Kauai

by Kahlil Johnson

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2. Bllood

Something was deeply wrong with Taylor Hebert. Of course, this was obvious (or should have been obvious) to numerous people. To some, it was seen as a victory – Emma counted it as such that Taylor had become so broken down, changed from the optimistic and imaginative chatterbox she'd once been. To others, it was ignored, Danny desperately shying from more pain as he tried to hold himself together for his daughter's sake, inadvertently causing further harm.

The two people who came, independently, to the conclusion that something new and potentially dangerous was wrong didn't even interact with Taylor all that much. But they observed her all the same. Greg Veder, likewise social outcast (though with at least one person he could arguably call a friend), had a crush on Taylor and often watched her both during and between classes, eyes tracking the sway of her black ringlets. The reasons, before, that he'd never made a move were shyness and fear of further abuse for romancing one of the school populace's favorite punching bags. Now she scared him. Now he watched her so that he could be where she wasn't.

It wasn't some massive thing, some outburst or declaration of intent that had Greg frightened. No, it was one of the simplest principles of horror that directors and writers would use in the scary books and movies he often enjoyed: things were ever so slightly off. When Taylor's eyes darted around now, they held a different, alien emotion within them. She tensed at different stimuli than before, and tensed in different ways. She still hunched, but in a different way, legs flexing and back bowed, almost like an animal ready to lunge or begin bounding away. At least, when Greg spied on her, she did all of this. Sometimes she'd do it when others saw, but always there would be a twinge of realization, of fear or guilt, and then she'd start to behave as she had before. This was far too much to blame on mere sleep deprivation, no matter how dark the circles under Taylor's eyes. It was an act, one that Taylor was keeping up, one that she had to remind herself to maintain and all too easily forgot, like an amateur actor trying to play spy. There was no other way to put it, and at the same time there was no way anyone would believe him, but Taylor wasn't Taylor anymore. Something was wearing her skin, doing a decent job of imitating her, but the differences were glaring to anyone who'd actually taken the time to (stalk) know her.

The other person who noted that something was wrong happened to be one of Taylor's ongoing bullies. Sophia Hess knew violence. She knew it intimately, from both sides. It wasn't necessarily fair to say that she loved violence, loved hurting people, for does a wolf enjoy tearing out its prey's throat? Certainly some could, but that enjoyment arose from need rather than want. And Sophia Hess needed violence. It was part of her on an intrinsic level, woven into her soul in threads of smoke and shadow, not that she would ever take the time or mental exertion to describe it as such. So when Hebert began twitching differently, Sophia's instincts started to scream at her.

Hebert doesn't flinch the same. That was the thought which started Sophia down this path, when she'd bodychecked Taylor one morning, and the evidence continued to mount from there. Hebert's head and even her entire body still jerked back, eyelids narrowed, all the same signals were there. But they were just different enough that Sophia could recognize, and they told an entirely different story. Where before thin lips curled into a distressed pout, now they split apart over a silent snarl. Eyes that had closed entirely now narrowed to slits, lashes set to protect against shrapnel or spray. Hebert still jerked back – oftentimes farther than before – but the curl in her spine, the tensed legs and shoulders, spoke not of someone frightened and involuntarily curling in on herself but of barely-restrained retaliation. And taken all together, the glint in Hebert's eyes was something that Sophia had seen in veteran gang members. It wasn't just violence, but intent. Intent to kill each and every person who caused that reflex.

And then that intent was gone. No, not gone, not truly. Hidden. Stamped down and replaced with a mask of the same fear and sadness that had been genuine just a month ago. The bags under Hebert's eyes and the bone-deep exhaustion with which she moved helped to hide her changes, but exhaustion shouldn't permit a person to react so quickly. Hebert had gone from a frightened rabbit to a potential threat, wound tighter than Armsmaster and reacting with speed that Sophia would never admit scared her. Sophia would not, could not acknowledge that Hebert reacted and moved more quickly than she did.

But why? That was the question. Was Hebert a cape now? No, the idea was absurd – not because it was Hebert, as Sophia would have dismissed the concept before the last month, but because she knew violence. Someone with that much pure animal fury twitching beneath her skin, if she was a cape Hebert would have slaughtered the entire school by now. Something else was going on, something that had changed the girl, something dangerous. And Sophia wasn't stupid enough to report this, risk her activities coming to light. Emma wouldn't believe her, the redhead too invested in the idea of breaking Taylor. If there was a chance Hebert could retaliate, the girl might lose her marbles with fear. Madison couldn't keep a fucking secret to save her life. So it was up to Sophia to answer these questions.

(BREAK)

After coming to the conclusion that something was indeed wrong with Hebert, Sophia started her investigation. She'd never been all that good about gathering clues or putting together puzzles, but she was sneaky and damn good at following people even before getting her powers. It was a bitch to beg off after-school fun with Emma, Madison and the others but Sophia had to understand what was going on with Hebert, if the girl was genuinely a threat. If the girl was on the wrong kind of drugs – or worse, Tinkertech drugs – she might eventually attack the school. And Sophia was a hero: she didn't let psycho killers just do what they wanted.

At least Hebert wasn't somehow pretending to be tired: the girl practically staggered to the bus stop. Not to catch the school bus, but further down to a city bus, heading downtown. It took a bit of effort to catch up, as Shadow Stalker's powers didn't make her any faster than the average human, but the bus hit enough red lights that she was able to watch Hebert get off at a nondescript corner and head into a shitty convenience store. This neighborhood was ABB, and even the Open sign was in red-and-green neon. Why would a white girl willingly go to a convenience store in Asian-supremacist territory? Hebert went inside, bought some energy drinks, and went back to perch on a bench. The black-haired girl stared out into space, eyes somewhat unfocused, seeing nothing as she drank one energy drink after another. She tilted her head back, guzzling the liquid, throat pulsing with heavy gulps. Hebert drank like the proverbial man lost in the desert would drink from a sudden oasis, with the enthusiasm of someone thankful to stave off death. Far above her, Sophia settled in on a rooftop to observe, wondering when the girl's heart would explode from all the caffeine. After the first three, Hebert settled down to sips, making the rest of the drinks last for hours. She didn't even look at the cans, popping the tops by rote muscle memory and almost demurely drawing from them. The sun slowly dipped and all Hebert did was sit, and stare, and drink.

Hours later, as night fell, Hebert stirred. Shadow Stalker had almost fallen asleep from watching the girl do absolutely fuck-all, and now she was moving with purpose back toward the convenience store. What, more energy drinks? Is Hebert just jumpy because she's always high on caffeine? If that was the answer to all this, Sophia might kill the girl herself just for having the gall to waste her time. But no, the tall girl didn't go inside. Instead she smoothly began to tail two men in ABB colors, one of whom wore a modified letterman jacket denoting that he had some low-rung rank in the gang. The ostensible officer was stuffing something in his pocket – protection money, most likely. The clerk was bruised, slumped miserably over the counter: he either couldn't or hadn't wanted to pay the full price. Sophia didn't spare the man another thought. If he didn't have the balls to fight back, he wasn't worth protecting.

Hebert moved almost soundlessly, long legs eating up distance as her head remained even. She walked like a predator, a creature on the hunt. Then, after her targets passed an alleyway, the girl began taking louder steps to draw their attention.

The pair turned around, seeing the white girl. Sophia wasn't close enough to hear what was being said, but could tell the tone: a combination of threatening and jeering. Hebert jerked her head toward the alleyway, muttered something brief. The men followed, one drawing a switchblade. What the hell, Hebert? Was Sophia going to have to save this girl? Well, that would normally be predicated on the girl defending herself, but would Sophia even want to intervene to save Hebert? Regardless, she wanted – in some way needed – to see what would happen, to get an explanation for why this girl felt wrong nowadays. As Shadow Stalker moved to get an overlook, she heard noises. Wet, slick, visceral. Ragged. Something was being cut, and not cleanly. Barely a gasp of fright from a masculine throat before it was drowned out by more noise.

Shadow Stalker looked down on the site of a double homicide. Both men had been split open by something, some massive weapon. She only knew because there was no way a knife could cleave a person open like that, and even a cleaver wouldn't leave such a long cut. And standing there, covered in blood splatter, was Hebert. She clutched something in her right hand, something relatively large but dull, not really glinting in the dim light. It was hard to tell what it was, especially when Shadow Stalker had other concerns. The girl raised her left arm toward her face and began to lick the blood off, cleaning herself like a cat.

Sophia Hess knew fear. She had stared down the barrels of guns, faced villains out for her blood, curled up in her bed hoping he wouldn't open her door that night. But this was something else. The same way that humans instinctively flinch when confronted with something that resembles a spider or snake, some ancient aspect flared up within her. The Ward threw herself back, away from the sight, collapsing onto all fours on the rooftop as her stomach convulsed. Nothing about what she'd seen should have provoked this kind of reaction, but that didn't stop her beating heart. It didn't keep her gorge from rising and she had to slip a hand beneath her mouth to silence her heaves and try to contain her vomit. Just seeing a girl lick blood from herself had no inherently frightening aspect that Sophia could tell, but everything down to her very soul screamed at her that she'd just seen the scariest thing in her life. It hurt, her head buzzed, her eyes lost focus. She was crying, trying to keep her sobs silent as tears spilled from her eyes. She fled the site, the rising moon lighting her way home.

The next day, Greg Veder noticed that Sophia Hess was keeping her distance from Taylor Hebert and favoring the black-haired girl with surreptitious, frightened glances.

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Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Apr 27, 2022

#2

Everyone who comes here has a story, some reason they need us. We'll have some time, and talking can help you relax, help you sleep. So what's yours?

I need help. I'm in so much pain all the time and I'm too scared to even end it.

Well, I might be able to help. But first, of course, we'll need a contract. I'm no charity.

There, all signed and sealed. Now you just lie back and relax. And when you wake up, it'll all seem like it'd been just a bad dream…

I awoke in the hospital, fully healed. The nurses jokingly called it a miracle, then praised me for having such a tough immune system, fighting it all off. The infections that had been running rampant died off so quickly. It would make a lawsuit against the school harder, of course, because toxic shock syndrome isn't as intimidating to laymen and the lazy when I healed up practically overnight. That dream, though, with the man in the wheelchair, his eyes bandaged… He frightened me, and I could see his grizzled visage behind my eyelids when I blinked. He'd felt mostly benevolent, sure, but something about him was wrong, evil. I couldn't even remember what this "contract" was that I'd supposedly signed. Had I been rescued by some sort of cape who'd eventually come to collect a payment owed?

My next sleep brought more questions. It was a sort of sleep-paralysis nightmare. The hospital bed had transformed into a gurney with thick leather straps holding me down. The room was different as well, thick with musty odor and the tang of dangerous chemicals, ancient gaslights in the walls. The place was dark, decrepit, dank with mold. Slowly the scents were replaced and I could downright taste the horrible odor of wet dog and the sting of iron from so much blood. Heavy, moist breaths from a mouth framed by far too many teeth. My entire body froze, locked up in terror. I didn't want to look. I didn't want to know. It was getting closer, the room shaking slightly from such heavy steps. The wood floor ripped and tore. I turned my head, and couldn't even scream.

A massive creature, a wolf but not. It squatted with limbs wide, more like a lizard. I'd seen things like bearded dragons and horned toads, with the feet splayed out and the belly nearly touching the ground. At first I thought the shaggy beast was utterly covered in blood but, no, it was made of blood. Nothing but blood and bone, even the milky eyes were actually spheres of bone. Huge claws gouged the floor. It raised a paw and trailed the back of a claw across my face, almost tenderly. But even with its false eyes, I could see the cruelty in its inhuman features. This abomination was amused by my horror.

And then it burst into flame, shrieking in agony. The heat licked at my cheek and I could finally scream from the burn. Something different happened now, as I felt dull fingers gripping at my body. Tiny creatures began crawling up from the floor, hauling themselves up the gurney with their hands as they had no legs. They were deformed, nightmarish in their own way. Empty eye sockets and gaping, mutilated mouths. Some of them reminded me of H.R. Giger's art in the worst way, their split mouths or shaped bodies like some disturbed parody of sexual organs. They were stark white like bleach and glowed with an inner light. The flopping bodies crawled up and over me, squirming like eels, clumsy like newborns. Faces slapped against my chest, my cheeks, my forehead as they were too heavy for their necks to support. They smothered me, fingers probing my ears, eyes, nose, hands pushing into my mouth. I smelled moonlight. I tasted curiosity. I heard the texture of bandages. And then I felt no more.

I awoke shooting bolt-upright in the hospital bed, breathing heavily and dripping with sweat. I wanted to do something, to call someone. I was too tired. My body gave out, I hit the pillow, and did not dream.

Several more days passed with me under observation until I was discharged. I dreamt no further and was ready to dismiss it all as side effects from the medicine. Until Dad took me home. That night, settled in upstairs and tucked into my own bed, I dreamed. Or, I thought I dreamed. I wouldn't learn until much later that this particular dream was much closer to reality...or at least close to a reality.

I awoke, or at least that's how it felt, curled up in a corner against a set of shelves loaded with books and medical equipment – old medical equipment, like in the wheelchair man's setup. My body was in agony from sleeping in such a strange position and I had to spend several minutes just stretching to get the kinks out. After my last encounters in a place like this, I wasn't going out unprepared. There wasn't anything that stood out as a weapon, so I grabbed a (hopefully clean) bedpan so I could at least bonk somebody.

Stairs led up and down. Up went to another small landing with an elaborate door. Stained glass and something like a mailbox or library book drop-off. I tried the handle. Locked. I raised a hand to knock, then thought better about it. I went down the stairs, feeling thoroughly nervous. The stairs creaked, but the entire place creaked. It was falling apart, seams pulling away from one another, shelves covered in thin layers of dust. The stairs opened into a clinic. Was this the wheelchair man's clinic? Old gurneys were scattered around, IVs beside them. The cushions were split, some burst with age while others looked torn or cut – as if someone had gone on a rampage. There was no blood, though...but I could hear something breathing.

