn’t Hideyoshi. Not at all. Instead, a pair of bright eyes stared back at him, mouth poised to say something, dark ringlets of hair swirling over her neck.

Oh. 

He shot to his feet so fast that the chair crashed to the floor behind him. “Princess, I--” Did he bow? Did he kneel? She didn’t want him to kneel before, but he figured now was a good time. He tried to get down, but his heel caught on the edge of the chair and he staggered over instead, catching himself narrowly on the floorboards. 

“Are you okay?” She asked, going to him.

“I’m sorry--I didn’t hear you--” Mitsunari fumbled over his words. “I--I didn’t realize you would visit--”

“I’m not technically allowed to.” A shy, nervous smile crept over her. 

“Then...” He tried to steady himself, to push down the heavy want of his heart. “You shouldn’t be here. I can’t drag you into this mess.”

“I wanted to see you. I didn’t get to after...” She lamely motioned. “You know.”

A long silence passed between them. Eventually, Mitsunari extricated himself enough from the chair so he could kneel properly before her. “I’m sorry, my lady.”

“Stop that.” She was so soft and kind, her hand touching his shoulder. “Stop that. I told you not to do this.”

“But...” He swallowed. “I’m sorry. I told you I wouldn’t do that again. I said I’d never do it again, and then I did.”

“It wasn’t the same as last time.”

“It almost was,” he admitted miserably. “I thought about it. I imagined stringing him up by his neck and watching his neck break.”

Silence. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because--because I didn’t want to. And because you didn’t want me to.”

Soft as a feather, she put a hand on his hair, stroking her thumb over his flyaway locks, and he nearly wept from the kindness. “My mother used to say, ‘What you think first is what you used to believe, and what you think second is what you really believe’. You didn’t want to do it. You’re not the same person. You protected my father, and that man was already dead. Kenshin’s blade would have done him in long before then.”

The full weight of her mercy sank in his chest, and--without thinking--he dropped entirely onto his knees, resting his head forward against her thighs. For the barest second she paused. Then, tender as ever, she pet his head again. 

“Thank you,” he croaked, holding her calves. “Thank you. Thank you.”

The Princess said nothing, just hushed him and stroked his hair. 

She visited him often after that. He suspected she’d spoken to her father about it, because her presence wasn’t a surprise to any of the Nine that came by. While he shoved his face into a book in search of answers, she carefully organized his notes and transcribed them into something legible, did her own cross-referencing and research.

But it was all too late.

The first volley hit the castle at night. It rocked it straight to the core, sending books flying from shelves and scattering over floorboards. Mitsunari recovered himself just before the second one. 

Oh no. 

Shoving as many reference books as he could get his hands on into a bag, he slung it over his shoulder and snatched the sample off the table, tearing into the hallway. He met Hideyoshi halfway to the central hall. 

“What’s happening?!”

“Attack.” Hideyoshi gasped, tossing Mitsunari his sword. “Come on!”

They raced to the throne room. Soldiers scattered everywhere, guided by various members of the Nine, but there in the eye of the storm, Nobunaga, Kenshin, Lord Kennyo, the King, and the Princess stood.

“We need answers,” Kennyo demanded as soon as Mitsunari arrived. “Now.”

“If I could give you any, I would,” he breathed. 

“My lords,” Hideyoshi gasped for air. “We need to evacuate. The castle can’t hold this many bombardments.”

Kenshin frowned, delicate as ever. “I can hold off the forces outside long enough to buy you space to get to a safer place.”

“And I can escort you.” Nobunaga agreed.

“My daughter.” The King managed. “My daughter--she needs to leave the city. I can’t have her in here during a siege.”

“Respectfully, we are a man down, your highness. We can’t afford to stretch ourselves thinner than we are.”

“I can protect her.” Mitsunari volunteered before he could stop himself. “I can do it.”

“No.” Kennyo snapped. “You won’t touch her.”

“I don’t have to touch her to protect her.”

“Don’t play dumb with me. We all know you’re sharper than you behave.”

But the King was staring at Mitsunari, his dark eyes intent. “You broke the law to protect my daughter before.”

“That...” Mitsunari swallowed dry. “Yes, your Highness. I did.”

“And you would stop at nothing to do it again?”

“Your Lordship--” Kennyo started, but the other man held up a hand to stop him. 

