Episode 3- The Charybdis Incident

"We welcome you, one and all, to MSNBC's coverage of the second of three 2032 United States Presidential Election Debates. This night's moderator, reporter Janice Stern, is only seconds away from welcoming both candidates to the stage."

A tall woman, nervously straightening her pinstriped suit and staggering onstage, pulled back the curtain as the two candidates, a graying man with dimples showing dressed all in white, and a sepia-skinned, tuxedo-donning woman who smiled and waved at the crowd as she ambled over to her podium.

"Allow me to welcome," Stern spoke, "the Democratic nominee for President, Esther Rose-"

The tuxedoed woman continued to wave, the tips of her hair bobbing at the ends under the intense air-conditioning-

"-and the Republican nominee, Stuart Cassius."

The man gave a nervous little wave, before glancing down at his neck nervously. "Thank you, Janice," he laughed, "and god bless America."

Janice tried to cloak her irritation as she pressed on to the debate. "Thank you to both of you for attending this first Presidential debate. Following this night, there will be no fewer than three follow-up debates, including the vice presidential contest, leading up to the presidential election on November 2nd, only eight weeks away. Before we begin, a reminder- please keep all debate civil and refrain from personal attacks or anything outside of debate guidelines."

A faint voice in the crowd called out "Yeah, right," and there was a smattering of laughter amongst the attendees. Seconds later, there was a shuffling and the sounds of a minor struggle as the audience member was evicted from the premises.

"Our first topic of discussion is the Iranian energy crisis. Following the assassination of Supreme Leader Muhammud bin-Salam, which leaders are blaming on a sect of American troops originally sent in by the incumbent President to stop the hangings of three captured transgender-rights activists, Iran and several other allied Gulf countires have threatened to ban oil exports to the United States of America, which, if followed through, would create a catastrophic economic and energy crisis for both parties. What is your plan to prevent this, and how would you deal with the consequences if such a ban were to come to pass? Ms. Rose, you may begin."

"Thank you, Ms. Stern," Rose replied. "While I believe President Anderson's deployment of troops to stop the prisoners' executions were warranted, I have my best faith in our President and sincerely doubt that he would authorize the assassination of the Supreme Leader. In the name of international cooperation, I intend to set up a joint task force with Iran to investigate the cause of this attack, and in proving that the United States was not culpable we can begin to-"

"Hold up, hold up," Cassius interjected. "You really expect me- you really expect any man who calls himself a true American to believe an ounce of the bulls**t you're spewing?"

"Mr. Cassius," Stern interrupted, "please allow the opposing candidate to finish her-"

"Do you not realize," continued Cassius, ignoring the moderator- "that there are Iranian spies in this very country- spies who have entered the country illegally, and are plotting revenge against our proud nation as we speak these words? Ms. Rose, all due respect, but our only option to protect President Anderson's life is to demonstrate to Iran our military prowess so they will not so much as dare get in our noble country's way again-"

"With all due respect, Mr. Cassius," Rose cut off, "Iranian and other Middle Eastern-diaspora immigrants are as much Americans as any tenth-generation United States family. There is no evidence that 'illegal Iranian immigrants' are mobilizing in any capacity, much less to make an attempt on the life of the President… but there IS troubling evidence that extremists who claim to be your supporters are claiming more and more innocent lives every day."

"That is NOT the topic-" Cassius interrupted-

"Three days ago," Rose continued unfettered, "members of an extremist sect of your supporters who call themselves the 'Illuminati' smuggled a pipe bomb into the newly christened Democratic National Convention headquarters in San Francisco, disguised as Grubhub workers and set it off in a food preparation area during a luncheon- killing 15 and injuring dozens more. They claimed they set this off to help you win, to kill Silicon Valley donors who were funding my campaign."

"That," Cassius groaned, "was an isolated attack, which could have been easily avoided had people just like you imposed restrictions on responsible, gun-owning citizens…"

"That was NOT the problem," Rose interjected, growing tense. "This was the deadliest domestic terrorist bombing this country has seen since Oklahoma City. Are you willing to condemn these sects of your supporters?"

"You want me to condemn the bombings? Is that all you want?"

"No, I want you to condemn extremism within the Illuminati and your other-"

"Violence," interrupted Cassius once more, "in my name is not acceptable. I do not approve of the actions of those who bombed the Convention, and they should NOT have been done in my name-"

"Mr. Cassius," Stern piped in, seizing her moment to speak for the first time in minutes, "Ms. Rose is asking you to condemn extremism and the Illuminati. Are you willing to condemn-"

"The Illuminati? Yes, I condemn the Illuminati," Cassius replied nervously. "Is that all you wanted? Is that all-"

Sasha Waybright flicked the television off.

Setting the remote gently upon the splintering old coffee table, she ambled into the kitchen, shaking her head grimly. There was nothing like politics to bring into view everything that was wrong with the world.

Upon the kitchen counter sat her iPhone, buzzing sporadically as new messages filtered in one by one. She picked it up and gazed at her taskbar, methodically swiping aside group-text after group text about the latest Star Trek: Apostle episode's villain twist until her eyes fell upon a single, definitive item.

