The World of the Creatures Part 3: The Arc of Fear

by pmraptor98

The City of the Universal alliance seems poised to reach its peak of prosperity as Patrick realizes his true power. But things are not as idyllic as they may seem as the true nature of things begins to appear. Warning: self insert. Using the story to examine myself as a person. Self-indulgent, but not mindlessly so.

1. Chapter 1 - A Different Perspective

Chapter 1 - A Different Perspective

Hello. We haven't been properly introduced yet. My name is Brendan Anderson. There's probably a fair bit that you already know about me, or that you've safely guessed. Yes, I am 26 years old, or at least I was at the moment when Hope Vernor entered the mind of my good friend, Patrick Murphy, and constructed an entire, self-contained universe made up of all of the things that reside in his thoughts, feelings, memories, and experiences. As of writing this, I'm closer to around either 31 or 32 (it can be difficult to keep track, especially when trying to sync things up with the passage of time back home). Yes, I'm a middle-class, straight, white, cis-gender, suburban male from early 21st century America who does not affiliate with any religion. Make of all that what you will, if anything. Yes, I'm a graduate of the University of Vermont with a Bachelor's in English, along with an unofficial focus on the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. And lastly, yes - I do always dress in black sweatshirts, pants, and boots whenever possible, along with a cloak on certain special occasions. The sword almost always stays at home.

Or at least it had before I started training with Geralt of Rivia. I first met Geralt on Patrick's PS4 in October 2016, but Geralt didn't meet me until Patrick's world first formed, and we were both hanging around the same giant tree, attacked by a swarm of ants the size of tigers. I ended up saving Geralt's life, and he repaid me by teaching me how to wield my sword without looking like an inebriated imbecile. Seeing as how Witchers are among the most skilled swordsmen in the world - Patrick's or any other - and seeing how it was looking more and more likely that skill with a blade was going to come in mighty handy, I took him up on his offer. I had little idea how right I would be.

It might seem odd that a young man from 2018 would possess a sword. That's because it is odd. As far as instruments of slaughter go, swords have fallen out of favor, in case you hadn't noticed. It becomes all the stranger when you realize that I was raised in a very left-wing household (well, technically two of them, at least for most of my childhood) with two parents, both of which were ministers of the United Church of Christ. We were all about as anti-war and non-violent as it gets. Nevertheless, I'd long dreamed of possessing a sword. I suppose I'll let Faramir, Captain of Gondor explain why (gotta justify that English degree whenever possible).

"'I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Númenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise."

I don't revel in the thought of bloodshed...well, at least not outside the realm of fiction. Violence is abhorrent; antithetical to all that I believe as goes life. To me, the beauty in the sword is, as Faramir says, not in its power to destroy, but in its potential to defend. All of my life, as far back as I can remember, I've been drawn to tales of heroes: people who, in spite of all danger, stand up against evil and fight for what they believe in. Whether it was the swords and shields of the Knights of the Roundtable or the cape and cowl of Batman, I've sought to emulate these examples of bravery, compassion, strength, and love.

Strangely though, where Patrick and I come from, fighting for what's right, and for those whom you love, usually doesn't actually mean engaging in physical combat. More often than not, it simply means standing up for what's right: showing compassion to those who need it, speaking out against injustice, doing your part for your community. Indeed, seeing as how some of the real heroes in our world are people like firefighters and doctors, it seems odd that someone like me would idolize fictional characters like Batman and Aragorn. Maybe it has to do with the stories I grew up with. Maybe it's because there's just something about those stories that speaks to me. It's an interesting parallel to Patrick if you think about it - he claims to find meaning and beauty in the history of life, yet his favorite group of living things are dinosaurs, most of which are long extinct.

Speaking of which - yes, yes, I know. You're probably very anxious to know what happened to him in the General Assembly Hall (at least I assume so since you've made it this far). I promise, we'll get to that in time. Until then, Patrick wanted me to offer my own perspective on certain things in this tale. As you'll see, the course of events will become ever more fractured, with different things happening in different places, all of which are crucial to understanding just what in the name of sanity this is all about anyway.

I think it makes the most sense to begin things just before war broke out in Gotham and Minas Tirith. As Patrick has already shown, I had enlisted in the Armed Forces two weeks prior, being assigned to the City Guard Reserve, Simple Melee Division. At first, I had absolutely terrified myself at my own brashness in enlisting. After all, when it comes to conflict, I usually try to avoid it entirely as a general rule, and when it can't be avoided, I seek peaceful resolutions. Fighting goes against not only what I believe in but also everything I'd ever experienced up to that point in life. What exactly had I become? Why was I doing this? Was I going to be hardened by the horrors of war and lose any and all sense of who I was?

But then I remembered - as far as real people go, one of my absolute biggest influences of all was a war veteran, of the absolute worst war in human history no less. At the risk of flattering myself to a sacreligious degree, young Tolkien and I had a fair few things in common. If nothing else, we both loved fairy stories and myths, both practised poetry, both grew up with stories told to us by our mothers. His great passion in life was philology, not combat. And yet, there came a time when he put those things aside, and took part in the most hellish conflict in the history of the world. Did he lose himself in the process? On the contrary - it was only because of those experiences that he realized himself enough to go on to write the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings. If Tolkien could suffer the slings of war with such strength and grace, then so could I. Hell, if anything, it would be easier for me since the war that loomed on my horizon was at least quasi-justified (well, as much as any war can be), while the Great War was nothing more than a gory exercise in conquest.

But such quandaries weren't on my mind on the day the war started. I was too busy focusing on work. I had a job at the City of the Universal Alliance's Public Library, where I worked to organize and catalog the poetry. This mostly meant compiling poems into several volumes by different criteria - genre, time period, culture, and even species. We then created both digital and hard copies of each compilation for public use. I can't lie - there were definitely moments of tedium, but it exposed me to all kinds of poetry I never imagined existed. For example, there's apparently a genre of early 9th century Wakandan poetry that uses inverted couplets to...eh, nevermind. Tangent.