Mitsunari sank to one knee before them, planting his sword in the ground before him. “My life would be forfeit before I let anyone have your daughter.”

The ground rocked again. In the windows behind them, a massive storm brewed black and serious, waves beating like a howling animal. And at last--at last, the King nodded. 

“Take my daughter away from here.”

“Your Highness!” Kennyo protested again, but Mitsunari rose to his knees and bowed. 

“Of course. Hideyoshi and Nobunaga can reach me wherever I am. Princess?”

Again, the whole castle rocked. It was too late for any discussion. Grabbing the Princess by her hand, he drew his sword and they sprinted toward her tower, leaving the others behind them. Kicking the door open to hasten their escape, Mitsunari paused only a moment to stare across the city. Rooftops glowed with flame, the screams of civilians echoing down the streets. Distantly, fleshy, horrible things scrambled between houses and shops, followed by the agonizing shrieks of the doomed. There was no exit from the City--not that way.

“Princess,” he gasped, “Stay close to me.”

They took the steps to the dock as swiftly as they could. Wrapping his cloak tight around her, Mitsunari grabbed the nearest boat and unwound its rope, settling her into the seat before they set off into the choppy waves. 

“Where are we going?” She yelled above the turbulent wind.

Mitsunari forced on a smile, trying to look more confident than he felt. “The Trinity Islands!”

[therealvagabird]

Emissary

A snapshot of interstellar politics, by C. Christiansen.

           “You realize that appearances are a vital part of diplomacy.” Paul idled to the technician as he looked at himself in the mirror. The device hugging the temples of his head was not that obtrusive, but just bulky enough to throw off the sleek look he’d tried to put together.

           “You’ll thank me later.” Mr. Leblanc inspected his own in the mirror, fortunate enough that for once his jarring blonde hair blended rather well with the pearl white plastic of the device. “Hopefully these will even be strong enough. I recommend you focus on purely what the emissary is saying, nothing more.”

           “Doubly noted. The others?” he double checked. He hadn’t had many dealings with the Kinsurao in this sector, who seemed less than interested in political affairs lest provoked, but the dealings over this colonization attempt seemed of more keen interest than usual to them.

           “Unless we smear you with mud, there will be little we can do about the Kinsuraos’ senses. Just try to stay calm.” The pale man straightened his lapels yet again. For being so knowledgeable on the minutiae of these dealings, the man had a severe lack of confidence outside of his field. Hence Paul’s presence.

           The door to the dressing room slid open.

           “Mr. Guandu? Mr. Leblanc?” the young lady checked her wrist-pad while the token security guard by the door looked on.

           “Ready, is the shuttle still our course of action, or are they coming here?” Paul Guandu—he didn’t use his last name much in this trade—asked.

           “The Shoñill emissary was adamant, he refuses to hold dialogue within ‘human constructs’.” Her face was apologetic, as if she was somehow responsible for the psychotic whims of an alien zealot.

           “Very well, not the first time I’ve been situations like these—but I want the guards outfitted with jammers and backup guns. My job profile says ‘brave’ not ‘suicidal’.” The girl gave a smile and nod, taking her leave while the guard gestured for them to follow. “Come on, Leblanc, business awaits; your lapels aren’t getting any straighter.”

           The shuttle ride over was brief, yet the views made the whole thing seem grand and ominous to a—by Guandu’s tastes—rather annoying degree. The massive form of the Shoñill dreadnought on the curved horizon of the planet far “below”, coupled with the multitudes of cruisers of all three factions—human, Kinsurao, and Shoñill—floating still like watching sharks made the trip across the black expanse more intimidating than Paul would have liked.

           “They say Shoñill foundries grow their components in chemical vats, like tissue or crystal.” Leblanc commented, looking forward to the cruiser which appeared like some massive sea creature had eaten a gothic cathedral. “We’ve never found one of their ship forges, but doesn’t the architecture almost make it look like a living creature?”

           “And yet we’re going inside it, which I would deem the opposite of a survival strategy.” Paul mused back, “So maybe the analogy breaks down a little bit, yeah?”

           The scientist just shook his blonde, blonde head. “You’re very blunt for a diplomat, you know that?”

           “They’re religious nuts, they breathe poetry and drink self-praise. I get results through deals, not kissing up.”