Every hair on my body stood on end. I swear even my hair tried to stick out like a hedgehog. Primal terror surged through me: I know that breathing. It was the wolf, the blood monster. I don't know what convinced me to peek through the clinic to the entryway, but I stuck to the edge of the aperture. On one side was a little desk, likely to check in patients. More gurneys and IV tubes, and the desk was squished off into a corner. Had they needed so many beds they'd turned the entry into just more space for patients? The breathing came from the other side, however. I knew I shouldn't look, knew it would probably see me too. But I had to know. I had to understand what threatened me.

The creature was black, shining grayish in the gaslamps' glow. It was bigger than the blood wolf, yellow milky eyes glowing with a sickly inner light that to me spoke of pain and malice in equal measure. Thick saliva dripped in slow rivulets between its massive teeth. Something in my mind, wishing to be anywhere else, thought back to when I read The Lord of the Rings with my parents: Gollum was an evil creature, but Frodo couldn't help pitying him. And something in this beast indeed felt pitiable. I tightened my grip on the doorframe and physically pulled myself back behind the wall, having to force myself to stop looking. It hadn't seen me. I didn't hear it sniffing, didn't feel its heavy footfalls approaching. I watched my step as I sneaked back up the stairs and rapped as lightly on the door as I could. Please open. Please open…

"Oh! Is someone there?" The voice on the other end was youthful, probably only a little older than me.

I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, tears suddenly streaming down my face. "Please," I whined, trying to whisper. "Please be quiet. There's something downstairs."

"Oh no," the woman on the other end replied. She sounded saddened, but unsurprised, even though I'd said 'something'. It was like she knew. "It's the night of the Hunt, and beasts roam the streets. I was terrified one would make it in: that's why we're shut in here. We- ...Apologies. I am Iosefka, and this is my clinic. I tend to the sick and wounded. This door is reinforced against attack, and many of my patients have open wounds. In addition, I tell you this in good faith, some beasts have enough humanity to pretend. I have no way of knowing if you are really a person. Much as it pains me, I cannot open this door for you, do you understand?" She was almost pleading at the end.

No, I didn't understand at all. Beasts? Hunt? Humanity? "Not...not really. I don't even know how I got here. I just...can I stay here, in front of your door? I'm too scared to go down and try to get around that thing."

The woman – Iosefka, and what a strange name that was – replied in a gentle, almost motherly tone. "Of course. I'm sorry I can't do more for you, my dear, but this will always be a place of healing. Please, stay as long as you like."

I curled up in a new corner and fell asleep. At some point Iosefka had begun to sing a lullaby.

I awoke in my bed, the barest rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains. Was I going insane? Was I going to a real place? Was I a cape? I had no answers. I moved through my Saturday robotically and eventually fell asleep again, waking up in the corner where I'd passed out the previous night. I knocked on the door. "Iosefka?"

Her reply was immediate. "Oh dear, and here I thought you'd just gotten to sleep."

What did it say that I was more willing to open up to her than to my father? Well, it said that I didn't care as much about her rejecting me or saying I was insane. "From my perspective I slept the whole night. But, uh, that's not important right now. I have absolutely no idea where I am."

"I told you, dear, you're in my clinic." Now she sounded...not condescending, but definitely like someone dealing with a slow child.

"No, I mean where geographically. I fell asleep in my bed and woke up here. And this place is definitely not Brockton Bay."

"Oh my. What a curious phenomenon!" She perked up at that. "People travel far and wide to get here, but never via bed!" She actually giggled. "You are in Yharnam, my dear. Home and birthplace of the Healing Church. Greatest city of all time."

Well, that confirmed that I was no longer on Earth Bet. Was I a cape, teleporting to some other dimension when I slept? What a shitty power, taking me to a place where I was all but guaranteed to be eaten by some nightmare beast. "Yeah, I've never heard of Yharnam or the Healing Church. So I'm a really long way from home. Do, uh, do you have anything that could help me get past that thing downstairs?" I couldn't just stay in the doorway every night, especially if we might eventually draw that monster or others up to the clinic door.

"If you're asking for weapons, then no. This is a place of healing and I am a doctor. I cannot provide anyone with a means to do harm. However, give me but a moment." She was gone for several minutes and then I heard metal squeak. She was opening the back of the box in the door. When the hatch clicked back shut, I heard the lock on my side pop open. I pulled the little hatch open to find five vials rather like hypodermic injectors, filled with blood...blood that swirled on its own.

"...Iosefka, what's this?" I asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice.

"You're unfamiliar with blood ministration? Oh my poor dear, if you've not heard of the Healing Church…" She tutted. "I will keep it simple. This is healing blood. You jab it into a place with good circulation – the leg is best, chest runs the risk of piercing an organ – and your body absorbs it to heal wounds. Bruises fade instantly, cuts close, bullets push back out. It's not magic, it's based in miracles and the Church's thaumaturgy. I'm rather talented at blood ministration," she remarked with no small amount of pride in her voice, "so you'll find my vials are rather better at restoring you than your average hedge priest's vials."

"What...what about blood type?" I didn't know exactly what could happen, but I knew that giving the wrong type of blood could kill a person.

"Type? It's blood. There's only the one… Oh, this is some cultural thing, yes? I've heard of foreigners' concerns. This blood bonds with yours, subsumes into you. It will not change you or do harm, on that you have my guarantee."

What else could I say? This woman was playing tour guide to some poor lost girl and we faced a cultural gulf so wide I was amazed we were even speaking the same language. "Do...do you mind if I stay here again? I'm really scared." I hated sounding so childish, but it was the truth and I couldn't find a way to make it sound less pathetic.

"I told you, dear. Stay as long as you like," she replied, a smile evident in her voice.

"Thanks. And, um, my name's Taylor."

Iosefka sang me to sleep again. Between falling asleep and waking in my bed, I dreamed of my mother.

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Apr 27, 2022

#3

Sunday passed much like Saturday had: my day was uneventful, recuperating from the nightmare to which I had been subjected, and bracing myself for the nightmare to come once my head hit the pillow. "Hey again, Iosefka," I said when I felt the hard wood of the door against my cheek. I stirred to wakefulness and began to stretch.

"Another full night's sleep in mere moments? I almost envy you, though getting trapped in Yharnam on the night of the Hunt is not an enviable position for anyone unfamiliar with things." I heard cloth rustle and the door creak, likely the young doctor using the handle to help herself stand. "I'm sorry to have to bid you goodbye, Taylor, but I still have patients here. They need attending and so I cannot spend my evening here at the door."

I didn't like it but I understood. "Ah, wait! One question, before you go. You said that healing blood can patch up wounds, so how do you have patients?"

Iosefka made an appreciative noise. "Not everyone takes to the blood so easily. Some can only heal meager amounts. Others suffer from conditions which the blood can only mitigate. It is up to we healers to ensure that everyone is cared for, and not to simply deal out blood and hope for the best."

I nodded, reflexively. "I get it. Thank you, for everything."

"May the gods and Vicar Laurence watch over your steps and guide your path, Taylor." And with that, I heard Iosefka's footsteps retreat further into the clinic, away from the door.

I felt very cold, the sensation of my blood congealing and sinking into my feet. I was alone again. I was alone, my only contact – friend? – here had other duties, and I was doomed to face a monster literally out of my nightmares. I gathered up the blood vials and only now registered that I wasn't in my pajamas. I was wearing one of my typical outfits, sweatpants and a baggy hoodie with a tee underneath. "...Huh." Well, not to look a gift horse in the mouth, I stuffed the vials into the pocket on the front of my jacket and did my best to sneak back downstairs.

The wolf was still there, scuttling back and forth slightly, not quite pacing. It didn't move right, like its limbs were in the wrong place. The creature crawled around, belly low on the ground, thick claws tearing into the floor in what seemed to me an attempt to gain purchase. The whole monster appeared ready to collapse, its bowed limbs prepared to splay out further and let the thing splat onto the floor. If not for the sheer horror of the creature, the unnatural way it moved and faltered would have been almost humorous.

I looked through all the gurneys. I could see dusk light coming from the doorway, but the sheer difference in illumination made it difficult to see past the doors. They were cracked open, one broken off its hinges – obviously how the monster got inside. Four wooden columns supported the ceiling and might provide me with some cover: at the very least it'd stop the thing from charging straight at me. The gurneys, maybe I could use them as a barricade or at least to ward the thing back, like a lion tamer with a chair. I'd have to move up the left-hand side, past the desk, to the door. The doorway was clear of debris, an open area where I'd have no defense. I would either draw the wolf's attention when entering from the clinic, or I'd have to deliberately get its notice to get it tangled in the gurneys and other detritus. If I tried to make it out the door, with the wolf where it was now, it would have a straight shot to charge me.

I bit my lip, tasting blood. I pried my fingers from the doorway. I took a deep breath and held in the scream that desperately wanted to tear free from my lungs. I stepped into the entryway, sidling toward the left, keeping watch on the wolf.

Creak.

The beast turned with such speed that I couldn't help the scream. It whirled like a crab, limbs scuttling over one another to spin it in place. It let out a heaving, drool-filled growl and its luminous eyes locked onto me. The monster staggered forward, lifting itself up onto its hind legs almost like a squatting bear, and lunged for me with its forelegs, scything claws going for a bear hug.

I grabbed a gurney as I stumbled back away from it, shoving the wheeled contraption forward. The wolf fell, letting gravity carry it, and its claws bit into metal instead of my flesh. One of its claws got caught in the joints of the gurney and the beast spent precious seconds tearing the object apart. I scurried around the pillar as the wolf resumed its chase, grabbing another gurney and bracing myself. When the wolf rounded the corner I shoved with all my might and body weight, smashing the wheeled object into the thing's face. It actually staggered back! I shoved one more time, pushing off from the gurney to launch myself out of the doorway.

The light stung my eyes and I moved forward, aiming for what my still-blurry vision said must be a gate. It resolved into a massive, ornate wrought-iron construction hanging open, bent by obscene strength and marked with claws. Wood tore and splintered behind me, and then I heard claws sparking on stone. I threw myself past the gate with a yell, hitting the ground and springing back up. I grabbed the gate and wrenched backward: it opened into the little courtyard, so if I pulled it shut the wolf would have to work against the hinges, maybe giving me enough time to escape.

Claws slammed through the iron rods and one gouged a deep trench through my right arm, my fingers going limp as the tendons were severed. I screamed yet again and fell back, sobbing in pain and horror. The wolf tried a few more times to break through the gate, until it snapped one of its claws in the metal. Then, like the fox with the sour grapes, it made a chuffing noise and trudged back into the clinic.

Sitting there dumbly, bleeding out, finally I remembered about Iosefka's blood vials. I ripped one from my pocket and jammed it into my right bicep, depressing the plunger. What came next was utterly incredible. The sensation was what I could only presume to be similar to a high-quality drug. I was flying, dancing on clouds as my cut knitted itself closed before my eyes. After only a few seconds there wasn't even a scar, just drying blood to show that I'd ever been wounded.I came down from my high not long after, and didn't feel any lethargy or hangover. This stuff was amazing!

Drawn from my reverie by the sound of something grinding on stone, I looked over with chilled blood in the fear of seeing another wolf. Instead, the source of the noise was a tall, shabby man. He was thin rather like me, a lanky scarecrow, but his clothes didn't quite fit. Everything was too short on him, the chest too loose, but the collar was sized perfectly for his neck and shoulders. A waist-length duster coat, Victorian breeches, a scruffy but once well-loved shirt, and the outfit was completed with a broad-brimmed hat. His beard and hair were wild and stuck out in all directions, his fingernails untrimmed, and he was covered in scratchy hair. In his right hand he dragged a massive woodcutter's axe, the source of the noise as it ground against the cobblestone, while his left held a torch aloft.

It's the night of the Hunt, Iosefka had said. This guy, armed as he was, must be a hunter! Heh, he even had an axe like the woodsman in Little Red Riding Hood! Hope bubbled in my chest and my fear washed away. I stood up, dusting myself off, and pointed at the gate. "I-in there! The beast broke in! I think I got it trapped but Iosefka needs help!"

I'd never seen an axe swung one-handed before, but as the man twisted I instinctively understood that he meant me harm. I leapt back with a squawk as he contorted, rolling his body forward, left side first. The momentum let him whip the axe into the air and bring it down in an arc, crashing between my feet when I landed on my butt. He raised his head to look at me as he waved his torch, and in the combined dim evening light and glow of the torch I could see his face. I wished I'd stuck with the wolf.

This man, this...thing, wasn't a person anymore. His eyes barely focused, pupils dilated so far that I couldn't see his irises and his sclera almost the same color as his ruddy, dirty skin from ruptured blood vessels. His mouth hung agape, drooling and missing teeth. What teeth were there...they were canine rather than human, dog teeth jammed into a mouth not built for them. "This is all your fault!" he screamed, the sound almost pleading, begging for things to make sense. I could imagine someone weeping as they yelled that, but his face barely held any expression other than animalistic malice. "Away, damned beast! Away!" He jabbed the torch at me while he wound up for another swing with the axe.

"Please," I whimpered, crawling back from the torch. "I don't want trouble. I-I'm not a beast. My name's Taylor. I'm lost…" I ended up pressed against several empty carriages, the horse-drawn kind. I curled up, begging, crying, with nowhere to go.

He brought the axe down, splitting my ribs. I screamed. He screamed, sounding just as horrified and pained as I was, spittle flying onto me. He brought it down again.

(BREAK)

I awoke not in my bed, or in Iosefka's clinic. A gentle overcast sky shone gray light down around me, and I was resting in a field of flowers. They smelled of moonlight. I sat up as quickly as I could, multiple memories surging through me. The smell reminded me of those things that had crawled on me, put their fingers inside my face. Then I squeaked and began to check myself over, realizing that I was unharmed. More than that, the rip in my sleeve from the wolf's claw was gone.

I pushed myself to my feet and looked around. I was in a graveyard. Tombstones covered most of the available space, with little cobbled footpaths between them. It didn't extend far, however: past the spiked fence everything dissolved into that same overcast sky. The field of flowers set beneath a massive gnarled tree, and a gate hung open to the stone path. Awkwardly, and with nothing else to do, I followed the path. It wended and wove through tombstones until it led up a little hill to a cabin. As there were literally no other landmarks available, I approached. Resting on the hill, on a little garden wall, was a young woman. Tall, like me, and even more pale. In a dour but elegant outfit with a poncho-like shawl and bonnet all in burgundy. But she didn't move.

