#sol magee

Worry crept through Sol’s brain. She tied her ginger hair back, then pulled the mask over her head. The weight of it felt nice and comforting on their skull, though they knew it probably shouldn’t have, considering the things they’d done while wearing it. Bringing the bag back into their clutch, they headed back out of the office, with more speed in their step this time. 

(In their haste, they left their favorite purple leather jacket draped over the wheely-chair.)

Unlike most of the times they ventured around the museum, they opted to use one of the elevators rather than taking the wide, spiraling ramp that stood in the museum’s center and allowed access to everything it had on display. There just wasn’t time for a scenic route right now.

The rumbling sound that the cables always made stuck around long after Sol arrived on the Fifth Floor, after they got out and maneuvered through the corridors laid out. The attic’s ceiling-door was already open by the time they got to the right hall, its ladder splayed out like a suspiciously flexible carpet. 

Living things were usually warm. Fevers made it much more obvious, but that warmth was still noticeable with a perfectly healthy person; if you just held your hand above their skin, you’d feel the slightest heat wafting off of them. 

In most cases, a fever was actually a good thing. It meant that your body was doing its part to kill off any bacteria that was lodged in places it never needed to be lodged in. 

But those cases were for mortal beings and mortal illnesses, and Pat was neither mortal nor dealing with a common cold. 

The attic tended to be brisk, due to its main window having remained open ever since Pat had made his official return to the surface of this world. Right now, the air in here was rippling on itself, reminiscent of translucent gas fumes that leaked out of an oven before it exploded. 

Sol felt the oppressive heat try to grope at their face. All her practice with fire had helped her build up a tolerance for stuff like this, but despite that and her mask’s protective juju, it still seemed like there were tiny, invisible hands trying to yank on her eyelids, forcing the orbs inside to sting and burn.

But she kept moving, approaching the huge, fibrous, cocoon-hammock-thing woven into the underside of the museum’s roof. She looked up, and there was Pat, splayed out and wracked with shudders. He’d shrunk to the size of an average human—so, far too small for his nest—but that was only because growing any larger would probably just make him feel worse at the moment.

Pat could adjust his shape as easily as humans could adjust their clothes. Sometimes it was conscious, other times not—his mood could be a big factor, but not the only one. His void-toned flesh could go through a variety of looks and textures; smooth, rough, scaly, oily, spikey…

(Yes, hair was an option, but that was the one thing he was strict about. He only ever let it grow on his head, nowhere else. Sol had asked him about his reasons one time, only to pass out thirty seconds into his explanation. So, of course, that was never brought up again.)

For the past week, Pat’s skin had taken on the consistency of hot wax. Beads and ribbons would form out of it here and there, running and dripping off of him like a candle. Extra layers kept popping up to replace the lost ones. The melting process seemed to have slowed down a bit today, but it was still going. It seemed a bit like a snake shedding…if said snake was writhing around in a fondue pot. 

It wasn’t all that uncommon for some of his eyes to melt in their sockets (not that said sockets would ever drain completely. No, until Pat decided to stop it, the process would just keep going and going…). That was usually just one of his many, many, many party tricks for scaring mortals and showing off to other abominations.  

But right now, it was just another part of his sickness. Not only that, but this brand of ocular-ooze was tinged with foam around the edges. None of it ever made it to the floor, always evaporating a few seconds after it started dripping, but not without a soft sizzling sound. Almost like egg whites as they were cooked over-easy. 

It seemed the only parts of him that the illness hadn’t touched were his teeth. None of them were melting, or falling out, or burrowing themselves further up his gums.

Books were piled up all around him. He didn’t mind reading, although he usually preferred to fidget with more lively things whenever he happened to be idle. But he didn’t want any of his current experiments to be contaminated by the virus he’d caught, so...

Besides, many of the chronicles in Pat’s collection were just downright amusing to him, and that was a good way for him to stay awake.

(Especially those by H.P. Lovecraft, considering just how wrong that scaredy-cat been with every. Single. Detail. The King in Yellow had come a little closer with certain subjects, but was obviously limited to the perspective of a creature with experience like Pat. Still pretty, though.)

Pat never, NEVER slept if he could help it.

“Can’t get comfortable, huh?” Sol wondered aloud. 

“Whå† gåvê ï† åwå¥?” Pat let out a long-suffering groan, reaching up to clutch at his temple. “†ïmê jµ§† ¢åñ'† mðvê åñ¥ §lðwêr hêrê.”

“Well, you know that’s not true,” Sol countered. “You already got a vision about this, right? It’ll be over in a couple days. Maybe even tomorrow.”

Pat muttered a few things in his hideous native tongue before he offered a nod in Sol’s direction. “Ì jµ§† ¢åñ'† ßêlïêvê hðw lðñg †hï§ hå§ ÄLRÈÄÐ¥ l姆êÐ! Ì mêåñ, ÇÖMÈ Öñ! Ì'm †hê †êrrðr ð£ êïgh†-hµñÐrêÐ-£ðr†¥-§êvêñ Ðïmêñ§ïðñ§ åñÐ ¢ðµñ†ïñg! Ì §hðµlÐñ'† jµ§†…gê† §ï¢k lïkê †hï§! Ì måkê ð†hêr †hïñg§ måkê †HÈM§ÈLVȧ §ï¢k wï†h råw hðrrðr!”