—

           The doors of the shuttle opened to a hallway which seemed, to continue the discomforting trend, like the esophagus of a very long and wide fish. Two colossal guards stood, alien, four legs fidgeting with impatience in mirror to the humans’ own protectors, their clawed arms clutched two long poles. Long, avian faces were masked with featureless gold helms, much like the rest of their bodies—decorative plates fringed with flowing robes of burgundy silk.

           “Follow.” One ordered in a fluting tone that nonetheless held all the gravity one would expect from a soldier, pointing down the hall with his staff. “Do not stray from us, or your protection will be void.” The speaker turned and began his plod down the hall. The other waited until the convoy passed to cap off the back, sandwiching the two ambassadors and their four-man guard team.

           The walk wasn’t two long, as after a desanitization room most of the transit was done with the help of powered floors, though no windows were ever passed. Just endless sea-blue walls. They didn’t want them seeing the inner workings of the ship.

           After a few more minutes they came to the end of their journey: a large hall lined with similar golden guardians, flanking the great doorway of what Paul assumed to be the meeting room. The silvery-blue gate was inscribed with many concentric circles of xenos runes, and squiggling lines in the image of a tree. Holy symbols of the Shoñill faith.

           “You will join the others now.” The alien warrior spoke. “The old carnivores already wait.” Clanging their staves down, the duo allowed the convoy to pass as the portcullis spun outward into the wall in a mesmerizing display, the different ring-shaped panels separating and rolling aside, displaying the opulent meeting room.

           The two humans tried not to become too enamored with the décor as they took their seats. The ceiling vaulted into a high cone, supported by many metallic ribs—draped with the burgundy banners of the fleet. Everything was inscribed with some manner of religious motif.

           Even more eye-drawing were those seated at the table. The Shoñill ambassador sat unguarded, with just one other of his species beside him, cloaked head to hoof in black, and laden with trinkets. The emissary himself wore a traditional veil over his vermilinguan face, though the green skin of his head flanges, and the white feathers of his crest were visible. As was the one eye of his that could be seen, as the wide-set globes of his species meant that he had to tilt his head like a bird to look at the duo. Lounging in a taurian fashion, the two hosts carried an air of superiority accented by dripping contempt.

           It was the Kinsurao ambassador, however, who ended up speaking first, he himself adorned in blue armor, with golden pauldrons encasing his enormous shoulders. Paul recognized as the creature made an exclamation of relief.

           “You finally arrive.” He spoke in his species’ most common tongue, “I was beginning to think you would prefer bombardment.” His long limbed guards pricked up at the word for some reason or another. Leblanc tried to smile for the assembly.

      ��    The gangly creature just fixed the two humans with a discomforting stare, the grey skin on his tendril-flanged snout wrinkling as he either snarled trying to mimic the human gesture.

           “Enough talk between the either of you.” The Shoñill clacked from behind his veil. “Your coarse language defiles this hall. You are on my ship, and you shall speak the clean tongue.”

           “Master Ambassador.” Paul gave a bow of the head, adopting the lilting alien tongue, uncomfortable as it was, “I cannot speak for the others, but we come in the name of the Republic to negotiate a ceasefire, and the terms of Pracheen’s colonization.”

           Even with his tauric half laid across a cushion, the Shoñill’s serpentine torso towered above even the Kinsurao’s seated form. “Colonization?”

           He nodded, “This planet was the center of a colonization effort, though your forces arrived and attacked seemingly without provocation. We are further to the fringe than the Xenos Front, and Pracheen was selected because it seemed a safe bet specifically to avoid conflict.”

           “What you dub ‘Pracheen’ was once an ancient shrine world of the Empire, lost in the final collapse against the Old Foe.” His black eye darted to the saurian warriors. “Countless artifacts of the old ages lie beneath its soil. Much knowledge stands to be recovered, if not destroyed by your prying hands.”

           “If these were so important to your race, why did you not look to recover them until it came to bloodshed?” Paul asked.

           “We did not know of their presence until our scouts reported. We would not think to excavate the sacred soil of this world like hungry barbarians. But now that you have unearthed our technology—we demand its surrender.”