Approaching closer, I understood why. This wasn't a woman, this was a life-sized doll. Must have been some sort of artist's model, with the precise joints in the fingers and neck. Likely for locking poses in place. But why would someone just leave it out here?

Then I heard the moaning.

Like with the wolf's breath, I recognized the sound and went into a panic before steeling myself and looking around. The noises were the same as the horrid creatures that had covered me after the blood wolf had caught fire. I saw them again, but they were...tiny. About the size of my hand, and leaning out of a birdbath. They jostled with each other to be furthest in front and flailed excitedly, as if to catch my attention, splashing foggy water like dry ice over a lake.

The entire scene was absurd. Everything was absurd. I don't know how long I sat there in the grass, laughing, but by the time I was finished it had turned to tears. I hiccuped and wiped my splotchy face. The little nightmares were still flailing, every bit as energetic as when I first saw them. But unlike with everything else, they didn't seem violent or malicious. If anything, these monstrosities genuinely felt benevolent. Well, if a person could be a monster, maybe a monster could be nice. After all, I'd never seen what Iosefka looked like. For all I knew she could be a grown-up version of these things. The thought drew another burbling giggle from me and I had to slap myself – hard – to stop from having another fit.

The creatures stopped, freezing in place. Then they clumsily imitated me, wetly smacking their own deformed faces. They kept slapping themselves, and I began to feel bad for them. Against my better judgment, to get them to hopefully stop, I approached the birdbath.

"What do you want?" I couldn't keep the whimper from my voice.

They looked up at me with those eyeless, hideous faces. Then all began jostling against each other, pushing and shoving. It reminded me of a comedy routine, the kind of thing you'd see if the Three Stooges performed in hell. Several sunk into the water and then arose bearing clothes. Clothes that were completely dry despite having been in a fucking birdbath. Don't question it, Taylor, I told myself. You have bigger problems. "Uh, thanks." The clothes were heavy, well-made. Maybe they'd provide some protection.

Another little horror dove into the water and returned with a burned, ratty and thoroughly ruined notebook – the moleskin kind. I accepted it with another tentative thanks. Then they started pulling more things but stopped. Not because they thought better of it, but it seemed like they were hindered – like a dog trying to get a big stick through a door. Most of them sank into the water and the one remaining began to flail more enthusiastically, like the inflatable men in front of used-car dealerships. It waved toward my right with such violence that I worried the little freak would fall out! I looked over and stifled a scream. They were coming out of the ground!

The tiny torsos swayed back and forth, floating in some sort of ethereal soup that replaced patches of ground. They waved what I was certain were weapons. Two firearms, a flintlock that looked straight out of a pirate movie and a flared blunderbuss; and three of what I could only guess were melee weapons: a crescent-headed axe, a cane with a hexagonal metal shaft, and some weird saw-toothed contraption with bandages wrapped around the handle. I reached to collect the flintlock and the ones holding the blunderbuss sagged, sinking lower. "Wait, I can only take one?" They churned and moaned in response, getting more active. Could they actually understand me? Well, since I still had no idea what was going on… "Which do you think is best?"

That started a full Moe Howard slap-fight. I began to giggle again, this time actually amused as they bopped each other and poked empty eye sockets. After a bit of squabbling, they seemed to come to an agreement and passed back three of the items. The cane, axe and blunderbuss sank back into the earth, while they proudly held forth the pistol and that freaky saw-thing. I stooped down and accepted the weapons. "Thank you. Now, you wouldn't happen to know how I get out of here, would you?"

They sank back into the ground, disappearing. Then I heard moaning again from behind me and to the right. The helpful little terrors flailed beside a gravestone, waving their stumpy fingers at it. I knelt down and touched the stone, feeling some sort of a connection. Then I pulled away, remembering the clothes. The new articles were thicker, maybe they'd help me survive this nightmare. "Wait here, please."

The cabin was locked, so no way inside. Still, the little blind things and I seemed to be the only people here. Pressing myself against the door to the cabin, I shimmied out of my clothes and put on the new outfit that was somehow sized for me. Long black pants, sturdy boots, a buttoned shirt and vest, a long ragged coat that hung to my calves… It was completed by a triangular little hat that reminded me of Robin Hood, and a set of armored goggles. I tried them on, and they were my prescription! "Not gonna question it."

I returned to the gravestone and placed my hand against it. I felt the world swim and fell into myself. My vision resolved in the dim gaslight of Iosefka's clinic, and below me a little creature floated in the floor, holding a strange lantern proudly. I stepped back up the stairs and knocked on the healer's door, hoping the beast hadn't gotten her. "Iosefka?"

Her voice came immediately, from directly on the other side. "Another full night's sleep in mere moments? I almost envy you, though getting trapped in Yharnam on the night of the Hunt is not an enviable position for anyone unfamiliar with things."

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Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Apr 27, 2022

#4

It took some time to discuss the idea with Iosefka that we'd already had this conversation, that I remembered her bidding me goodbye. Thankfully, with it established that I was somehow coming and going via my bed and sleeping in what was to her the blink of an eye, it wasn't too difficult for her to imagine that I somehow came back in time. It was passing strange, to use her term, but as someone from a world where capes frequently broke the rules of physics I didn't find it impossible.

"Iosefka? How do hunters fight beasts? I've managed to get my hand on a gun and some kind of saw thing."

She hummed and I could tell she must be tapping her chin. "I've not seen many hunters: where a hunter prowls, beasts lurk within the hearts of men. None of us want to imagine that the scourge has managed to take root within us, so we tend to avoid hunters when we can. I know that they are fast and agile. Rarely have I seen a hunter use a firearm, despite the fact that nearly all carry one. They prefer to use melee weapons. Perhaps beasts are resistant to bullets?" Now that was a scary thought.

"Alright," I said as I stood back up from where I'd been crouched. "Wish me luck."

"Blessings and luck be upon you," she chirped from behind the door, and I knew that it was more than a mere platitude: Iosefka was a good person, and she was genuinely praying for me. I'd need it.

My second encounter with the wolf started rather like the first, with me using the gurneys as rams to get it off-balance. When I managed to get it tangled in the workings of one after an attempted bear-hug, I ducked around the thing and began to hack into it. I held the awkward weapon in both hands, the long and narrow handle wrapped in dirty bandages. The saw blade hung in front, resting on a hinge somewhat like a folded straight razor – and razor was right, because the inner side of the weapon was sharp as well, a single cutting surface more like a razor or cleaver rather than the jagged saw of the outside. I brought the weapon down with a cry, wicked barbs tearing through the wolf's flesh. The creature still didn't move right, and that applied to the cuts. Its body seemed like a bag of gel squishing around a central axis, and the excess flesh moved back and forth almost like nothing inside the fur wrapping was attached.

Blood poured from the gash I rent in the creature and it ripped a claw free from the gurney's folding mechanisms to catch me across the chest. I'd been right that the new outfit was more protective – the coat was barely scratched, but the vest and shirt beneath had been shorn through. I could feel the air on my ribs, and I was relatively sure a lung had been punctured. I screamed as best I could and cut again, aiming for the shoulder. I needed to inject myself and heal, but if this thing could press its advantage I'd just end up dead. And since I counted four vials in my pockets, things I used didn't come back when I went back through time.

I swung in a heavy overhead arc, using myself as a fulcrum to bring the weapon down with as much force as possible and embed into the mass of muscle that was this monster's shoulder. Then I applied what little weight I had to wrench downward and drag the saw through its flesh and tendons. As its blood sloughed onto me, I felt a sensation similar to when I'd injected myself: not nearly as much of a high, but my wound was tingling as if it was healing. Was any exposure to blood here going to result in a healing effect? That worried me for if these monsters were to make me bleed: I didn't fancy them healing from my misery.

Revitalized at least a little, I danced away and injected myself with another of Iosefka's vials to fully close my chest wound. The wolf tore itself from the gurney and our fight began in earnest. I had virtually no experience, it had a gimpy arm and another bleeding wound. The fight was clumsy and undignified, with lots of swearing and shouting on my part. At one point the beast threw itself atop me and just tried to smother me with its barrel chest, and I had to beat against its sternum with my own forehead. Finally it collapsed and breathed no more, and I felt as much as saw and heard something traveling from the wolf into me. A high-pitched noise, a sort of misty air current, and the sensation of...heaviness, was the best way to describe it. As though I'd suddenly gained a load or a burden, but at the same time the kind of heaviness that one would experience in the bottom of their chest, resting against their spare ribs, after a particularly hearty meal.

Satisfied that I was no longer in immediate lethal danger, I settled down and began to experiment with my weaponry. In hindsight I should have done this in the misty place with the cabin, but I'd had a lot on my mind. I had a pistol, though it wasn't quite a flintlock. Not quite semi-automatic, either. I wasn't sure exactly how the weapon was loaded, but I could feel the weight in the butt of the gun and somehow intrinsically knew that it had five shots but could carry more. I didn't want to waste bullets, so I'd have to learn how this thing worked "on the job," as the saying went. The saw, on the other hand, was more interesting in that I could experiment with it without expending ammunition. There wasn't really enough of a gap between handle and inner blade to trap someone's head in there, so it probably wasn't for some weird ritualistic executions. As I ran my hands over the handle, my fingers found a lever hidden beneath the bandages on the inside curve of the handle and a depression like a button on the outer curve. Pressing one did nothing. Pressing both did nothing either, but as I held them down and moved the weapon around the striking end began to swivel. It was on a hinge! I swung the weapon and eased up on the button at the apex of the swing, and the weapon locked into a second form: a long glaive with a wickedly curved blade like an executioner's axe. While it wouldn't tear flesh as easily as the brutal saw, and this design really didn't seem like it was meant to utilize the saw when deployed, the added reach would be a big help. I'm tall for a woman, taller still for a teenage girl, but I'm not the size of a full-grown man nor did I have anywhere near the weight or muscle. Being able to swing a long weapon like this would give a lot of leverage and help me keep out of reach from many taller opponents.

If I had to fight for my life here in Yharnam, so be it. At least here I actually could fight back, rather than back home. Still, just like I'd given (was still giving, said a traitorous part of my mind) Emma a chance to come to her senses, I'd give these hunters a chance. They were still people, at least I hoped: they didn't deserve to die without the opportunity for peaceful resolution.

As I prepared myself to leave the clinic, something caught my eye: a slip of paper, or parchment, whatever, somehow immaculately resting on a stool, undisturbed by the carnage that had gone on around it. I poked it with the gun, worried it might bite me or something, before picking it up to read. Seek Paleblood to transcend the Hunt. Now what the hell did that mean?

I stepped out through the damaged gate and saw the same axeman patrolling. He turned and saw me, and I struck what I hoped was a serious and intimidating pose, pointing the end of the cleaver at him. "I'm no beast," I declared firmly. "My name is Taylor. I'm trying to find my way home. I don't want to fight you, but I will defend myself."

"Accursed monsters," he spat in return, dragging the axe more hurriedly as he lurched toward me. "Burn them all!" He waved that torch, and I swung before he could contort to launch his axe. Now either he was incredibly fragile or this cleaver was terrifyingly well-made, because the weapon bit in and took his arm clean off just above the elbow. I stared in disbelief, and the madman mirrored my expression for just a moment. He recovered more quickly, however, and let out a scream of pain and anger, canine gap-toothed mouth spraying spittle at me. I was still in disbelief: I'd actually maimed a person. His arm was on the ground. His stump was dripping blood. He was lunging forward, bending to the left, axe coming up and over.

I yelped and leapt back, the axe barely missing my leg. Instinct more than anything else saw me bring the weapon down on his neck, exposed by his lunge and shining in the dim evening light damp with sweat and no longer in the shadow of his hat. The cut was smooth once again, and his head rolled while his body collapsed, mouth still working for several seconds as he mouthed angry words. His unfocused eyes truly stared at nothing, body and jaw going limp. More of that current rushed into me, accompanied by the same high-pitched sound and feeling of weight.

I stared at the corpse, licking dry lips, blinking heavily. I didn't know how to feel, or what to feel about the fact that I didn't truly feel guilty. Part of me reiterated that this maniac was no longer a person anymore, that he was a dog-toothed monster who saw a little girl as something to kill. I also thought that he'd still been a human being.

Ultimately I couldn't stand there forever, beside broken horse-drawn carriages. One of them still had the horse attached to it, though the creature was long-dead and growing desiccated. More worrisome, now that I had time to look, was that the bricks just stopped. Not in a clean line, but as if they'd been broken off like balsa wood. What had clearly once been a road had been torn out of the earth and thrown away to God-knows-where, leaving a trench so deep I couldn't see the bottom. I didn't want to be anywhere near that trench, for fear that whatever had done that would come crawling up to greet me.

I headed up toward what looked like a main street, well-maintained, but saw more men patrolling. All hunched and wild-looking, probably insane. I didn't want to deal with them if I didn't have to. Cutting to the left, I knocked on doors to no response and stopped at a strange metal grating on the floor. Two slots led straight down into the dirt, and looking up I could see two rungs of a ladder. Was this some sort of Victorian fire escape? Could I get it down and climb up to the rooftops? That would be much better than risking life and limb down here.

A sharp pain bit into my back, spinning me around and interrupting my ruminations. Another man had snuck up on me, this one wielding a sickle! My back stung, the tip of the weapon having pierced through my coat and torn into my flesh – nearly severing my spine! The man looked rather like a coachman from the old period pieces, black coat and cheap top hat. He raised his sickle again and I shot him in the face. I surprised myself again, how well I'd been able to fire on reflex. But with literally inches between the barrel and his face once I'd raised it, it would have been nigh-impossible to miss.

The coachman staggered back, groaning and clutching his face, but wasn't dead or even laid out! Iosefka hadn't been kidding when she said beasts might be immune to bullets, and there was no doubt that these former men were now beasts. I brought the cleaver down in a high arc, shearing through his arm and splitting through his collarbone and ribs. He collapsed dead, I had to plant my foot on his chest to wrench the blade out of him, and still more of that essence, energy, whatever transferred from him to me. I really hoped that wasn't some sort of magic infection.

