"Count the bodies like sheep, /
To the rhythm of the war drums."
NOTE: This is the first chapter in a three-chapter batch upload that we will be releasing over a short period of time, likely throughout the rest of this week. Expect the next chapter after this one soon.
What the hell did he have to be afraid of anymore?
Existential death-vomit was eroding his veins like acid, and he was stock-still in awe of the Wyrm King's maw, like it would suddenly reanimate to bite into him and let him fall through its endless black hole of a stomach. He'd just survived getting shot in the fucking face; being afraid of climbing into a god's howling corpse was ridiculous.
He either risked dying, or died outright. That was the decision he had to make descending into Hallownest in the first place, it was the decision that he'd had to constantly remind himself of at every turn. And here, at the end of his long journey, nothing was about to change.
Rock, meet hard place.
Chance and Tusk had descended into the furthest reaches of the Kingdom's Edge, fighting against the bitter, ashen wind with every step. And at the very depths, here they were at the source; everything was billowing out the maw of this titanic being, the Wyrm's mandibles at least five times as long as he was tall, and still razor-sharp after all these centuries left lying here to rot. It never did rot, its exoskeleton still pale and pristine against the dull stone, the ash having come from its dried-up and flaking innards. Time eroded and eviscerated this god until the fallout shifted the entire environment around it, the whole of the Kingdom's Edge smothered under the presence of its resting place.
And the only place left to go was into its mouth. Damn.
Chance gulped at the bile creeping up his throat, fighting the urge to scratch at his arms. The Infected welts had only grown since he'd discovered them back at the Hive, his leprosy spreading. Time was up.
Ducking under the edges of the colossal mandibles, Chance and Tusk climbed inside. The atmosphere was suffocating; the ashen air was so dense here, he could barely breathe, barely see. It felt like he was getting second-hand smoke from every cigarette in the world at once.
But even if he could barely see with his eyes, the cavernous corpse of the Wyrm was still so bright, some eternal aura imbued into the very flesh and ash itself. He thought back again to Cloth's story; was the Wyrm some being of pure light? Was this the mark of a god?
Or maybe it's just radioactive, and I'm already dead.
Chance and Tusk stumbled through, fighting against the winds and the barrier of His fleshy prison, escaping His incubation like a grub from an egg, or a butterfly from a cocoon after its metamorphosis, clutching his head as the atmosphere started to make him dizzy. Fuck, he was getting flashbacks to the Sanctum; the Soul in the air was so dense, he didn't even need to touch the Soul Master of these untamed lands, to bestow wisdom and hope to those who have only known cold instinct. This body holding Him hit the ground, Chance groaning as he nearly landed on an abscess of Infected pus that was growing on his shoulder. His brain and lungs were being smothered under the holy smoke, and it felt like his disease was melting his heart, curling around the warm and inviting curls of His Root – HisRoot – the same primal instincts He had come to revile welling up into warmth as He nuzzled closer to this feeling of care and safety, and He decided that perhaps this one emotion was not so horrible–
Chance faceplanted into the ash, his weary and boil-ridden hands clutching onto some ledge before him. His body was contorted at an awkward angle as he managed to pull himself up, wild tangerine eyes beholding the Kingslight.
The altar he was leaning off of was enshrouded in a dense, ethereal seal, ancient and untouched. From within, he could barely spy a glowing symbol emblazoned onto the organic altar: four spikes rising up like a crown, as if from a tree root.
The Crown of Lateralus.
Something rustled in his hair. He glanced up; Tusk had climbed up the back of his jacket and was now riding on the top of his head, reaching out with their stubby arms towards the symbol.
Before he could open his mouth, something flashed.
Something exploded before them, an eruption of overwhelming holy light.
It blinded him, and the voices deafened him.
Hallownest shall recognize a new leader.
The Kingdom's gates will open.
The symbol burned so bright in his vision, even when it faded a moment later, he was still seeing after-images of the brand, blinking and squinting it away. He found himself lying on his back in the ash, coughing his lungs out; the holy flashbang was so overwhelming that he'd instinctively stumbled away and collapsed. Fuck, and he'd just gotten his eye fixed.
For a moment, everything was silent. No ash falling, no wind howling. The corpse of a god had finally passed on, and gone still.
Chance looked over his shoulder. Tusk was curled up in a ball under the altar, hugging their knees to their chest, shaking like a leaf. Mustering whatever strength he had left, Chance managed to pull himself up and lean over Tusk, holding his arms out for a hug.