           “But it’s not just your technology.” Leblanc now spoke up, laying down a data-pad. “In fact the first artifacts to be recovered were of Kinsurao make.” He broadcasted a hologram, showing several fragmented gadgets and trinkets of unknown use, all quite angular and geometric, before pulling up a second hologram of far more fluid baubles. The aesthetic differences between the carnivorous Kinsurao and their herbivorous rivals were obvious and apparent. “Shoñill are clearly not the only ones who have some ‘ancient claim’ on this planet.”

           “We care not for the abandoned articles.” The Kinsurao spoke up, “Little use save for scrap. We only desire the more exotic materials—and that which you unearthed on the plains of Mot Cigin.”

           Leblanc fiddled with his notes while Paul addressed the alien. “And what exactly? There wasn’t much unearthed on that battlefield save for bones, if I remember correctly.”

           “An artifact of my liege’s ancestors!” he placed a long, clawed hand on the table, “There!” he pointed to the hologram Leblanc had just rendered. “The Glaive of Kag’nai!”

           The artifact looked like a simple gauntlet, albeit suited for the long paws of a Kinsurao, fringed with two blades. All gathered at the table leaned in to look at the unassuming item.

           “A piece of armor? Or some sophisticated weapon?” Paul inquired.

           “No doubt a tool of war. Only a Kinsurao would put blades on a gauntlet.” The emissary cringed in disgust.

           The carnivore stretched his massive wingspan, “The blades are ornamental! Its true blade is one of light and fire, even grander than these fine specimens.” He patted the bladeless hilt on his belt. “It was wielded by the hero Xadem the Father. It strew the Core Fringes with the twitching limbs of the hated V’sok! It struck down Xadem’s traitor brother under the three suns of his own homeworld, and it alone laid low scores of warriors on this very planet before the hero was stung by a coward’s round!” his gaze darted between the two other ambassadors, his forehead twitching.

           There was a very brief pause. “A blade did this?” Paul was familiar with plasma technology, but for a melee weapon to reave so much destruction seemed like an embellishment. Though if this weapon was so desirable…

           “It was not just any blade! Its make was unparalleled. When I say it slew scores, I meant at once. It was said it could level anything put against it.”

           Leblanc just looked at the unassuming gauntlet. “That’s impressive.”

           “Would your liege be willing to negotiate a joint venture? I believe our own scientists could glean much about plasma technology from such an artifact.” Paul leaned towards the Kinsurao.

           “Enough!” the Shoñill waved his hand with a violence, “The bones of our kin lie on this soil! We have paid for this planet in ancient flesh, more valuable than your brags and weapons! For any to own it but us would be an insult to the gods!”

           “Your ground forces contained no scientific envoys. Your elite legionaries didn’t even try to reacquire any artifacts during their raid of our northern research station.” Paul furrowed his brow, “They killed all present, and when cornered by our mechanized division they committed suicide. The recklessness and cruelty of your troops far exceeds what I would expect from a reclamation force.” The Kinsurao seemed to chuckle, “It would seem you have revenge on your mind more than negotiation.”

           “If you had left the solar system when our fleets arrived there would have been no issue, but you chose to continue your infestation.” The alien sounded indignant.

           “We have several platoons of your infantry captured, and you’ve made no attempt to bargain for them despite your having visibly captured members of our civilian population. These gentlemen…” he gestured to the Kinsurao envoy, “Were more willing to bargain for your captured cavalry simply for the meat. I have reason to believe, though you have not stated it, that this is not a reclamation, but a Crusade—Master Emissary.” Paul put the squeeze on him.

           And just as he did he felt a great pressure at his temples to match. There had been a slight buzzing in his head for the whole time he’d been in this room, but now it was like a throbbing pressure. And something else—whispers.

           The blue lights on Leblanc’s headpiece lit up. The Kinsurao stood up rubbing at his own forehead with fury in his eyes. He took his hand away as his third eye opened, fixing the emissary with slitted gaze. “Duplicit fool!” his hand went to his belt as he and his two guard all drew their plasma sabers, sparking to life with an indigo light. Human guards raised their mags as Paul and Leblanc raised their hands. The pressure stopped.

           “We came prepared, your holiness.” Paul still rubbed at his eyes. “I find your lack of tact really disheartening. I almost hoped something could be gained from these talks.”

           “I will not kill you here.” The Kinsurao sheathed his blade. “This will be a short war.” He almost spat at the seated enemies, “Humans.” He turned to the two. “I extend on behalf of my liege an invitation back to our cruiser. If these curs have any honor the ceasefire will hold until we reach our fleets, but I feel we still have more to discuss.”