I took the time to explore this little section of street now, make sure nobody else was going to ambush me. Someone did, apparently having pretended to be a corpse. His animalistic snarl gave him away before he could surprise me, and I shot him before slicing him. It was smooth, almost easy, and on some level that frightened me even though I was thankful that I could defend myself. I was still killing, and the only thing keeping me on this tenuous side of sanity was that they weren't giving me a choice. Once no longer under immediate threat I spent some time trying to get the ladder down, but nothing worked. I even managed to peg it directly with a chunk of brick, but no dice.

Before heading down the main road, I opted to explore the other side alley. However, upon seeing a towering monstrosity easily eight feet tall, wider than some of the narrow brownstone houses, and wielding a polearm with a haft as thick as I was, I mentally declared Fuck all of that and chose to take my chances with the main road.

Once again, perhaps I should have kept with the first threat.

What caught my attention, even before the sheer number of madmen wandering the street, was the crucifixion in the center of the road. Two chunks of steel had been fastened together, and the corpse of a massive wolf-beast had been further lashed to the makeshift cross with metal wire. Flammable materials like hay and presumably oil barrels were clustered around the monster, and it was still alight. So these had been hunters, they'd been dealing with monsters. Then...what, they went crazy? They were infected? Something changed them from heroes to beasts themselves.

Savage barking, the click-click of claws on stone. Not the heavy thuds of the wolves, but actual dogs. Well, as close to dogs as these hunters were to men. These were horrid, mangy things, jaws hanging open unhinged like a snake or that Tasmanian tiger we'd read about in biology. They were slick with oil, blood and sweat. I had to dodge, throwing myself to the side and against yet another empty carriage to avoid one biting at my hip. I swiped at it with the cleaver but it was already out of reach, coming around for another bite.

I heard deep, moist chuckling from behind and above me. Another coachman was seated at the carriage, having faded into the darkness with his dark clothing. He aimed a rifle down at me and my world erupted into pain. However, despite having been shot in the face, I didn't die. I didn't even go down. No, that happened when the dog got me around the neck and two more came in to rip me apart.

(BREAK)

It took several tries to get through this main thoroughfare, during which I learned a few things.

First, twisted as these people were, they still had some semblance of human thought. They could plan, flank, and identify allies. They were also still proficient with firearms. I needed to keep moving and deal with them either as soon as they came or when an advantageous situation presented itself. They weren't smart enough not to gather in a row on narrow stairs, for example, and I could decapitate several at once.

Second, FUCK those dogs. They were incredibly fast and tenacious. I died to them more than to the men. Thankfully, they weren't nearly as bulletproof. My aim rapidly improved with moving targets on which to practice, and it became policy to just peg a charging dog rather than try cutting it.

Third, whatever I was absorbing didn't seem to be an infection. It also appeared to carry over through time, in a sense: whatever had killed me would be a little tougher the next time around, eyes glowing with what I could only describe as eldritch power. When I killed it, I'd take back everything I had accumulated from before my death.

I fought my way through the main road, dealt with a massive troll-like man who attempted to crush me, and through several derelict houses. I found people even further gone than the madmen, hairy half-wolves wielding farm equipment. I died to them a few times and learned that those ugly little things with the lanterns served as anchors: if I "lit" one by touching it, I'd come back there rather than at Iosefka's clinic. This was all very elaborate and none of it felt anything like a parahuman power. It felt like straight-up magic.

I found another lantern after ascending a ladder, beginning to realize just how built-up Yharnam was. In science fiction stories, the narrator would often talk about cities built on top of themselves, roads built over the old buildings and new structures built on top, stretching toward the sky. Yharnam was genuinely this. As I took stock of the sheer size and absurdity of this city, I noticed that there was actually light coming out from a window near me. I approached, ready to defend myself but hopeful that there was someone else out here, someone sane. With my pistol ready, I knocked on the window.

A wheezing voice responded. "Well now, a passerby who's actually polite?" He was interrupted from his thoughts by a wracking cough. "Will wonders never cease."

I smiled, shoulders sagging in relief. "You're the first person I've met who hasn't tried to kill me. Well, other than Iosefka."

I could hear the smile in his voice. "Ah, Iosefka, what a dear. Ah, but–" Another horrible cough. "But where are my manners? My name is Gilbert. An outsider much like yourself, judging by your accent. You must've had a fine time of it: Yharnam has a special way of treating guests."

Someone who understood! At least a little bit. I couldn't help the giddy, manic laugh that bubbled from my throat. "Y-yeah, it does. I'm Taylor. You know Iosefka?"

"A sweet woman who tried her best for me. I don't think I could stand if I wanted to, so forgive my manners for not coming to the window. I came to Yharnam looking for a cure in their miracle blood. It bought me time, but my end is still coming. But I'm willing to help, if I can." Another round of coughing. "This town is cursed. Whatever your reasons for coming here, you should make a swift exit. Whatever that can be gained from this place can only do more harm than good."

I leaned against the barred window and talked with Gilbert, discussing our homes and how I came to be here. He was intrigued by my explanation of waking up here every night, wishing blessings of his gods upon me that I might escape this nightmare. Over time, however, it became difficult for him to keep talking with his cough. "I suppose I should go," I said, reluctantly. "Is there anything I can bring you?"

I saw his silhouette shake its head in the distance, lit against the curtain by his lamp. "I stocked up with supplies once I realized I wouldn't have the strength to leave Yharnam. They'll last me weeks. I suppose, if you come by any good books you've no longer a need for, I could take them off your hands."

As I bid him goodbye, Gilbert spoke up one more time, fighting through his abused lungs. "L-listen! If your concern is somehow supernatural, as it seems to be, the best place to seek answers is in the Healing Church. They have many great scholars there, mysticists and archaeologists and others. Normally Cathedral Ward is off-limits, us outsiders and commoners kept here in the west, but tonight is the Hunt. Perhaps you can make it across the valley and find what you seek."

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Apr 27, 2022

#9

It should go without saying that Sophia didn't sleep well. She would awaken bolt-upright from nightmares of many-eyed monsters hungering for her blood, teeth and tongues and writhing limbs probing into her veins. She was so sleep-deprived that she didn't bother with her morning exercises, just staggering like a zombie (Like Hebert, her brain commented, causing her to at least straighten up and attempt to be awake) onto the bus.

The ride to school was noisier than usual, and not just because lack of sleep was making her sensitive to noise. Conversations were flying fast and furious, and nearly all of them focused on the same thing: "Did you see?" "Holy shit, who's this guy think he is?" "It was horrific!" "It was awesome!" "About goddamn time."

When Sophia demanded information, it was fucking Sparky of all people who answered her. Well, of course the oblivious twit would talk: somehow he hadn't figured out he was a loser no matter how many times she punched him. "Ho-ho-ho-lee shit, Soph–" the nickname made her eye twitch– "How have you not seen it? Somebody posted it to LiveLeak at like 4 AM!" He waited for her to ask what, and instead she just stared him down, growing steadily more pissed. "Somebody tore the hell out of an ABB warehouse. Just mowed through everybody in there – at least a dozen guys! Hell, I'll show you the vid later if you want. I posted it to another server cause I figured the LiveLeak one could get taken down."

"It happened here?" she asked. "Last night? Who did it?" A yawning pit in her stomach told her she already knew.

Sparky shrugged, sandy curls bouncing atop his head. "New cape. Dressed all old-timey. It's cell phone vid so not the best quality and all shaky, but it definitely wasn't anybody we know."

Oh god. Hebert had, what, whet her thirst with those two in the alley? Decided she liked Chinese and went out for more? She'd get questioned since Hebert goes to her school and Armsmaster would have that lie detector of his and they'd pack her up and send her to–

The bus jerked to a stop and her downward spiral paused. Hebert staggered onto the bus, looking as dead to the world as she had yesterday. The tall, pale girl trudged to an open seat and sat, staring off into nothing.

What. The. Fuck.

Hebert had killed two people last night. Sophia was positive that she'd killed more, at least a dozen according to Sparky. She'd snapped! So why was she back at school looking as beaten-down and lost as she had for the past month? It'd been nearly two months since they packed her into her locker, one since she started coming to school looking so messed-up,and still the lost lamb had done nothing in retaliation. None of this made any sense! Sophia gripped the bottom cushion until her knuckles turned pale and the cheap material began to fray. Despite the fact that he was looking right at her, Sparky didn't register any of the distress on Sophia's face and only continued talking. She looked back at him. "Y-yeah," she replied through suddenly dry lips. "If you can pull it up, maybe you can show me that vid during lunch."

She had to understand just what she was dealing with.

(BREAK)

In the interim, Sophia kept a wary eye on Hebert and remained what she hoped was out of lunging distance. She spent classes even more sullen and quiet than usual, wracking her brain for ideas. Something that workaholic little pest Vista brought up one time registered in her mind. In yet another attempt to impress the Protectorate and seem more grown-up, the girl had done extra research about various anomalous capes and was happily yammering about it to anyone stupid enough not to get gone. That had unfortunately included Sophia at one point, and she'd been forced to listen to the little blonde prattle on about a Breaker who suffered from dissociative identity disorder and transformed only when his other personality was dominant.

Was that the play here? Was Hebert crazy and flip-flopping between doormat and axe killer?

"You see it too, don't you?" A voice spoke, breath hot on her ear.

It took every bit of composure not to scream like a little girl, and it was that forced composure that kept her from whirling and striking the speaker. Instead she stiffened and then jerked around, looking up slightly at Sparky's other half, Greg fucking Veder. Unlike Sparky, whom she was pretty certain had some sort of mental disorder, Greg fully understood that Sophia hated him and would hurt him if she got the chance, so he stayed well away. That being the case, what was happening now!?

"Don't sneak up on me like that, you cunt!" she hissed as venomously as she could. "See what? Talk sense before I tear off your fucking balls!"

Greg looked past her, lowering his own voice to an almost inaudible level. "Taylor," he replied. "Nobody else seems to see it. Nobody but you and me. Something's wrong."

A lifeboat to a drowning woman. If Veder saw it too, perhaps he could be her angle to help report Hebert while keeping her own skin safe and attached firmly to her body. How much should she disclose already? "Y-yeah, something's really wrong. She doesn't feel right. Feels...dangerous. Like a school shooter."

"I don't think so," he said with surprising calm, eyes still looking past her to watch Taylor. "This isn't something so normal as that. I'm not sure what it is, which is why I haven't gone with a protocol."

And now he lost her. "...What?"

"Well, if it's an alien takeover and you enact zombie-apocalypse protocol, you're all clustered together and it can infiltrate all the better. Make you trust it, then bam, you're hooked up to a juicer for your water," he stated with as matter-of-fact a tone as a mechanic discussing common automotive issues. "And if you go with alien-infiltration protocol when it's a zombie apocalypse, then everybody's spread out and easy pickings for the zombies. Because why would you believe a possible pod person when they claim zombies are eating the neighbors? C'mon, Hess, keep up. This is basic stuff."

She punched him.

(BREAK)

It was easy enough to break off from the clique. She told Emma that Greg of all people might have info relevant to an investigation, so she was pumping him for info in plainclothes. Her number-one fan ate it up and was easily able to cover for her while Sophia chowed down on a granola bar and followed Greg and Sparks into the computer lab. The wet blanket that was Mrs. Knott was happy to let "two good boys" like them borrow a computer for the period, though she pointedly didn't mention Sophia. Well, Knott did always seem to like Hebert.

Sophia hadn't explained exactly why she wanted to see this video other than simple curiosity, but Greg was practically glued to her at this point and she had a sneaking suspicion that he had a sneaking suspicion that the video somehow had something to do with Hebert.

The curly-haired boy's fingers danced across the keyboard, logging himself in as wsparks and then pulling up the video. He kept the volume muted but whispered the opening description as the shaking camera moved in toward a window. "So he's saying he heard gunfire and screaming so is going to spy. Fuckin' moron but thank God, this footage is gold."

Through the smoke-stained window, a scene of absolute carnage unfolded. Several corpses already lay mutilated, hacked apart and one with the head blown open by a large-caliber round. The cape moved between the remaining gangsters, flowing with supernatural speed and agility. Tall and lithe, clad in a long and ragged gray coat and Victorian-style clothing that included a fucking suit-vest, a little triangular hat, and goggles; the cape wielded an old-fashioned (Revolutionary War-level old fashioned) pistol in her left hand and a freaky glaive in her right. And between the long black ringlets trailing behind the cape and Sophia's mind connecting the wicked weapon to the dull metal she'd seen the previous night, there was no doubt that the cape was female: she was certain it was Hebert.

The camera jerked, trying to follow the fight. Rolling and weird shuffle-steps carried the cape multiple body-lengths across the blood-splattered concrete floor and she swung her weapon up, lopping off a shooter's arm before simply letting the heavy weapon drop and embed the saw teeth on the backside of the blade into his neck. She leaned into the blood spray, letting it spatter her face. Sophia could just imagine a satisfied smile spreading across Hebert's wide mouth. She took gunfire, not much as she was literally dodging bullets, but the shots that did hit the cape did little to nothing. At one point something flickered and Sophia hated the low resolution of the video because she was pretty certain that was a bullet falling out of Hebert's arm. Once everyone in the warehouse was dead, the cape calmly looked around to make sure nobody was moving, and then exited as if it was just a day at the office – as if being literally slathered in blood was something completely normal. The cameraman, finally having a modicum of sense, took off running in the other direction.

Mary, mother of God… Sophia felt sick, and not just from fear. From envy. She'd managed to cripple more than a dozen thugs and killed five before the Protectorate finally caught up to her and put her on a leash. Even then, it felt like she had never really done enough. In just one night Hebert had depopulated an entire warehouse. The ABB would change their entire operations as a result. Hebert did more to frighten the gangs in a single night than Sophia had her entire career. It was galling. It was frightening. It was humbling. It was...it was kind of hot, and she didn't enjoy learning that about herself.

The boys bid Mrs. Knott goodbye and Sophia gave a halfhearted wave, sinking back to speak with Greg. "Can Sparks keep a secret?"

"Only secret he's ever been able to keep is his first name. Not telling you what it is, by the way," he responded.