"H-Hey–" He hacked; the death-smoke in here was probably enough to shave a decade off of his life, if the apparent radiation didn't kill him in minutes. So much for holy ground, this place was a hellhole. "Hey, y-you alright? C'mere, it's gonna be–"
His sick and calloused hands lay gently on Tusk's shoulders, but when he went to pull them closer, he froze.
Just beneath their cloak, scarred onto their back, the glowing pale symbol of the King's Brand had made its mark. His breath hitched.
Does this make Tusk… King? Of Hallownest?
Before he could stop to think about it, a massive burst of wind and light from the altar knocked them back, sliding through the ash. Chance thought the whole world was spinning; the earth beneath them was shaking, the ash was overwhelming.
The Wyrm's corpse was caving in on itself, with them trapped inside.
"R-RUN!" he screamed in his hoarse voice, still keeping Tusk clutched to his chest as he staggered through the ashen tunnel. Entire chunks of the ceiling were breaking loose and falling from above, the echoes deafening over the screeching wind. At some point, he'd tossed Tusk up ahead, knowing they could run far faster than he could. It was like he was in a fucking warzone, and the whole sky was falling on them.
He welled up the Crystal Heart within, ready to launch out like a rocket, just able to see the Light at the end of the tunnel–
Chance seized up.
Part of him was screaming for him to run, and he stood still. He stared wide-eyed at the exit of the tunnel, the warm and inviting Light of the outside becoming him to escape the darkness that was rushing up to consume him.
He shook his head, his whole body shaking as he inched backwards, into the collapsing tunnel. Tusk stopped, turning back to see his tangerine eyes staring in horror at his only hope at survival.
A section of the ceiling directly above him cracked, shifted, and dropped like a stone above him.
Tusk rushed back, jumping into his arms and embracing him as the ash collapsed and buried them alive–
…
…rustle
Everything was black.
There was no air to breathe. He was dying in the darkness.
…rustle rustle
Everything was… warm.
It smothered him like blankets.
Maybe this was peace.
…rustle rustle rustle
–Chance was jolted back into consciousness when something yanked him from the dark ash pile and into the light and wind, so blinding and cold, like someone had just ripped the covers off of him when he was sound asleep. His hands twitched, fingers ticking as he ran them over his arms, his whole body squirming, his insides tossing and turning. He didn't feel like organs and muscle and bone anymore, just a shell filled with sloshing, melted goop.
Tusk was still pressed against his chest. The little Vessel's arms were still wrapped as tightly around him as they could manage, burying their face into his jacket. Chance patted them on the back, only to feel his fingers trail the scarred and uneven flesh of the King's Brand.
Something unwound around him. Chance could spy a shimmer of invisible, floating string in the air, before he looked up. Standing over them was Hornet, dusting off the last flecks of ash from her crimson dress.
They locked eyes. She said nothing as she spun around and flung her needle out of the cavern, silk tightening as it flew her into the air and into the distance.
Chance quickly untangled from Tusk, crawling across the ash as fast as he could as he reached out for her. "W-Wait!" he cried, arm outstretched. He managed to halfway stand up, half running, half falling forward. "Hornet! Hornet!–"
His foot tripped on a rock and he fell forward.
"HOR–"
He swore he only blinked for a second.
Jeremy collapsed, getting a mouthful of ash. He scrambled up, his mind groggy and frazzled, like he'd just been forced awake. Coughing into the earth, he collapsed again on his side; his whole body felt wrong. His skin crept and grew on itself, chitin seeming to melt. He felt too hot and too cold, too dry.
He clawed at his throat, hands raking his neck-fluff. His wings felt cramped and aching; reaching over his shoulder, he found a rough, worn cloth, and ripped it off his back.
He froze.
Why was he wearing Chance's jacket?
Then he looked at his hands. Orange, pus-filled lesions grew and bulged all over his skin like leeches, glowing and writhing. Jeremy screamed, falling back only to land on an Infected ulcer, crying out again in sharp pain. His hands wrapped around his arms before he realized he couldn't stand the leprosy growing across his skin, so he was stuck in a half-state of wanting to curl on himself, and refusing to let any of his skin touch.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream for help. Where was Chance? What happened to him? Didn't he just doze off next to him? This wasn't the tent anymore, and…
Jeremy turned. Tusk was standing next to him, looking down as he splayed across the ash.
"T-Tusk!" he cried out, grabbing at them with terror in his eyes. They just barely jumped out of the way of his pus-riddled hands, staring at his pitiful slump with an unreadable expression.
"T-This is just a bad dream, right?!" Jeremy looked down at his own hands again, feeling bile well up in his throat. "I-It's not real, none of it's real… r-right?!"