The library was something to behold. The whole building was 7 stories tall, with walls of perfectly polished brass that shone brilliantly as rays of light were filtered gently from the surrounding windows. On each level, there was a central hub of research resources, which is also where the public could check out books. People arrived at the library on the top most floor which housed the lobby. As they moved outwards from the center, there were shelves upon shelves of books, the tallest of which were over 50 feet.

I was manning the front desk of the library in the lobby at the time, along with several other coworkers, when a middle-aged man with short, fuzzy black hair came up to me. I gave him a polite look and asked, "Can I help you?"

"I was wondering...is there someone I could talk to about how the library is organized?" he asked, his shoulders hunched slightly as if he were nervous, or even constipated.

"Sure," I said, "Is there something in particular that you're looking for?"

"Oh no," he said, "I just noticed...it looks like you have different works created by different… different…" he couldn't get it out, as if there was something in his throat preventing him from saying the words.

"Different...authors?" I suggested, but he shook his head. "Different… uh, species?"

He flinched at the word, but nodded. "Right...that, uh...is there any chance that the books could be arranged so that works from different...those...were kept separate?"

I have to say that I was immediately put off by his request. It stank of racism (no, we don't use the word 'speciesism' as it is redundant), which wasn't something I'd ever experienced at work. Generally speaking, you can't live in a city as diverse as that of the UA without getting over any prejudices or negative biases. On the other hand, it would have been most amusing if I were to call my supervisor over to address his issue. Seeing as how that was standard procedure anyway, I said, "Uh, let me call my supervisor." He nodded, and I pressed down on to a small communicator by my sweatshirt collar and said, "Maurice, could you please come down for a user inquiry?" There was no response, but I knew he was on his way.

Before he got there, a blonde woman roughly the age of the man came up to him and said, "Sweety, is everything alright?"

"It's fine," he said, looking at her with great affection. She grabbed him by the arm, patting him gently, and he smiled. "I just had a question about the library. It's all wrong, the books should first be arranged by different, uh...dif-different-"

"Species, honey, species," she said, leaning in close to him. For a second, I thought she was going to place a kiss on his cheek, but she stopped just short of that. Nonetheless, it seems like it had about the same effect.

"And then by copyright date, then by color, then page number, then author last name-" he said.

Despite his...unusual criteria, it actually made me slightly more comfortable. It looked as if his problem wasn't necessarily straight up racism, but more stemming from some kind of personality disorder. In any event, his wife - I assumed she was his wife given their rapport - was clearly reading the signs and helping him to deal with whatever discomfort he was feeling.

"Adrian, sweety, " she said quietly and calmly, still smiling at him, "Remember what we talked about right? When we come into a new space, we have to trust that people have it organized in the best way for them."

"But it's not the right way-" he protested.

She squeezed his arm gently, and he stopped. "Adrian," she said, still keeping an utterly intact composure. He sighed, and then nodded slightly. Then the woman turned to me and said, "My husband suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, sometimes it can be stressful for him in places like this." I hadn't noticed it at first, but when she looked at me directly for the first time, I realized she looked exactly like Jan from The Office (only in appearance though, thankfully).

"Oooohhh," I said, my suspicions confirmed. "That's no problem, is there anything I can help you find?"

"Oh no, thank you," she said cheerfully, "I was just doing some research, My name is Trudy Monk,I'm a reporter with the Nexus News Network."

"She's a very good reporter," Adrian said, looking at Trudy with equal parts pride and affection. She returned his look by holding his hand and stroking it tenderly. Honestly, I don't remember the last time I saw a couple this close to each other. What was most remarkable was how I saw him flinch ever so slightly at her touch, which I figured was a result of his OCPD, yet his love for her was so great that he was able to tolerate the discomfort for the sake of getting to be closer to her. It was really quite wonderful, not because it was sweet but because it was genuine.

At that moment my supervisor, Maurice, slid down a rope dangling over us. Maurice was an orangutan, a Bornean orangutan according to Patrick. Like all of his kind, he was covered in dense matts of bright orange hair, draping off his long arms in elegant capes. Despite his sizeable pot belly, he traversed the ropes overhead with great elegance and speed, grabbing them with both his hands and his feet. I'm told that his wide cheek flaps and sagging throat sac make him quite attractive among the females.

Adrian was clearly startled by the sudden arrival of a 450 pound Great Ape from above. He jumped backwards even as Trudy held him in place, stroking his arm soothingly. Adrian, to his credit, kept from bolting to the door, which it was clear he wanted to do. Instead, he resolved himself to staring at the floor instead of having to look at Maurice.

"Adrian, Adrian," Trudy said, still stroking his arm, "Shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay, honey, remember things are different here. Let's say it together now, things are different here. Things are different here."

Adrian nodded, though his eyes were still closed. "Things are different here...things are different here...things are different here."

Maurice considered them both, unsure of what to make of all this. He held up his hands and began to form signs with them. Thanks to the TARDIS' translation matrix, we were all able to understand him as he signed, "What can I do for you?"

Trudy answered him, "Hi, yes, sorry. My name is Trudy Monk, this is my husband Adrian. He has Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, he's still working on talking with non-humans."

Maurice cocked his head and his beady eyes squinted. He signed, "I'm not sure that I understand?"

Trudy said, "People that suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder usually experience an obsession with cleanliness, which he's not used to observing in non human species."

Maurice still looked like he didn't understand, but it was starting to come together for me. If Adrian did indeed feel a compulsive need to keep things clean, then being around an orangutan would indeed be extremely triggering...or at least it would be under ordinary circumstances. As it was, Maruice was just as hygienic as most people. In particular, I noticed he had just started using a special lilac shampoo a few weeks prior, which was quite pleasant and not overbearing.

Still looking at the floor, Adrian took several deep breaths before finally tearing his eyes away from the porcelain tiles to look at Maurice properly. Still breathing heavily, he gave a weak, nervous smile at Maurice and said, "Hi...m-my name is Adrian Monk...You have a very symmetrical face…"

I suppose that was his attempt at paying Maurice a compliment, but Maurice looked more puzzled than ever. I decided to intervene, "It's okay Maurice, I can handle it from here."