"Right, then we need to ditch him. You're the only one who's noticed, so you're the only one–" The words stuck in her craw, even when she was trying to bullshit. "...The only one I can trust with this."

"Catch up with you later, Sparky," Greg called. His friend waved and kept going. It was that easy. They went up to the third floor, loitering near the western bathrooms. Nobody came over there anymore. "Alright, what do you know? Because it seems you know more than me. Well, not about how to save your ass in an apocalypse, but still."

She held up a threatening fist again, then decided to let it go for now. She needed to use him, and that would get harder the more she slugged him. "I followed Hebert last night. She was acting suspicious, more than usual. She went downtown, hit up an ABB convenience store. Bought a fuckload of energy drinks – the kind that warn you not to drink more than two in a day. Downed them all. I waited for hours for her to do something, because you know the moment you get bored and give up is when something happens." Establish a reason for her to have been there so long, rather than letting his imagination play havoc with why she'd be so good at a stakeout. "Then two ABB fucks go collect their protection money. They rough up the clerk, have a good time. She follows them. Bitch is silent. She gets loud and lures them into an alley."

Sophia paused for dramatic effect. "I heard screams, and hacking noises like you hear at a butcher shop. When I peeked into the alley, both of the guys were dead, split open. I couldn't see clearly what weapon Hebert was holding, but she was licking the blood off herself. And now, seeing that video, I'm pretty certain that was the same weapon, and Hebert was that cape."

"Jesus," Greg said, eyes wide. Good, she had him. "We have to help her," he stated with a resolute tone.

"F-fucking what?"

"I've heard that powers can do things to you. Like Burnscar, she goes crazier around fire. Or Narwhal, who turned into some weird exhibitionist." The first was true and on record. The second...the fuck, Greg? "Taylor's not like that. She's not a violent person. Hell, she takes everything you give her even though now we know she could kill all of you without blinking." It shoved a white-hot poker into Sophia's pride that she couldn't refute his assertion. Even with her powers, she probably couldn't take a regenerator that brutal.

"Whatever's happening to her," Greg declared, "it's hurting her. That's why she always looks so tired. We need to figure out what's doing it, and how we can help. Because Taylor doesn't deserve this." He looked her up and down, critically. "And for your angle, you don't want a psycho killer cape to get bored playing with gangs and eventually come for you and your posse, do you?"

Fuck it. I need info. If I need to play Little Miss Kumbayah for the moment… "No, I suppose I don't. Okay, Greg, it's your show."

Last edited: Apr 27, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Apr 29, 2022

#29

Monday came, and with it came the abuse. Body-checked in the halls, mostly by Sophia and a few other girls but even some of the bigger suck-ups among the guys got into it if there were enough popular-girl witnesses and not too many otherwise. I guess they were still afraid of getting in trouble for being guys hitting a girl. Glue on my seat – classically Madison, a stupid and childish prank. I simply tore two pages out of my binder and laid them over the glue. If there was one thing that killing and being killed night after night did for me, it was to give me perspective on how overwhelmingly petty these little actions were. Sophia's hits didn't hurt so bad now that I knew the pain of having my throat torn out, my bones split apart. They still bruised, and knocked the air from my lungs, but they didn't stop or really even slow me.

Before, I would trudge through school because I was so beaten-down. Now, with a better understanding of just how much worse things could be, and not in the ephemeral 'I see other people in pain' way but actually having experienced such hardship, I trudged simply because I was too tired to do anything else. I slept, but it wasn't exactly restful. Oh, my body got all the sleep it needed. When I examined myself in a mirror I looked healthier than I had in a year. But emotionally and mentally I was drained to a level that rivaled the immediate aftermath of my mother's death. I answered questions when called upon, not caring enough to raise my voice above an even monotone.

"Oh Taylor!" A sickly-sweet voice interrupted my transition from one classroom to the next. Emma was there, affecting a cartoonish level of friendship and familiarity, flanked by several of her hangers-on. Julia, I think, was the brunette's name. I couldn't place the stocky blonde who looked like she'd have a good career bouncing nightclubs later in life.

"How've you been?" Emma continued. "We've all been so worried about you, since your stay in the hospital. With how you came out of that locker, I thought you'd end up in the psych ward. If you're not feeling alright, a little screw-loose, it's okay to check yourself in. I'm sure your dad will be able to deal with losing you too."

If she only fucking knew. I had a lot of things that I might have wanted to say to her. I wanted to convey just what I'd been suffering, to make her understand the horrors I'd witnessed, that I'd been party to. If I could take her by the head, pin her against the wall and work my tongue through the seam between her eye and its socket I would translate the darkest recesses of my mind directly into her thoughts. Instead my response came in the form of a sharp, braying bark of a laugh, eyes jerking open so wide that I worried they'd pop out of my head. Before anything else could happen, I shouldered through the gap between maybe-Julia and Blondie. Weirdly, they didn't stop me, nor did they follow.

A few more hits and idle comments as the day wore on. I was a junkie, I was a whore, I was giving Mrs. Knott sexual favors for preferential treatment. That last one got me a bit steamed, the heavyset older woman was the only teacher here who was somewhat decent. Still, I was just too exhausted to do anything about it even if I knew what to do. I had no idea how to navigate this sort of social situation. All I'd learned to do was to fight, and I wasn't properly equipped for mortal combat in the Winslow halls. Besides, these were just stupid kids, not bestial monstrosities: they didn't deserve their lives ended for the sake of my ego.

Once home, I puttered around until Dad came home and we had TV dinner. I was even less talkative around him than usual. It was bad enough when I was just covering up my bullying and Emma's betrayal. I feared the revelation would break him again and he'd never put himself back together. The only thing worse than an absent parent was a missing one, and without him I'd be homeless and subject to the predations of the Brockton Bay foster-care system. Foster care produced a lot of villains, and considering the state of the Bay I suspected it was worse than the norm.

Now I was also hiding from him that his daughter was either insane or traveling to a nightmare world when she slept. If he couldn't do anything about the bullying and abuse, then he was even more powerless to deal with a threat he couldn't even physically affect, something where he couldn't even travel. We exchanged empty pleasantries over microwaved meatloaf. I felt as alone as I had in front of Iosefka's door as I heard her footsteps echo away from me.

(BREAK)

I didn't want to sleep that night. I definitely didn't want to travel to Yharnam. But my pacing soon slowed and my limbs became too heavy. I couldn't keep myself awake: it physically hurt to do so. And unlike in Yharnam, I didn't care to see what happened if I died here. So reluctantly I climbed into bed. When my head hit the pillow, the world dimmed.

My eyes opened at the gentle scent of flowers. I still didn't understand how they smelled like moonlight, but it was the only conclusion I could draw. I sat up from where I'd been rested on a bench and looked around. The cabin was open. If there was someone else here… Fear gripped me. I didn't have a good record with strangers in Yharnam. I gripped my pistol and saw, and headed toward the cabin.

The first thing I noticed was how tiny it was. A cramped interior, barely enough room to move, with several desks and what looked like two workbenches. And all over the floor, piled to heights that rivaled my 5'9", were stacks of books. Leave it to me to notice the books before the inhabitant. Facing away from me, slumped in a chair, was a man. The top of his hat poked out above the high, ornate back of his wheelchair.

Wheelchair Man! I stalked closer, trying to keep my steps silent. I wanted to be within striking distance before I confronted this bastard, interrogated him as to why he did this to me. My coat caught one of the piles of books, which scattered to the floor. The man moved slowly, almost lazily, unafraid. As he turned, I realized this was not the Wheelchair Man. Wheelchair Man had a face broader than it was tall, with a wild scraggly beard and full apple cheeks. His lips spread easily into a wide, frog-like smile with a mouth packed full of too many crooked yellow teeth all jostling with each other for position. His skin was flush with life and his clothing, including the bandages over his eyes, was dirty and greasy.

The man seated before me radiated an aura of sadness, an abyss so deep that just looking at him made my own pains feel almost selfish. He was sallow, almost gray in coloration, with limp hair gathered beneath a pitiable top hat. His mouth was narrow and set at the bottom of his long jaw, resting in a morose line that suggested he didn't know what a smile was. His eyes were deep and soulful, and it hurt to look into them.

"Ah," he spoke, and his voice was soft, almost soothing despite the pain lingering at the back of his words. "You must be the new hunter. Welcome to the Hunter's Dream. This will be your home, for now." He opened his mouth to speak further but my questions wouldn't permit it.

"None of this makes sense!" I cut him off. "I come here when I sleep and now you tell me this is a dream? Then what the fuck is the rest of Yharnam!? Where the fuck is Yharnam? What's going on? What is this Hunt? And what do YOU know about it!?" My breath was coming in ragged heaves, and at some point I'd shoved the pistol into his face.

The man looked up at me with those sad, tired eyes. I stepped back, feeling guilty for having gotten so aggressive. His clothing was homemade but well-kept, hand stitched and many rips sewn back together. His right leg was missing at some point, likely below the knee, as a peg rested on the wheelchair's footrest. "I am Gehrman," he said at length. "A...friend to you hunters. Seems you're in a fine haze right about now, young lady. I suggest you don't think too hard about it. Just go out and kill some beasts. It's for your own good, you know: it's what hunters do! You'll get used to it."

"No." My voice was firm. "Iosefka, Gilbert, they didn't know what's going on here. In Yharnam. Fuck, whatever. You know more. And I want answers!" I brandished the saw threateningly. Gehrman only briefly looked at the weapon before turning his gaze back to me. "Why am I coming here? Why do I come here when I sleep? How…" My voice hitched. "How can I get out of this nightmare?"

His eyes softened and, for a brief moment, I could swear I saw tears welling. They were gone and his stare was once again the gentle blank as before, the transition so quick I questioned whether I'd seen anything at all. "One side, lass, and follow me." He rolled forward and I had to get out of the way or get my feet run over. His chair bobbled on the stone steps but Gehrman kept perfect balance, even bobbing his head to keep his hat safely perched. He pulled into the grass before the birdbath. The old man took a deep breath. "It's nice to have fresh air in your lungs for a talk like this. For a given value of fresh, at least." He looked up at me. Gehrman must have been tall: he didn't have to look up terribly far despite being seated. "I doubt that I can tell you nearly as much as you think I can, but I'll explain what little I am able."

I steadied myself. It wouldn't do to get angry at someone who was offering to help, even if I wanted more than he could give. I asked about the Hunt. Gehrman explained about the beastly scourge, how it had almost killed the city-state of Yharnam once before and hunters were licensed by the Church to pursue corruption. He spoke of the ashen-blood plague and how those cured often became beasts.

On the subject of the Hunter's Dream, he was more cagey. It was some manner of anchor, letting exceptional hunters survive death and learn from their mistakes. When I asked if it was some sort of precognizance effect, he scratched his head. "Child, you're not seeing the future, you're living the present. You just get the chance to try again." So it was time travel. "What does time matter in a Dream?"

I could tell I wasn't getting anywhere with this line of questioning. All of his answers were so vague and esoteric, but I couldn't say anything was a lie. Finally I asked what he meant by this being my home for now. I didn't want to live anywhere in or adjacent to the hell that was Yharnam.

"This was once a haven for hunters," he replied, leading me to wonder why it was 'once' such, "a workshop where hunters used blood to enhance their weapons and flesh. Until you find a way out of this Dream, you're welcome to rest your head here. We don't have as many tools as we once did, but you're welcome to use whatever you find or bring back. Even the doll, should it please you." My first instinct was to be offended, but for the first time I saw an expression on his lips. One corner of his mouth was curled in the approximation of a wry smirk, the type seen on a person who's just made an inside joke he thinks is funny.

I decided to take the bait. "What would I use the doll for? Art? I don't exactly have the means to paint a portrait."

"Oh, I have no doubt you could find a means to bring the proper equipment back here. But as for your question, can you not…? Hm, how interesting." Gehrman looked me up and down again. "Forgive an old man's lack of propriety, lass. All this time and I've not asked your name."

"It's Taylor. Taylor Hebert." I stalked back up the steps to the cabin. "Come on." Gehrman followed, bemused. I pulled out a roll of parchment from one of the stacks against the wall. "Do you have a pen?" This kicked off a little search.

"I haven't had someone send me on a fetch errand in a long time," Gehrman commented. "It's almost refreshing."

At last we found a pen, an actual iron-gall fountain type, and I put Gehrman to work drawing a map of Yharnam as best he knew it. I really didn't want to wander around that hellhole lost and confused any more than I already have.

"Why couldn't you have just listened to me and gone out to kill beasts?" the old man grumbled goodnaturedly. "That's the problem with the youth: no respect for their elders. Least that's what my father used to say."

His penmanship was impeccable and the little sketches he made of landmarks were the kind of thing you'd see in the old masters' collected works. Perhaps I'd see about getting ahold of paints after all, just not for myself. "Say, Gehrman, could I take a book or two off your hands? I have a friend who'd really appreciate some new reading material."

(BREAK)

I knocked on Gilbert's window again. "Hey Gilbert. I hope you're not napping. I brought you a book, if you can take it."

A soft laugh turned into a hacking cough. "From my only friend who can still visit me? How could I refuse? My door around the corner has a mail slot. Slip it through there: I have a little system set up to grab things just in case, though this is the first time I'll make use of it."

I pushed the book through the slot and heard it land with a soft clatter, then other noises of wood skidding across wood. I went back to the window just in time to hear another laugh.

"How to Pick Up Fair Maidens? Taylor, I'm not certain if–" He was interrupted by a cough that lingered. "...Not certain if this is an indictment of my personal charisma or a vote of confidence that I'll improve. Either way, though my lungs don't thank you, I needed that laugh."

(BREAK)

The way Gehrman described it, there was a massive bridge that led directly into Cathedral Ward. Normally the doors were shut and only opened on orders, but there was a good chance the doors would be unmanned or even left open due to how frenzied the hunters were. Each time I got the chance, when enemies were dead, I'd unroll the map and study it to figure out where the hell to go next. It was anything but a straight shot, many doors barred and elevators non-functional. I was honestly surprised at the elevators even being a thing. My journey took me past more of those big troll-people, more deformed wolves, plenty of mad hunters, and even freaky crows that undulated on the ground and made the most horrific noises when they flapped through the air. They didn't really fly, just fluttered and wailed on anything in their reach. It was both terrifying and embarrassing when one almost killed me, tearing huge rents in my face and arms.