In the nothingness, Chance was staring out of a window.
The giant, full-wall window from the alcove of the Crystal Peaks. It was nighttime, outside and inside, looking out over the endless desert wasteland below.
But he couldn't just see the single speck of light that was Dirtmouth; an ocean of lights, ebbing and flowing, crashing on the stones of the peaks, all crowded beneath him, the glow feeling so warm on his face.
The heavens are beneath me.
Their light was so warm, so comforting. But the darkness of the Peaks threatened to chill him to his soul. The balcony was empty, silent.
Except for one other.
"Step away from the window, precious…"
Chance slowly, slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder, tangerine eyes glowing in the dark as She approached from behind, a creeping, invisible force.
"Go back to sleep…"
His eyes opened to warmth.
Chance was back in the worn and tattered tent, ash floating down around their shelter. For some strange reason, he felt refreshed, like the vomit in his chest had just faded away into fresh air. The filth all over his body had vanished. He didn't feel hungry or thirsty, he wasn't drowsy from undersleeping or groggy from oversleeping, and his body almost felt right for the first time in days.
His jacket was missing, but he could feel his red scarf hanging off of his neck. He had been sleeping on his side on the bench, with his head resting on something warm and soft…
Fingers danced through his hair. She was humming a soft lullaby for him, his head resting on Her thighs as pillows.
"...Why were you born, Chance?"
He flung himself away from Her, rolling across the ash as he backpedaled. He felt like someone had splashed boiling hot coffee all over him; even now, that refreshed and alive feeling hadn't faded, but the paranoia was overtaking his senses.
Layla had been sitting on the bench, donning her gleaming silver and golden regalia, her three-pronged golden crown in her golden hair, a heavy cloak of some kind of velvety-soft snow-white animal fur draped over her shoulders and down her side. She was as golden and untouchable as always, a goddess of light. But despite his reaction, she wasn't startled or upset at all; she was smiling at him.
She giggled. "You weren't born just to play with me, were you?"
Chance didn't even bother standing up, clenching his teeth as he glared hate at her. Fuck this bitch for thinking she could just appear and laugh her way out of his spite. "Where's Jeremy?!" he demanded.
"Ah… Yes. 'Jeremy,'" she hummed, pursing her lips in thought. "Our lovechild."
Chance's mind blanked, the words making him recoil as if she physically struck him. Layla only giggled more at his expression.
"I kid, of course. Your friend is not far; though, I imagine he is busy finding out the reasons behind his own birth; the purpose of his existence. He won't be joining us, at least for a while." She leered at him with a hungry look in her glowing eyes. "We have some alone time."
Chance wiped his mouth, huffing as he kept glaring. "You're in a good fuckin' mood today."
Layla burst out laughing. "But of course! I've won, haven't I?" At his confusion, her eyes seemed to flash in amusement. "All of that rubble that collapsed on top of you in the Wyrm's corpse…?"
Chance stared at her, brow furrowed, before his entire being clenched up. Cold fear gripped his whole body, and he could feel the hope and motivation that'd been burning through him just ten minutes ago droop down into a helpless puddle around him.
I… I fell asleep, didn't I? That cave-in knocked me out, and…
"That's right. My Light has reached the final stage of its incubation within your body. There's no turning back anymore." She crossed her legs, leaning back in the bench like it was a throne, giving him the smuggest smirk he'd ever had to glare up at before.
"You lose."
Chance stared at her in stunned silence for a moment, before he hunched over in the ash, his whole body shaking. He wanted to vomit. His tense hands slowly clenched up into razor-sharp Claws, clenching handfuls of ash. Pink electricity danced all around him as he grit his teeth, his fist glowing bright as he raised it in the air.
He was so fucking close.
"AAAAUGH!"
His fist careened down towards the earth–
Layla caught his electric fist in her armored hand, having risen from her seat and walked over, not even flinching at the energy that wanted to explode from his body. The Crystal Heart's power withered and died out with an unsatisfying whimper, Chance's hand still smoking.
"There's no need to have a temper tantrum about it." And then, softening with a coy smile, "Don't delude yourself. You only wish to 'cure' yourself because you seem to think that my Light is a plague on this land."
Chance ripped his hand out of hers, glaring as he stumbled back and rose to his feet. "Are you saying it's not?! You know what it did to my body, what it did to the Broken Vessel, what–"
"We've already discussed this, have we not?" Layla tsk'd as she walked over, her every step calculated and meaningless, no footprints left behind in the ash. "The 'Infection' is merely the byproduct of a mortal body struggling to adapt. Once the Light has finished incubating, the less desirable side effects fade. Look at yourself; free of leprosy."