He looked at me, then back to Adrian and Trudy, then snorted and rolled his eyes before hauling himself back up among the ropes. He was clearly frustrated at having been called seemingly for nothing. Adrian calmed down as he left us and said, "I don't think he likes me."

"Oh Adrian, that's not true," Trudy said, trying to reassure him.

He shook his head and said, "No, it's okay...can't say I blame him." The more time I spent around Adrian Monk, the more remarkable he seemed. I had gone from actively disliking him to feeling sympathy for him in the span of about 15 minutes.

Not really sure what to say at that point, I just casually said, "I take it you guys are pretty anxious to get back home, huh?"

To my utter surprise, Adrian shook his head rigorously, laughing nervously again. "Oh no, no, no, no...no, things are much much better here."

"They are?" I asked, confused once again by Mr. Monk. I would have thought a man diagnosed with a disorder whose typical symptoms include obsessive compulsive tendencies, and an unyielding desire to impose a strict, immobile sense of order on his surroundings would find a world like Patrick's to be a living nightmare.

"Definitely," he said, turning to look at Trudy. "You see, I...Trudy...back where I come from, Trudy was…" and he looked at her, as if asking permission to say something.

She nodded, and mouthed, "It's okay."

He turned back to me and said, "Trudy was...murdered...it was a car bomb…" and as he spoke, a look of utter horror and depression fell over his face, as if the simple act of recalling it gave it new life. Trudy held his hand and squeezed on it tightly, placing her other hand over it to comfort him. The effect was immediate - he let all of the fear out in a single breath, and smiled at Trudy. "But it's okay...it's okay…" he said, talking just as much to himself as to me, "Because she's back! Trudy's back!" and his eyes glistened with tears, completing the entire cycle of terror, loss, depression, and ecstasy at her return.

I was extremely uncertain of the best way to respond. Between Trudy telling me about his disorder, and Adrian telling me about what happened to her, they had shared some very intimate details about their lives, which I'm not sure I was ready to handle while on duty. The only thing I could think to ask that had me curious was, "How do you folks know Patrick Murphy?"

Both of them shook their heads. Adrian said, "We'd never actually heard of him before all of this…" and he waved around to his surroundings. "I think it's because he might have heard of me...I'm uh...I'm a world-famous detective."

That's when it hit me - the melodramatic backstory, Trudy's resemblance to Jan: they were characters from a show, though I wasn't sure which. After all, I don't think there actually are any 'world-famous detectives' outside of fiction. Can you name any, because I can't.

There was an unspoken taboo among all the citizens of the City from the 'real' world. Namely, if we met someone we either knew or suspected was fictional, we never mentioned it to them. Between the sheer awkwardness of having to be the bearer of that news, as well as its potential implications, it was simply too much trouble. Does that mean that none of the characters knew they were from books, shows, video games, movies, etc ? I doubt it. We've already seen that, at the very least, Ciri and the Doctor knew. I'm sure many suspected it, but just didn't want to think about it. Besides, it wasn't always clear. It took quite a bit of information for me to suspect that the Monks were fictional after all. It's not as if they had any overt elements of science fiction or fantasy. So I kept my revelation to myself, and simply nodded and said, "Ahhh, okay…"

"That's why I'm here actually," Trudy said, "I'm doing research for a story on the Remain Party."

"The what?" I asked.

"It's a growing movement of people who don't want to go back to wherever it was that they came from," Trudy said.

"Huh...now that's interesting," I said, stroking the small beard on my chin. "Also makes sense," I said, a little embarrassed that I wasn't able to piece that together on my own given its obviousness. "I take it that you're both members."

"I am," Adrian said quickly, "Absolutely. I have the greatest person in the entire universe right here, back in my life after so many years of being alone. Not only that, but my old therapist is back too after he died of a heart attack, but I get to see my new one too! And I have both my current assistant and my previous one are here to help me when I'm working on a case! It's great! It's the best of all possible worlds!"

His answer was interesting. It was very...selfish, though I don't mean that in a judgemental way. What I mean is that, if someone were to make an argument for keeping Patrick's World as is, I would think they'd focus on the scientific, technological, environmental, social, economic, and political benefits that had been developed in such a short amount of time. Instead, Adrian's primary focus was on all the things he had lost that he'd since regained, which would be impossible to recover back home. That's not to say that it didn't make sense though. Having all of those previous supports back in his life - two of which were dead no less - was probably the only thing allowing Adrian to function in a place as crazy as the City of the UA.

But despite the fervor with which he answered, Trudy was slower to give her response.. "It's still something I have to think about," she said. That was a true shock. If anyone had any reason to keep Patrick's world as it was, I would think somebody murdered in a car bomb back in their previous world was it.

"If you don't mind me asking, what are your reservations?" I asked her. It wasn't really my place to do so while on the clock, but I couldn't help myself. This was a curious couple if ever there was one.

"I'm not sure, it's just….it doesn't feel right," she said, a quiet frustration showing in her brow. "This world is amazing, no doubt about that, it's just...I'm not sure it's really meant to be, if that makes sense. I mean...well, it would have been great if all of these different peoples could have - somehow - come together of their own free will to make this world-"

"-But that's not what happened," I finished for her, nodding. It was a good point. As Patrick once said, this whole City was just an extreme example of people making the best of a bad situation. None of us chose to be here, it just happened.

She nodded back to me. "I can't deny what Adrian has said, life for us has never been better," and she looked at him once more, her eyes filled with love that knew no limit. "But just because our lives have been better doesn't make it right to keep others here. Having said that, there are still other reasons why a person could argue that this world should remain. The advanced medicine, agriculture, the diverse culture and art. This is a world rich in beauty, and that has merit too."

"It's clear to see why you wanted to do this report," I said to her. "I'd love to see it when it comes out." That was more than empty flattery - it was an issue I'd been grappling with for a while. Apparently, I was so caught up with my own conflicted feelings on the issue that I hadn't realized that so many other people had the same reservations (rather foolish in retrospect I guess).