Between deaths, Gehrman taught me to harvest additional blood vials from fallen enemies. I was understandably leery about using blood from deformed monsters, but he promised me (just like Iosefka) that the treatment process would make the blood subsume into mine rather than mutating me. Since it was either take blood or face a guaranteed death – and, according to Gehrman, such a lack of progress would see me trapped here forever, I really only had the one option.

The final stretch to the bridge was beyond brutal. Two of those wolves, a troll, crows and a few hunters all gathered on the bridge. Like they were purposely blocking my way. I leapt, rolled, dodged between claws and teeth, felt them shear through my flesh. I bit back with saw and pistol, hacking through them and coating myself in their blood to heal myself. I was a woman possessed. I could see the massive walls, the enormous double-doors. The bridge gate was right there, and my answers were on the other side.

A scream rent the air, the sound of a woman being pulled apart. It came from the other side of the doors. Great, more bastard hunters to fight.

Then it leapt over the wall.

It leapt in a single bound over a three-story wall, only using its claws to help it pass over. It was massive, gray and shaggy, humanoid only in that it had two legs and stood upright. At least ten feet tall, probably bigger given that it was crouched. Its right arm looked more human, covered in only a short layer of fur, while the left scraped the ground and bristled with long clumps of hair like the rest of its body. The head was longer than a dog's skull should be and boasted massive antlers. Its ribcage burst open, splitting through its fur, leaning outward like an additional set of teeth. It screamed.

The sound of a woman being torn apart, that sound ripped forth from the monster's throat! I actually staggered back, both in fear and worry. It sounded in such pain, so frightened. Was this a monster I needed to kill? Did...did it need help? It saw me and bounded forward, smashing its fists into the brick where I had just been.

Alright then.

I ducked between its legs, sawing at its hamstrings. I kept to its blind spots, back and right whenever I could manage, away from that giant left arm. It swung and spun, moving far more like a person than I liked. It clawed, sure, but the actions seemed like what a person would do if he (she?) found himself with a claw. Far too often it punched, or slammed a fist down, or grabbed at me. It got me around the ankle and slammed me over the edge of the bridge, folding me in half. I felt my ribs and spine snap and if it weren't for Iosefka's special blood vial I think I would have died there. I recovered the rest of the damage by hacking into the creature as it screamed and screamed.

Finally it clutched its head, pulling at the antlers, letting out one last scream. Dropping to its knees, the beast slumped forward and went still. Then it dissolved, dissipating into fog. Something glittered where the creature had been, and I plucked from the brickwork a strange sharp cross-shaped charm on a chain.

I went to the doors and pushed. They didn't budge. I beat on them, smashed the saw into them, shot the doors. I yelled for anyone on the other side to hear me, not that it would do any good. I was so close, the people who could actually give me answers were just on the other side of these metal doors! I swung the glaive again and again, bouncing off the reinforced barrier. I slammed my fists into the wood and metal.

"No! No! They're right there! On the other side! I need to get out! I can't stay here!" I wiped at my eyes as tears spilled down into the face covering I wore to protect myself from stray fur and other debris. "Please! Anyone! I don't care! Come try to eat me! Just open these doors!" I slumped against the recalcitrant doors, my goal only feet away yet I was unable to reach it.

The next scream that shook the night was my own.

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Apr 29, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Apr 29, 2022

#49

When Sophia awoke, she discovered a text on her work phone – thankfully only sent about an hour ago, so she wouldn't have to worry about getting chewed out by Piggy or Armsmaster. After all, she hadn't been scheduled for work until the evening on this particular Saturday, so excuse the shit out of her for getting some much-needed rest.

Meeting scheduled for 10 AM, the message read, to discuss new parahuman. Attendance not mandatory but recommended.

Shit, Hebert's little rampage had gotten her on the PRT's radar sooner than Sophia would have liked. Thankfully her lethality would mean they'd want the Wards far away, as if they didn't face deadly opponents on the regular here in Brockton Bay, so it would hopefully still give her time to either find a deadly weakness in Hebert or, as Greg favored, save her somehow.

Checking her clock, Sophia found that it was a little after 8. She'd ended up sleeping in two hours today, but she couldn't say it was unnecessary. She'd been drained after the whole Hebert revelation, much less having to deal with Veder. She did her basic exercises in her room to loosen and wake up her muscles, then opened up her laptop to check PHO. The thread about the new cape's bloody debut had more than tripled in length, and when Sophia clicked on it she found out why.

The OP had edited his post to include a new link: the cape – Hebert – had struck again. This time an Empire-connected shipping yard closer to the trainyards. Nine deaths this time, but the more important thing was that since the location was technically a legitimate business it had security cameras. Someone had gotten access to and shared the footage, which was far better quality than the cell video. Obviously it couldn't be posted directly to PHO but simple mention of LiveLeak made it easy to open a new tab and search it up.

The video seemed inordinately long until Sophia realized it was each of the cameras' feeds linked in turn. Whoever put this together was probably an employee, someone with access to the data but no real knowledge of how to edit it, so just slapped them together starting with Hebert's first appearance.

It opened with the girl vaulting the chain-link fence, stalking forward with back bent, much like how Sophia had caught Hebert moving at school when she thought people weren't looking. In the girl's left hand was that same pistol, but in her right was something different. Much smaller than the last weapon, Hebert was holding a jagged dagger. Bit of a downgrade, in Sophia's opinion. The cape stalked past the camera and Sophia had to fast-forward to when Hebert came back into frame, chasing down a fleeing skinhead. A dagger was held in each hand and she swung them inward like scissors, biting deep into his back and neck. Blood sprayed and he went down. She twisted to avoid gunfire and leapt back out of the picture, then finally returned to smoothly climb back over the chain fence and leave.

The next camera was the primary view of the yard, stocked with containers and concrete slabs for transport, with several members of Empire 88 present. Sophia counted seven rather than nine, so the other two must have been milling around somewhere else. The rest of the footage was basically pure violence lit primarily by the large yellow moon, Hebert leaping into action and carving one man from throat to groin. Once the others closed in on her, armed with guns and knives and bats, she holstered the pistol and grabbed the dagger with both hands, unfolding and snapping free a second blade from the first. From there she moved with a flowing, spinning grace that reminded Sophia of the Empire's own cape Cricket, slicing open each of her targets and taking just enough time to get herself coated in their blood before moving on.

Regret pooled in Sophia's stomach, making her sick. This was the kind of fighter, the kind of hunter that she could admire. If she hadn't spent the past year making Hebert's life miserable, she could have spent more time away from the Wards learning tricks of the trade from this goddess of death.

When time rolled around to get ready for the meeting, Sophia told her mother she had a briefing at "work," having to be more surreptitious since Naomi was still around. With one bump to jostle her little sister and hopefully add progress to toughening the girl up, so nothing like what happened to Sophia would ever happen to Naomi, the elder Hess daughter headed out to catch transport to the Rig.

(BREAK)

Most cities had the same general setup: PRT building in one area, which served more as the PR branch of PRT complete with tours and a gift shop, and an armed and armored Protectorate base from which both heroes and PRT troopers would deploy. The PRT building itself had troopers and its own armory, but nothing to the scale of the Protectorate base. Here in Brockton Bay the Protectorate base was virtually an unassailable fortress. The Rig was indeed a modified oil rig, typically docked in the middle of the Bay as a symbol to criminals: we can see you, but you can't reach us. In bad storms it would drift to one side of the Bay or the other and dock with solid ground to gain the protection of wave-breakers, and its primary means of access was a forcefield bridge which could be turned off at any time. Of course, with how rampant crime was in Brockton Bay, all too often the Rig was seen by the public as a sort of distant castle in which the lords sheltered away while their fiefdom fell apart more by the day.

The rest of the Wards were already there, Gallant having beaten Sophia to the Rig by mere minutes. Since this was just a briefing, most of them were in simple domino masks rather than full costume, and much as he annoyed the shit out of her with his fake goody-goody routine Sophia had to admit to herself that Dean was damn good-looking. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, perfectly coiffed hair. But something about him always rubbed her the wrong way, more so than the average that almost everyone did to her.

Clockblocker sat beside him, Dennis having donned his full-face mask. Sophia didn't understand how it worked, but when he wore the full suit all the clocks ticked in real time and showed various time zones around the world. With just the mask, his face was frozen at 3:07. Dennis was thin, almost worryingly so for those nutritionists who were assigned to the Wards, though he preferred to call himself wiry. His shock of slightly-curled red hair was hidden beneath his mask.

Carlos, Aegis, stood at parade rest like the noble leader he so desperately wanted to be. The only one who took herself more seriously was Vista, and Sophia had the same response to both of them: grow the fuck up. They were so desperate to be treated like adults that they ended up acting like children playing at adulthood. Carlos was broad-shouldered and strong, the classic superhero look with a lot of meat and muscle on him, but so much of that was his power letting him cheat or cheating for him.

Chris was scribbling notes and muttering to himself, having to scratch out what he wrote most of the time. Dumbass couldn't even do math right, so it was no surprise he wasn't a particularly impressive Tinker. His blond hair sat atop his head in tight curls and today reminded Sophia of Sparky, leading her to wonder what was in the water that she knew two curly-haired nerds with brain problems.

Finally was– No, wait, Browbeat was in the corner too. For such a big guy he was easily forgettable. Testing said Luke didn't have a Stranger power, the guy just had no presence at all and faded into the background like a houseplant. Image had given him a dark-green bodysuit with heavy plating and a dour mask reminiscent of a Greek god and people still forgot he was even on the scene.

Vista was last, and Missy seemed angry with herself that she couldn't stop bouncing with excitement. The tiny girl, small even for her age, loved getting new intel. It made her feel grown-up. How fucking pathetic. You're only a kid once: why would Missy want to throw that away? It pissed Sophia off to the point where she often wanted to throttle the girl. How often had Sophia wished she could go back to before that first night when… How often had she wished to go back and be a kid again? And here was this girl all too eager to throw away her childhood when she still had the chance to be a kid.

The staff entered and today it was Armsmaster, PRT Captain Anders (no relation to the Medhall Anderses, sadly for his pocketbook), and another no-name and no-chin analyst that Sophia reflexively dubbed Melvin in her mind.

The Protectorate hero began the presentation while Melvin prepped the projector and screen. "I'm sure you all can guess the reason for this meeting. If you've been on PHO at all you're likely aware of the newest parahuman in Brockton Bay." The projector clicked, showing a sanitized close-up of Hebert. Triangular little hat perched on her head, long hair flowing from where it was gathered in a loose ponytail, cloth pulled up over her mouth and brass-fitted goggles covering her eyes. Only a little bit of blood splatter was visible. "We've been forced to fast-track this meeting after this second massacre, since it's clear that he or she is not going away. Brockton Bay has a new villain."

Despite herself, Sophia raised her hand. "Hasn't he–" she made sure to use 'he' to hopefully obfuscate, "just killed criminals? Why villain and not vigilante?" On some level it made sense for her to ask that, considering her own history. But to Sophia, it was a strange question that she couldn't help but ask. Why was she asking? Wouldn't labeling Hebert as a villain be better for her?

Anders stepped in. "The sheer brutality and the fact that he wasn't apprehending people in commission of a crime, but hunting down people who weren't actively engaging in criminal activity. These were massacres, executions if you want to stretch the definition."

"The new cape, current designation Bloodmoon," Armsmaster smoothly picked up the thread from Anders, "is high-priority. This level of lethality hasn't been seen since the debuts of Oni Lee or Hookwolf. As such, Wards will all be issued additional con-foam grenades. Your standing orders, should you sight Bloodmoon, are to disengage and leave while drawing as little attention as possible. Should you be pursued, use the grenades to either attempt to entangle the cape or block pursuit like with an alleyway. Mr. Fulton will tell you more, but Bloodmoon is resilient enough to endure anything you can likely throw at him and I don't want any close-range engagement even if you could theoretically take him out of the fight." His gaze turned demonstrably toward Clockblocker, who swallowed thickly and nodded. The entire time Melvin had been clicking through still images, either zoomed in or photoshopped to get rid of the majority of blood and viscera, shots of Hebert – Bloodmoon – in action.

Fulton (Sophia was still calling him Melvin) spoke up next. "With the strength to hack people apart and the resilience to take gunshots and survive – the latest video even shows bullets falling out of him – Bloodmoon is most definitely a Brute. Perhaps not the highest level, but when combined with the superhuman speed and agility of a Mover who can dodge bullets it becomes far more dangerous. And that's not even addressing the specialized weaponry, which is almost certainly Tinkertech. Whether Bloodmoon is a full grab-bag with a minor Tinker aspect or has some sort of backer, the point is that he's equipped with esoteric and exceedingly dangerous weaponry. Current weapons include a large-caliber pistol loaded with rounds we're still analyzing, a long weapon that we can only describe as a saw-backed glaive, and this latest weapon that's some kind of paired daggers."

Anders piped up next. "But perhaps the most worrying aspect is that we're assigning Bloodmoon a Stranger rating. A person slathered in blood, dressed like that and carrying obvious weapons, disappears into the night. Already unlikely but possible. However, he also confounds Protectorate Thinkers. Our best answer came from Hunch, who simply said 'Nightmares'. Everyone else has ended up with a headache or full migraine. With an inability to predict or easily analyze his motives, we're labeling him a villain for rules of engagement."

"So," Dennis couldn't help himself, "why the name Bloodmoon? It's pretty ominous and a bit more dramatic than we normally like to assign to villains, isn't it?"

Armsmaster nodded. "For ease of remembrance, to reinforce just how dangerous this new cape is, and the main reason is that both massacres thus far have involved bloodletting to a frankly ridiculous degree while the full moon was in the sky."

The briefing went on until almost noon, discussing revised patrol routes as well as what to look for in case of potential escalation by the gangs. Both E88 and ABB were likely to blame the other for the attacks, perhaps even look to the Merchants as a third-party source of the violence through a new trigger or hired mercenary, and any of the gangs might launch new attacks to probe their opposition for weakness in light of the loss of manpower.