ANNE BOONCHUY-

Look. I get things are hard between us right now, and I don't know if they'll ever be right again. I made a mistake, and I understand that. Even if you went along with it.. But please bear with me here. She tried so hard to get us those reservations, and we haven't seen her in around three years. The 26th. You can come, right? I promise I won't tell Heather a word. I promise.

Sasha didn't need to finish the text to know who, and what, Anne was talking about.

She lifted her phone, fired back a quick "Yeah", and tried to shove the situation into the back of her mind. As she continued to filter through the mountain of texts that were clogging her inbox, she noticed something strange. Heather hadn't sent her a single message. Not a meme, not a status update, not anything. Not one word. It wasn't like Heather to do that.

Flicking out of iMessage, Sasha dialed her wife's number without even looking and tried to tune out the rings as they continued to fill the airspace…

second,

after second,

after second,

after second.

The voice of 60-year-old Dwayne Johnson, purchased in a birthday Cameo three months earlier (just before the web application had summarily declared bankruptcy), rang over the line. "Your call has been forwarded to the voicemail box of Heather Windy Waybright. Please leave a message."

Grimacing, Sasha slammed the phone onto the counter with irritation and stumbled over to the fridge, from which she withdrew two slices of multigrain bread. Of course Heather had forgotten, on such a night as this, that this was the three-year anniversary of the day they first began dating. She practically slammed the bread down into the toaster and, prepping the soy butter, waited as heat slowly turned the crust a satisfying golden brown. Sure, she might have received had a last-minute assignment, and Sasha knew full well why it is not wise for one to get on the bad side of Sergeant Sugar Cain… but her wife should at least, if nothing else, have the decency to warn her if she wouldn't be able to make their dinner reservation.

Blocking out her disappointment, Sasha sat down at the dinner table, combing her hands through her textured blonde lob as the fairy lights hung from wall to wall flickered gently above her. Awkwardly fumbling with a piece of toast she sighed and glanced over at the mantelpiece that adjoined her side. Upon it sat three pictures, in three identical frames. The first may have been a photo of a photo, but all the details were intact- the water damage that wrinkled its corners, the smiles borne upon each of their faces, hers still riddled with a degree of childlike slyness she had tried so hard to dissipate- and the crack that split upon its center forever separating her from the friends she still wished she had held closer. The second was much newer, their smiles clearer and their almost naive enthusiasm palpable as they held hands for the first time in a decade. And the last was just over a year old, back when Heather still had that thick Scottish accent and belonged to that equestrian club up in the High Sierras. They sat in a dewy meadow, the sun spilling its true colors over the horizon as she knelt below the love of her life, turned away and unaware of the ring that would catch her eye the second she whirled around. In that moment, everything had been beautiful. At that moment, the world seemed fleetingly perfect. At that moment-

SCREEEEEE-

Sasha squealed faintly and her arms jerked up to cover her ears as a car slammed its breaks and careened to a stop on the Waybright house's curb.

Above them, the chandelier trembled.

Tearing for the window and struggling awkwardly with the blinds, Sasha Waybright watched as five towering, shadowy men emerged from the massive black Hummer that was stalled at the edge of her driveway. Heaving their way through the hedges and scrambling for the door, she heard the awful click of a magazine as the mob raised their massive rifles, illuminated by the golden glow emanating from the necklaces slung around their throats…

…and from the menacing, flickering eye at the center of the triangular pendants hung at their very tips.

-{}-

There was a scream, the subliminal shriek of breaking air, and a terrible crash as the possessed Yyric's bullet flew through the air and lodged itself into a sheet of metal seven inches thick.

Collapsed to the ground, Heather struggled to pull herself up. Yyric had aimed the bullet directly for her heart, she had been sure of that. As to why she was not dead, why she felt not an ounce of pain as her knees buckled at their joints and heaved her body to an upright position, Heather had not the faintest of ideas.

As her vision unclouded and the field before her came into view, her eyes fell upon Asimo, laying prostrate upon the ground within his collapsed suit. The man himself was fine, but one look at its exterior could instantly tell you the suit was compromised. Since Asimo had leapt with the intention of taking Heather's bullet, neither the visor nor the processing unit had been struck, and the suit's efficiency was left relatively unencumbered as a result. But the armor had been broken in, to the point at which one good shot from Yyric could not only render the suit useless- but instantly kill whoever was inside of it as well.

Heather knelt down to the concrete and creaked open the back of Asimo's suit, grabbing her coworker by the scruff of his uniform and pulling him, inch by inch, out of the mech. "Come on," she groaned as her arms cried out in pain under the constant pressure. "I am not about to let Anne become a widow just because of some possessed loony with a shotgun."

"Look," stammered Asimo, "out…"

Heather jerked her head up and, receiving the information not a millisecond too late, ducked back down as another one of Yyric's bullets sailed inches above her scalp, practically clipping the edges of a few stray hairs. Breathing a heavy sigh, she whispered into Asimo's ear, a breathless "Thank you".

"If you're thankful," sputtered Asimo, "then get me back in the goddamn suit."

"Are you mad?" shrieked Heather. "You've seen the condition that jalopy is in! One more hit and you go down with the ship-"

"What other choice do we have?" retorted Asimo grimly. "Look at the bodies all around us. Look at my suit. If you think we could possibly get out of this mess without major sacrifice, you're just being hopelessly naive."