Before any of us could say anything more, Trudy reached down to pick up her phone from inside her purse. The instant she looked at the screen, her face froze in an expression of subdued dread.

"What is it?" Adrian asked anxiously, "Have they legalized public nudity? Have they discovered a substance dirtier than dirt?"

I might have laughed at such peculiar suggestions if Trudy's face hadn't been so grave. She looked quickly at me and said, "We need to go home now." She lead Adrian away from the front desk as he made ever more unlikely guesses as to what had troubled her so much. As I watched them go, I saw someone else standing and looking at their phone with a similar expression of grim anxiety. Looking around, there were many such looks on faces of all kinds all throughout the lobby. Turning to look at some of the other staff sitting behind the desk, many of them were also contemplating their phones. It actually made me scared to check mine, but I also knew it made little sense to delay the inevitable.

When I looked at my phone, I did indeed have an alert waiting for me. However, it turned out that it was an entirely different alert than those of the others in the library. They had simply received word that war had broken out at the garrisons in Minas Tirith and Gotham City, with a fleet of daleks and orcs having invaded each respectfully. But in addition, I also had received a message: one from the City Guard.

ATTN SOLDIER: Due to sudden recent military activity, your recruitment in the City Guard Reserve is being activated. All newly activated soldiers are to report to Fort Eskar for briefing, and to be properly equipped and armed.

There's not a whole lot of point in talking too much about the time from when I left the library to gather my things and make it to the fort to the moment when the war reached the City. It mostly included a lot of tedious briefings, gathering of supplies, and awkward small talk with other new recruits. We mostly talked about why we all signed up in the first place, how good (or, not-so-good in my case) we were in combat, and what we hoped to achieve while in the service. I held great respect for all of the other recruits, no matter from what culture or species they came from, but none of them shared my outlook on the whole endeavor. Most of them talked about the glory of battle, the thrill of the fight as it were. Honestly, those things all terrified me.

After the first day or so, as we were beginning to question why we'd been summoned at all, the Harvester ship appeared over the City. No sooner had its disc-shaped frame blocked out the sun than we were all on our feet, grabbing our arms as our Sargents barked orders at us. I was assigned to the simple Melee division. Luckily, my sword had been deemed fit for service and registered with the City Guard.

What I didn't have was armor: sweatshirts aren't much use against...well, anything really. Bullets, energy blasts, mustard. So I had to be outfitted with a special bodysuit that was somehow both very stretchy and tight fitting, but which couldn't be cut by any but the sharpest blades. I'm not positive but I think I remember hearing from someone that it was a fabric specially created by dwarves using vibranium, kind of like a mithril coat on a much finer level. On top of that, I also had faulds for my chest, spaulders for my shoulders, gauntlets for my arms, cuisses for my thighs, and schynbalds for my shins, all of which were made of another unique alloy, not as durable as the fabric, but forged with silver, dimeritium, galvinite, and meteorite steel: specially designed to counteract the effects of magic. The plates were thinner than those of traditional medieval armor, and also lighter, allowing for a far wider range of movement as well as greater speed. For shoes, we actually wore cleats. Lastly, we were each given a barbute for our heads, with wider areas for our faces, instead of the small T-shaped space in the original model.

Honestly, when I got my first look at myself in a mirror, I wanted to revel in just how awesome it looked, and under any other circumstances, I would have. But war was banging on the front door. And the back door. And the windows. So there was no time to admire the look of the armor. There wasn't time left for anything but the battle ahead.

We all scrambled to the small Guard transport vessels, each one large enough to carry about 100 soldiers (give or take depending on the species). Once the last of us was strapped in, it took of with a slow vertical take off before lurching forward like a reluctant horse being led to war. Each one sped away, winding around city towers and spires to their place along the border.

I'd never seen the city like that before. No continuous streams of flying vehicles delivering a veritable cornucopia of passengers to their varied destinations. No ever-present din of urban white noise filling the ears. All the towers stood tall and empty, with neon lights blinking and flashing in an eerie stillness. It was as if the city itself was standing still, holding its breath in anticipation.

Perhaps Patrick had a different view of things from deep in the center of the city, but I can tell you that none of us thought the barrier looked particularly strong when it was the only thing standing in between us and an unending barrage of enemy artillery. We were expecting it to flicker out at any moment, an expectation that was very horrifyingly met. None of us even questioned why or how it happened. Those kinds of questions just don't really pop into your head when you're hovering on the very edge of oblivion. What we were not expecting was for the ships to cease fire once the barrier was down. When the Sanctuary II dropped its load of vampires, werewolves, outriders, and giant spiders, that's when the battle actually began for us.

"ALL UNITS, RETREAT TO THE TRANSPORTS!" yelled the Sargent - a veteran of the Second World War.

We had to wait for the different divisions to be directed where to go before we could takeoff. When the order finally did come, they didn't even bother to tell us where we were headed or what we would be fighting against. It wasn't until the vessel veered off to the right toward the swarming outriders that we realized what we were in for.

"ALL UNITS, PREPARE TO ENGAGE HOSTILES!" the Sargent called over the chaos raging below us. "DRAW SWORDS!" No more time to contemplate the nature of conflict. When he spoke, I reached down and grabbed the hilt, unsheathing my sword and holding it tightly in both hands, as if nothing I had ever held was so precious. The transport touched down, and the hatch opened up. "CHARGE!" the Sargent shouted before the hatch even touched the ground, though it mostly came out like an angry roar.