Chance looked down at his own hands, patting down his body. Without his jacket, he could see the bare skin of his arms; no more Infected rashes, no more pus-filled abscesses. This was that refreshed feeling; the Infection wasn't showing any more symptoms. But it made his skin crawl to think that the disease was still in his blood, settled and dormant.
Layla's headlight eyes winked at him. "You should listen better, like a good boy."
Chance's fists clenched up again, welling up the full might of the Mantis Claws and the Crystal Heart, his Soul roaring like an engine as he ran up to her, rearing his fist back.
"YOU USED ME!"
His fist connected with her cheek, a shockwave bursting out and causing the ash around them to billow as his fist seemed to explode against her, the pent-up and unsatisfied rage from earlier finally releasing into a blinding, electric light as he hit her with everything he had.
When the ash settled, his full might had barely turned her chin a few degrees to the side. Her arms were crossed, and she didn't look impressed.
"Mhm. Stubbornness will get you that, you know. Single-mindedness is far more exploitable than you may expect."
She pushed his fist aside, striding past him in thought. Chance stared at her in horror, looking down at his own shaking hands before he fell to his knees; all the power he'd gained over this journey, and he hadn't even grazed her.
"Is it not the duty of a God to spread their worship?" Layla began to muse. "The logical extension of living in a kingdom is to be its King, and the logical extension of the ego is to be God. The power vested in me is to grant desires in exchange for worship; where do you think that leads to?"
Chance said nothing. Layla continued, spreading her arms wide in reverence. "My Light is not something to be wasted, nor squandered, but spread! Why would the world not rejoice in these miracles? To spread my Light is a necessary step to grant the desires of all to follow me, as the mother of the new world order!"
"Cut the crap!" Chance slammed his fist into the earth as he stood up, desperate to maintain any semblance of control. "You don't care about granting wishes, like some… humanitarian fuckin' genie! You only want the world under your control!"
"It'd be under your control, too. Don't you realize my motives have your interests, not mine, in mind?"
"What?!"
Layla only sighed, circling around him like a predator. She stopped, swiveling her heel to look out of the tattered and weathered remains of the tent, before spreading her arms to widely gesture at the whole of the wasteland, all the ash and lifeless stone of the Kingdom's Edge that sprawled out into nothingness before them. Her fur cloak flapped in the dry, bitter wind.
"You've suffered through this barren and hollow land, haven't you? You've seen all meaning collapse into another pile of corpses. You've seen all the disjointed and pitiful bugs, who are just dying…"
She sighed, turning around to face Chance with pity. From the shade of the tent, her eyes seemed blinding. "All I wish is to give them what all creatures strive for: peace of mind. Care. Rest. A sense of warmth and belonging. Synchronization." She mused, pressing her armored finger to her lips. "Unity, as your predecessor, the previous Seraphim, would put it."
Chance's brow furrowed, momentarily distracted. Who… Who even was the last Seraphim?
"All beings," Layla continued, "seek peace of mind. It is the ultimate desire, to feel content with oneself and the world. Security, love, reason. Even acts of kindness, said to be borne from 'the good of one's heart,' are only a means to achieve that peace of mind by letting oneself believe they are a 'good person'. Everyone who has helped you along your journey, and everyone you yourself have helped, are no different. Even I am not immune to the desire…"
"Bullshit!" Chance shouted. "You want world peace by controlling everyone's thoughts? By appeasing them with daydreams?!"
"Absolutely," Layla drawled with a smile on her face. "It's said that you can't make everyone happy. This is true, but only when you conform to the constraints of a rigid, physical world. There are only so many resources to distribute, only so many lovers, only so many who can be 'successful' and 'special'. And even if you are content, there is always a meaningless tragedy to sweep through and undo everything. This scarcity of desire leads to competition between anyone who wants to be happy; conflicting desires lead to, well, conflict, which leads to needless suffering. The exertion of 'freedom' to achieve desire only leads to the pain of others, and an immature and hungry species should not be granted the right to their perceived 'freedom'.
"But in the formless, ever-shifting Dream, everyone can be happy!" She raised her arms, grinning down at him with madness in her eyes. "The only limit, truly, is the imagination! Everyone will see what they want to see, hear what they want to hear… feel what they want to feel."
She gave him that look. Chance fucking hated that look. He clenched his teeth and glared, saying nothing, because of course she'd want to continue her little speech.