"Asimo Boonchuy, do you even hear yourself? This isn't even self-sacrifice, is it? It's just your own damn way of getting out of having kids with Anne-"

"You think THAT'S what this is about?" Asimo roared. "I confide in you ONE TIME, Waybright, one time- and you immediately start assuming it's the skeleton key to all of my problems…"

"Which is why you're getting out of this suit," gasped Heather, finally pulling Asimo's protesting head out of the contraption. "Just promise me one thing, Asimo. That girl- that girl, they're all going to think she's a threat. I've seen what she is, I've seen the truth- and the truth is she needs to be protected. Get her to Anne and Sasha. They'll know exactly what to do."

Asimo scrambled aside as Heather, climbing into the cockpit in the blink of an eye and slamming the door rather harshly behind her, pulled the suit to its feet. Mounted behind Cain's car, the possessed Yyric stirred, refixing his aim upon Heather's eye, now protected by a visor that could no longer help her. There was nobody left to take her bullet now. He would not miss again. Asimo rolled over on the earth and shrieked at his closest friend. "Why are you doing this? Why? Heather, please- Heather, just tell me why…"

"Someone had to do this," said Heather ruefully. "And you're a bloody fool if you thought I was about to let that person be anyone other than me."

"I can't let you do this," growled Asimo, pulling himself to his feet and grabbing the leg of the mech, binding it to the earth.

"Which is why," Heather spat, grabbing him in the fist of the suit and holding him high above her visored face, "I can't let you have the choice." Asimo let out an anguished scream as Heather sent him flying through the air, crash-landing behind the overturned radiator. She raised her massive, iron headpiece up one more time, and, turning to the collapsed Asimo, added solemnly, "Oh. And one more thing- tell Sasha… tell Sasha that I love her."

Heather heaved up the suit's massive left foot and stormed off to face Scylla one last time. Even if tonight ended in failure, even if those were the last words she'd ever say…

…at least, at the end of this all…

…she'd get to see her brother again.

-{}-

The smoke, at last, had begun to settle on the Reddicks' demolished foyer.

Lieutenant McCoy glanced around. Around her, the world seemed as if it had been ripped from its hinges. Charybdis' escape had reduced the limestone flooring to mounds of ash and pieces of upturned flooring scattered around the five-foot ditch upon which she lay prostrate. Above them, she watched as the mech suit piloted by (surely, for she herself had put him in there) Asimo tore off toward Cain's car- while panicking officers fled the scene left and right, seizing Yyric's all-too-brief moment of distraction. Her ears twitched as, to her left, no fewer than three troops helped one another up from the ground, leaning against what remained of the eastern wall for support and dusting themselves off as they loaded their weapons and surveyed the devastation within which they found themselves trapped. And directly in front of her, standing hunched over in the doorway, was Zami Reddick, drawing gaping circles upon the doorframe with a fallen piece of chalk.

Grasping a fallen metal pole and using it like a cane to drag her decrepit form across the crater, McCoy managed to pull herself through the doorway, her flesh flayed by exposed nails, as a single drop of black liquid fell onto her shoulder. Within an instant, it had seeped through the fabric of her lieutenant's jacket, leaving a massive, ember-edged hole in its wake. She slammed her hand against the tincture of shadow in an effort to curb its spread, but almost instantly leapt back in pain as the tiny piece of shadow began to crumble away pieces of her skin, pulling away just in time to keep nothing more than a layer of raw skin from being exposed. Hurriedly, she fumbled with her sleeves and let the jacket slide off her torso before the demon-sludge could spread any further.

"You really should," remarked Zami, briefly glancing away from her work to consider McCoy's condition, "be more careful where you drag yourself."

. "G-get out of here," the lieutenant sputtered, choking on the blood that was steadily beginning to flood her mouth. "You shouldn't be in this place. It isn't safe."

"You think I don't bloody well know that?" retorted Zami, left relatively unharmed by the explosion as she sauntered a few steps to her left and, leaning her chalk against the wall as to draw a connecting line, set to work tracing yet another concentric glyph upon what still stood of the foyer window. "You saw that thing. If you think you can fight that without me, you've gone daft."

"For heaven's sake," McCoy exclaimed, "you're just a kid!"

"You have no idea," hissed Zami through gritted teeth, "what I have been through." Gazing down at the ash-speckled earth below them, as a silent tear trickled down her face, she added- "And what I have lost… lost because of that."

Possessing not the words to respond, as the girl with the pointed ears wiped her eyes on her sleeve before obstinate continuing to sketch identical glyphs on any and every flat surface she could find, McCoy's eyes slid upward as she examined from where, exactly, the offending strand of shadow had fallen. Within seconds, her mouth slid open in horror.

As they sat silently, the great shadow demon had spread itself out over the pipes and lattices that remained of the Reddicks' ceiling, a massive, black levitating ocean that contorted and whispered and, once every so often, lashed out in a coronal ejection of sorts that sent pieces of shadow-demon splattering to and reducing the floor to ash. As shards of the monster snaked above their heads, McCoy turned to Zami in utter, dumbfounded shock. "What- what is that thing?"

"It is not from here," Zami whispered, "nor does it come from any region of this world- or for that matter, this entire universe."