One of the things Hope had told Patrick about how this whole turning-someone's-mind-into-a-world thing works is that the forces that translated the thoughts into physical objects often gave them a life of their own, to make up for any gaps in Patrick's knowledge. I didn't truly understand what that meant until I saw the outriders. In the Avengers films, they were nothing more than typical CG mooks: conglomerations of pixels that served no other purpose than to be punched by the protagonists (that's a lot of Ps isn't it?). But when the rampaging mob of outriders came charging toward us, I saw something different. I saw an eyeless maw lined with row after row of teeth like surgical knives, snapping shut over and over again like a furious bear-trap. There was weight and power with each movement of their clawed hands over the ground, causing their heavily-muscled limbs to shudder slightly

The sight was so frightening that it actually caused me to falter in my charge, not that it really mattered since they were coming for us either way. When the first outrider lunged at me, four arms extended in preparation to rip me apart, I swung my sword at it. It was more of a reflex than a deliberate action, but it nonetheless did what it was supposed to; namely, slice right through the outrider's head, separating its braincase from its lower jaw in a splatter of viscous green fluid. The inertia of its assault pushed it forward toward me, and its arms twitched with the last remnants of life, but it was no longer a threat.

There wasn't time to reflect on the first life I took in battle - another outrider pounced toward me with a slobbering mouth bearing each one of its lethal fangs. Once again, my reflexes took over, but not in the clumsy way they had before. This time, I raised my sword and caught the outrider in the chest, slashing through its ribs and throwing it backward away from me. I took a step forward, twisting backwards, and then landing two moure slashes that cut into the creature's neck, causing it to fall to its knees.

I was relieved from attack for a brief moment in which I was surrounded on all sides by other City Guardians. I realized that Geralt's 4 years of training had shown in my reflexes just then, and that I should take that opportunity to put myself into that mental space. I had been taken by terror at my first encounter with the enemy...can't say I'm proud about that, but I'd at least like to think that most other people could understand. But my courage was bolstered enough by my first victory to move me closer to that frame of mind Geralt had worked so hard to impart on me. Presently, I chose to move even closer and firmer to that state of mind. I know that's a lot of words, which makes it sound like it took me several minutes to reach this decision, but in real time, it took less than a second. Such is the power of the human brain.

I chose an outrider bearing down on a fellow soldier, his blade held in its snapping jaws to keep it from clamping down on to his face. I held my sword aloft, and brought it down with a hard, slashing motion, landing a blow to the tender meat of its left pectoral muscles. It lurched backward from the pain, releasing the soldier from its grasp. Twirling my body half way, I drove the point of my sword further into the open gash, piercing its heart (I think). Its jaws quivered slightly as it fell backward, its limbs flexing inward like a dead cockroach.

I turned to see if the soldier was OK, only to catch the sight of another outrider tearing into his exposed face with no less than 100 teeth. It created a sudden if obvious realization that, with our armor protecting the rest of our bodies so effectively, our only weak spot was our faces. The outrider effortlessly tore away the skin of his face, revealing the underlying blood-soaked musculature, his eyes laid bare in an inhuman expression of raw terror. With no lips, there was nothing to conceal his bleeding gum line, his mouth still screaming even as the outrider brought a clawed hand straight down onto his forehead, right over his browline. With a careless movement of its arm, it tore away the front part of the cranium, along with a good chunk of the cerebral cortex. Another tear of its claws ripped away his jaw bone, half of his tongue hanging limply in place.

Any fear I had left of these creatures completely evaporated. In its place came a churning tempest of uncontrollable hate. I've never felt a loathing so strong, so rancid, so uncompromised as I did for the outrider chewing up my fellow soldier's face. With a brutal shout, I lopped off its head. I didn't feel any resistance to the edge of my blade as it cut through tendons and bone. The severed head rolled clumsily away from its divorced body, which fell with a thud onto the body of its victim. The action did nothing to quell my reeking disgust. The death had been too quick - an unworthy punishment for what it had done.

Luckily, there was no shortage of other outriders with which to take out my furious hatred With all of Geralt's training behind me, I charged - in earnest - right into the thick of the swarm. Any set of claws or toothy mouth that came my way was unceremoniously sliced away from its owner before the rest of it was mercilessly hacked to pieces. I felt no weariness, no matter how many of the hideous things I killed. It's as if hate itself fueled my every muscle, providing an energy source far superior than any mixture of oxygen and glucose. And even if it began to wane, it was instantly rejuvenated by the sight of another soldier having their face torn apart.

I was feeling pretty ok about the way the battle was going, all things considered. But just as I felt we were making progress, driving away the outriders Northward, I saw something drop from the sky. By the time I realized it was the panicked, flailing body of another soldier, it collided with the ground with a crunch and a splat. We all turned around to see a veritable flock of bat-like forms swooping down upon us like hawks having their pick at a chicken coup.

The vampires weren't all of one shape or size. The ones that flew either had very typical bat-wings - a membrane stretched across four fingers, with one exposed thumb - or else simple flaps of skin stretched from their sides (which I'm told by certain experts on the matter were supported by a combination of cartilage and collagen fibers). Hell, some of the fliers didn't have wings at all, and simply kept themselves aloft though nothing more than sheer will and the power of the undead. Not all of them flew though. There were plenty of vampiric infantry coming at us from behind. Some of them were completely indistinguishable from a normal human being, with not even an exaggerated point to their canine teeth. Others were absolutely demonic, with bat or rat-like faces that eagerly twitched at every sight and sound. And the rest all lay somewhere on the spectrum between those two extremes.

Though I was at the back of the battalion, it didn't take long for the vampires to reach us. This was because they easily swept through us whilst simultaneously avoiding taking any damage. Even considering the diversity of vampires, one thing they all had in common was a resilience to physical harm from almost all weapons. Unlike the outriders, it took a lot more than a few carelessly chosen sweeps with a sword to take them out, and not everyone in the regiment knew that. In a mad, desperate attempt to help my comrades, I yelled out, "AIM FOR THEIR HEARTS! AIM FOR THEIR HEADS!"

The first vampire I faced was a fairly weak one. He was a Buffy the Vampire Slayer-type, with not much more than yellow eyes, a wrinkled forehead, and short fangs to betray his vampiric nature. He apparently thought it would be easy enough to simply grab my face and help himself to a bite, perhaps because that had worked with others. He apparently forgot the 54 inch piece of steel I held in both hands, which I used to cut through his throat and separated his head from his shoulders. Once his body dissolved into a cloud of brown dust, the demon within escaping with hideous shriek, there was nothing left.