"...It is natural for all intelligent beings to ponder their own existence. Even myself." She looked up to the sky, her eyes unfocused; or maybe she was looking at something he couldn't see. "Sometimes, I wonder if even reality itself is merely the dream of some unseeable, even greater God… Some mysteries are unknowable, even to divinity.
"But what I do know," she continued with a deep breath, "is that ever since the first moment I realized my own consciousness eons ago, I have been vested with this power. Dreams. Desire. Worship. If I am the creation of some greater Dreamer, then this is what I was created for. This is my purpose for existing. This is why I was born."
She looked back at him, her eyes as inviting as they were calculating. "I'll ask again. Why were you born, Chance?"
Chance was silent. He looked away, clenching and unclenching his fists and his teeth. The dry ash and dead wind made his skin crawl. His breathing was unsteady and he started slowly, working his way up from a weak mumble.
"I was born… to find my own purpose. To grow." He glared back up at Layla. "And that can't happen in your world. It's just puppets in a fucking dollhouse for you. A load of meaningless, self-indulgent bullshit! There's no reason, no growth, and nothing is being–"
"–Passed on?" Layla finished for him. "To choose your own path in life… that is, as you would say, a 'bullshit' answer. You and countless others only say that because you think that is what you are supposed to say. An excuse to exercise the 'freedom' that only hurts yourself and others. Your world is plagued with tales of sole heroes turning the tides against evil, of a single man with a gun felling a god, of soldiers outrunning explosions on their feet. No such legends exist. Mortal lives are disposable; to serve whatever purpose they are selected to fulfill, and then discarded."
–tore the nail from Rio's chest, and the Mantis fell off of the platform and collapsed in a blood-covered heap–
"And what is this nonsense about 'what we pass on'? I do agree that our wisdom, our culture and ideas and meanings do pass from one to another, like a virus. People learn when they are confronted with new wisdom, that much is basic logic. But to call that our purpose?" She huffed. "And is that 'purpose' even your own? Or something that was 'passed on' to you from Jeremy?"
Chance looked away, faltering.
"How can a concept you heard from a friend in passing possibly be your 'purpose' in life? What purpose were you fulfilling before then, and why have you so readily discarded that purpose in exchange for this new one? Someone with such weak, transient ideals would be a fool to believe that anything they 'pass on' is of any worth, that their actions hold any deeper meaning."
Chance grit his teeth, barely restraining a choked growl.
"You lack the qualifications for free will."
"FINE!" Chance screamed. "You're right! I don't give a SHIT what Jeremy says! I don't give a shit about passing on! Fuck what people say about me! Fuck philosophy and fuck the Gods! Fuck dreams and fuck deeper meaning! ALL I WANT IS TO FUCKING SURVIVE!"
His voice broke into a sob near the end of his meltdown. He collapsed to his knees again, his whole body shaking with uncontrollable emotions as he fell to pieces before the shimmering glamor of The Radiance. His Claws raked the ash and earth, only to give up and melt back into his hands of flesh and blood, smeared in dirt. He wanted to lay down and cry himself to sleep. He wanted to be done already.
In his despair, he could see the light shift around him. Layla had crouched down next to his slumped and defeated form, cupping his cheek in her gauntlets as she gently pulled his pathetic face up to look her in the eye.
She gave him a warm, genuine smile. "There's the honesty I fell in love with."
Chance blinked tears out of his eyes, confused. Layla wordlessly reached under his arms – maybe holding him in an embrace for a moment – before she stood to pull him to his feet. She dusted the ash and refuse off of him, sighing with a smile.
"Someone who perhaps is worthy of freedom," she mused, "is someone who is honest with themselves and the world. Someone who, through that honesty, will stay true to their ideals and reasons in the face of suffering, just as you have throughout your journey. To grant the happiness of all; my world is the most morally correct idea conceivable, and yet, you have continued to reject my words, no matter how much harder it made things for you. Your strive for a cure, for your past, for survival. Those are your true ideals."
Chance's knees felt weak. In his frazzled mind, he struggled to understand her words.
"It's funny. In denying me so fervently, you have only proven yourself to be the ideal candidate for my Seraphim of Dreams."
His feet stepped back, unconsciously. Chance's mind receded as he inched further and further away from Layla, fleeing from her eyes, like headlights about to run him down.
"With me by your side, the world is yours, Chance. In a world undeserving of free will, you could do as you please. Wouldn't you like to do more than merely survive? Wouldn't you like to carve your own meaning into the world?"