"That's what they want you to think," snapped McCoy in response. "I'd wager it's some sort of biological weapon- created in a lab by some sort of eco-terrorist cel who thought it fit to-"

"Like all adults," hissed Zami impatiently, "you are once more proving yourself physically incapable of comprehending anything greater than that which you can witness directly before your eyes. That thing- her name is Zhan Tiri. Or at least it was. Back in her world, she was a warlock, a scholar of interdimensional power who spent centuries studying the alternate worlds that surrounded her in a process those around her dubbed 'dark magic'. That is, until her closest confidante turned on her and imprisoned her within an ancient demiplane, a limbo-realm of chaos and maddening silence they call the In-Between Realm, or the Land of the Lost. Through a carefully mapped network of followers, she managed to free herself from her interdimensional prison with the power of the sun and moon combined- only to be turned upon once more and slain by the very follower who freed her."

"Physical form destroyed and trapped once more, a living shadow in the same nightmarish realm within which she had languished for hundreds of years, Zhan Tiri was left hopeless and defeated. That was, until a mysterious entity came along and offered Tiri a bargain. Pledge her undying loyalty to him, and not only would he remake her physical form, but also supply her enough reinforcements to bring her home to its knees a thousand times over."

"But no bargain with Him comes without a price."

"Within a year's time, it was done. The kingdom she viewed as a sworn enemy leveled and her forces spread through every corner of her homeworld, Zhan Tiri had at last found peace- peace that would last for little time at all. Still bound by her deal with the devil, the demon was seized from her throne and thrust into servitude for her benefactor. He, of course, wasted no time in installing a cabal of Illuminati to govern Zhan Tiri's fallen kingdom, leaving the once all-powerful witch nothing more than a hench-monkey for a far greater evil, goaded into His continued service on the promise that one day, if she conquers Him enough dimensions and eliminates enough of His darkest enemies, He will release her from his service- a promise that even she knows, deep down, will never be fulfilled." She stared up at the ceiling, the demon's contorted horns and heterochromatic eyes staring out from its very heart. "It's quite tragic, really, when you allow yourself a second to think about it."

McCoy just stood there- frozen, staring over at Zami, her mind utterly and completely cast away to the sea.

"I'm going to pretend," she finally said, with a heavy sigh, "that I have any reason to believe an ounce of the story you just told. If this demon- witch- queen… thing thinks that conquering our dimension is the only means through which to buy her way out of slavery, why isn't she just flying away to go raise an army or destroy some sh*t?"

"Because He didn't send her here to conquer this dimension," Zami replied matter-of-factly. "She was sent here to eliminate someone who He, for whatever reason, saw it fit to send a kingdom-destroying demon in order to permanently remove from the cosmic equation. Rather unfortunately, that 'someone' happens to be… well, me."

"That thing… that demon is after YOU?"

"What can I say?" laughed Zami, casually leaning her head upon her right shoulder. "I'm just that popular."

"If you're so damn important," McCoy stammered, "then why hasn't Zhan-whatshername killed you already? I mean, we've been standing here talking for several minutes by now, honestly, it'd be kind of stupid to have-"

"She's there because she's waiting," the girl replied, "for someone else to finish the job for her."

The proud Lieutenant McCoy let out a sudden, shrill chuckle. "What kind of person," she guffawed, "does she think is about to go up and murder a teenage girl-"

"If my theory is correct- which, judging by my recent record, it probably is," Zami said, as if stating the obvious- "that person would be you."

-{}-

Sweat pouring down her arms as they incessantly rubbed against the suit's metal sidings, Heather heaved herself over the barricades that fenced off the premises and onto the blood-stained driveway. Fiddling with an assortment of levers embedded within the suit's arm, she had sent the suit spiraling off in no fewer than seven individual directions before, at long last, she gave a balled lever a great tug and with it extended the grenade launcher, pointing it directly at Sergeant Cain's old car- just as she saw a tiny speck of silver peek over the hood.

BANG.

Before the crash of the bullet could even be heard, Heather had leapt aside, diving for the ground and colliding with the gravel-riddled concrete as the bullet sailed far over her shoulder and flew into a patch of turnips. Righting herself, she fixed her aim once more and yanked the trigger with so much force that it nearly burst from its hinges. Twenty yards away, Yyric watched as the bomb arced through the air and dove aside, scurrying into the grass and sheltering behind a large oak just as he let another bullet fly- which flew within inches of Heather's head as she rolled to the side. As her vizor collided with the concrete and sent her sprawled over onto her back, the grenade exploded behind her, sending ash pouring onto her face like December snow, the shockwave neatly passing over her head.

Finally starting to get a grasp on Asimo's lever system, Heather managed to pull the suit upright with no more than a few strokes, pausing to survey the devastation. In her moment of destination, the grenade had lost its aim and sailed far right of the target- landing in the middle of the road, a site that was now nothing more than a sizable crater of several feet's depth. The car itself, ten yards to the left, was cloaked in a sizeable coat of ash that enshrouded the miniscule pieces of shrapnel deeply embedded within its windshield- but no serious damage had been dealt to anything in its vicinity… while Yyric, and the oak tree he remained crouched behind, had taken nothing more than a dusting.

BANG.