The next vampire I faced was a different monster altogether. I was instantly reluctant to lay slaughter on her the way I had those that came before because it went against all of my instincts. She was a lovely woman, thin and dressed in a simple, flowing gown. Her brunette hair was tied back in a bun, and she looked at me with blue eyes that seemed to shimmer with a welcoming kindness. It was if she wordlessly beckoned me to fall into her arms and fly away from all of this terrible war. And if it were just the two of us, she might have succeeded. As it was, the chaos of battle disrupted her hypnotic gaze, and allowed me to see past it to the pointed fangs poking out from under her lips. I forced myself to see her as no better than the bald, rat-faced monster to her left, and took out both of them with two strokes to the neck.

In stark contrast was the voracious fleder - a subspecies of so-called 'lower vampires' from the Witcher-verse. It was a huge, hulking humanoid with pale violet skin, and savage talons on all of its fingers and toes. It had no wings, though there were minor membranes stretched across a slightly elongated fifth finger. Most of its face was taken up by a tall, lipless mouth bearing blood red gums and gnashing teeth strongly reminiscent of a set of butcher's knives. On each side of the mouth were beady red eyes, as well as enormous batlike ears. With a horrible screech, it bounded about 40 feet into the air, slamming down onto a group of 6 of us. The sheer strength of its body crashing into the ground sent me hurtling backwards a good 15 feet at least. By one measure or another, it chose one of us - an older soldier, of Rohanian heritage I think - and picked him up by the neck, ripping into his face at the nose. He screamed for several minutes before enough of his face had been dismembered to render him good and dead.

The rest of us got back to our feet and charged at the fleder, ready to cut into it. The fleder had other plans. It hurled the lifeless corpse of the old soldier at two others, knocking them down. Another soldier and I reached the fleder and plunged our blades right into its neck, but this didn't phase the creature so much as irritate it. With a twist of its torso, it swung both arms outwards, knocking us both square in the chin. Both of us were sent back to the ground on our rear ends, though I was at least lucky enough to keep ahold of my sword. The other soldier wasn't so fortunate, which is probably why the fleder chose him over me. His head was nothing more than a messy mixture of shattered pieces of bone and tattered strips of flesh.

That's when it turned to me, carelessly tossing the remains of the soldier aside. With just a few strides, it was upon me, rising both of its fists to smash right into the center of my face. I instinctively hid my face behind my arms, as if that would do anything to halt its attack. As I was about to anticipate the force of its blow, a tremendous blast of blinding blue light flashed in between us. I had to close my eyes to prevent retinal damage. When I opened my eyes again, I saw the petite figure of a young, ashen-haired woman standing in between the fleder and me.

"Ciri!" I cried out, loudly but blankly.

One sword was tied to her back, while another one was held in both hands, bared sharply to the right. She was frozen in place, an easy target for the fleder...if it hadn't been bisected at the shoulders. The top half of its body slowly slid off of its chest in a display that bore a surreal similarity to a Loony Tunes cartoon.

She turned to me with a cocky smile on her face. "Silver sword," she said, "Never fight a fleder without one!" She held out her hand, and I grabbed it.

As he she pulled me to my feet, I asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Thought the City Guard could use an extra blade," she said, with an air so casual she might as well have been standing in a shopping mall, "It beats hanging around doing nothing at Hogwarts."

"Is that where people are evacuating to?" I asked.

"Last minute decision," Ciri said. "They were supposed to come here, but that's hardly going to work now."

Before either of us could say anything else, three of the volant vampires dove down toward us, their legs outstretched in front of them in preparation to snatch us up in their taloned-toes. All three were female: two dark-haired and one blonde, but all with a sickly pallor to their dead skin. Each one had a 15-foot wingspan with sharp tatters running along the sides of their wings.

Ciri blinked out of existence in time to avoid them, but one of the dark haired ones at the lead grasped me by the shoulders with feet like hands. She didn't slow down for a moment even as she carried my 210 extra pounds straight up into the air. Everything below me began to shrink and grow blurry as she carried me higher and higher, my stomach swirling with a sickening combination of fear and nausea.

The two other females flapped close to her in a sight that brought to mind a trio of lionesses running alongside a wounded zebra. The blonde drew closest, looking at me with piercing yellow eyes, appraising me up and down while ignoring my face entirely. Her lips curled back in a voracious grin, a long, slimy tongue curling around her 5 inch fangs. "I'll take this one," she hissed in a heavy Eastern European accent. "Such an exquisite frame...enriched with the thrill of war!"

She reached for me, but the one holding me swatted her away. "No Aleera! You don't feed until I've had my fill!"

Aleera the blonde didn't appreciate that and snarled right back at her. "No! You've had the last three already!"

"You really must learn to share, Verona," the second brunette said, though it was more playful than confrontational.

Nonetheless, Verona answered her with a nasty look. "If the two of you are so hungry, get your own!"

"No!" Aleera said, eyeing me in the same way a wolf looks at a helpless lamb,"He's mine!" She lunged forward with her feet, wrapping her finger-like toes around my ankles and pulling me away from Verona .Of course, Verona was having none of that, so she yanked me by the neck in the opposite direction. And just for added verisimilitude, the unnamed third decided she didn't want to be left out of the action, and grabbed ahold of my right arm, still barely clutching on to my sword. I imagine the scene looked all too similar to an old french fry being fought over by three flustered gulls.

Finally, the combined motions of the three squabbling bloodsuckers led to Verona gaining just enough leverage to pull me from the clutches of the others - only for the momentum to throw me from her grasp and down toward the ground. The world around me tumbled as my insides went for an unexpected and unwelcome thrill ride. Up was down, and down was left. A vice like grip wrapped around my right foot as what I could only guess was one of the vampires picked me up. But I couldn't tell which one, not only because my head was still spinning like a cheap carnival ride but because there were brilliant flickers of blue light from practically every corner of my vision.