"...And decide it for everyone else, too?" Chance's hands wrapped around himself, Claws barely raking along his arms. His blood was still tangerine. "No. I– I can't… I can't accept that. Even now. It's… It's not right."
Layla frowned, her expression twinged not with impatience, but with concern. She stepped closer with careful trepidation, like she was approaching a wild animal. Leaning in to get a good look at his face, she pursed her lips. He must've looked pathetic. Her eyes were too blinding to tell, but he could've sworn they were creased in confusion – or worse, pity.
"Chance," she asked, earnestly. "What are you so afraid of?"
His Claws clenched around his arms, the pain on his skin numbing the acid in his chest. He couldn't even imagine his expression as he stared at her, his breaths shaking, on the verge of breaking down. It didn't feel real. None of it felt real anymore.
"...You."
Layla froze. Her hand, just barely outstretched, slowly fell to her side as her words died on her lips. The wind had stilled. Chance could barely breathe through the ashen air, and he wondered if Layla felt the same. His full strength didn't even scratch her, and his Infection had already reached the final stage. This was the end. He stood there, expecting a nail of golden light to impale his chest, or a laser beam to atomize him.
Instead, Layla threw her arms over his head, and he felt her heavy fur cloak drape over his shoulder. Her hands rested on his shoulders, warmth emanating from her touch.
"...You don't have to be afraid anymore."
She held him at arm's length for a moment, and then she stepped closer, her hands creeping under the cloak to embrace him. Her warmth washed over his cold and shaking body, washed over his mind. He could feel the Infection pulse in his brain, easing him into an artificial relaxation. His mind was screaming, but even that was slowly being drowned out, the tension on his body going limp and his mind soothing over.
"It's over, Chance; this is the result of your ambition. You can finally rest."
She leaned in, and Chance found himself hypnotized by her eyes. He wanted to break away, to run, anything to get the disease out of his head. But She had already taken root, and there was no more resistance left as She leaned in, their lips inching closer.
On low, siren breaths, She whispered.
"Go back to sleep."
Just when he thought She was going to kiss him, She went for his neck instead. Chance seized up, his whole body writing; his limp hands clawed at Her back as he fought back breathy chokes. It was like She was draining the soul straight from his body, feeling Her kiss and suck on his nape, almost hard enough to draw Infected blood.
"Wouldn't you like for the pain to be over…?" She whispered into his neck. "Don't you just want to go to sleep… with me~?"
His knees buckled, and She caught him. Half-collapsed with half-lidded eyes, his eyes fogged with overwhelmed tears as his face smothered against her front, an inviting warmth washing over him.
He didn't resist as she gently laid him down on the ground, using the fur cloak as a blanket against the ash. It felt like a funeral, putting himself to rest. The cloak was wide enough for her to lay down beside him, giving him a low, sultry smile with eyes that beamed like a nightlight while she embraced his side. Her arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer to her, letting him use her body as a pillow.
(Even with his ear to her breast, he could hear no Heartbeat but his own.)
Chance could feel his vision fading, his resistance falling, as Layla's possessive hands danced slowly, languidly along his cheek. He could feel his mind slipping into a deep, dark pit.
"Don't fret, precious…" she barely cooed, sweet nothings, sweet lullabies. Warm fingers ran through his hair. "I'm here now… Just lay your head down…"
It was a mercy. He'd lost, and everything he'd fought for was over. All the others would soon succumb in the same way he was now. She'd sing all of them to an endless, peaceful sleep.
But he was done. Only now that his dreams had ended, could he finally rest.
All that was left was to surrender.
"Soon, we'll crown the new King, on the corpse of the Old… but for now, get some rest, my love… You've earned it…"
She reached down, fingers barely glancing across his inner thigh before she instead reached into his pocket, pulling out a small ring, adorned in neon pink crystals. She smiled at its soft glow, picking up Chance's limp hand to slip the ring onto his finger while she hummed "Here Comes The Bride".
"Hmm Hm H-Hmmmm, Hmm Hm H-Hmmmm…."
Layla leaned down, cupping his cheek and pressing her lips against his own. He was too tired to stop her; at this point, all that was left was to lay back, and let himself enjoy what was left for him.
As he melted into her soft kiss, his eyelids grew heavy. She broke away, giving him one last, loving smile before Chance could slip away into peaceful dreams.
As her hands roamed his bare skin, Chance inched a meek, ring-adorned hand up his side. Whatever left of him hadn't fallen to pieces from the Infection all welled up against her, barely raising his hand in defiance.
Layla didn't even look as her hand reached over, and eased his back down.