Her visor beginning to condensate, Heather bolted off toward the right and ran toward the base of Cain's car, tearing off not a second too late- as the possessed lieutenant's third bullet flew to her left and passed straight through the center of the site at which she had been standing mere seconds earlier. Watching yet another of his infallible strikes soar clear of its target, Yyric (or, at the very least… whatever it was controlling him) sprinted out from behind the tree and made a break for the Sergeant's vehicle, thrusting the fight into an effective race to the finish. Across the courtyard, Heather vaulted herself over a row of hedges and landed onto the sidewalk, catching no more than a fleeting glimpse of an aiming Yyric as she turned and ran down the pavement to Cain's front door…

BANG.

Heather froze in her tracks as she felt a stabbing pain shoot through her thighs. The suit gave way and she collapsed to the ground, grasping at her leg as droplets of crimson blood trickled onto the grassy curb. Barricading her pain, Heather slowly reached down and, pulling the tactical gloves off her right hand, carefully withdrew the bullet from the surface of her leg with her fingertips. The suit's protective layers had managed to stop Yyric's bullet from passing straight through her leg- but it was not only unable to prevent any injury from being caused due to the stray piece of metal, but had also managed to compromise the suit's integrity once more. One hit to the heart- to the heart, to the visor, or to any of the locations Yyric had already been able to compromise- and it would all be over. As tears trickled from her eyes and veritable waterfalls of perspiration poured from her pores with the effort it took to hold back the pain, Heather slammed the suit's fist in the ground with such force that it split the concrete in all directions surrounding it. It didn't matter if Yyric's bullet had flayed her leg. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter one bit. All that mattered was that the suit was still intact, and Heather was alive. Which meant she was still, with whatever odds she had left, able to put a stop to Scylla's murderous rampage.

And whether it killed her or not, that was exactly what Heather was going to do.

Fifteen meters to her left, Yyric was merely laughing, with a deep, uncharacteristic voice of the legion. Skidding to a stop inches from the Subaru's back wheel, he holstered his pistol and swung open the driver's side door, climbing into the front seat and fumbling around the cupholders until, just as His host's memories had told Him, his outstretched fingers curled around the keys that Sergeant Cain always kept a duplicate copy of, hidden beneath a mountain of crumpled soda cans that he though a criminal would ne'r think to rifle through. Fixing the keys into the ignition, he was mere seconds away from slamming his foot onto the breaks just as a voice rang out behind him…

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Lieutenant."

Not only fighting through the agony, but harnessing it just enough to manage to beat Yyric to the car- Heather harnessed the mech's strength and deadlifted the Subaru, managing to carry it but a foot off the ground before her muscles gave way and, with one final almighty heave, sent the car crashing down onto its roof. As the vehicle upended, Yyric struggled with the doors as he tried to escape, no matter the cost- but it was to no avail. The sedan slammed to the ground roof-first, the possessed Yyric's body shot through the shattered sunroof and slammed to the ground as he was consumed by pain and everything went black.

-{}-

Lieutenant McCoy was tired.

Before the Reddick crisis had even begun to transpire, she had been tasked in the wee hours of the morning by Chief Gustafson himself to hunt down a team of rogue military officers affiliated with an assortment of right-wing militias and anti-government extremist communes (including QAnon and the Illuminati) who were planning to use a pipe bomb, motivated by the San Francisco attack three days prior, to blow up the gymnasium of a majority-minority elementary school down in Compton. It had taken (complicated by the bomb squad's holdup caused by a thematically similar bombing attempt targeting a Jewish businessman's home in Agoura Hills) upwards of five hours to disarm the explosive and take all parties involve into police custody. It had been mere minutes after she had climbed back into her personal two-seater, a 2010's Taylor Swift bop flowing in through her Bluetooth earbuds, that her phone had received yet another call from Gustafson informing her of a double-murder that had just occurred in a residential corner of West Cedar Street. Through it all, her husband lay in wait, back at her inner-city apartment- her husband, and her three- and seven-year old daughters, were waiting on her return, to put dinner to plate and settle down for Jeopardy at 7. Now here she was, fighting a demonic lackey from another dimension, alongside a 14-year-old girl- who was now accusing McCoy of plotting to kill her.

"This is ridiculous," cried Carmen McCoy with utter exasperation. "This is batshit crazy, that's what this is. I mean, why on Earth would this… this demon ever believe that I would so much as consider following her bidding and point-blank murdering a child of your age-"

"I have not an ounce more grasp on this situation than you do. But you can see it." Zami glanced once more up at Zhan Tiri, sinewing on the exposed ceiling, still lying in careful, menacing wait. "You can see it in her eyes. She knows what's about to happen, and she's ready to wager her freedom on the prospect that things could go exactly as she plans."

"Excuse me?"

Behind them, McCoy's three remaining officers scrambled up to face their Lieutenant, saluting her before dropping to their knees. "We are at your service, Lieutenant. If I must ask, how may we be of assistance?"

"You can help," sighed McCoy, glancing over at her three comrades- their faces hopeless, caked with soot that mixed with blood and adhered to their faces like wet sand, "by getting out of here. Now. This isn't your fight."

All three men's faces fell slack in shock- as did, most improbably, Zami's.