I looked down - that is to say, toward my feet, which were actually pointing to the sky - to see Aleera...er, leering down at me, her jaws flexed and distending like those of an eager python. She curled her spine and released the tension like a spring, the motion traveling down her legs and through me, forcing me to flip upwards so she could grab my neck in her hands. As she was about to clap down under my chin, I blinked as Ciri flashed into existence in mid air, falling beside us only to catch Aleera by one of her wings. The membrane buckled in her clenched fingers, and sent all of us plummeting to the ground even as the other wing worked frantically to keep us in the air.

Ciri reached up and swung her sword at Aleera's side, creating a deep slice in the decrepit flesh, which sealed itself within seconds. Aleera laughed with a mad delight at Ciri's fruitless swipes. I called out to her, "Go for the heart!"

Aleera looked at me with rabid fury even as Ciri reached up and stabbed her right through the chest. The effect was immediate: Aleera let out a horrific, blood curdling scream that raked my ear drums like cat's claws on a chalkboard. Her entire body began to shrivel and dessicate, giving it a color, texture, and look similar to beef jerky. In a matter of seconds, there was nothing left but crumbling pieces of dust.

The only downside to this was that Ciri and I were left with nothing to keep us in the air. I certainly had no solution for such a problem, but Ciri simply put her hand on my shoulder and teleported us back down to the….well, not safety, but we'll say stability of the ground.

There's something in our inner ears that gives us a sense of place, allows us to tell up from down. I don't know what it's called, but mine were completely shot from being tossed around like a ragdoll through the sky. My body told me I was standing still, but the world around me was sliding sideways and titling upwards. After stumbling a few steps, I fell to the ground and vomited, things still spinning in my vision.

Ciri knelt down and put her hand on my shoulder. "It's alright, Brendan. Give it a moment, you'll be okay. It's a little dicey at first, but-"

I waited for her to finish her statement, but the rest never came. I blinked a few times to reorient myself, looking from one side to the next to figure out just what the hell was going on. It didn't help as much as I had hoped.

Something was happening with the vampires. Before they had been clearly acting autonomously, each one enjoying the feast for themselves. But something had changed in their movements. In trying to find something to compare it to, they now seemed to move like a school of fish, with a certain level of uniformity. The 'school' swirled around in a twister of the undead, rising upwards almost to the underside of the harvester ship. The vampires within flew with wild speed. At the very center was a column of dark violet fog that billowed with such violence that it nearly looked alive.

The tornado swept over the battlefield, picking up dozens of soldiers and tearing them to pieces. Tendrils of vampires would shoot out from the side of the maelstrom, like the arms of a giant squid swatting at a nuisance. It moved closer and closer to Ciri and I, seemingly zeroing in on our position.

When it came within about 100 feet from us, it began to settle. The flying vampires scattered in all directions, a black cloud of small bats flitting to the ground. As the bats reached the ground, the fog condensed into the greatest of all the winged forms. As it first took shape, Ciri and I could make out nothing more than a 30 foot wingspan, with taut skin stretched across fingers that looked more like spines. The creature grew more defined, revealing a monster that looked like an unholy hybrid between a gargoyle and a rockstar. A wild mane of black hair sprouted from the crown of a human head with the quivering nose and fangs of a vampire bat. Hugely muscled, with spikes growing out of its shoulders, and clawed feet like something between a wolf and a vulture. It looked at us with eyes blazing red, letting out a screaming snarl like the devil himself calling to us from the bowels of hell. Its wings flapped a few times as it drew closer to the ground, and when its feet made contact, the whole thing seemed to sink into itself. The wings drooped and flopped at its side to form a black cape with a high collar framing a man's face. The languid, sickly skin faded into an exquisite black suit.

The man was tall, thin, and with pale skin more befitting a corpse. His high-bridged, aquiline nose sat above a white moustache, and was bordered on both sides by eyes as cold and sharp as any sword. Both his ears and canines were pointed, and as he held out his hands to his sides, he showed nails like claws on hands with hairy palms. All the other vampires and bats receded in his wake as he stepped forward. Most unsettling of all - his focus was clearly on the two of us.

If you haven't guessed by now that this was none other than Count Dracula himself, then I probably need to work on my descriptive writing more. I've seen Dracula in a few movies over the years, most notably the one with Gary Oldman (which, fittingly enough, I first watched with Patrick). But this Dracula walking toward us was the embodiment of the very idea of Dracula. He wasn't like the Doctor, who appeared as each of his separate incarnations. This was an amalgamation of various Draculas from throughout history, bearing the worst of all his terrible powers.

He said nothing for a long time. He didn't need to: his eyes said more than his words ever could. They had all the anger and destructive energy of a forest fire, and he directed all of it at Ciri and I. His steps were slow, deliberately so. He knew that each step he took filled us with greater terror...or, me at any rate. It seemed like the darkness closed in around his face, until I could see nothing but those red eyes, burning with pale light like a wolf in the night.

I heard words from him, but I don't remember actually seeing his lips move. Maybe they did, maybe they didn't. Either way, he said, "Mortality makes fools of all men," in an accent that's probably made you laugh if you've ever heard it on Sesame Street, but which dripped with primal malevolence inside my head. "Brave and bold, to whatever end it brings them."

From overhead, Verona and the unnamed Brunette approached Dracula in a circling pattern, the beat of their wings barely disturbing the atmosphere he'd literally created. As they landed behind him on either side, their wings fell to the ground as flowing garments of green and gold, and their more demonic features receded into otherwise attractive faces. With their shoulders heavily hunched, they crept with a lustful viciousness as they eyed both Ciri and me, and they purred so loudly that it sounded like a pair of panthers coming in for the kill. They kept to his side, rubbing against him in a decidedly feline fashion. He just barely stroked the crown of Verona's skull with all the tenderness of an affectionate house cat.