           Paul stood. The Shoñill weren’t looking anymore, but rather talking to each other in hushed and angered tones. The human ambassador switched to the carnivore’s language, sharp and grandiose. “Just as well, I think my companion was pining for a chance to hear more about this Glaive.”

           “Your stature hides your species admirable values. Perhaps you have some honor yet. Come, our guards shall march with your own. Tell your shuttle you shan’t be returning until the true warriors have had their ‘talks’.”

           “How polite of you, sir.” The doors swung open, and the Kinsurao guards growled at the sentries as they made their way back down the expansive hallway.

[supportforindieauthors]

Minotaur Noir by Katherine Luck

The minotaur was female. And she was decidedly dead.

The city streets were slick with rain that had been falling sporadically for hours, the drops hitting the pavement with the sluggish indifference of a washed-up boxer running out the clock so he could throw the match in the eighth round. The storm clouds had finally blown away at the tail-end of twilight, leaving behind a street cleaved by rivulets of rusty water that trickled from the broken gutters of the tall buildings where the humans lived.

The sun had slithered down behind those tall buildings an hour ago, then slipped behind the low stables where the centaurs lived. Now it was dark, which wasn’t a problem. But tonight a full moon was on its way, and that was most definitely a problem.

When a full moon was on its way, so were the Lycaons.

Under the somber sky, two centaurs from the street patrol unit of the city police circled the motionless body. Their hooves made dull, arrhythmic clop-clop-clop sounds on the cracked sidewalk. This low elevation above the street—a concession to the humans of the neighborhood—was a vexing stumbling block that forced the partners to jostle against each other to retain their balance. Their coarse tails, trimmed to police regulation lengths of half a meter, swished nervously as they eyed the dead minotaur.

She was curled up in an asymmetrical ball, like a rough-cut hunk of leather tied in a clumsy knot. Her scraggly brown fur was lumpy with mats and tangles. Swells of dense muscle bulged here and there beneath her blubbery hide. The short horns sprouting from the broad crown of her conical, bovine skull were scarred with nicks and scratches, the tips blunted like worn teeth. Her large eyes were closed, the bristly black lashes stuck together with dried effluvia. Her big body was hunkered up against the chipped bricks of the building, which was prudently locked, barred, and barricaded in anticipation of the arrival of the Lycaons.

“Well. Guess we won’t be hauling her in for being drunk,” said Dosh. “What should we do with her?”

“Leave her for the Lycaons,” said Wick.

“You sure?”

“Less paperwork,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders.

Wick gave the dark sky a good, long look. Any minute now the moon would slink out from its hiding place. And so would the ravenous wolfmen, who would dispose of the body. Nothing to report come morning—nothing but another pile of sallow minotaur bones picked clean under the full moon. Just like every month.

“Let’s make one last sweep, then get back to the station before—”

He was interrupted by a feeble cry, as lost and faltering as a migrating bird on the wing in the heart of winter.

It came from the dead minotaur.

The centaurs shied back, stumbling off the sidewalk into the street, their steel-shod hooves clipping each other’s fetlocks sharply enough to draw blood. The cry came again: weak, muffled, and infantile.

Wick glanced at his partner, who nodded. He drew in a breath, his chest swelling against his armored vest, and stretched out his front hoof cautiously. He remounted the sidewalk, hesitated, and raked a hand through his blond hair.

Wick glanced at Dosh again. His partner had his back, but he wasn’t making any move to approach the minotaur.

Wick let out a snort of frustration tinged with fear. He gripped his patrol club so tightly the tendons in his hand shone like bleached driftwood in the first ray of moonlight, which pierced the black sky like a darning needle and stabbed the cracked pavement beneath his hooves. He arced his torso down toward the body, ready to rear and canter back if necessary. He reached out his club and jabbed the muscle-plated shoulder of the minotaur.

Her limp arm flopped outward, revealing a tiny baby curled up against her chest. It let out a mewling cry.

“Damn,” he said. “Get the vet.”

The vet arrived just as the moon began to shoot thick beams onto the street with brutal intensity, and just as the Lycaons began howling. The sound of their ululations, inhuman yet not fully animalistic, came from somewhere in the distance. The near-distance.