"My embrace will swallow you whole…"
Jeremy was hunched over in the snow, on his knees and with his forehead against the earth. His whole body was shaking, leprous hands wrapped around his arms.
He struggled to keep his eyes open, fighting against the overwhelming exhaustion that was washing over his body. This feeling, this primal need to surrender to his apathy, it wasn't his own.
The mere question of 'how' made him want to hurl, but somehow, he could feel Chance. He'd woken up in this unfamiliar place, in clothes that weren't his and with a disease he shouldn't have. But he could just know that Chance was nearby, almost as if he could see through his own eyes.
(As if they'd just… switched places.)
"N-No… Chance…"
The Infection pulsed through every inch of his body, apathetic sludge in every vein, but he couldn't fall asleep. He couldn't. Was this how Chance felt, all those insane sleepless nights, fighting just to survive? Was this how Chance was feeling right now?
Jeremy tried to stagger to his feet, only to slump down, faceplanting in the ash as he collapsed on his side. Shudders ran through his body as ashen wind whipped around him, and he felt like crying.
Tusk approached him from the side, their small black paws running along his arm. Jeremy could tell they were as confused and afraid as he was, but he couldn't even move to tell them that it'd be alright.
He couldn't lie to Tusk's face; not anymore than he already had.
"Chance… P-Please don't… give up… I'm still… here…"
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"Go back to sleep…"
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"Go back to sleep…"
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"Go back to sleep…"
Lullaby.
Lying in bed with the sun in our head.
Limbs and soul and eyes of lead.
Go back to bed.
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"Go back to sleep…"
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"Go back to sleep…"
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Slow air.
Breathe.
The noxious twinge of acid against the cool, soapy lavender.
Quirrel felt at home here, at peace. It felt… familiar. He wasn't sure why, but he could feel the ease wash over him like an easy blanket.
The dense, muted air of the Fog Canyon was like breathing underwater. It left your head swimming, and you couldn't hear a thing; just vague motions of flow around you. Sitting on a cliff edge that overlooked a lake of acid, it was too relaxing. Just being here felt like being on some kind of sedative.
So of course Quirrel couldn't be blamed when he didn't notice her at first.
"I trust you are not lost?"
Quirrel startled when he heard her voice; just behind him, Hornet was standing over him, a barely-concealed deadpan on her face. "A-Ah, hello! Pleased to meet you again!" He stuttered, still remembering their first meeting on the cliffs. He'd somehow gotten her approval the first time – all he could remember was that blinding flash of pale light – but he wasn't eager to meet her needle once again. "What brings you out to these strange canyons?"
Hornet huffed, looking to the side. "Nothing of your concern," she dismissed. "I merely… need to get my mind off of things."
Quirrel faltered. "Ah. …Do you wish to talk abo–"
"No."
(She'd done far too much talking today already. Gods above… it must've been the first time she'd opened up to someone since she was small. The first time she was honest with anyone ever since she left… And it was with that human, no less. What a joke.
She couldn't believe she was hoping for his survival.)
Quirrel didn't say anything else, probably eyeing the gleam of her needle on her back. The conversation lulled, until Quirrel started choking.
He hacked into his arm, before he pulled out a small handkerchief to cough into. Hornet inched away from him before he finally managed to break out of his coughing fit, sniffling as he pulled the handkerchief away and cast it aside.
He was either blind, or trying not to draw attention to the orange phlegm that stained the cloth.
"Ack! Oh, dear, I fear I may have come down with something…" He wiped his face with his hand, before discreetly tossing the cloth into the lake of acid below. "You may want to keep your distance, friend."
Hornet scoffed, mumbling to herself. "Of coursethat moron spread it to you, too…"
"Hm?"
"Nothing," Hornet deflected again. She'd seen countless fools wither and die from the Infection; call her heartless, but it wasn't her responsibility to warn them anymore. She'd seen too much horrified disbelief to try anymore. …This conversation was going in circles. "What are you here for, even?"
"Ah– I had grown weary from my travels, so I decided to stop here for a brief rest," Quirrel explained. "Just now, I was thinking about a friend I've been traveling with. A funny, mute little bug… Perhaps you've met Tusk?"
Hornet's throat clenched. "I-I've…"
–a small child, struggling on the end of her needle – black hemo staining the ash as the gunshot rang in her ears – they were things, they couldn't feel, they couldn't be people – because if they were, then that would make her a–
"...seen them a time or two, perhaps."
Quirrel smiled in recognition. "Ah! A small world, is it not? Oh, if you've met little Tusk, then surely you've met their traveling companion as well, yes? My, it's been quite a time since I last spoke with him… I do hope he's alright."