Again his voice drifted through my mind. "And this end, dear, I have planned for you. That you will be condemned for all eternity to walk in blackness, and that all you see and hear will be as a nightmare to the waking mind...and that you will walk at my side, in my shadow as my bride...until judgement day itself is but a faded memory…"

That's when we realized just what was happening. Aleera had been one of Dracula's illustrious brides, and since Ciri and taken her away from him, he was demanding that Ciri take her place. Ciri raised her sword in preparation, but Dracula merely twitched his figures, and two figures materialized from nowhere. They each resembled an emaciated woman, naked and with every contour of bone showing against her sallow skin. With clawed hands, they grasped Ciri by the wrist with one hand, and pushed her down to her knees with the other. Ciri struggled against the Bruxae, but she couldn't escape them. Dracula's hold on her mind was every bit as strong as it was on mine, and it was his will that she remain where she was.

"Ciri!" I shouted, holding up my sword. I needed to save her. It wasn't a matter of whether or not she was capable of defending herself. It was nothing more or less than an untempered fear. There was a chance - however slim based on outside evaluation of the circumstances - that Ciri could die. That faint chance alone was enough to spark a furious horror within me, like nothing I've ever felt. There was fear, but it was fear born out of love and devotion. It was the kind of fear that drives one to run forward, not backward, sword in hand and ready to fling yourself right into the open arms of death itself if it means even the slightest hope of saving someone you care about. This strange juxtaposition of terror and love...it's something I've never felt before. I felt like I had the strength of an entire army behind me.

But as Dracula saw me raise my weapon, his eyes narrowed in on mine, as if placing invisible binds on every muscle in my body. My teeth clenched as I struggled to break free from his paralyzing gaze. Unfortunately, all I could manage was to open my mouth enough to let out a pained, angry shout at Dracula as he approached an arm's length from Ciri. Since it was all I could do, I poured all of my protective rage into it, as if the sheer strength of my desire to keep her safe would have been enough to repel him. Strangely enough, it wasn't.

Dracula gave only the slightest nod of his head, telling the Bruxae to hold Ciri up to him. She was just as frozen as I was, unable to escape the clutches of his stare. I could see the cold sweat inching down her temples, the muscles in her neck bulging with rigorous tension. Dracula slowly held up his right hand, stroking the hair on the sides of her head. He ran his rancid finger across her cheek to the base of her jaw line, and then traced a popping vein along the length of her neck. He leaned in close as if to deliver a tender kiss, only for his jaws to flex and expand, exposing his curved fangs in preparation for the bite.

This was it. The end of the Line of Lara Doren, of the Cintran Royal Family. The end of Ciri.

Still held firmly in Dracula's hypnotic power, I couldn't turn my head to examine the sounds that we began hearing. The Count and his brides turned around as the vampires at the back of the horde began to stir. It was clear based on their hissing and snarling that they were agitated. I was able to catch some of them flying away, indicating more than a simple disturbance. Something had arrived.

A vicious growl met my ears. It wasn't like the sounds made by any vampire I'd yet encountered, and I didn't need to see its maker to know that it wasn't one of the undead. It didn't inspire terror. On the contrary - it actually had the same effect as A Elbareth Gilthoniel had in the wake of the Nazgul. My spirits grew, and my whole body shook as I gained the strength to resist Dracula's power.

Finally, I saw it. It exploded from the vampiric throngs; a dark violet shape that shone like polished metal. It was huge - at least 25 feet in total length, and a good 10 feet tall at the shoulder. Its profile was overall similar to that of a gargantuan panther, though there were a few noticeable differences. Most obviously of all was the fact that instead of four limbs, it had six: two back legs, and four hugely-muscular forelegs with hand-like paws bearing curved switchblades on each finger. The thick, arched neck gave way to a bulky head, on either side of which was a yellow, cat-like eye. At the base of the skull were six square-shaped appendages tipped in long, thin quills that quivered with rage as it charged through the horde. Two flaps of skin flared up from its long snout, exposing all of its interlocking black fangs. It was a thanator: one of the top predators of the Pandoran rainforest, though what it was doing in the middle of the City was beyond me.

It pounced on top of several vampires at once, slamming its jaws down along their necks, rending them into dust with a casual flick of its neck. Any that tried to bite or scratch their way into its hide were blocked by its armor-plated skin, and were soon reduced to ash as the thanator curled around and grabbed them in its forepaws, tearing them limb from limb in a matter of seconds.

I felt my whole body tumble forward, as if an invisible block had been lifted. It was easy to see why; Dracula had forgotten Ciri and I completely, turning his attention to the new arrival. His cape reared upward and spread out into the expansive wings of his monster form. His brides followed his example, taking to the skies at his side as the three of them swooped down onto the thanator. Seeing them approach, it crouched down and bounded upwards like a cat after a bird. It caught the unnamed Bride in its paws, pinning her to the ground and tearing into her throat with its teeth, biting down on a pile of dust. This infuriated Dracula even further, and he dove down to the thanator, punching it in the jaw. The force of the blow sent the thanator spinning, but it would not be deterred. It swatted and slashed at Dracula, its blows knocking him backwards with wide gashes open in his chest, only for the wounds to vanish.

I heard another furious call as Ciri charged toward the fighting creatures, her sword held behind her in preparation for a devastating blow. Remembering that I had a sword too, I followed her lead, letting out my own battle cry. Thanators are hardly house pets, but this definitely fell under the category of 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.' Not that there was a ton that I could do; I was mostly restricted to swiping at Dracula and Verona as they came close to the ground. Ciri had a lot more agency, being able to teleport from one point to another, though she often times missed (she was aiming at moving targets after all).

After a while of this, Dracula clearly had enough. With a few flaps of his wings, he rose high over Ciri, the thanator, and me, his last remaining bride in tow. As he held up his arms, the vampires and bats began to swarm around him once more, gathering in greater numbers. The combined beats of their wings churned the air around us, my hair caught in the artificial wind. It was like a tidal wave rising higher and higher as it prepared to crash down on top of us. Dracula was done with psychologically devastating displays of terror. Every vampire in that storm was an instrument meant to deliver a final blow the likes of which none of us could hope to withstand. This was it: we were going to die.