This Is Where The Magic Happens

“We are not going anywhere, Yoriyuki. It is time to leave,” he told his prime adviser.

Thus remained a status quo between the two courts. How Yoshimitsu thirsted for something that would bewitch his eyes and console his soul.

The moment he stepped on the grounds of his residence his first order fresh from his coitus with his first wife, Nariko, is to see his “flower.” Oniyasha can smell the scent of sex reeking from the shogun’s skin.

“What are you going to show me this time?” Yoshimitsu asks, his open robe exposed his chest, sweat has dried. His black hair is loose reaching his shoulder blades. It takes longer to grow it since reaching his 15th year.

“Are you ready, Milord?”

“Waiting for you…” he inches closer. His manservant Hijiri is nowhere to be found. It is only the two of them in his private chamber.

The boy is only wearing his hakama after Yoshimitsu’s men have roused him from his sleep.

He begins with a few small steps, performing a suriashi, an act where he slides his feet without even lifting them up from the floor.

Then he bends his knees, so subtle that he can see Yoshimitsu tries to reach the soles of his feet.

When Oniyasha sings, his voice relays this mournful message that tugs the shogun’s heart.

What is this?

After he finishes the first stanza he stamps his foot on the floor vibrating sending shivers to his spine.

Oniyasha has grown two Sun ever since taking residence in Sanjo Bomon leaving the comforts of his home, leaving his father Kan’ami. After all, artists follow their dreams, their art.

And this boy has plenty of those, who’s determined to nurture them, perfecting that one flower that will not wilt.

Yoshimitsu finally gets to stroke the boy’s leg as Oniyasha does the kamae. He kneads the calf’s muscles while he reaches for his crotch.

A strangled moan is heard from above and the boy has creased moving.

“D-dance… please don’t stop…” Yoshimitsu implores the young dancer.

The boy begins to sway again his waist.

“Come here…”

“Milord…”

The Kanze actor cannot do anything but obey the young shogun, whose arms envelop his legs relishing them with kisses.

What does one do for his art.

This was the place where they kept the relics of monsters killed by members of the Order, a treasure hoard of natural and unnatural mysteries, a mythic storehouse for study and for record-keeping.

She could sense her father walking up behind her, the sound of his boots as he crossed the stone floor to stand by her side, dressed in his long, dark military coat, with the moon sigil of their house emblazoned on his left breast in silver thread.

“Chaos exists on a spectrum,” he said, echoing the speech he had given recently to a room full of their brethren, which included some of her own friends from her squad.

“That is true,” he reaffirmed, his eyes gliding over the oddities above and around them, among the rare horns, gleaming claws of varying sizes, bottled organs and flesh samples—most of them carefully labeled and organized into categories.

“But it is not our duty to rule the masses in between. Our duty is concerned with the extremities of this spectrum.”

He touched his hand to his chin, in deep contemplation.

“And indeed, it’s true that not all who reside on one end of the spectrum are evil in nature. Our mission is concerned with those who have particularly destructive tendencies, and who are the enemy of man.”

Cela listened with quiet interest, offering no interruptions, as she always did when her father was in this mode of thought.

“Magic-wielders in human form who are not a part of our Order are subject to the common laws of the kingdom. We have always made a clear distinction between man and beast. It is only the later that concerned us.”

He paused in his musing to make a sweeping gesture indicating the items in the shelves.

“Look around you,” he said. “Do you see any human remains anywhere?”

“I’m not sure,” said Cela, honestly, as she could not know every object that was there in that room.

“No, of course. I have worked in this field for much longer, seen many things, and in my lifetime, I have never had to question it.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Good and evil can exist in both man and beast. This, I know. But common people have always believed they are not one and the same, in form, in nature, in origin. But the truth is… that this too may exist on a spectrum.”

“In what way?” she asked, seeking clarity.

“It is a deep subject. I feel you are at an age now to explore it on your own. I will provide you with the materials to get started on that journey…”

_*_

Asa pushed his way through the thick underbrush of the pathless way he had chosen to tread, not pausing to shake off the loose tendrils or other dead bits of plants that clung to his clothes.

He’d been told by his commander never to try to fight a creature on his own. He felt a bit unsettled at having disobeyed his orders so impulsively. But if any feeling of guilt surfaced in his mind, he put it to rest by reminding himself that he was merely scouting the area for signs, not to start a fight. It would do them all good to have someone come back with a report.

He was too far gone for anyone to find him now, so he had stopped looking over his shoulder for followers.

As he clumsily moved through the dense forest, he could feel the dew drops dampening his clothes and hair. It was quite rainy here, he noted, but not unlike his corner of the world, so it was nothing unusual.

He trudged along unrelentingly until his patience was rewarded at last with a break in the brush and the trees. Instinctively, he crouched behind some bushes so that he would remain hidden.

He had stumbled upon a kind of clearing, with a large pond at the center and a stone cave at the opposite end. The pond’s waters were dark, hinting at a depth he couldn’t guess at.

He could have ventured to have a drink, but he didn’t stop to notice much else, as his eye was caught by another, rather commanding, sight.

Directly across from him, right in front of the cave, there lay a large creature. Even in that position, with its head reclining on its front limbs, he could recognize it as one of those they were hunting, which he had, coincidentally, seen a portrait of before striking out in his lone trek.

It looked like a scorpion, with spikes all along its limbs and tail. It was mostly black, with some spots of blue, like freckles, covering its shell.

Even as he watched, the creature appeared to come to life. It got up and walked over to the pond, and waded in, before submerging itself in the center, until its head disappeared below the darkly rippling surface.

Asa was tempted to run, but he was frozen to the spot. There was a movement in the water, then up rose a young man, bare-chested and dark-haired, from the same spot the creature had disappeared.

A scorpion tail came up from behind him, and he had a kind of “helmet” shell around his head, adorned with multiple little horns of varying lengths. There was also a partial shell wrapping around his ribcage and arms, like armor plates.

The beams of light filtering in through the canopy illuminated the water that slid down his olive-skinned body, as the man scooped up some water in his hand and drank it.