"...Yes," Hornet said, not meeting his eyes. "I do hope."
"Go back to sleep…"
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"Go back to sleep…"
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Riiing, riiing!
Chance's eyes snapped open.
Stars danced in his eyes as he groaned, a sore apathy clogging all his muscles. A shuddery breath passed through his lips while he tried to clear the drowsy fog from his mind.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed. For a moment, he wasn't even sure where he was; ash was lapping at his sides, blowing over him, as if trying to bury him alive.
She was nowhere to be found; her, and the cloak he was laying on had vanished. She'd left him in pieces in the ashen wasteland. He was alone.
He was breathing, so he must still be alive.
When did he even get here? How much of this was just in his mind? It felt real; the ash in his hands, the bile in his throat, the shudders. But she'd fooled him before.
He clenched and unclenched his hands, wincing as he felt Infected abscesses growing like quarter-sized tumors all across his skin. On his finger, the cold metal of the pink crystal ring burned.
"Go back to sleep…"
Riiing, riiing!
His phone vibrated in his pocket; it must've woken him up. Groaning as he rolled over onto his side, he Clawed at one of the supports for the old and weathered tent, digging his grip into the withered shellwood, and gritting his teeth as he fought to pull himself up.
It felt like his whole body was lead, or his muscles had turned to slush. He was pulling against his own weight for every inch. But after what felt like several minutes, Chance barely had the stamina to pull himself to his feet. He kept his back leaning against the support, knowing he'd drop like a stone if he tried to move.
With shaking hands, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone. He didn't need to check the caller ID anymore.
"...Jeremy?"
"Chance… W-Where are you? Why did you… leave me behind?"
He didn't know how to respond. He couldn't count how many times he'd left Jay behind by now. "...I'm sorry," he croaked.
"A-Are you… Are you g-going to come find me? I-I'm scared…"
For a moment, Chance said nothing. Then, with a groan that seemed to reverberate through his whole form, he pushed himself off of the support to stand on his own two shaky feet. Drowsiness still pulled at every muscle and bone in his body, chains threatening to make him collapse in the ash again, trying to drag him back down into the earth to rest forever. But he had one last thing he needed to do before he could give up.
"Yeah… Yeah, I'm gonna come find you, Jay."
"C-Chance… It's dark…"
"I know, Jay."
"I can hear them…"
"I know."
The voice on the phone shuddered. "P-Please help me, Chance…"
Chance wondered what color his eyes were now as he staggered off into the ashen wind, blotting out footprints that weren't there.
"I'm coming, Jay… I'm gonna come find you."
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Beep!
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"Go back to sleep…"
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"Say, how was he? You seem to have seen him last."
Quirrel was just asking how a friend was doing. But Hornet didn't answer at first, her mind wandering in a confused and conflicted fog. How was he doing? After their fight, all she could think about was the faint smile he gave her, leaking orange from a hole in his eye…
"He… will be alright in the end, I believe. It is all in his hands now."
Quirrel blinked at her vague response, but he seemed satisfied. "Ah, that's reassuring to hear! He's always had a certain tenacity about him, and a little disease won't be enough to take him down." He leaned back, his expression content as he threw his hands behind his head like a pillow. "If anyone can find a cure, I'm confident that Chance can!"
Hornet said nothing, looking out over the acid lake next to him.
Then she paused, blinked, and turned to him. "What?"
Quirrel's eyes opened. "Ah, perhaps you were unaware? Chance has been hunting for a cure to that blasted orange Infection that has blighted this Kingdom. Surely, you've noticed the symptoms on him? I suppose desperation can drive anyone to attempt the impossible, but it seems as if Chance can almost succeed!"
Hornet shook her head, paranoia rising in her chest. "No, I understand that. But there is something that I don't understand…"
He turned to look at her. "Oh? Do tell."
She paused, her throat tightening, unsure if she wanted to ask this or not.
But Hornet couldn't help herself as she opened her mouth and asked, earnestly,
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"Who's Chance?"
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Chapter name and summary are a reference to Pet by A Perfect Circle.
For spoilers/suspense reasons, and because this is part of a three-chapter set we have prepared to release close together, I'm gonna keep author's notes very short until the end of 33.
What I will say is that this chapter was VERY iffy, and we ended up scrapping a lot of the original draft for reasons I'm not comfortable sharing here. At the very least, I hope it's a good cliffhanger to leave you off with; don't worry, the next chapter is already finished and ready, so it'll be out very soon.
also its MGS2 day