"With all due respect, Lieutenant," spoke the officers' leader, the same man who had addressed McCoy initially, "we remained here with the express purpose to be of assistance-"

"-which was foolish," McCoy interjected. "You have no business being here. What is best for all of us is that you return home. Take a moment to relax. Spend time with your families. I cannot fight with a guilty conscience."

McCoy raised her right arm to usher the three officers out the back door, but before they could even take a step, Zami lurched upwards, grabbed the Lieutenant's arm, and yanked it downward with surprising force.

"What the hell are you doing?" Zami shrieked incredulously. "You can't just send them off like that?"

"Get your hands off me, child!" McCoy roared. "And yes, yes I can. I cannot in my heart allow my men, those who I would willingly and without question lay my life down to protect, to remain here and let themselves get killed."

Zami stared at McCoy as if she was the stupidest woman in the world. "You're squandering our best advantage!"

"My men," hissed McCoy through gritted teeth, "are more than just advantages. Look at them. They're living, breathing people with hopes and dreams and fears just as much as you and I. Look at Michael. He's scared out of his wits, tears are forming in his eyes, and all he wants is to go back home and hold his newborn son in his arms one last time. Zion's three dogs are prying at his front door, crying as they wait for their owner to come home, not knowing that might never happen. Hudson's wife is doubtlessly staring at her phone, wondering why her husband hasn't texted, not able to see the blood that now stretches from his scalp to his thighs. These are my men. They're like children to me, You can't pretend like they're some sort of… disposable…"

"Frankly, Lieutenant," Zami groaned, "I couldn't give a damn. You have no idea how many-"

All of a sudden, McCoy grabbed ahold of Zami's shirt and, with a sudden jerk, pulled the girl directly in front of her face.

"Now listen closely, kid," McCoy spat, her breath burning the sides of Zami's neck. "You can attack me as much as you want. You can berate me, belittle me, taunt me with ridiculous accusations claiming that I would dare murder a child- and I couldn't care less. But threaten the lives of my men- and I promise you, you've got another thing coming." Her hands parted and Zami's feeble form clattered to the ground as Carmen extended her arms once more, to guide her men to safety. Slowly but surely, one of the men crept toward the door hesitantly and came seconds away from emerging- only to find a massive broadsword- composed entirely of some sort of viscous, purple substance that had since hardened to the density of basalt, held to her throat.

"I don't care what that woman says," Zami sneered. "You go with me, or you go nowhere. I'm not watching another world fall just because of one person's foolish emotional attachments."

McCoy let out a feeble gasp of shock and bolted over to Zion's side. "Put the sword down."

"Not unless," Zami retorted, "you agree to ensure your men remain within the premises, no matter the cost."

"I told you," repeated McCoy, "to put the fucking sword down."

Zami raised the sword and, little by little, inched the sword towards Hudson's throat, as all the men slowly began to step back-

-before, all of a sudden, McCoy tore straight for the frozen Zami, barreling her entire body straight into the girl and sending her collapsing onto the foundation, her violet sword arcing through the air and landing in a long-neglected ashtray.

Also upended by the collision, the lieutenant rose to her feet and ambled away from Zami's prostrate form, grabbing the hands of two of her companions and slowly leading them out through the back hall. As she lay on the ground, the girl with the pointed ears stared up at the ceiling and at the demon that had seeped herself into it- silent, watching, as yet another drop of sinew fell to the ground and incinerated the spot at which McCoy had collapsed. Gradually, a crooked smile began to creep over its glowing, cyan-and-dandelion visage. It knew full well that its gamble was already beginning to play off. It was simply preparing to reap the rewards.

As McCoy and the three officers approached the front door, a bright, purple slimy tendril shot from the ground below them and directly blocked their path, slowly solidifying into a massive amethyst spear. Using the base of the weapon as a polearm, Zami pulled herself to her feet, dusting her smock off with her left hand as she approached the foolish cowards who were casting everything she had ever fought for into the wind.

"What," shrieked McCoy, "are you doing?"

"Trying to talk some sense into you," Zami replied. "Do you not realize you're feeding right into Tiri's predictions? Every moment we spend fighting one another brings her closer and closer to victory."

McCoy just remained frozen, unphased by Zami's seeming hypocrisy.

"Please, Carmen," begged the girl. "We can end this now. All you have to do is realize how insignificant a few lives are in the service of the multiverse-"

"If you're so adamant about preventing this demon's supposed prophecy," the lieutenant responded, "you're gonna have to stop it yourself." McCoy suddenly pulled a massive, carefully concealed iron shiv from beneath her jacket and, with an almighty swing, severed Zami's amethyst spear in two.

Carmen whipped around, but before she could react Zami had reshaped the remaining fragments of sludge into a steel-tipped warhammer, and swung it directly at the lieutenant's chest. Not a second too late, McCoy's shiv flew up just in time to parry the girl's lunge, before responding with a strike of her own that curled neatly over the witch's shoulder, as a white powder trickled from Zami's hands and fell in intricate, concentric circles upon the floor. Above their heads, Zhan Tiri slowly began to reform, watching from beneath the severed horn as his quarry parried stroke after stroke from the lieutenant's knife. It had worked. Those fools had begun to fight amongst themselves, just as He had assured, without the demon having to lift so much as a finger.

At this rate, He would have no trouble at all dealing with these fools.

After all, the Fall was only eight weeks away.