Once the meeting was over, Sophia checked her personal phone. No texts from Emma, understandable since she'd told the redhead she had a meeting. A couple memes and a cat video from the other girls. What stood out, though, was a message from her newest contact. Greg Veder wanted her to come over to his place.

(BREAK)

Why did I ever decide to do undercover work? That thought radiated through Sophia's mind as she put on her best fake smile. Mrs. Veder was like her son, lanky and a bit doughy, standing about Sophia's height with frizzy brown hair. Her blue eyes were bright and her smile was so obnoxiously genuine it made Sophia want to punch her. "It's always good to meet more of Greg's friends. For a while I was worried Sparky would be the only one who'd visit. The boy's a sweetheart but I worry he's not entirely all there."

"I know what you mean," she grunted. "And no offense intended but I don't know if Greg and I count as friends yet. We're working on this project together but we haven't really hung out before now."

Mrs. Veder patted her hand. "Aw, well you seem like a nice girl. Just give Greg a little patience – he's at that age where he has to share everything about what he likes with everyone – and I'm sure you two will be fast friends."

Greg came downstairs and gave his mom a casual hug like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Hey Mom. Hey Sophia. So I think I've got everything set up, come have a look and tell me what you think." He turned back to his mother. "Is it alright if we head up?"

She affectionately waved them off. "I'll make some sandwiches for a late lunch. You two have fun and don't get up to any trouble!"

Following him upstairs, Sophia noted that Greg seemed to take his build entirely from his mother. Well, she hadn't met Greg's father who was still out with friends, but both Veders she'd met shared the same thin and lanky build but were soggy around the midsection. Greg was taller than his mother, taller than Sophia, maybe a little shorter than Hebert. His own brown hair was straight, though mussed and unkempt.

Once they were inside Greg's room, the boy went to his closet and took out two slats of pegboard, unfolding them and resting them against the wall. The weird bastard had made his very own conspiracy board, complete with red string and pushpins. He looked damn proud of it, too.

At the center of the board, in lieu of a picture, he'd written TAYLOR on a piece of paper. Most of the other images were stock photos or pictures downloaded from the internet. This included the formal logo for E88, a picture of ABB graffiti, and plenty of horror-movie images.

"So this latest video clinches it: I think we can take zombies off the board." Greg sounded a bit disappointed as he unwound the string from the pin holding a miniature Night of the Living Dead poster to the board. "She's definitely not a classic zombie despite the proclivity for blood and gore, and not a rage zombie either with how she behaves in class. My last thought was something like the iZombie comic, but unless she's been snacking entirely on the brains of depressive types we should have seen some random mania in her behavior.

"Aliens, too, I think are less and less likely. A full alien invasion obviously isn't happening, and on further consideration infiltration doesn't make much sense due to who Taylor is: usually you want someone more popular or at least not a social pariah, so you can lure more people in to get pod person'd."

Sophia just blinked. "You confuse me, Veder."

"I'll take that as a compliment, Miss C-average." He held up a finger to forestall her retaliation. "Ah, no punching the intel."

"You haven't provided any 'intel' yet, just discounting things I already knew were bullshit."

"The investigation is brand-new," Greg countered. "Plus, you're not exactly the ideal partner. Normally I'd have both of us cycle how we look for information but there's no chance she'd let you into her home. So I have to take the time to plan for that as well."

Greg went over to a binder with a provocative anime-girl image on the front and rifled through it. "I had Sparky get the lesson plan for next week: world affairs is having a group project, so if I can get Taylor into my team then I'll have an in to stop by her house. You on the other hand have a line to Daddy Warbucks so hopefully you can get me something like a discreet bodycam. If we're lucky we can find what's affecting Taylor and then figure out how to deal with it."

Sophia just looked at the binder. "Why do you…?"

"Sparky's good with computers. I asked and he delivered."

"I was going to ask why you had the lesson plan in that fucking binder," she replied.

"Well, would you look in here for a lesson plan?" he responded with a smirk.

Unwilling to admit she couldn't refute his point, she changed the subject. "So am I just here to get Emma's dad to buy shit?"

"No, you also managed to track Taylor without being noticed. So your job is to try and follow her whenever she starts acting particularly suspicious. I'm not expecting you to put your life on the line when she's in cape mode, but we need to know if there are certain locations or events which trigger some sort of Jekyll/Hyde change in her."

Much as it could get her caught, either by Hebert or the Protectorate, Sophia did want the opportunity to see more of the girl's work firsthand. It was like art, something in the way Hebert fought lit inspiration within Sophia.

"I can't promise anything," she prefaced, "but I'll do my best." And, oddly, she meant it.

A/N: Thanks to UnwelcomeStorm for the use of the name Bloodmoon. It just fits too well not to use it.

702

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Apr 29, 2022

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Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Apr 30, 2022

#63

I staggered back to Gilbert's window. I could have used the lanterns but honestly I needed to walk, to burn off some of the manic desperation. I still swayed as I trudged, and surprisingly the few creatures I hadn't killed gave me a berth. Was I just radiating that much 'don't fuck with me' energy?

I rapped on my friend's window. "Hey Gilbert."

"Taylor? You sound like you've been run over by a carriage. A–" He was cut off by his lungs rebelling. "Any idea what that screaming was? I heard it echoing all the way over here."

"Some sort of giant beast, it jumped over the wall onto the bridge." I took a deep, shuddering breath. "The bridge was locked. Or barred. Or something. I c–" My voice broke. "I couldn't get through."

"Gods save you. I...when I first came here, I'd heard that Yharnam blood could cleanse any illness. That this land was blessed by the gods themselves. When the blood ministers told me that their miracle blood couldn't cure me, when even dear Iosefka told me that there was nothing she could do… I fell into despair. I set myself up in this bed and waited to congeal to death. So I know what it feels like to lose all hope." Gilbert coughed several times, softly. "I tell you this because while my case may be hopeless, perhaps yours still can be salvaged. An aqueduct carries runoff from Cathedral Ward, out through the commons, into the sea. If you cannot open the bridge's doors, perhaps there is a way in through the waterways. I have no other advice to give you in this case, as I was never the type to spelunk even in my healthier days."

I smiled and nodded, resting my hand on the window's armored grating. "It means a lot, Gilbert. You try to relax. I have another friend who might be able to help me navigate that aqueduct." Bidding my goodbyes, I went to the lantern and called for it to take me to the Dream. The experience was not unlike being my own tidal wave, sweeping up from beneath myself and pouring into my forehead. My eyes and face went first, the rest of my body joining in the crashing spray, until I materialized out of the mist at my destination.

The cabin was open but I couldn't see Gehrman from my position. What caught my eye instead was that the doll was standing. It was tall too, well over six feet. I was impressed that Gehrman had managed to get it to balance on two legs without something to prop it up.

Then it turned to look at me.

The face was different. It was the same overall design, very pretty if generic. The porcelain of her skin had the slightest flush of pink to indicate flesh and life, her irises were almost white but had the tiniest hint of amber or hazel. Her full, well-painted lips moved ever so slightly, mouth opening a fraction, and a voice rose from her.

"Hello, good hunter," she spoke in a breathy, whisper-like voice with an accent I couldn't place. It sounded East-European but I couldn't possibly say from where exactly. Her lips moved, it wasn't like a ventriloquist's dummy, but they moved so little that it was difficult to track. She spoke in such a controlled way...

Somehow, with everything else that I'd seen, this still shocked me. Perhaps it was that I'd walked past her inanimate form several times thus far; it could have been some level of envy, wishing I was as beautiful as this artificial being. But no matter how much I'd been through, how deeply I'd suffered and how many countless hours I'd fought these monsters, the truth of the matter was that I'd only been in Yharnam for three real-world days. This was all too much for me to take.

I yelped and leapt back. She didn't seem offended, didn't approach me to offer apologies either. She just stared patiently. Like Gehrman. Except where he radiated a yawning abyss of sadness, I couldn't say what I felt from this...automaton.

Once it seemed that I'd no longer scream, she continued, like nothing had interrupted her. "I am a doll, here in this dream to look after you."

"Wh-where did you come from? Or, how are you moving? You weren't before," I protested.

"You were not yet prepared to see," she replied in her even tone. "Understanding takes suffering. Either you endure outrageous fortune to learn that which you must, or you find those who have already learned and glean their knowledge to sharpen your own."

"I...don't understand," I admitted, feeling foolish.

She took a step closer to me, gliding smoothly across the grass like a runway model. "Then you are not yet meant to." Somehow, the certainty in her statement was a comfort.

"I wanted to talk with Gehrman. Where is he?"

"Gehrman is sleeping," she replied. "He rarely does so peacefully, so I would request that you not wake him."

Nothing ventured… "Can you tell me about him? He didn't talk much about himself."

The doll returned to the little garden wall upon which her inanimate self had rested, and sat delicately like a turn-of-the-century portrait. For some reason it was infuriating to see someone so effortlessly beautiful and yet didn't flaunt it, didn't even act as if she understood her own beauty. "Gehrman was once a hunter long, long ago. Now he serves only to advise them. He is obscure, unseen in the dreaming world. Still, he stays here, in this Dream. Such is his purpose."

I raised an eyebrow. "Obscure? And the dreaming world...do you mean Yharnam?"

"That is the name which other hunters have mentioned. A land of wonder and sorrow, and horrors unimagined. I have never seen it myself, but the Little Ones express what they learn as best they can."

"You mean those things in the birdbath?" I looked past her to the luminous little weirdos jostling to and fro.

"The inhabitants of the Dream. They find hunters like yourself; worship and serve them. Speak words they do not, but still, are they not sweet?" The corners of her lips curled up in the slightest of smiles, and she spoke with a hint of...maternal pride?

"They find…?" My mind flashed back to when the creatures had crawled all over me, pulling me down into senselessness. The last thing I experienced…

"Oh, you have found yourselves a hunter."

My saw was drawn and at her throat, though her dark-shaded eyes held no fear. Then again perhaps they were incapable of expressing emotion, but she didn't even look down at my weapon like Gehrman had. "Who are you? How did those things 'find' me?"

"The Little Ones seek those in need. Sometimes they are called, other times they are lucky. You were wounded, physically and spiritually. I balmed your wounds and sent you along. And now you have returned."

That brought me up short. "S-so you're saying you healed me? What about the wheelchair man?"

The doll showed no sign of recognition. "Dreams may many times be layered, and who is to say what is to be taken at face value and what serves as allegory when we are not yet ready to face the truth?"

"Speak plainly," I bit out.

"I speak as plainly as you do. I will not lie to you but neither do I have every answer. There are times when a question can only be answered with another question."

I hesitantly lowered the saw. "Alright. Well, you're more forthcoming than Gehrman." I shifted. If I had a chance at getting at least some answers... "What's up with this place? The sky, the gravestones, the flowers?"

"This is a Dream, a safe haven from the horrors of the dreaming world and the slings and arrows of the waking one. The stones I can explain: in the Healing Church's traditions, the dead are interred beneath a stone so that they may be remembered. Stones have also been used to memorialize lost cities, cultures, civilizations." As she explained, she gestured to the headstone that I used to return to Yharnam. "The majority of stones are here to commemorate hunters who have come before and later departed the Dream, that we may never forget their contributions."

Apparently she had no answer for the rest. Fair enough. "So what do you do?"

"Hunters pursue the echoes of blood, wrested free from their prey. I can channel those echoes into your strength. You hunt beasts, and I am here for you, to embolden your sickly spirit," she responded with a soft smile.

"...I don't get what any of that means," I confessed.

She reached forward slowly and took my hand in both of hers. Her gloves were soft, the artificial fingers not quite as cold or alien as I'd expected them to feel. "An explanation would likely confuse you more than letting you experience it directly. Now shut your eyes, and let the echoes become your strength."

I could see something flowing from me, coalescing into a foggy cloud of red. With the soft yet high-pitched noise, I suspected she was drawing out that same essence I'd been absorbing from my enemies. It was making me sick to look at it. I shut my eyes.

I needed to be stronger, faster. To hit harder, take more abuse. I wouldn't survive here otherwise. These thoughts swirled through my mind as I drifted off and awoke in my bed in Brockton Bay, feeling better than I had the previous day. I was rather peckish, though.

(BREAK)

Physically, I felt good. I looked great. Checking myself in the mirror, my skin looked more vibrant, my body was tighter, that little paunch on my belly was all but gone. Of course, mentally I was still exhausted and reeling from one revelation after another – nearly all of them horrible, and not a single one I could call entirely good.

Dad made some comments about how I was looking better. "I'm glad you're bouncing back," he said, or something like it. I made a noncommittal noise, thankful for the eggs and toast filling my mouth. It was the first time he'd broken routine to try really engaging with me, and I didn't know what to even say in return.

It hadn't registered at the time, a slow decline, but I'd forgotten how to even genuinely talk with my father. He'd had the same but at the least he was making an attempt. I was so lost I didn't even know what I'd say. "Thanks Dad. Seems that being dragged into a literal hellscape every night does wonders for my complexion"? I eventually settled on selective truth, like Gehrman had used with me. "Physically yeah; mentally I'm exhausted. I could go back to sleep right now." I flinched, almost violently, upon saying that. Sure it was true on some level that I was tired enough to fall back asleep, but sleep would just take me back to Yharnam and not only would that not be good for my rest, but it would only exacerbate all of the problems I was already barely balancing. I didn't need to add a flaming tightrope to the act too.

Either Dad didn't notice, to which I would've chalked up his lack of reaction before his communication attempt today, considering how hard he'd been trying to ignore reality; or he thought it was some kind of symptom. I was still a recovering girl, after all.

"...Do you want me to call in sick for you today?" he asked at length. "I don't think it'd be a good idea to just let you go back to bed, but if you're that exhausted then maybe you shouldn't spend your day at school. I can make some time to bring you down to the Boardwalk, maybe spend a bit window-shopping before I have to get to work."

I froze. I was terrified. If he interacted with me, surely he'd begin to see what was going wrong. He'd look at his daughter and see a stranger. I wasn't the same: I knew I was already breaking from everything I'd seen, everything I'd done. I couldn't handle it. There was nothing that terrified me more than being rejected by the only loved one I had left. So of course there was only one answer I could ever give.

"I'd love to," I smiled wetly.