“I hear you.” Sol tilted their head to the side. “Not like this is gonna change that. We’re the only ones who know about you coming down with this, and I’ve got no reason to tell anyone else. So, you being inactive for a while can just be one more mystery to keep any targets guessing and afraid. Know what I mean?”

Pat’s eyes hadn’t been glowing too much lately—that might have been a conscious choice, since light would only generate more a little extra heat on top of the fever. But they flickered like dangerously-malfunctioning bulbs as he mulled it over. “…Hµh. ï ÐïÐñ'† †hïñk ð£ ï† lïkê †hå†.” 

Sol couldn’t help but grin under their mask. “That’s what you’ve got me for.” 

Pat snorted, rolling his eyes and clicking his too-many, too-long teeth together, but Sol just barely caught a smile at the corner of his mouth. 

The monstrosity then leaned out of his nest, his torso stretching and stretching until he was about eye-level with his human companion, his lower-half still firmly planted up above. 

Sol dug through the bag and fished out one of the goods: a can that, by all means, didn’t look like much. It was the size of one that would contain the average brand of shaving cream, wrapped in neon shades of blue. Its logo was designed to look like it was made of interlocking snowflakes and hail pellets, spelling out Slush n’ Slay!

Pat reached over, one hand wrapping his spidery fingers around the can, shaking it with a vigor meant usually meant for people who had ONE JOB. After that, his other hand used the tips of its talons to pop the can’s cheap little plastic lid, revealing an even smaller valve. 

Sol, getting the hint, took several steps back.

Pat ground his jaw as he pushed the can closer to his face. Then, he pressed down on the nozzle, and a torrent of liquid nitrogen was unleashed, howling like a star as it was crushed by a black hole. It tore through the air as if magnetized to his skin.

It felt like half an hour had passed before Pat finally released his hold, cutting off the spray before setting the can down on the floor. His face was now hidden by an abstract mask of glinting frost, crystallized in the most horrific way. Most of it was concentrated on his forehead, as well as the bridge of his nose and the space underneath his eyes.

Sol blinked at the display. True, they’d been instructed to bring an extreme cooling agent back from the store, but they were only just now realizing that they’d never asked how Pat intended to use it. 

Sol had never gone out of their way to touch Pat (in a platonic, co-worker/friend/ritual-assistant way. They weren’t even a blip on his age-radar, considering he’d been around since before humanity had even evolved, so get your damn head out of the gutter), but they were fairly certain he was cold-blooded. 

Yes, they’d seen smoke or steam pour out of his eyes or his ears or between his teeth from time to time, but it never seemed very hot. More like dry ice or early-morning fog.

And yes, they’d seen him breathe fire once or twice, but that had been strictly for a project that normal fire wouldn’t have been strong enough for. He hadn’t even triggered that fire all by himself; he’d had to take some vile concoction of tears and stolen memories and jar-fulls of ashes gathered from certain furnaces hidden in certain buildings around town. (In fact, that particular endeavor even seemed to have left him a bit out of it afterwards, with some very literal heartburn. It certainly explained why he'd helped Sol adopt Charcoal.) 

Being in Pat’s presence gave you shivers, both literally and figuratively. A strange chill tended to radiate off him the same way heat wafted off of mortal beings (while they were still alive, that is).

Now, that didn’t mean he sought out heat. In fact, he’d shown a preference to the cold.

He went out to hunt very often, but only at night. Not because sunlight posed an actual threat to him, but because it apparently just felt itchy if it ever hit him. And while he always got a kick out of his work, he especially liked it when storms came along. Wind and rain helped up the ante to his whole terrorizing-and-stalking–and-looming-and-sowing-dread schtick. Plus, from what he’d said, it also just felt refreshing. 

As of late, however, his blood had apparently wanted to shake things up a bit and set itself to a boil.

Rolling his shoulders, Pat slammed his hands against the floor, his claws digging into the wooden boards. After that, his arms each grew a good few feet in length, warping and bending to a chorus of crAcks and PoPs. 

He then reared back, craning his neck further and further until the top of his head was practically touching his thoracic region (that is, if he’d actually formed a spine for this. It looked like he had, but it was just so hard to tell with him).

With that, he was suddenly a blur of movement, lunging back forward with enough ferocity to make a train jumping the tracks look like a falling leaf. 

Sol couldn’t stop themself from screaming at both the sight and the impact, but their voice was drowned out.

Pat's face met the floor with a deafening CRA-A-ASH!, which was quickly followed by crinkle-tinkling that usually accompanied glass when it shattered. Although, as the seconds passed by, that din fell into a deeper octave that was closer to snapping bones.

The monster lay there, face-down and still, for an uncomfortably long moment. 

Just as Sol decided to test their luck and inch forward, Pat let out a big, loud sigh and lifted his head up, his arms becoming slightly more proportional as he propped himself against the floor on his elbows. 

Much like a rotten pumpkin, his head had been split open, the new crevasse lining up almost perfectly down the middle, and…

Well, no matter what bones may or may not have been present under the skin below his neck, it was obvious he’d formed a skull here.

The fresh hole seemed to branch through it, revealing the pulsing mess of his brain here and there. Steam was wafting off of it, along with ribbons of abyssal blood that trickled on through. Some of those ribbons dripped up rather than down. His nose was all but gone. The freshly-broken edges of skin were still covered in frost, but it already seemed to be glistening; the melt would probably start in a while. A couple shards had lodged themselves in Pat’s eyes—he made his talons into makeshift tweezers to manually remove them. 

Even with all of Sol’s experience, she still needed a moment for her stomach to stop churning before she finally piped up again. “...Feeling any better?” 