There was no going back now.

-{}-

The minute Heather Waybright lifted up the rear of Sergeant Cain's upended Subaru, she instantly regretted it.

As the car came crashing down on top of and crushed the demon-possessed Lieutenant Yyric Peters, Heather had taken a moment to tend to herself. To check her phone, which was still sitting in her pocket, beneath the hundreds of layers of padding embedded in the suit's iron armor. To ensure her Fitbit was stills trapped around her arm, beating as ever, and that it had not activated her death signal prematurely. Thank God she never had to use it. The last thing she wanted would be to have to shoulder her wife with her own failed mortal plans, not to mention the chaos Zami's arrival and the entire demon-possession-madness would already bring. To examine the festering wound on her leg, which she wrapped in an Ace bandage she kept in her jacket pocket and wiped down with disinfectant, as her nerves practically shrieked in icy agony. And yet after it all, she realized that, after every false victory she had endured in the Reddicks' basement, it was always best to make sure.

Placing the arms of the suit beneath the back wheels, Heather slowly lifted up back of the car to reveal a bloody mangled mess beneath the metal. Pieces of pale skin, their crimson-soaked tissue exposed, were scattered around the impact crater, as tiny shards of bone freckled the black gravel scattered around the city streets. The sight of the collision was so graphic that Heather couldn't bear to stare at it for more than a few seconds before being forced to jerk her head away, the stench of rotting flesh seeping through the visor as she struggled to hold down her lunch. But that wasn't even the real problem.

The real problem was that there just wasn't enough of it.

As cruel as it might sound, there wasn't nearly enough blood and skin crushed under the Sergeant's vehicle. (While, in reality, there was little reason for Heather to feel bad crushing Yyric, since, as Zami has previously stated, whatever it was possessing the lieutenant was considered irreversible and likely murdered its host from the outset, it was still… unsettling to see the corpse of a human form you just demolished lying before your very eyes.) Considering Heather's own personal experiences with crime scenes far gorier than these, she knew that if the car had truly killed Yyric when it had come down on top of him, there would be ten times as much gore as that which Heather was trying to shield her eyes from right now. What was spread out before her was perhaps a crushed arm, or maybe even a small leg- but nothing even approaching a full, honest-to-goodness human body. This was impossible- she had watched the sedan collapse on top of the Lieutenant, she had seen his body collapse under the car's weight- how could she have possibly missed yet again-

BANG.

A bullet soared just over her head and shattered the passengers' side window, sending a cascade of broken glass clattering down the tip of Heather's visor.

Immeasurably thankful that the first shot had not hit its target, Heather glanced around, searching for any sign, anything that might point her to where Yyric was hiding- but there was nothing at all. Turning back to the car, she knelt down to the window and glanced through to the other side, just as a gleaming silver barrel pressed itself against the glass and erupted with light-

BANG.

Yyric's second bullet took out both backseat windows in one fell swoop before slamming directly into Heather's suit and embedding itself just outside her left hip, inches from penetrating her skin. Her movement restrained, and her entire side still reeling from the impact, Heather readied her grenade launcher and vaulted over the Subaru and turned to face Yyric…

…but this Yyric looked very different from the one she knew.

Not even considering the oppressive golden light that had consumed his eyes and the gleaming Eye of Providence necklace that was levitating above his chest, the impact with Cain's sedan had certainly taken its toll on the embattled lieutenant. Pieces of his skin had been cleaved away, yet had by some miracle been instantly healed- the smaller chunks simply scabbed over with the larger chunks replaced with pieces of the same golden glow that was pouring from his eye perhaps most horrifyingly of all, Yyric's entire right arm had been crushed under the roof of the Subaru- and in its place was an entirely new arm, composed of a jet-black substance that vaguely resembled charcoal or volcanic rock, within which was etched an intricate system of exposed veins through which seeped a bloodstream of bright yellow flames.

"Thank you, Heather," hissed Yyric, still speaking with the ominous, booming voice that could not possibly emanate from his vocal chords. "Thanks to you, I no longer have to fight what little remained of the Lieutenant's life force. His little whiny drawl was beginning to get tiresome up there…"

His sentence was interrupted by the rush of soaring death as Heather let fly the grenade launcher once more, forcing Yyric to bound aside like a deranged animal and Heather to slide under the base of the roof as the grenade completed its arc and collided directly with the bloodsoaked pavement.

Around them, the world erupted in a terrible conflagration of black and scarlet, the shockwave colliding directly with the side of Cain's upended sedan and sending it lurching over and landing uneasily back on its wheels, operable once more. As a flying hubcap underwent a near miss with her head, Heather leapt through the cloud of smoke and slammed the suit's chest directly into the oak tree, which, with a sickening crack, collapsed under the mech's weight as the trunk snapped and Heather came crashing down onto the unsuspecting Yyric-

-who neatly sidestepped the falling mech, spinning around and fixing his pistol's aim directly on the suit's visor as Heather readied her grenade launcher and, in a fleeting instant, grabbed a single, brass lever-

BANG.

Yyric's last bullet soared through the air and lodged itself directly into the visor of the mech, shattering the glass and shooting straight through the head. For a moment, the giant metal suit froze in place- before its legs gave way and the entire contraption, driver and all, came crashing down to the pavement… dead.