Her screen indicated at least another hundred meters to the source. It hadn’t moved, which she took as a reassuring sign. It wasn’t chasing her or trying to intercept her.

Or it could be lying in wait for me – 

NO. Nope. Those were unproductive thoughts. Out, out of brain, out of mind. Going with the first reason.

She continued to study the strange peaks on the display, hoping some intellectual stimulation would use up all her attention and leave no neurons available for panicking. And as she flicked through the actual values, she realized she had been slightly wrong with her initial judgement.

These inverse peaks were only present on the dimensional spectrum. The rest of the signature was different. There was still a biological wavelength and a cybernetic one, but they differed too much from his fingerprint to be a timeline alter.

“You aren’t… Telerand.”

It was hard to tell if that scared her more. Her fear had been encountering someone familiar, yet a flipped facet of themselves. 

What about a stranger? Was that less terrifying? Then she wouldn’t have any prior expectations to be shattered, because she’d never met them before. 

Never met them before. So then their timelines would remain untangled. Maybe that’s what it was. That would also take care of the “destabilizing space-time” portion of things.

Hopefully.

Then again, she could have this all wrong and backwards, but if she tried to account for all that, she wouldn’t be going anywhere. At least she was going forwards.

By this point, the screen wasn’t even useful for anything except counting down the steps between her and the encounter. She could feel the distortion in the air, crackling and charged, just like Telerand’s, but weightier. Which made sense; the flighty time-scout had only traces of his dimensional parasite left in him. This was the rest of it, the most of it.

As she drew nearer, her device went from useless to being actively inconvenient, buzzing and glitching and drawing unwanted attention to her as she shoved it deep into her bag, where the feedback whine wasn’t totally muffled. 

She pulled back her hood, letting the flickering, fiery tips of her hair illuminate a small part of this new dimness. 

The place she walked into was definitely… a destination. It had all been corridors and tunnels and hallways up until this point. Now there were shapes that looked like seats, shadows that looked like stands. This was a platform. Once a platform. Now out of order.

A little ways further, the plane of the floor abruptly ended, dropping off to a level that wasn’t touched by her light.

But from that lower level came a different flicker, just a touch more red than her own.

Telerand’s story had shifted tracks at the train tracks. It could’ve ended there, but someone intervened and rescued him.

What were the chances the same was going to happen here?

Another realization struck her.

This was a Relic field. She was on a Relic assignment. Relics could be interacted with. Relics needed to be interacted with. But living creatures couldn’t be Relics.

Maybe there was an exception for dying creatures. 

Maybe there was an exception for incomplete creatures.

In any case, the device had led her here. With no better options, no orders, no expectations, she went to the platform’s edge and peered over.

“... what are you?”

-

898 words

Had to leave another cliffhanger in the most inconvenient location >w<

A.k.a. the author's trick to put off coming up with a design/description for another week. Whew, saved by the word-count.

I didn't expect to bring it back to the train tracks, but apparently the plot has decided that trains are very important when it has to do with Telerand. And Not-Telerand, by association.

He goes by many names, but his favorite now is “Da!” Under the sun’s gaze, Mike is the proud father of twin baby girls. His own twin jeers and insists on calling him a girl dad (even those he’s nearly as proud an uncle). Mike still feels like he’s getting used to the idea of being a parent for wee ones, but then they’ll look his way with matching excited tiny toothed grins, and come clamoring towards him— enamored with his ol’ red, scruffed-up mug. In return, he holds them close, and melts completely— unconditionally enthralled by their own innocent love towards him that he unhesitatingly returns in kind. Sorcha and Skylar are his greatest treasure in this fucked up game called life.

Mike knows he can never hide his life from them forever.

When night rolls around to bully the light of day out of the way, he gets to business. Him and his crew pour over plans. He and his twin assign roles. Everyone grabs their tools and they go to work. Most of the time, it’s just routine enforcement for payment, sometimes it’s an executed assignment for a paycheck, and when the right moment comes, it’s a full on slaughter for blood money. He’s much more careful now— triple checks the intel, always wears gloves with a full street helmet, and spreads the cash around under multiple aliases. It all started with petty theft survival that grew into an enterprise which blew up in their faces. Barely made out of it alive, yet he and his twin had a second chance at life.

Mike knew he would squander his chance at redemption.

He was the violent brother. Always was. Always will be. Once he was drunk enough to bring it up to Casey— did his twin also enjoy the good fight— also found the sound of breaking bones musical— also craved to spill blood? It’s only him (his twin’s only love is riches). He forged the ashes of their previous organization into an enduringly ruthless syndicate. Reborn from past mistakes. And yet he could never have been prepared nor predicted for this happy accident. A one night stand, unknowingly an affair quick to die yet providing beautiful life. He wasn’t there when she dropped the infants off in his neighborhood. Thankfully, he wasn’t too far away.

Mike knew he would provide for his girls and now he knows he’ll do anything in his power to keep his girls smiling freely like this for as long as he lives.

Mike felt hungover, but significantly worse. He doesn't remember falling asleep on his stomach and struggles to sit up. And that's when the pain hit him. The gasp that escapes his lungs sounds as if he had the wind knocked out of him. Mike coughs and chokes on his own spittle for a moment before he takes in the destroyed world around him, sparking the return of recent events in his memory.

The ambush.

The shoot out.

The grenade.

The house falling.

It all came back to Mike while he looked behind him to see the wreckage of his home crushing him from the waist down. On his right, his twin, Casey, is lying motionless also pinned with an arm and leg trapped under the debris. Mike shouts, but Casey does not stir, and he's not close enough to check for a pulse. In a frantic panic, he tries to pull himself out from under the ruins. He cries out in agony and frustration, but is only able to army crawl just a few inches out before the pain becomes too excruciating to move further. Mike catches his breath. He licks his chapped lips and with a trembling hand reaches into his now exposed pocket. His phone is cracked, but thankfully still working.

Now, who the fuck would bother to come and save him and Casey?

Mike felt hungover, but more disoriented than anything else. He remembers the last time he felt like this and jerked forward, looking around wildly. A heart rate monitor beeped in his raised excitement, the iv tugged at his forearm, and he saw Casey in the hospital bed next to him. The sigh that leaves him is like a deflated balloon. Someone clears their throat on his other side. Mike looks over and sees Lavinia closing a file in her lap.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," she greets, "we have a lot to discuss."