“Öh, ¥êåh. Ä LÖ† ßꆆêr, 墆µåll¥,” Pat replied, his voice still raspy, but much less strained than before. “†hêrê wå§ §Ö mµ¢h þrꧧµrê ßµïl†-µþ ïñ †hêrê, ßµ† ñðw…”

He trailed off, a relieved smile spreading across his features. Or, what was left of his features, at least. “†hï§'ll hêål µþ ðñ¢ê m¥ ïmmµñê §¥§†êm £ïñåll¥ gꆧ ï† †ðgê†hêr.”

“Well, that’s awesome!” Sol nodded, truly meaning it but still having to fight instinctual revulsion. “Is, uh, is there anything else you need?” 

Pat hummed, drumming his claws against the floor. “Håvê ¥ðµ §êêñ m¥ ¢ðþ¥ ð£ Ì Håvê ñð Mðµ†h, åñÐ Ì Mµ§† §¢rêåm? †hêrê’§ §ðmê grêå† ÐrêåÐ þå¢kêÐ ïñ †hå† ðñê; Ì kñðw ll hêlþ Ð阮r墆 mê, ßµ† Ì ¢ðµlÐñ’† £ïñÐ ï† åñ¥whêrê.”

Sol’s heart slammed to a painful stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They paused, as if reminiscing for a moment.

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

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

No reply.

Sam wasn’t deterred, just kept climbing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam shrugged apologetically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam looked up.

“You recognize her name, buddy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wh¥ wðµlÐ Ì?” Pat responded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ßê£ðrê ¥ðµ lêåvê…”

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

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

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

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

Sam simply nodded.

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

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

Sam simply nodded, and continued on towards the ramp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

~FIN~

“The tube would still be on, wouldn’t it? It’d just have a DVD inside. I don’t think that would change things too much,” Angel mused.

Shep shrugged, absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeves of his favorite jacket. He’d been wearing it almost everywhere since college, and the sherpa still felt soft in his hands. Other than the abstract streaks of dark green dye that curled around the torso, the material was stark-white. “Maybe, but the risk isn’t worth it.” 

One more nightly task finally finished, he stepped back and turned to his buddy, giving him a Sue Me look for probably the thousandth time as he started walking over to the other side of the shop.

The majority of people couldn’t see Angel at all. For Shep (or the rare few with his skills), Angel appeared fairly translucent most of the time. It wasn’t a conscious choice on his part, though the way he felt could be a factor, and it fluctuated from time-to-time.

On particularly dark nights like this—when the moon couldn’t glow and the stars couldn’t glint because a ton of huge, thick clouds had rolled in and swallowed them up—for whatever reason, his form seemed to gain a lot more depth. 

His “skin” looked very pallid and gray in some areas. Other areas were adorned by dull, angry violet splotches that were outlined with sickly yellowish-green. Like bruises on steroids. It came in streaks all over Angel’s arms, and Shep would’ve put money on the ghost’s entire chest being covered. 

But the best example was his face. 

The stain had spread right across, almost seeming to divide it in half in a messy line. It started at his left temple, stretched over to the bridge of his nose, and then down to his right cheek. And it kept going from there, curving under his jawline and all the way down to his neck before disappearing past his shirt. 

While Shep had technically been roommates with the specter for so long now, he could still never look at him without terms like Livor Mortis popping up in the back of his head. 

As Angel liked to say, it was as though he’d had been at a carnival and, out of all the options for face-painting, had picked the one damn booth where the artist just so happened to be drunk.

(And, as Shep sometimes pointed out when he was feeling a type of way, Angel’s attire of a leopard-print shirt and a sleeveless jacket that was truly violent shade of raspberry hinted that he would’ve fit right in at a drunk carnival.)

As for Angel’s eyes…well, it was a bit of a stretch to call them eyes anymore. They were so damn cloudy, as though he’d been suffering from a horrible case of cataracts or corneal scarring (then again, eyes were usually the first parts to go when the real decay started). Instead of black, his pupils were a fleshy shade of white, like his head had been filled with pale, oily wine. His irises had likely been dark brown while he was still alive, but it was hard to tell if they still had that color, given how sunken the sockets were. 

Shep paused at the counter, reaching over to the lava lamp that sat by the cash register and flipping its switch three times. After that, he fished around the drawers for a small tin of salt.

The unnatural chill in the air never faded away as he resumed walking, which meant Angel was still following, as he often did.  “It’s just—you’ve been putting so much stuff on for the customers all month, but you still haven’t gotten to the Scream series. I was hoping for a marathon.”

“There’s a perfectly good TV in my living room,” Shep suggested, lifting up the doormat that lay just outside the main entrance. He sprinkled the salt out, pouring a few white lines on the floor, which he then covered back up. “You can always just take the movies up there.” 

“Well, yeah,” Angel admitted. “But it’s not the same as watching down here.”

Shep snorted as he went back to the counter. “And since when did you get all sentimental?”

For a few long seconds, Angel stayed surprisingly silent. 

“...Oh, wait!” A grin spread across Shep’s face as exchanged the salt for a microfiber cloth and his water bottle. 

(The interior brick walls around here were a nice aesthetic touch. The viscous, ink-like, blister-smelling liquid that seeped through said bricks’ crevices once per week? Not so much. It’d taken a lot of digging to learn that something in the wall was simply crying, but cleaning up after it seemed to calm it back down. Besides, it was unhealthy to bottle tears up like that.)