"What a shame," Yyric sighed, chuckling faintly. "And I was just beginning to enjoy thi-"

All of a sudden, the Lieutenant's voice screeched to an abrupt halt.

Glancing down at the fallen mech, Yyric realized, in a single, stomach-lurching second, that the head was empty. Not just that- but the entire suit appeared to have been abandoned. The back panel of the suit was still holding open, and the slender, brass lever that activated the escape hatch was compressed. He unholstered his pistol, crouched down, and cried, to nobody in particular, "You little-"

That was when Officer Heather Waybright leapt out from behind the fallen mech, withdrew a concealed shiv from beneath her jacket, and drove the blade straight through Yyric Peters' chest.

His goldenrod-flooded eyes stared down curiously at the hilt slatted between his ribs and the tip of the blade peeking out of his back, as blood spewed out the gaping cavities between them. Almost instantly, around the veritable stream that was spewing out from his breast, the blood on Yyric's torso began to solidify, rapidly hardening itself into a thick, coal-like substance that filled the hole around the sword. Heather, watching in horror, grabbed the hilt once more and tried to pull the blade from his chest- but it was to no avail. She watched as veins began to erode their way around the blade now permanently stuck within the lieutenant, slowly filling up with a bright yellow light just like that that composed his eyes, his arm, and much of his face- and, seeing everything she had just fought for fall apart before her very eyes, unholstered her pistol and raised it up to Yyric's face.

Yet before she could even move, the man's arms were upon her, and Heather was sent flying backward. The pistol flew from her hand and scattered to the base of the fallen oak, far out of reach, her Fitbit slammed to the ground and was neatly bisected, tumbling a few feet away as its screen lit up with the message "EMERGENCY DEATH NOTICE BROADCASTED", and she fell prostrate on the ground a measly ten yards from her attacker.

Yyric, still firmly impaled by the shiv and shrugging it off as if it was just a flesh wound, strode over to the woman's body and placed his iron boot atop her stomach, so violently that Heather could feel her lungs struggle against its force. Leaning in so that he was mere inches away from her face, as droplets of spit splattered her eyelashes, Yyric roared "You put up one hell of a fight, young miss. And I thank you for that.

Perhaps your little dimension will be a tougher sell than I had thought.

But in the end, it was only ever going to go one way.

I will find the Realmwalker. I will restore the multiverse to what it once was.

And nobody, no matter how powerful, who gets in my way will ever stop me- or live to see the light past it.

Goodbye, Heather Os- I mean, Waybright."

Yyric lifted up the pistol and aimed it directly at the helpless Heather's head.

"We have won."

BANG.

-{}-

A lone officer stood stooped in the Reddicks' yard, a broom clutched in his hand as he dusted debris off the rapidly whirring generator.

Watching the last freckles of dust drifted onto the earth, the officer glanced down at the basement window hidden beneath, half-buried in a veritable mountain of fallen autumn leaves-

-when all of a sudden, two taser coils burst through the glass at breakneck speed, tearing through the heap and slamming straight into the officer's arm.

His body suddenly twitched back and forth, as if experiencing a seizure, arms flailing and legs dancing uncontrollably, until at once, the surge abated and his unconscious form fell with a thud onto the earth-

-just as a massive iron boot kicked out the basement window and trod over the fallen officer, as if he was but a stray piece of garbage.

Sergeant Cain grabbed the top of the ledge and heaved his way back onto solid ground. Not even wanting to THINK for more than a second about…whatever it was that had burst from the flames down in that hellish place, he fumbled around with Heather's taser, tossing it over and over in his wrinkle-creased right hand. Somebody had tried to leave him for dead. Nobody could be trusted.

Withdrawing his phone from several layers of padding as it buzzed wildly, he pulled off his tactical gloves, took a glance around, and hurriedly typed in his passcode.

NEW NOTIFICATION- 6CHAN

Groaning, he tapped the notification. As the 6chan login screen spun away, a message popped up, from the form he followed on the application, and the only reason he had ever thought to purchase such a foolish piece of software.

WW*1WGA/ILLUMINATI

A sea of messages materialized on the screen. Over 90% of them were sent from anonymous users, typing things like "The Storm may have failed, but we are still here" and "The Informant sent me", all from undisclosed locations.

And above it all was one, singular message

THE INFORMANT-

It is done. All area Agents, gather your armaments please proceed to 778 Westminster Ave., which was, at our last check, home to the Waybright family. Anyone who is within the residence is now a co-conspirator of the enemy, and is thus our target. You know what that means.

Dinner will be… provided.

Hope you aren't a vegetarian. And don't mind… gamey meat.

Ta-ta!

Sugar groaned. He had always hated that triangular little son of a bitch.

Yet it so happened that somehow, for whatever reason, He was Cain's last hope of getting home.

Once more, before you leave, I would like to thank you again for reading Disney's Realmwalkers!

I ask of you one favor before you go- even if you do not have time to write a full-length review of this or any other chapter, I would very much appreciate it if you would type a rating out of ten (4/10, 8/10 etc.) in the chat for how you would rate this episode! I am working, as more episodes come out, to develop a full-fledged, IMDB-style review system- and the more of my readers that could contribute to it, the better! Thank you so much!

With love,

LumiTea