His voice came out weak, "Why are you here?"

"You're the one that called me, crying and begging to save Casey."

"What's the diagnosis?"

"Right arm and leg had to be amputated. I've footed the bill for that, some cybernetic prosthetics, and your surgery."

"...My surgery?"

"What? You think you escaped unscathed? Bitch, please, you're lucky you still have your legs and if your luck hasn't run out yet, your spine will heal enough to walk again one day. You both owe me."

"We don't owe you shit."

"You wouldn't have shit without me."

"We couldn't have shit because of you. You made us do your dirty work then treated us like dirt. Instead of admitting you fucked up, you doubled down, turned all our friends against us, beat the shit outta Casey, and— and..."

Mike couldn't bring himself to say what Lavinia had done to him. His gritted teeth and scowl said it all. Lavinia leans forward in her seat.

"Yeah? Who then got you two off the streets and put food in your belly? Who raised you as if you were one of her own children? Who loved you—"

Mike growled, "That wasn't love!"

She studied him for a moment and then sat back.

"Regardless," Lavinia continued, "you both owe me."

"No... you didn't have to come save us. You did that of your own accord whether you want to admit it or not."

Mike looks away before asking, "Do you remember why you started abusing Casey?"

"I was sending a message."

"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, but do you remember why?"

"Yes, your dumbass look-alike stole from me."

"No, it was me, not Casey."

"Excuse me," Lavinia's voice stayed level even as she suddenly towered over Mike.

He watched her out of his periphery. "I was the one skimming from the top. I'm the only one that owes you anything. Leave Casey out of this."

The room becomes deadly still. A noise comes from Casey disturbing the silent hell between Mike and Lavinia. With an aggressive flick of the wrist, she tosses the folder in her hand onto his chest.

"I'll be in touch."

Mike holds his tongue as he watches Lavinia leave. He waits to open the folder until he's sure she's out of ear shot.

"Mike... What happened?" Casey's raspy voice asks.

"We're Schrödinger's siblings, alive" —he holds up their official certificates— "and dead."

Mike heard about it on an online forum first and didn't give it a second thought.

The internet is the internet after all.

A few days later though a news reporter announced it on interstellar television so... yeah...

Guess his alias is now considered one of the most dangerous people out there— an unofficial (or not depending on who's talking) seventh member of the Void Generals, a group of six powerful outlaws who pretty much have no association to one another from what he's seen reported in both legal and illegal spaces.

Him and Casey kept their new band of thugs to a whole different standard. While they're previous crew was every cliche a young boy could imagine for "running" a gang of delinquents, what they built now after loosing everything and failing to go clean was much more refined. Might even be professional. A handful of carefully vetted people with the skills they were lacking as just a duo, combined with a tight lipped code of conduct to maintain aliases and destroy evidence on all their jobs, and a willingness to accept blood money from all manners of crimes from stake outs for sensitive intel to high profile assassinations.

Mike shoulda known better than to have left his calling card on that particular gig, but he didn't want anyone else to claim that they slaughtered an Army star ship and a star ship belonging to the most notorious of the Void Generals, The Emperor.

Yeah, that was him.

Well, him and his twin.

They didn't have time to get everyone on the Clanadonia pay roll to round up for a proper attack. Whatever the Army's and The Emperor's ships were doing there didn't bode well whether it was hostile or establishing peace.

Mike mainly wanted to keep those two fuckers from starting something too close to his hq.

It was a shoot first ask questions later type of operation.

He wouldn't say he's proud of their handy work, but it's a close enough thing. Hemolysis, his alias, alone got the credit. His twin will have his head when he learns Mike had swung back to slap his graffiti across the sides of the drifting, desolate ships.

Whatever.

It's not like anyone has been able to find them yet.

No, Clanadonia finds what you want, figures out how much they can get from you, and comes with an offer to you.

And if someone somehow figures out how to get in contact with them— well— everyone across the cosmos now knows just how bloodthirsty he and Casey can be when provoked.

Over 2,000 sailors in total from two powerful organization felled by one man's hands.

In reality it was two, but still.

No one on either side has released an official statement and forensic experts are completely off the mark as to how they pulled it off.

Mike can't help but snicker when he sees outlandish clickbaity article titles about who did it and why.

He swears to Casey he's not actively keeping track of its development... but if it comes across his feed that doesn't mean he's going to flat out ignore it.

"It's good to stay up to date on current events!"

His twin punched him for that one and he deserved it.

People are scared. They want to know his motives, who's he going to target next, and how strong he truly is.

No one should be worried.

Ok— the average citizen shouldn't be.

They aren't the vigilante types, but their clients are scum bags with too much money and not enough emotional intelligence who Clanadonia seek out to manipulate into proposed business deals of the illegal kind. It boils down to being the middle men getting their hands dirty in the revenge scheme from one spoiled rich brat to another.

Mike rolls his eyes whenever someone stupidly fears if they are trying to take over.

No, if you can believe it, they aren't here to start a war. Even if they had the numbers to win against the two biggest armed groups out there, fighting a war on two fronts is never smart.

Besides, lording over the general populous isn't their style.

It was just a message to the other big players in the game to step off their slice of the cosmos they carved out for themselves.

After a few weeks, the hubbub dies down.

Answers are still wanted though.

"I thought I was paranoid." Jelani thought to himself as he watched the man talk. None of it made any sense but then again he was used to it from residents of Salem. There was always something weird happening there, some weird noise that startled the rebuilt town, obscured figures walking along the beach and vanishing, strange things in the water that no one could explain, and then there was the infamous or better said famous ghoul whale, Ol' Peg. The creature was solely responsible for the rebuild and re-population of Salem. Yes, stories of the strange and even the mildly dangerous happenings around Salem made people want to visit the old town to experience them for themselves which meant caps and soon dozens of residents took to the old town to rebuild it and set up shops.