“You just don’t want to watch it all by yourself, huh?” 

Angel sputtered folding his arms across his chest with the barest whisper of cracking bones. “Excuse you! I’m just fine doing that stuff on my own. It’s just…it feels a lot more boring than it should.”

“Hey, I’m not shaming you,” Shep teasingly reassured as he moved over to the crying (or bleeding, or whatever-the-hell-it-was-actually-doing-in-an-anatomical-sense) wall. “Horror’s subjective. But once you’re grounded, it’s fun to be scared.”

“I don’t GET scared!” Angel insisted. “Think about all the parties other places around here have been throwing! That’s the ideal movie environment!”

“It’s also the ideal environment for you to screw around with people because there’s not much else to do.” Shep’s tone turned more knowing as carefully scrubbed at the first oozing streaks before they could stain any of the posters he’d set up. He thought back to all the times his own customers had done neck-snapping double-takes courtesy of Angel’s antics. 

But then…could Angel really be blamed for said antics? He never meant any true harm, and being dead for as long as he had—scratch that, being dead in general, no matter what kind of shape your soul wound up in, was so, so much harder than being alive. 

Even if a spirit hadn’t died painfully, they’d still feel pangs and aches that were all but beyond comprehension; and even if they’d once been human, they hadn’t exactly been set up to be able to handle something like that any better than most.

All the restlessness, stagnation, the signs that something is wrong with the world because why could this happen even when it obviously shouldn’t…

Shep knew he couldn’t truly understand (not yet, at least), but he wasn’t ignorant. 

Sometimes you just had to give into that desperation, if at least to get a little joy out of things that simply didn’t work for you anymore.

“...But really, I do get it,” he concluded, in a slightly softer voice. “Movies are better with friends most of the time.” 

Angel huffed, and though Shep had his back to him yet again, he could tell when that he was starting to relax. “...On top of that, I can actually focus up there. You never hold still during Close-Up. Seriously, all your pacing makes me dizzy sometimes.” 

In spite of himself, Shep raised an eyebrow. “You’re dead. How exactly can you get dizzy?”

“How the hell should I know?” Angel snickered. “I’m honestly surprised you don’t have a guess for that. But hey, one more thing to add to all those notes on the corkboa—” 

The pause was abrupt, and Shep didn’t think much of it at first, since Angel’s attention span could be a bit all over the place at times. 

But then he noticed how the air was getting even colder, causing shivers down his spine that gave off the same, sharp clarity that should have followed swallowing an ice cube by accident.

And when Angel spoke again, his voice was much smaller than before. Smaller, and shaking— “O-oh no…” —only to transition to piercing in less than a second. “Oh shIT, OH FUCK, NO!”

Shep flinched badly, both his tools falling to the floor. 

“Angel?” He blurted, spinning in place to find that the specter had disappeared. A strange glow lingered in the air, like the smoke that poured out of a car’s exhaust pipe, but it was fading fast. Shep craned his neck to follow it, and saw how it was drifting up into the ceiling. 

“Angel?!” He called again. No answer. 

Shep sprinted through the shop, grazing his shoulder against one of the larger display cases as he dove into the stairwell in the back. “Angel, what’s wrong? What happened?”

He’d just barely stepped onto the staircase before he got an answer.

It was neither from Angel, nor the one he wanted. 

Tap-tap-tap. 

A sharp, clear rhythm of both nails and knuckles against glass. 

There were only so many places in the shop it could’ve been coming from—the front windows, the main door, even the mirror in the restroom. 

But Shep had played this game enough times. It only ever happened in one place.  

And now that he was closer to it…

A sense of complete and utter dread was rolling through the air like fog, feeling both cold and hot in an awful way. So strong that even the dead could feel it. 

Shep sighed, then set his jaw as he marched back down the stairs. The last step was technically a false one: it could still support a person’s weight, but part of it was hollow, with its tread acting as a sort of lid. Shep knelt down and opened it up, revealing a box that he’d stashed away…well, not too long ago when he really thought about it. 

The half-mask he fished out was more ornate than a lot of the stuff he collected—carved into the shape of an oni’s jaws, complete with fangs that curved up and out of the mouth like tusks, painted with cream and pale red to create a pattern like veins or snakeskin. 

But that type of elaborate crafting was kinda necessary. For most of his life, he’d approached his skills somewhat casually. But when it came to more…surreal things, protection was needed. Real equipment was needed. 

Shep slipped the mask on, adjusting the straps against his curly black hair. Then, with another deep, careful breath, he approached the window that loomed at the staircase’s first landing. It looked out onto the alleyway right beside the shop, the only thing keeping it separate from the next business over. Like most alleys, it was dark, with just a smidgen of light creeping in from the streetlamps out on the sidewalk.

The way the window had been installed, it was a good few feet off the ground. 

But the figure looming just outside didn’t seem to care about that. 

It could tell that it’d been noticed, so it wasn’t knocking or tapping anymore. Instead, it was pressing its hands against the glass,  staining it with smears that were translucent in some parts…and red in others…

It waved as Shep drew closer, the movement shaky and loose, as though a joint somewhere had popped out of place. 

Shep chewed his lip as he halted a few inches from the glass. The figure was shaped like a person. In fact, it technically was a person. It had all the things a lot of people did: blue eyes, fair skin, dishwater-blonde hair, dressed in clothes that were now stained with grime from the ground. 