The vet was a thin human, taller than average; the top of his head almost reached Wick’s withers. His face was without expression, but his eyes ceaselessly scanned the dark recesses between the buildings, searching for hulking outlines ready to seize any warm-blooded thing foolish enough to be out on the night of a full moon with their nimble five-fingered hands, drag it into the shadows, and consume it alive.

Wick didn’t like the vet. And he definitely didn’t trust him. The vet was a human, after all.

The vet knelt down beside the dead minotaur, one knee resting on the wet pavement. He moved her splayed arm aside and pried the lowing infant from the other. An expression of distaste, involuntary but unabashed, flashed across his face. He held the infant by the scruff of its neck and studied it for a moment.

The baby minotaur’s tiny black hooves clattered together, its limp hind legs dangling from its chunky, furry body. It opened its wide mouth and let out a long, low bawl. Another look of disgust crossed the vet’s face. He held the baby out to Wick.

“Hold this,” he said.

Wick backed away, his callused palms up.

“I’m not touching that thing,” he replied.

The vet thrust the baby at Dosh, who trotted back several paces and shook his head. The vet sighed and reluctantly cradled the baby in his left arm. Swiftly, he worked over the mother with his right hand, probing her body with his rough fingers.

“How’d she die?” Wick demanded.

“Beats me,” the vet replied, sitting back on his heels, the knees of his trousers soaked with rainwater. “There’s no cause of death evident. No wounds. No signs of starvation. Nothing.”

The centaurs eyed one another uneasily. Minotaurs were hardy. They died of hunger, violence, or old age. Infections were nothing to them. They didn’t get sick. They weren’t prey to genetic maladies. And they never, ever simply dropped dead on the street.

Up the empty city block, a bone-rattling howl sounded. Then another and another.

“Time to go,” said Wick. “Put the thing back with the female and hustle to the station before the Lycaons get here.”

The vet glanced at the baby, which was squirming and wailing in the crook of his arm. The expression of disgust yet again registered on his features, and he made a movement to do exactly what Wick ordered. But he hesitated.

“It’s not dead. We should take it with us,” he said.

“Leave it,” said Wick. “The Lycaons’ll get rid of it.”

“Less paperwork,” Dosh agreed.

The vet mulled this over for a moment.

“Yeah,” said the vet. “But...”

“The mother’s dead. This thing’s as good as dead with nobody to take care of it,” Wick insisted. “The merciful thing to do is leave it. The Lycaons’ll clean it up quick and painless.”

The vet gazed first at Wick, then at Dosh, who nodded in response. Minotaurs never accepted outsiders into their herds. Even if they could find a female to pawn the baby off on, she’d kill it on sight.

The vet pursed his lips and drew in a constricted breath, which he slowly let out with a thin, reedy sound that was either a whistle or a sigh. He leaned down and grasped the mother’s left arm. He started to place the baby on the dead minotaur’s shaggy chest.

But again, he hesitated.

“Let it go,” said Wick. “Move! They’re coming.”

Up the block, there echoed three howls, discordant and insistent.

“But he’s not dead,” said the vet.

Suddenly, too abruptly and too soon, grunts and snuffling noises resounded directly behind them—a few meters away at most. The centaurs pressed against the vet, their biceps tensed, their tails swishing in agitation like broom-heads.

“Release the minotaur!” Wick commanded. “Drop it—they’re almost here!”

The Lycaons were on them; they could feel their panting, could smell the shreds of new meat on their dank breath.

“It’s too late! Run for it—we’ll try to hold them off,” Dosh shouted, raising his patrol club as eyes, reflecting pale blue in the moonlight, bobbed into view within arm’s reach.

The vet broke into a sprint and vanished down a nearby alley, in that fleet, monkey-like way of humans.

Wick backed into a defensive position next to Dosh, his sleekly curried shoulder sliding across his partner’s scruffy withers.

“Ready?” said Wick.

He saw the younger centaur nod decisively, but felt his flank quiver nervously against his shoulder.

Wick clamped both hands around his club. He braced his four stout legs and glanced back at the dead minotaur. Her arms were splayed, exposing her barrel-shaped chest.

The baby was nowhere to be seen.

The vet had taken it with him.

The Lycaons fell upon the centaurs, and a fugitive thought rushed through Wick’s brain, then fled from the Lycaon onslaught.

I was right not to trust the vet. He’s human.