Barney Rook, having still lived there when everyone had left, was appointed mayor of Salem though he never gave up his title of Militia commander and also led the re-established Salem Volunteer Militia. As the town grew around him he fell right at home leading the militia and the new residents of Salem. Aside from that, not much about him had changed. He often called to the Minutemen for every single strange occurrence that either he or any resident reported. This time he called for a new event happening in Salem, what made General Ravencroft dispatch his best two men to Salem was that the Kingsport Lighthouse settlement had also reported the exact same thing.

A tall, white, older man with white hair and beard was seen standing on the shore of the now abandoned Crater House that was once occupied by Children of Atom cultists. They'd fled a few years ago. Everyone also described the man as being well dressed and wearing a head piece that looked like a crown. Both settlements took to calling him "The Crowned Man". He stood in the heavily radiated crater's shore and stared out towards the ocean for six days, he didn't move a muscle. No one knew if he was injured or was confused as the area was far too irradiated and unsafe to venture into even with protective gear. On the very sunrise of the seventh day the Crowned Man began to walk along the shore to the north, towards Salem where he walked along the beach until he vanished. That night both settlements experienced a thunderstorm unlike any they had ever witnessed along with very strange sounds coming from the ocean, and strange lights in the water. In the morning they reported finding strange animal carcasses and bones that had washed ashore.

Since then no one had reported seeing the Crowned Man.

"There's something happening in those mines too. You know, the quarry."

"Okay." Aleksandr interject. "One thing at a time, Barney." His patience was wearing thin.

"But they're connected!"

"That's very unlikely, Rook." Jelani finally spoke up. "We've got twenty-four hour surveillance at that quarry, no one goes in or out without us knowing. No one's reported anything."

"Talk to Wiseman, the girl from Coastal Cottage, and Saul. They also felt the quake." Barney's voice sounded almost desperate now.

"What quake?"

"After that freak storm there was an earthquake. We felt it and so did the people at the Lighthouse, and the Slog. We've been communicating and keeping track of every weird thing that's happened since. I'm telling you, it came from the quarry!"

Jelani and Aleksandr looked at each other, both sported a puzzled look on their faces though neither said anything. Before visiting Salem they'd visited the lighthouse settlement and spoke to the residents there and none of them mentioned an earthquake. Looking back on it Jelani did feel as though some of them were apprehensive when speaking to him and Aleksandr though he just chucked it to him always assuming most people are hiding something.

"All right." Jelani spoke up with an exasperated sigh, he made no attempt to hide his annoyance. "We'll personally swing by the quarry outpost and check in with the team there and report back. In the meantime we'll send some people to take a look at the carcasses that washed up. Could just be deep sea animals washed up from the storm."

Both Jelani and Aleksandr got up and made their way out of Barney's house. Once outside Aleksandr knelt down to pet Dagny who'd been waiting outside. He then turned to Jelani and sort of frowned, there was a look of concern on his face that hadn't been there when speaking to Barney.

"What's wrong?"

"Let's stop at The Slog before we get to the quarry."

"Why?" Aleksandr looked back at him confused.

Hana stood back, panting as she watched the dust from the gumiho's disintegrated body hang dazedly in the air.

Good riddance.

It had put up a fight, more so than demons usually did. It had weaponized the night, melting into shadows only to leap out in a whirl of razor claws and gnashing teeth as it tried to sever her and Sun-ok's limbs, a black hate bleeding from its eyes at every turn. But they were Hunters, and no demon's prowess in battle could equal their starlight blades.

From the opposite side of the clearing Sun-ok straightened and jabbed the tasseled end of her wol-do into the ground. "Finally," she huffed, still breathing hard. "Thought she'd never bite the dust."

Hana hummed, adjusting her grip on her sword and started to check the perimeter of the clearing, pausing every now and again to sweep her sword through a tussock or shrub. "Gumiho are like that." Her voice took on their mentor's cadence as her words rolled off her tongue. "If they want something, they lock their jaws around it and refuse to yield. This one wanted its life."

Sun-ok snorted. "Like it's life was worth living. Damn thing should thank us for putting it out of its demonic misery." She moved to peer into a hollow log.

From across the clearing Hana noted her limp where the gumiho had raked her calf. "Sunny-"

"Just a scratch, unnie."

Hana glared as she blindly swiped through another shrub. "'Just a scratch' doesn't bleed all over the grass."

Sunny glanced at the crimson trail behind her, swore, then continued to the log.

"Sunny!" Thwick! went Hana's sword through the grass. "Sit!"

"I just wanna look!"

Thwick! "And I just want you to stay conscious."

"Swear on the Honmoon; you and Mina with the coddling…"

Hana groaned as she swung her sword into a thicket as dense as Sunny's head. "It's not coddling! It's-"

A child's yelp cut off the rest of Hana's sentence.

She froze, sword stalled midway through the bush. "Sweetie?" She called, hurriedly pawing through the bush. "Its okay baby; we're here to help. The gumiho must have stolen her," she said to Sunny, just hobbling up as she parted the last of the branches. "Poor thing's probably-"

Her voice died. Sunny gasped.

There under the bush, backed against a the ancient trunk of a ginkgo, huddled a gumiho child. Fox-ears sprouted from her dark hair, claws glistened on her fingertips, and two bushy snow-white fox tails curled protectively around her as she stared up at the Hunters with terrified eyes.

Clearly, the gumiho's jaws had been locked around more than its own life.

Hana and Sunny lifted their weapons. The gumiho snarled, fangs showing, but didn't- couldn't- run.

"Strike?" Sunny's voice was steel.

Hana nodded. Child or no, this was a demon, and there was only one thing to do with those. She raised her sword; Sunny hefted her wol-do, poised for a second strike should there be need.

The gumiho dropped its fierce facade. "Eomma!" It fox-screamed, scrabbling back against the trunk. "Eomma, help!"

Hana swung-

A crashing chime thundered across the clearing as the Honmoon burst into a riot of red and yellow and livid purple. It devoured Hana's sword, unraveling it like a poorly knit scarf, then yanked Sunny's wol-do into nothing, tolling furiously.