But Shep knew better. The fair complexion soon became pallid now that he was closer. The eyes were bloodshot, with one even starting to bulge a little if you squinted. 

He knew that, whoever this was, they weren’t the one driving anymore. That they’d never be driving again. 

Swallowing the bile in his throat, Shep crossed his arms. “What do you want?” 

The body’s head lolled to the side, as if it were thinking the question over. It then snapped back upright, blinking in a way that felt far too stiff, almost robotic. 

“...To come inside!” It finally answered, a smile forcefully tugging at its lips. “Could you open the window for me?” 

Shep was shaking his head before two words even made it out. “Nope, can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, you should be asking for a door like a normal person. And for another thing, we’re CLOSED. FOR. THE NIGHT.”

The body hummed, its head tilting to the side opposite of before. “It’s closed for living people. Dead people, on the other hand…” 

Shep felt one of his eyes twitch, felt his knuckles turn pale as he subconsciously dug his nails into his palms. 

He’d seen plenty of undead folk—hell, he’d even seen dead bodies being used as temporary vessels once or twice.

But this was not one of them. Even if it was fresher than Angel seemed to be, there was no sign of a soul anywhere. It was completely hollow, not much aside from a shell that just so happened to be made out of meat (as if a shell’s entire purpose was not to be that).

“Well, to be dead, you’d need to count a living thing in the first place,” he snapped. “Would you just cut the crap and get this over with already?!”

The body stared at him for another few seconds, still holding that fake-in-more-ways-than-one smile. Then, that grin dropped away completely, in almost perfect unison with how the eyes rolled back up into the head, leaving only glistening white exposed. 

The body started convulsing, wracked with twitches and spasms that made it somewhat unclear if enough time had passed for Rigor Mortis to set in.

Outside, something else started rising up. The movement was subtle at first, just barely peeking over the bottom of the windowsill. But then it got faster, more aggressive. 

It almost could’ve been mistaken for a hand—or maybe the shadow of a hand. One that was simply being cast from a decent few feet away, since it was so easy for shadows to be distorted, for an outlined wrist and fingers to stretch far too long as they reached up to the body.  

But as the seconds kept ticking, as Shep kept watching, it became more and more obvious how that thing was solid. Even though it was so dark that it shouldn’t have had any real mass—so dark that it blotted out the light of the streetlamps and somehow still stood out against the gloom of the alley. 

And now that “hand” looked more like some psychotic combination of octopus tentacles and tree branches. They coiled around the body’s waist with a chorus of cRiCks and snAps that weren’t nearly as muffled by the window as they should’ve been. 

Something in the back of Shep’s mind wanted to sway and heave, but he focused on the weight of the mask resting against his skin. For good measure, he reached into one of his sleeves and began to slowly, carefully trace his fingernails along his dark skin. 

Not to draw anything in particular—just to stimulate. 

The body finally went still again…and then a horrific, slippery rustling sound oozed into the air, like overgrown worms squeezing their way through mud-caked grass.

Then, with a final, sickening POP, the body went completely limp. It doubled over, giving Shep a good, long look at torn fabric and flayed skin. 

Another set of dark tendrils were sliding out of the bloody chasm, like fishing wires being reeled in. (Soon enough, Shep caught pale, glistening shapes through all the red. His instincts—and experience as a frickin' human being—told him that they were vertebrae, but another part of him insisted that they were teeth.)

The appendage as a whole actually seemed to shrink down, but only a bit. Just enough for its owner to shake it, slinging off a thin coat of blood, which splattered against the window like it’d been fired from a paintball gun.

From the upper corner of the window, another shape started writhing into view. An eye the size of Shep’s fist seemed to bloom open, giving off such a sickly pale glow that it almost seemed to burn against the rest of the void. Its pupil rattled in place, shrinking down to a pinprick in less than a second as it glared through the glass. 

“§ð…” The voice seemed to pour out between long, razor-equse teeth like molten lead, buzzing and screeching around the edges as if the speaker’s gums were infested with cicadas. “Ðð ¥ðµ hå†ê åll £µñ, ðr ï§ ï† jµ§† whêñ Ì'm ïñ ðñ ï†?” 

“That one. Option B,” Shep replied with no hesitation. “Definitely Option B.”

“¥êðw¢h, †hå† §†ïñg§,” the monster pouted, dramatically turning his gaze away, which led to his neck hanging at an extremely uncomfortable angle. “Ć †hï§ rå†ê, Ì mïgh† §†år† †ð †hïñk †hå† ¥ðµ Ððñ'† wåñ† mê §†ðþþïñg ߥ å† åll.” 

Shep rolled his eyes. Part of him wanted to step back, but he held firm. “You say that like there’s anyone else who would.”

“...Wêll, Ì mêåñ, †hêrê'§ Ðê£ïñï†êl¥ å† lê姆 ðñê,” Pat mused as he idly turned the body over in his clutches. “Må¥ßê †wð ðr †hrêê, ï£ ¥ðµ rêåll¥ §qµïñ† å† ï†.” 

“Oh, that’s nice!” Shep snarked. “Did you find a friendly sewer-clown? Something like that? That wouldn’t be too different from whatever company you usually keep.”

Pat’s face twisted, a handful of smaller eyes sprouting around his primaries. A long, ropey tongue flicked in and out of his mouth like a party favor as he hissed at the comment. “¥ðµ †hïñk ¥ðµ håvê rððm †ð †ålk whêñ ¥ðµ’rê ålw奧 Ðêålïñg wï†h ÐêåÐ †hïñg§?” 

The snarl warped back into a grin like a blur, more and more teeth squeezing their way into the rows lining his maw. “Må¥ßê åll †hð§ê vðï¢ê§ årê £ïñåll¥ §†år†ïñg †ð gê† †ð ¥ðµ…”

Shep felt his eyes widen, felt his temper boil. But by the time he realized that he had to hide that, it was already too late. 

Pat’s smile stretched even further along his face, not caring one iota how his lips tore. He wasn’t mincing his words; he knew exactly what a statement like that really meant to Shep, and now he was getting to savor it.

“Ì£ ¥ðµ'Ð jµ§† lê† mê ïñ,” he continued, “Ì'Ð ßê mðrê †håñ håþþ¥ †ð †åkê ¢årê ð£ þrðßlêm§ lïkê †hå†.” 

His teeth all clattered and sheared together like knives against sharpening rods as he chuckled. 

As Shep fought to not glance away, he caught sight of something behind all those teeth. A faint, weak, struggling glow that was nothing like Pat’s eyes. It was getting dimmer and dimmer by the minute, clearly in the process being buried somewhere deep, although little bits were caught in the monster’s mouth.

The body…that hollow, vacant body that was just being used in a ventriloquist act that was even more screwed-up than usual…

Even through all the fear, Part of Shep had naturally wondered at where its soul could’ve gone. Well, he had a pretty good hint now.

Shep’s stomach churned, and his eyes began to sting as he thought back to Angel’s panic. 

He’s safe, he had to remind himself. This building is the barrier he needs. 

“Not. A chance. In hell,” Shep declared through gritted teeth, glaring up at the monster with every bit of anger he had right now. “I’m not having any problems.” 

Pat hummed and leaned back, his eyes still glinting with smug, sadistic humor. “Whå†êvêr ¥ðµ §å¥.”

“Yeah, it is whatever I say,” Shep shot back. “And I say you should go ahead and hit the road.” He fidgeted in place, about to finally resume his march up to the apartment. Sure, Pat would likely still hang around, but that didn’t mean he had to give him any more entertainment. 

“HðlÐ ðñ, Ì †hðµgh† wê wêrê håvïñg å ¢ðñvêr§å†ïðñ,” Pat protsested.

“No, we weren’t!” Shep argued. “You killed someone out of nowhere just to try and scare me into a deal! That’s what’s been going on!” 

Pat shook his head at the charge, his eyes rolling like bubbles in oil. “Whð §åïÐ †hå† Ì kïllêÐ †hï§ mêå†ßåg hêrê?” He raised the corpse for emphasis, shaking it like it was a chicken with some stubborn fluff on it. 

A good portion of fear up and vanished as Shep blinked, putting a hand on his hip. “Oh, so you just so happened to find a dead body in the alley? Is that what you’re saying?

“†hå†'§ êx墆l¥ whå† Ì'm §å¥ïñg.” Pat nodded. 

Shockingly enough, his tone…didn’t sound all that dishonest. The rules he was bound to didn’t keep him from lying through is malformed jaws, but…Shep had plenty of practice when it came to reading people (as well as things that vaguely felt like people but weren’t trying nearly hard enough). 

Still, Shep wasn’t about to give something like this total benefit of the doubt. “Well, if that’s the case, did you at least see who actually did it?” 

“Må¥ßê, må¥ßê ñð†,” Pat replied with a coy smirk. “Ç'mðñ, †hêrê'§ µ§µåll¥ ñð†hïñg ïñ †hê§ê ållꥧ êx¢êþ† llê k¥-¢å†§.”

“Right. Sure.” Something in Shep’s brain perked up at that, but he shoved it aside. He’d already wasted enough time. “Y’know, for all the attention you’ve got on your nest, you sure don’t seem to have much going on with it lately. Since you came all this way to bother me.” 

He thought about the huge macabre museum at the very edge of downtown. He hadn’t paid it a visit just yet, but he’d heard plenty of his own customers talking about it. 

But then there were the rumors that didn’t come from more typical sources. The ones that slipped through the cracks in the sidewalks, or clung to the lights in his shop for a little while before they had to keep moving. 

To be fair, a ton of people entered that museum on a somewhat regular basis. That meant it’d be hard to pick out those who never left.

“Öh, ßµÐÐ¥…”  

The words hit Shep’s ears like frostbite, and he felt his heart legitimately skip a beat. The air felt so much heavier than it already had. 

He had to swallow a lump in his throat, had to fight the oily chill that was now clutching at his lungs. 

Pat drew closer to the window, letting the body of his latest plaything slip out of sight. His form seemed to drain as he reached a height not all that different from the average human. He suddenly only had two eyes, had only one mouth, had teeth that were actually being hidden by his lips. 

Somehow, that was even worse than all the times he went ham on his shapeshifting. 

He looked Shep up and down, with a smile so calm and so knowing that it could’ve turned anyone else’s hair white. “…¥ðµ'vê gð† ñÖ ÌÐÈÄ hðw wrðñg ¥ðµ årê.”

Shep couldn’t help it—he blinked. He knew he shouldn’t have, but he had to. 

His eyes were only closed for half a second.

But once he was looking though the window again, Pat was gone. 

Against his better judgement, he stepped closer, peered out a bit further.

The alley was empty. Even the body had disappeared. 

Shep pursed his lips, tugged at his jacket to try and make the shivers stop. 