Before either Hunter could react or re-summon their weapons the Honmoon wrapped around the gumiho, warbling a melody at once soft as flower petals and wild as a mountain breeze, a fox-like purr woven throughout the tune.

The gumiho's terror receded as she stared at the Honmoon in wonder. Hesitantly, she reached out and fingered a strand; it sung joyously under her touch, message clear.

This gumiho, by the Honmoon's command, was to be a Hunter.

Bile rose in Hana's throat. A Hunter. Her and Sunny and Mina, once she got back from Seoul, would be tasked with raising and training this beast to sing and fight, to dance and wield starlight blades, to keep the Honmoon provided it didn't destroy it or devour them first.

To fight in a war when it was born in the enemy's camp.

"What now?" Sunny asked uncertainly.

We curse the Honmoon.

Because what good could come of a demon serving as a Hunter? A creature with only greed and cruelty in its heart, with none of a Hunter's nobility and virtue? It would be akin to setting chaos free; in a crimson moment, centuries of work would be destroyed by its selfish jaws.

Not that the Honmoon cared. Or that they had a choice.

Grimacing, Hana crouched and coaxed the gumiho forward. "Here," she said, voice flat as a sour note. "Come out."

The gumiho cowered back, looking skeptically at Hana's outstretched hands, but the Honmoon warbled- "Go on, little Hunter"- and nudged her forward. Ears pressed flat, the gumiho crawled over and let Hana pick her up. Instantly she wrapped her tails tight around Hana.

They were surprisingly soft. Hana's lip curled in distaste.

Sunny tipped her head thoughtfully as the gumiho trustingly buried her face in Hana's neck. Her face softened. "Pity she's a gumiho; she's cute."

Yes, Hana thought as claws tore her shirt. Pity. Pity she was a wretch and not human. Why on Earth would the Honmoon choose a demon-

But wait. It was not just a demon; it was a gumiho. Singular among hellspawn not for what they were, but what they could become.

Pieces started to fall into place like notes completing a melody. Of course! It all made sense.

"Actually," Hana said, readjusting her grip on the gumiho as she took advantage of Sunny's distraction to nudge her to sit and start attending that leg. "I think I know what we're meant to do…"

It would be a trying hundred days, but once the demon was starved away, they'd have a human hunter.

Just like the Honmoon designed.

“Uh, T’Pol, are you feeling alright?” Trip asked, obviously concerned as she crossed the threshold of his quarters and began to disrobe before the door had fully closed behind her. “Get undressed, now,” T’Pol demanded - somehow already down to nothing but her underwear despite having arrived mere seconds prior. Catching her hands in his own as she moved to subtract what little fabric she still wore, Trip frowned. “T’Pol, what’s going on?” he asked gently. Chest heaving, she broke his grasp with surprising ease before sliding her hands beneath his shirt, repeating, “get. undressed. now.” “Darlin’, I’d be more than happy to get completely starkers with you - goodness knows you’re aware how much I enjoy it when we do. But I have one condition first,” Trip said, catching her wrists this time. “You gotta tell me what this is about.” “I’ve grown tired of being told what I must do,” T’Pol said, wrenching free of his grasp once more to remove her bra and knickers, tearing the fabric in her frustration. “Cultural expectations, societal demands, requirements of good conduct and proper etiquette. I am done.” Eyes widening at the outburst, Trip caught T’Pol by the waist, drew her close, and wrapped both arms around her bare back. “Want to tell me what’s brought this on?” he asked softly. Struggling against him, T’Pol said, “no! I have no interest in discussion at this time.” “You just want me to get naked so you can…” Trip paused, shifting his grip and holding her tightly enough that she couldn’t get away. “What exactly is it you want to do, T’Pol?” “Trip,” T’Pol muttered, struggling again. “Please.” Shaking his head a fraction, he continued to hold her to him. “I give you my word that unless there’s some sort of emergency, I’ll get naked and do anything you want - but I need you to tell me what’s going on first.”

Heaving a sigh, T’Pol finally stopped trying to break free. “Ensign Sato delivered two letters to my quarters a little over an hour ago.” “Okay,” Trip said quietly, loosening his grip to a gentler embrace. “Letters from… someone on Vulcan, I’m guessing?” “The first was from Koss and his parents,” T’Pol answered, her tone belligerent. Grumbling wordlessly for a moment, Trip kissed her cheek then said, “I can see why that would put you in a shitty mood. What do they want this time?” Sighing, T’Pol said, “the same thing demanded in all correspondence from his family.” “Recalling you to Vulcan so you can marry a guy you don’t even know, have logical Vulcan babies together, and then suppress every bit of longing for something else you’d actually want for the next century and a half,” Trip said, shaking his head with a sigh. “Same shit, different day. Why’s it bothering you so much this time, compared to all the others?” “The second piece of correspondence was from the High Command,” T’Pol murmured, trembling slightly. Shifting his hold to better see her face, Trip said, “I’m guessing they’re being bone-headed too.” Nodding, T’Pol said, “they are also demanding my return to Vulcan.” “I thought you resigned your commission with them?” Trip asked with a slightly confused frown. “Can they forcibly recall you anyway?” “Administrator V’Las is making the attempt,” T’Pol said quietly.

Considering this for a moment, Trip said, “I can understand why you’d be pissed off about that, especially on top of the letter from Koss. But how is getting me naked supposed to help anything?” Meeting his gaze carefully, T’Pol said, “my life prior to joining Enterprise was orderly and structured - as predictable as any life may be in a galaxy prone to chaos. This crew helped me to see that what I had perceived as chaos was in fact freedom. You have repeatedly encouraged me to choose my own path rather than following that which was laid out for me. I wish to do so now.” “You know it’s a spectrum, right?” Trip asked with a smile. “Like most things.” “The spectrum of chaos contains freedom within it,” T’Pol said softly. “I choose freedom. I choose you.” Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Trip watched the tiny shifts in T’Pol’s expression for a long moment. “What exactly do you mean by that?” Holding his gaze, T’Pol said, “I intend to formalise my commission with Starfleet. I intend to stay aboard Enterprise for as long as I am permitted to do so. I do not intend to be bonded in marriage to a person not of my own choosing.”