With another deep breath, he ascended the next flight of stairs. Angel always hid in the apartment when things got serious; Shep knew he was up there somewhere, and he had to check on him. To make sure he was alright. 

…Shep didn’t take his mask off, though. He’d leave it on for a little while longer. 

Just in case.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not hanging. Not clinging.

Standing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seen.

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

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

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

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

Still, that kind of stuff came in varying levels. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And…

And the sword phased right through it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ððñ'† rêmïñÐ mê,” Pat hissed.

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

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

Sam felt their heart skip a beat. 

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

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

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

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

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

But none of that ever happened. 

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

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

Cold and hazy and raw. 

But not painful. Not exactly, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was just a dream. Nothing could hurt them. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, yes. Not creepy at all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam blinked at this. “...Why? How?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“𝕿𝒽𝖊𝓎'𝓇𝖊 𝖓ℴ𝖙 𝖒𝒶𝖐𝒾𝖓ℊ 𝓎𝖔𝓊 𝒹𝖔 𝖆𝓃𝖞𝓉𝖍𝒾𝖓ℊ.” 

Everything seemed to freeze in place. 

The new voice that had interjected was…something else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe…maybe even some kind of wedding dress…

And that wasn’t even mentioning the holes. 

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

Eyes. 

Those holes were the creature’s eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

Sam glanced back and forth between the two of them. 

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

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

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

“𝕿𝒶𝖐ℯ 𝒶 𝓌𝖎𝓁𝖉 𝖌𝓊𝖊𝓈𝖘,” she replied, her melodious tone dragged down by a deeper wound of her own.

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

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

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

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

…And not just one…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then that strange, muffled drumbeat grew a bit louder, a bit faster…

Sylph looked at one of his clutches of claws, still hovering frozen in the air. She then raised her own handful of talons, pushing it forward until it rested against his wrist. With that, she carefully pushed her hand up until their palms were touching. She went still then, not budging an inch when Pat’s digits wrapped around hers, squeezing tightly.

“Hðw åm Ì §µþþð§êÐ †ð £ïñÐ ¥ðµ 壆êr †hï§?!” Pat demanded, his buzzing voice tapering down to a whisper. “Ì ¢ðµlÐ ñêvêr þrêÐ ¥ðµ ßê£ðrê, §ð—!”

“𝖂ℯ 𝒸𝖆𝓃'𝓉 𝒷𝖊 𝖕𝓇𝖊𝓅𝖆𝓇𝖊𝒹 𝒻𝖔𝓇 ℯ𝖛ℯ𝖗𝓎𝖙𝒽𝖎𝓃𝖌,” Sylph announced, her voice more stern than before. “𝕾ℴ𝖒ℯ 𝓈𝖙𝓊𝖋𝒻 𝒿𝖚𝓈𝖙 𝖍𝒶𝖘 𝖙ℴ 𝓁𝖎𝓃𝖊 𝖚𝓅 𝒷𝖞 𝖎𝓉𝖘ℯ𝖑𝒻. 𝖄ℴ𝖚 𝖓ℯ𝖊𝒹 𝓉𝖔 𝖋𝒾𝖌𝓊𝖗ℯ 𝓉𝖍𝒶𝖙 𝖔𝓊𝖙 𝖊𝓋𝖊𝓃𝖙𝓊𝖆𝓁𝖑𝓎.”

And the muffled rhythm came screeching to a halt. 

It did start up again…but only after a full, agonizing moment had passed. 

Sylph’s primary eyes softened a bit once again. She took a deep breath, glancing down as the air seemed to course all the way through her billowing tissues while she leaned closer to Pat. After what almost felt like an hour, she looked back up at him. One of her arms was a blur as it wove behind him, reaching up along his spine.

“𝖂𝒶𝖐ℯ 𝓊𝖕,” she insisted. One of her talons tapped against the nape of his neck.

And then Pat was gone. 

No smoke, no cracks splitting open in the air, no dissipating, nothing like that at all. 

He’d just vanished. As though he’d truly been a hallucination cooked up by someone’s sleep-depreived, terror-addled imagination.

Sylph lowered her head; all the holes seemed to disappear into her skin–she was closing her eyes. Keeping them tightly sealed shut for a good long while as she tapped her claws against the ground.

There was only one drumbeat now, and it rang out much faster and louder than ever. 

Sooner or later, all of her eyes snapped back open in a way that would’ve made the average trypophobia-sufferer faint. She then turned her head to stare at Sam, her gaze curious…yet reproachful. 

Sam couldn’t stop themself from shrinking, from pressing their back against the wall, dipping their head to signal cautious respect. 

“...𝖂𝒽𝖆𝓉 𝓀𝖎𝓃𝖉 𝖔𝒻 ℊ𝖆𝓂𝖊 𝖉ℴ 𝓎𝖔𝓊 𝓉𝖍𝒾𝖓𝓀 𝓎𝖔𝓊'𝓇𝖊 𝖕𝓁𝖆𝓎𝖎𝓃𝖌?” Sylph asked, her voice somehow gentle and acidic at the same time. 

That was when the world around them began to flutter away. Like a person’s eyelashes twitching as tears dried up around them. 

___

Scrying was a basic trick; it was one of the very first magicks Pat had taught Sol, way back when they’d started hearing his voice in their head. 

It came in pretty handy when there was a guest (or perhaps an occasional intruder) who just needed to be spied on for whatever reason.

Windows, mirrors, even rain puddles were game. As long as it was reflective, it would work. You just needed to keep your focus steady.

Admittedly, it’d been somewhat difficult for Sol to stay focused on tonight’s particular task. 

It was simple assignment, really: use some other tricks to track down the stranger who had come to ask those cryptic questions, keep an eye on them as they slept…as well as watch for anything that could be a threat to the same mound of living nightmare fuel she’d been working with for a long time now while he slept. 

But if Pat’s views on sleep had ever been anything to go by…

Even if she knew she could trust him, Sol’s instincts told them that things just wouldn’t go too smoothly tonight.

Curled up in his nest-cocoon-hammock thing, Pat had been lightly tossing and turning ever since he’d finally managed to drift off. He’d been murmuring as he dreamed, his unconscious voice dropping to an octave that was almost too soft and too low to comprehend (then again, even if that wasn’t the case, Sol knew she still wouldn’t have been able to understand the language he was using).

Sol honestly wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Pat woke up. 

…It was so strange, feeling validated and concerned and scared all at once. 

After all, it wasn’t every night you got to watch your boss-and-kind-of-friend lurch up, gasping and choking like he’d been chained to the bottom of a lake. 

It wasn’t every night you watched that same entity try to climb out of his nest, only to fall and hit the floor with a loud thud due to how violently he was shaking. 

It wasn’t every night you could do nothing but watch your technical business partner shrink to the size of a human, then raise his clawed hands to his face…and burrow talons into flesh, effectively ripping both of his primary eyes out and throwing them across the room, where they each landed against the adjacent wall with a sickening splat.

It wasn’t every night you got to see an outer abomination crumple into a heap on the floor, heaving and sobbing as veritable gallons of a viscous, oily fluid gushed out of the fresh, jagged hollows in his face.

Steeling their nerves, Sol crept past Pat, moving carefully and quietly. It took a painfully awkward amount of time for her to find both of his eyes, but she managed. Besides, he clearly wasn’t in the headspace to be judging anything right now. 

Though their nightvision had long-since grown more enhanced than average, Sol still found themself squinting through the eyeholes of their protective mask. Squinting at the gorey treasures in her shaking hands. 

(She’d expected his pupils to still be shaking too, the way they always did. But right now, shockingly enough, they were both still.)

Due to the hasty removal, both cavernous eyeballs were now adorned by some dents and cuts. 

…Well, cauterization typically couldn’t be such an easy solution, but Sol had their ways. She set the eyes down, then fished through the pockets of her purple leather jacket. It took no time at all for her to find her trusty striker-blade, as well as the chunk of rainbow flint that came with it. 

Sol chewed their lip, their thoughts wracked with worry as they listened to Pat’s cries. 

Using the blade might just make the injuries worse…

With a deep breath, Sol struck at the stone, expertly coaxing out a flame, small and delicate as though it was attached to a candle wick.

They then pressed the blade’s tip to their palm. They didn’t apply enough pressure to draw blood; it was just a way to encourage the fire to abandon the metal in favor of the offered hand. 

Unfortunately for the fire, Sol’s skin refused to char or melt. It did turn a deep shade of red where the flame licked at it, but that was it. It didn’t even hurt; it just felt like hot water pooling against them. 

Sol stuffed her tools back into her jacket, then returned their focus to the eyes. She delicately picked one up, holding her flaming hand around it, turning it this way and that to make sure that the unnatural heat convinced the wounds to melt in on themselves and close up. The process went by faster than expected: both eyes were repaired soon enough. 

They would’ve felt some well-deserved pride at that—their control was getting better, after all—but she still had a friend who needed help right now. 

Sol smothered the flame, then carried the eyes over to Pat. Something cold and clammy scratched at their ribcage as they looked over him. 

His sobs had tapered down into hiccups by now, and his horrific tears were already evaporating into columns of smoke, but he was clearly still in a bad way. 

Without a word, Sol sat down beside him, crossing their legs and biting back the stinging sensation that was trying to settle within their own eyes.

He’d take his back when he was ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An instinctive shiver ran down his spine at recent memories. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sharp scent of tequila seeped into the air.

Cruz blinked, exchanging a look with Sol. 

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

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

“Voila!” Moses proclaimed with a triumphant smirk. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even so, it seemed the timing was perfect. 

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

The building shuddered. 

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

And then…a voice. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cruz felt a grin spread under his mask. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plier scoffed, fixing the floor with a withering glare. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He flicked his wrist and snapped his claws twice. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cruz nodded. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And indeed it was. 

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

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

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

It was now a substance that shouldn’t exist.

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

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

Moses immediately ducked behind Septic’s tank. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it was gone. 

Just like that.

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

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

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

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

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

Moses crept out from behind Septic’s tank. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a few long seconds, there was silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There just wasn’t much like it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All sorts of preservation was practiced here. 

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

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

Specimens frozen in resin cubes or slides. 

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

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

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

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

In all classifications, sizes varied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The far wall of the attic shook.

Sccrrrrrp

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

Scccrrrrp-sssccrrrrp

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

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

Like an ambush predator stalking after its prey

Sccrrrp-scccrrrp, sccrrrp-sccrrrrp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And vague was an extremely generous term here, folks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Following the new pattern, one pair of his arms bent backwards as he raised them, wrists popping and cricking as he made air-quotes with his claws. “ÐïÐñ'† ¥ÖÚ †êll mê †ð 'jµ§† §å¥ ñð' å† †hå† £ê§†ïvål årðµñÐ 4000 ßÇ?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without warning, Eye Guy shifted in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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