A person trudges under the shade of a big tree at the edge of the park, an oversized hoodie covering their body. “Here is alright?” they sigh.

“It would be better under the sun, but here is a big step,” their nurse nods.

Halfway across the park, a woman leans toward a taller black-haired man. “Do you think she can do it?”

“I have never seen her being that specific, but I believe she can figure it out,” he breathes out.

A wavy, shoulder-length, brown haired woman occupies a chair with her eyes closed. She tilts her head away from the pair behind her, her left side leaning forward, and turns off her right hearing aid. The black-haired man brings an index finger to his lip, keeping his dark eyes on the seated woman.

The brown-haired woman tilts her head to the other side, waits a few seconds, and leans her left side forward again. She lifts her left hand at chest-height and angles it to a certain degree.

<Five to fifteen meters,> the brown-haired woman signs with her wrist-braced right hand.

The black haired man nudges the woman next to him with his elbow, inhales deeply, and exhales through his mouth a blueish white aura that takes a bow form within his hands. He draws the bow, an arrow forming in his left hand from the bow’s aura, angles it with his eyes on the brown-haired woman’s left hand, and infuses more aura on the arrow. He exhales and shoots it.

The arrow-shaped aura flies in a curve, the aura from the bow making a wake after the arrow until the black-haired man’s hands empty. The arrow lands at the center of the range given by the brown-haired woman in the direction her hand pointed at, and the aura disperses within a 10-meter radius.

The black-haired man lowers his hands, still holding an invisible bow, and watches his aura dissolve at the radius’ limit. “Clau?” he whispers.

The brown-haired woman lifts her head, turning it further to the right. The woman next to the black-haired man attempts a step and he cuts her path, intent in the seated woman.

“It vanished,” Clau announces.

The black-haired man exhales, his arms relaxing, and the woman next to him brings a hand to her chest, looking at the team mingling with the people enjoying the park on that sunny day; one of them raises a thumbs up.

“Terrific,” the woman whispers.

“Nik?” Clau calls.

The black-haired man stands next to her in two heartbeats, handing her an unfolded cane. She takes it with her right hand, helping herself up; Nik folds the chair she used while she looks ahead.

At the edge of the park, a teenager girl takes her hoodie off and ties its arms around her waist. “Would you mind walking with me?”

The nurse watches her with the mouth agape, “Definitely!” and closes the book in their hands. “Can we do it under the sun for a bit?”

“But we’re going under the shade as soon as it starts hurting me,” the girl points at them, waiting for them to stand.

“Sure!” The nurse raises their hands and puts the book in their bag. “Please tell me as well when you start to feel tired so we take a break.”

“Deal.”

The nurse and the teenager walk past Clau and Nik; Clau smiles at the thunk of her cane, glancing at Nik’s hand taking hers to his lips, placing a kiss on the back of her hand.

“Well done,” he smiles at her; she sighs. He smirks, “Bubble tea?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Why not an amaretto coffee?”

He chuckles, shakes his head, and throws his hair back with his free hand.

“If I did such a good job, why am I getting a bubble tea when I could be getting an amaretto coffee is all I’m saying…” Clau shrugs.

“He’s got lethal powers?” the first goon asks, seemingly increasingly pissed off, which is dumb, consider the group is trying to operate in one of the cities with the highest concentrations of superheroes in the nation, so if it wasn’t Salim it was probably going to be someone. “How fucking lethal are your powers, nerd?” 

Which isn’t really playing the game at all, and Salim really wants to tell him to just go with it, or else start fighting already. But anyway. “That’s not my choice. That’s in the hands of the Die of Fate.” Which is what all his friends call his staff, but it’s also the closest Salim can get to pointing at the bubble capsule on the end of the stick and going, dude, I just roll for it, without horribly breaking character. 

Also he’d probably end up saying it in his normal voice, which is terrible for infosec. 

“What if I don’t fucking believe you?” the first goon says, irritably, halfway raising his gun like he’s not sure if he should shoot or what. It wouldn’t work anyway – Salim always preps a defensive power before he shows up to a firefight, and he’s got a pretty good shield going right now – but it’s also enough to start the fight. 

Maybe he’s got an empathy side effect going on or something, because Salim’s just as irritable now. He shakes his staff menacingly, and hits a high number, not a nat twenty, but his luck is holding in other ways: he hits lightning. It strikes true. It’s not always lethal, but it’s incapacitating enough, and, anyway, it looks badass, which is really the important part. That’ll show people for not believing in him. Everyone starts shooting, then. 

The shield is good, and it will catch bullets, but there’s only so much any shield can take, and Salim dodges with a flip that’s a little messy, but as always hard to see through the dramatics of his robe flying around him. Cover is easy to find in a space busy enough to be smuggling out of. Lightning is a little harder to fire when he can’t see right, but the power seems to be lasting in a way it doesn’t always, and he likes the look of it in the dim warehouse. It’s such a shame he never gets one of these flashy ones when the news is filming. 

Of course, the shield only stops people who are attacking him, not stupid shit Salim does to himself, so when he backs himself into a shelf trying to get out of line of sight and it stabs right through his arm, the shield just ignores it. Useful, probably, for people who want to cut themselves to invoke whatever magic power they plan to use, or whatever else they might have in the universe it could be from, but it does fuckall for Salim. Who has to risk dropping the lightning to get some kind of healing power in here before he gets tetanus or some shit. 

And today’s on some kind of weather theme, because he rolls a fucking rainbow. 

Salim looks down at his die, and it’s a twenty, and it’s a fucking shame, because this is a world class healing power when anything but a failure would’ve done fine for him, and of all the times to get something like this, it’s so fucking useless when he’s probably going to have to toss it as soon as his arm stops hurting. There’s times he’s actually needed something like this. A lot of them. He made do, but to see it now? Not to mention is seems to be singing to him, and he really hopes those are just pigeons reflecting a lot of glare, because he’s going to be so annoyed if this power somehow conjures doves. 

The goons seem distracted. Lightning flashes a dozen times – the twenty probably saved it for him – and Salim has to blink away blue and green afterimages, but it’s a nice clean finish to the fight. Enough to have him risking rolling for a communication method to have someone clear the place out. It’s safe enough, with everyone unconscious or dead, and if he gets something cool enough? Totally worth it just in the retelling. 

Salim loses the healing and the lightning both, and it’s not a failure, but it’s also just a little beacon, and not worth doing more than leaving it in the warehouse with all the weapons and bodies. Not a satisfyingly dramatic exit, but most of them aren’t. He checks his phone to make sure it’s transmitting on the right frequency and all, which it is, and that’s fine. Salim can’t have everything. He’s not just unhurt, that healing spell also fixed the muscle he pulled jogging, where he cut himself shaving, and the bruises from last night’s fight. 

Omega Team had done three drops in a row. Hardly a record, but exhausting nonetheless. The system (he hadn’t bothered to learn which one) was done for. The only planet inhabitable to human life was glassed. The moon with a wealth of Titanium A deposits had been destroyed. And the science station drifted into the Covenant fleet to explode. On the last, Robert had been sure Omega Team was going to have to stay on board and set off those charges, but a very angry AI that wanted revenge for their crew told Omega to “get off” once the warheads were in place and they would handle it.

There was a mechanical chirp telling him he’d exceeded his allotment of water, and Robert groaned as he finished actually washing. Honestly, he was surprised August hadn’t told him to get his can in gear already.

The ship (and he hadn’t bothered to learn its name, sometimes Omega Team transferred between them while in cyro, so no need to get attached) was on its way out of the doomed system. Cole Protocol enacted. Most nonessential crew were already in cryo. Omega Team was allowed a few hours for armor repairs and prep for immediate action (whatever it might be) upon their own thaw. Maybe that wasn’t supposed to include a hot shower, but Robert certainly would not argue with August’s priorities.

Leon was already back in his skinsuit, itching to get the rest of the armor back on as Robert stepped into the locker room.

August sat on the long bench partially in her skinsuit, letting her newer scars get some air and sharpening a knife for reasons Robert had long since stopped guessing at. She didn’t even use knives in combat, just kept hers razor sharp. (Robert had a vivid memory of waking up one night during their trainee days to August crouched on the end of his cot, staring off at nothing, with her whet stone and a knife from the commissary. To this day, he had no idea if it was real or a dream.)

“It’s a spectrum,” August was saying, idly gesturing at Leon with her combat knife.

Robert wasn’t sure what conversation he was walking in on, so he didn’t say anything as he dried off.

“Chaos is a spectrum?” Leon replied.

“Obviously.”

Leon caught Robert’s eye. Robert shook his head. He wanted no part of the argument and Leon was on his own. “Explain the spectrum of Chaos,” Leon said to August.

She flipped the knife in her hand. “Think about it. There’s chaos when the brass finds something inconvenient. There’s real chaos that’s manageable if rules are applied. There’s chaos that defies the rules but can still be wrangled. Then there’s cosmic chaos...”

Robert felt there was a jump in logic (not to mention an omission of chaos theory), but kept his mouth shut as he pulled on his skinsuit.

“C1, C2, C3 and the big CC?” Leon said with a laugh.

No one had a chance to respond as the lights dimmed and a ship-wide message began: Attention all on duty personnel. We are re-engaging enemy forces. External and internal contacts imminent.

“Fuck,” Robert grit out as he yanked on his boots and gloves. “Where’s this on the chaos spectrum?”

“C3, for sure,” Leon replied, nearly out of the locker room already.

From my vantage point on a slanted rooftop, crouched just behind the ornamental facade that conceals my form but permits the intrusion of my rifle's sight, I let my eyes track slowly across the crowd. This is my third day up here, watching, waiting- waiting for this afternoon. I've observed the swirls and eddies of the crowd on this particular side of the square, the way they shuttle through from the adjoining streets, the way they stop and start. I'm not part of the group that's explicitly researched these patterns for leverage, of course, but I am the one who'll be required to thread a bullet between the throngs. Calculating my moment will be key, and that's impossible without context.

It's about to start. I can already see our people drifting into position while pretending they're not; the artful play-pretend with which they find their marks rings false to me only because I know better. It's a deft little game of Three-Card Monte, easy to spot all the sleight of hand once you know how the thing's rigged. Still, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a kind of magic all the same.

The chatter over the radio has been almost ceaseless, a pattering drumbeat against my left ear. I tune in, shifting my balance and catching the first domino fall out of the corner of my eye. I don't have to have my eyes on the girl to know what she's doing, weaving her way through the crowd with all the precision of a dancer. On-beat, the gentleman who's wallet she's just filched starts to bellow indignance, and she runs. Half the net of people parts, and half doesn't, and skirts and scarves and coats flitter wildly in a rainbow of distraction.

The clock chimes. The city hall doors are opening, the steps flooding for lunch. I can pick her out by her signature diamond earrings and the chameleon quality of her eyes, even in the school of slippery fish she runs with.

A shop sign comes crashing down on the west side of the square, out of my vision, its chains carefully sawn during a manufactured break-in two weeks ago and finally cut through today, while everyone's eyes were on the darting pickpocket. Even though I knew it was coming and could have set my watch by it, the noise of metal and wood on cobblestones is still so terrific as to nearly make me flinch.

Focus, Edie.

The attention of the crowd wavers, but even with their heads swivelling like meerkats the city hall tide is still rolling down into the square. All things considered, it's simple enough for our own plants to place their shoulders just so at the foot of the steps and cut the civil servants apart, funnelling them into three distinct groups. She walks onward two steps, three, before abruptly slowing as she realises she's been cut off from her usual lunch-group.

Today, she is merely a she, nothing but a target, but the truth is that I know Sara Eckerman's life back to front. We all do. Two kids, only one of which the public knows about. The elder didn't match her postcard-pretty public life, and only a steady infusion of hush money keeps him from trampling all over it. A supposed interest in politics since a young age, a short list of suitably matronly hobbies and interests to curate a serious-but-not-too-scary image, and to neatly disguise her aspirations to something more than Parliament.

Come tonight, she'll be the enemy again. She'll either be the one that got away, or our first big fish on what we hope to be a long campaign. Just now, though, she's in that space between that sends a frisson of restless displeasure crackling beneath the skin of my shoulders.

She's also not quite looking where she's going, which leads her directly into getting swallowed up by the loudly chattering group of tourists, cameras all aglow, that are cutting across the square. Their performance of obliviousness as they herd her is so exquisite that I almost crack my carefully blank expression for a small smile. Those gorgeous earrings glitter as she casts about left and right for a way out that's never going to come.

So far out of my eyeline as to be invisible, the team of various men with roadblocks and signs and roadsweepers are assembling to choke off all access in and out of the square. We can't risk outside interference, but you can be sure they'll all disappear into thin air within moments of a gunshot firing, and that none of their faces will be caught on CCTV.

Even if accidents happen, we've got a cleanup crew for that, too.

Game over, Sara, I think to myself as she's spat out in front of the fountain. You played well, but we've played dirtier.

This battle was always going to be fought on the low ground. I find my trigger guard, centering myself, evening my breath, and wait from my cue on high.

It doesn't take long: it's beautifully simple, really. A quick tug on her jacket from one of the begging street performers at the foot of the fountain causes her to reel back, an accidental elbow from behind makes her stagger, and the crowd withdraws for one singular, brilliant moment. I don't have time to check for bystanders too close behind her. My brain runs a thousand instantaneous calculations but, still, it's nearly before they're done that my index finger tightens on the trigger.

Similarly, I barely pause to focus my gaze on the way she falls, or the blooming rose of blood on her cream blouse as her shoulders jerk. I'm already preparing to fire again, drawing another breath, re-aiming even as my conscious mind processes that none of this will be necessary.

Belatedly, somebody screams. The crowd turns to a stampede, and I lose sight of her.

"This park playdate was such a good idea. I think the kids might actually sleep well tonight."

The adults looked fondly at their little ones. The children had paused in their running around the park to admire an apple tree. The little girl was holding the little boy's arm and pointing excitedly up into the branches. Above them was a perfect golden apple, shining in the late afternoon light.

"I'll be glad if Zelda gets some sleep tonight; poor girl's been waking up with nightmares lately."

"Oh no, Link too. He's not super verbal yet so we never get much story out of him but I'm wondering if his da told him a hero story that was a bit too scary or something. He loves those old tales."

From over by the apple tree came a yell, and two adults turned their eyes from each other to the tree. Link had apparently launched himself at the apple tree and was attempting to chop it down with his toy sword. Little Zelda was clearly attempting to stop her new playmate but having no luck.

"Link! No damaging the tree," called his mother.

She sighed and turned back to her adult companion. "Poor kid, it's hard to be that short, but no need to take it out on the tree."

"It's a hard age. Zelda's determined to do everything too. She's decided she wants to read and she's good enough at memorising some books but sometimes she just makes stuff up and gets mad if you tell her the words are different."

Zelda, apparently done castigating Link for his arboreal crimes, seemed to have moved on to explaining a new plan to him. Their mothers watched as Link nodded then tried to lift Zelda up. She reached her tiny hands into the air but the apple was still very far out of reach. Undaunted, she said something to Link and they switched places, with her lifting him. While she was nearly a head taller, she couldn’t lift him very far and they were still woefully short of their goal. Link squirmed and flailed, trying to reach higher, and eventually Zelda lost her balance and the the two kids fell over into a pile of limbs.

Both parents winced, but the kids merely giggled and picked themselves back up.

“I wish Link would show more interest in reading. He loves stories but I think he likes it better when someone’s telling them.”

“I wouldn’t worry, he’s young yet, he’ll get interested eventually!”

“Hey, maybe if it’s rainy sometime we could meet at the library? If he saw Zelda reading maybe it’ll get him competitive enough to try it himself…”

Undaunted by their failure, the kids seemed to have concocted a new plan. Zelda boosted Link up onto the tree trunk, then used her slight height advantage to shove his little rump as high as she could. It still wasn’t very high, but it was certainly higher than he could have managed on his own.

“Uhh, should we be concerned about…”

“Oh, don’t worry, he doesn’t have the stamina for that to get dangerous.”

Sure enough, Link’s chubby little arms gave out a moment later and he slid ungracefully down the tree trunk, Zelda helping to slow his fall. She wrapped her own little arms around him in a hug, clearly concerned that he’d gotten hurt.

“Awwww,” declared the two mothers in unison.

The kids looked over and gave the mothers nearly identical looks of disgust before they turned to walking around under the tree. Link managed to find a branch and was excitedly waving it in the direction of the apple. It still wasn’t high enough to reach. He wound up and threw it, missing the apple. Zelda handed him another branch, then another, but none were long enough and when he finally hit the apple with a throw it wasn’t enough to make it fall. Zelda grabbed his arm and said something.

“Should we go help them?”

“Nah, they seem to be playing well together. So, tell me what happened after you…”

Zelda and Link were now running around the area, building a small pile of sticks and weeds under the tree. Link was gesturing as if he was ready to try throwing some of them but Zelda was shaking her head and pushing on his shoulder to get him to sit down.

“Hah, sorry about my bossy kid.”

“Honestly I think he likes it when other kids come up with a plan,” came the reply with a laugh.

Within a few minutes, Zelda had Link holding a handful of weeds while she braided them together. She spent a bit of time clearly teaching him how to braid, and then seemed to be telling him a story while he watched her hands move.

Their parents had turned their attention to gossip now that the kids had gotten quiet. “Did you really say that? I would never have the guts! So what happened next…?”

The story was interrupted by excited children’s voices from under the apple tree. Link was holding a ridiculously long set of sticks, now tied together with braided grasses. The stick-contraption was long enough to tap the apple. Zelda was standing underneath, her skirts held at the ready, when Link finally managed to jostle it free. The two kids let out a huge cheer and ran over with their prize.

“Mama, look, we got it!”

“You certainly did, little bird. Are you two going to share it?”

“Uh huh. Link, let’s go eat under the tree! I bet it’s delicious!”

Zelda ran off, golden apple in one hand and Link’s hand in the other.

“Aww, they did it. Those two are going to be menaces when they’re older, aren’t they?”