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Apr 30, 2022

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Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

May 1, 2022

#73

The Boardwalk was something that many residents of Brockton Bay, myself included, often took for granted. It was denigrated as a tourist trap and the Boardwalk Enforcers guarded it with military zeal, leaving many of us uncomfortable there. But I was uncomfortable pretty much everywhere nowadays, and had been even before ending up in Yharnam. So my existing discomfort sort of overrode what I might have otherwise experienced and I staggered along past numerous stalls hawking clothes and other knickknacks. Dad seemed happy to get me out of the house somewhere other than school or the library, and for me it was refreshing to smell open air not thick with the stench of rot, wet dog or blood.

While I hadn't been interested in new clothes (my build might have improved but who was I possibly going to look good for? And besides that, there was no way I could get into a relationship with my nightly horrors), the handicraft stalls were more my speed. One girl, with scarred hands and a burned welt on her cheek, was selling lopsided glass figurines.

I stumbled up to the booth, looking over the figures. "You made these yourself?" I asked stupidly, eyes roaming over what I was relatively certain was a penguin. It could have been a pelican, though. Or maybe Winnie-the-Pooh if you looked at it from a different angle.

"Yeah," the girl replied gruffly. Her voice sounded strained, maybe smoke inhalation? Did glassblowers suffer from smoke inhalation? She was short and squat, with brown hair in a pixie cut and dark green eyes. "I'm learning to blow glass but not everything goes right. So if it's cooling too much I try to prod it into a shape. Animals are pretty easy."

"What's this one?" I asked as I gingerly lifted a red-swirled figurine. "A lion?"

"I'd intended it to be a dog, but sure. It's a lion if you want it to be, especially if you buy it," she replied smoothly.

I smiled and called Dad over. The girl's work wasn't exceptional but there was something heartfelt about it that really resonated with me. Maybe it was that she had the chance to pursue what she loved and create something beautiful even out of her failures. The little maybe-dog maybe-lion was priced at 40, which the crafter assured us was needed to recoup the losses. Fuel for the furnace as well as the various dyes and precious metals needed to color the glass were quite expensive. With an application of puppy eyes I hadn't even known my tired hazel orbs were still capable of giving, he caved and bought me the souvenir. I wished her success with her glassblowing and Dad led me toward the food stalls where we got corn dogs.

It was a wonderful day and even when Dad had to leave for a job he could no longer postpone I was still feeling good. This was the first time in a long time – the first time I could easily remember – that I remembered what it was like to feel hopeful. Something simple like this, it was something that could focus me. This was worth it. This was for what I was fighting through Yharnam. So that I could be free and happy, and eat unhealthy food on the Boardwalk while admiring adorable blown-glass figurines.

I loitered for another couple of hours before deciding to make my way to the bus stop. As I walked, I saw the glassblower's stall coming up. She was just packing up for the day – a bit early by my estimation, but then again I had no idea of her schedule or commitments – and stuffing her little strongbox into her backpack when a youngish guy who'd been puttering near her stall broke into a run and slammed into her, ripping the box from her hands. She went down with a cry of indignant protest.

I didn't know what this moron was thinking. The Boardwalk had plenty of Enforcers with stun guns and billy clubs. It would be easier and safer to try breaking into a jewelry store at night or something. I also don't know what I was thinking, because I set my glass lion's bag down on a stool and juked out to cut the thief off.

I moved too quickly, too smoothly. My practice against the beasts translated well to the real world, considering it was my same body in proportion and strength. He was moving too quickly, and I was late in realizing that I didn't have my weapon – nor would I have wanted to use it. Typically in this situation I'd dart into a running beast's way, bring the saw up in a smooth arc to split open its chest, hopefully sever tendons in the pectorals or open a major vein in the neck, then circle behind it before the creature could counterattack.

Instead I made a noise like a distressed goose as he crashed into me and we went down in a tangle of limbs. I yelled something like, "That's not yours!" He swore and spat. He pushed me away. I grabbed his jacket. He reached into his pocket and then slashed my hand with a knife.

The next thing I knew, two large men were pulling me off the thief, whose face was a mess of red from a broken nose and split skin in several places. To hear the Enforcers explain it, when the man cut me I grabbed his knife hand with my left and pulled it across his body, then tackled him to the ground – pinning his arm between our bodies – and began punching him with my right fist over and over.

I didn't have to fake the shakes as they ran me through the events, looking down in fear and distaste at my split knuckles. Of course, the reason for my fear was different than they expected, but I saw no reason to disabuse them of their preconceptions. I told the entirely true story that I was being bullied at school and feeling helpless, and my dad had brought me out here to help me feel better. That seeing someone else get walked all over made me act before I knew what I was doing, and that him cutting me somehow pushed me over the edge.

Apparently I looked haunted enough that what must have been the senior Enforcer told me to get my stuff and go home: he could give a police statement and they didn't need me. I got some napkins from the nearby burger joint to clean the blood off my knuckles, retrieved my glass lion, and caught the bus home.

Once I was home and the door was locked, I examined my hand. There were no longer split knuckles, no visible cut from the knife. I sank to the floor of my bathroom and cried.

(BREAK)

I'd seen no point in telling Dad what happened at the Boardwalk. We ate a quiet dinner and I did my best to smile, to pretend that things were still as good as they'd been that morning. Once it was bedtime, I placed the glass lion on my nightstand with the hope that it would help me have better dreams.

I returned to the Hunter's Dream anyway.

"Welcome home, good hunter," the doll said in that breathy voice of hers.

I opened my mouth and then cut myself off. I didn't need to get angry with her: none of this was her fault. "Listen," I said at long last, "I get that you're trying to make me feel comfortable but this place is not my home. It's barely better than a prison, no matter how you dress it up. I didn't ask to be brought here, and the only thing that makes me not hate it is that at least it's better than Yharnam."

The doll nodded. "I am sorry you feel that way. This is my home, the only I have ever known, and I find it quite welcoming. It is...disconcerting to find that you have so different an experience."

...Damn it, why did she have to be so precious? "It's a place completely foreign to me, and I was brought here against my will. Moreover, it represents that I'm still tied to Yharnam, and I want to escape from there as soon as I can. So I'm sorry that I can't appreciate your home like you do. I'm not...not trying to disparage it." I sighed. "And my name is Taylor."

For the briefest of moments, I could swear I saw her eyes widen. "I will endeavor to address you by name then, Taylor," she favored me with one of her tiny smiles.

"What's your name, anyway?"

"I do not have one," she replied. "I am a doll. I was created to be a companion, to soothe and to guide. Attaching too much to me would hinder my ability to help others."

"I guess I can see that." I could only imagine my reaction if she'd said her name was Emma, or Sophia, or Annette. "Do you want a name?"

"If you mean a name by which you address me, I am not opposed. But it would not be my name," she said softly.

That sounded like a protestation by someone trying not to be disagreeable. "Then if it doesn't offend you, I suppose I'll just call you Doll."

"It is what I am: why would it offend?"

I noticed Gehrman creaking around in the cabin and said my goodbyes to Doll. "Gehrman!" I called. "The doors on the bridge were...were shut." Why did that still hurt so much to acknowledge? "A friend of mine, Gilbert, said that maybe I could take the aqueduct into Cathedral Ward."

"And you want me to draw up another map," he finished my thought. "Come on in and have a seat then, lass. Is this the same friend you got the book for?"

I nodded, smiling at the memory. "It gave him a good laugh."

"More good than it ever did me," he chuckled wryly, beginning to sketch. "I saw you talking with the doll."

"Yeah. Why didn't you tell me she was alive?" My tone wasn't accusatory: I was genuinely curious.

"Would you have believed me? Or just written it off as an old man gone stir-crazy? Some things you need to experience for yourself. And the hardships you faced out there made you ready to accept this particular truth."

"So does she keep you company, then?" I could imagine him regaling her with tales of Yharnam's glory days.

"No," he said, clipped and firm.

That brought me up short. "Um, mind if I ask why?"

"Yes."

I blinked. "Uh, then I'll change topics. Any idea what this is?" I presented him with the sharp charm when he took a moment to refill his pen.

"One of the old badges," he replied, eyes going back to the parchment. "You'd wear them, like necklaces or medals. When you were awarded one, it gave you the right to requisition new equipment from the Workshop. Or, well, that's a Church badge, so you'd get your tools from the Healing Church instead."

I tilted my head. "Workshop?"

"Hunters' Workshop," Gehrman replied, still sketching. "When beasts started popping up, nobody knew what to do. Eventually some of us got together and set up a place to craft weapons and equipment. And the scouring of Old Yharnam, the Church assembled its own hunters and the Workshop fell into disuse. Everyone was working directly with the Church, and they had far more resources than a simple shop."

"Were you there for all that?" I asked. "Considering the city's so big, I'd have thought it was a long time ago."

"Yes, it probably was," Gehrman chuckled mirthlessly, rolling up the parchment. "Here's your new map, girl. Off you get, leave an old man to his memories."

(BREAK)

The aqueduct sucked ass.

Not only did it stink of mold and shit and rotting, bloated flesh, but it was crawling with gigantic scabrous rats and actual deformed corpses that came to life just to puke on you. I swore up a storm as I climbed the ladders back up to the ruins of civilization: I was going to find a gate leading from Cathedral Ward to the rest of Yharnam and wedge it open if I had to, just so I didn't need to do that ever again. By the time I ran into a giant fucking pig, of all things, I was thoroughly done. Thankfully the pig was huge and stupid so I dodged its charge and then shanked it while it couldn't turn around. Thing could only do so much by lunging backward at me, no matter how fat and heavy its ass was.

Rising up higher, I heard the gentle creak of a music box. It was the first soothing sound I'd heard since getting here. The tune was a bit melancholy, but still pretty. Naturally, at this point I'd come to the conclusion that most things in Yharnam want to eat your face, so I approached the window with caution. It didn't have bars nearly as thick or latticed: maybe this was a higher-class area?

I rapped on the glass and I heard the clack of wood, the music stopping. "Hello?" came the voice of a young girl, probably no older than ten. "Is someone there?"

I blinked. "Uh, hi there?" I honestly hadn't been prepared to meet someone so young.

Several thumps, like things were being methodically stacked. A few seconds later, the window slid open a crack. I could see a pale girl with long blonde hair, able to make out one bright blue eye. She looked me up and down, appraisingly. "I don't recognize you, but I know that smell… You're a hunter, aren't you?"

I blinked. "I, uh, what smell?"

She giggled a little. "Daddy would say the same thing. I can smell the blood and beasts on you. But you also smell like the flowers, like Daddy used to. Miss Hunter, could you please look for my mum? Daddy never came back from the hunt, so Mum went to find him and now she's gone too. I'm all alone here, and I'm scared."

Well shit, how could I say no to that? "I, uh, sure. I'll do my best. Do you know where they might've ended up?"

Even through the cracked window I could see the girl's radiant smile. "Thank you! Um, Daddy and Granddad like to meet up in the graveyard outside Oedon Chapel, so maybe start there?" I unrolled my map while she talked. "Mum wears a big red-jeweled brooch. It's so bright and, and beautiful...you won't be able to miss it! Oh!" She hopped away from the window, feet hitting the floor. I could only presume she was standing on books or a box to reach the window, since this street seemed higher on this side. "Mustn't forget the music box," her voice echoed before stocking feet pattered back toward me. She pressed the tiny box through the window, through the bars.

"This plays one of Daddy's favorite songs," the girl explained. "And when Daddy forgets us we play this for him so he remembers. Mommy's so silly, going out without it," she giggled again, hope bubbling within her while mine dropped into my toes and through the ground.

Her father would forget them? And he was on the hunt? Worse still, her mother went out without the one thing that might save her from a kill-crazy husband? I swallowed heavily and tried to sound reassuring as I accepted the music box. "I'll have a look around. Hopefully I'll find them both," I said with a forced smile.

"Be careful out there," she chirped while closing the window.

I couldn't close the pit in my stomach no matter what I did. I had a feeling I knew exactly what had happened.

712

Vherstinae

May 1, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

May 3, 2022

#90

Oedon Chapel. I didn't know what Oedon was, but it didn't seem like a province. People here swore on gods, so perhaps it was one of Yharnam's gods? I really needed someone to give me a primer on the local beliefs and superstitions.

In order to reach the chapel I couldn't take a straight shot because that would be far too easy. No, instead I had to go up and down through rotting, hollowed-out buildings and face numerous maddened beast-men, more rats and crows, trolls… It wasn't a fun trip.

When I finally reached the graveyard area, marked on the map as the Tomb of Oedon (was Oedon interred here, or was this a gravesite for his faithful?), I found a solitary man. Garbed in black with a white stole over his massive duster coat, he was driving his axe into the chest cavity of a long-dead beast as if by rote. I'd been working to be more stealthy in this place, but he either heard or smelled me.

"Beasts," he whispered in a soft voice, accented differently than most native Yharnamites, "all over the shop." He turned, eyes bandaged over like the Wheelchair Man's had been, though with cleaner wrappings. "You'll be one, too… Sooner or later." He exhaled, steam rising from his mouth. It wasn't that terribly cold out, so he must have been monstrously hot on the inside.

I had the feeling this was inevitable, but still held off on overtly hostile actions. "I was asked by a little girl–" And damn me for not thinking to ask her name, "–to find her family. She said her father was out on the Hunt and her mother, with a big red brooch, had gone to look for him."

That was the wrong thing to say. "You'll not have her!" he snarled, voice thick with saliva, lunging at me. He fought… To say he fought like a maniac would have been unfair: while he was definitely insane, he didn't simply throw himself at me as that would imply. He fought like a force of nature, always on the offensive, always maneuvering for a better angle. When his axe wasn't whistling through the air, his blunderbuss barked instead.

I'd been hardened by days of battle. I'd had my body enhanced through Doll's weird magic. I'd faced down abominations several times my size.

None of it was enough. I was facing a true hunter, not the simple armed townsfolk. He was faster than me, stronger, far more experienced. That was my first time dying to Gascoigne. As he wrenched his axe from my neck, he spat his words derisively. "Too proud to show your true face, eh?" His derision then washed between horror and rage as my body faded away. "You'll be harder to put down."

This was my first encounter with someone else who had once Dreamt. As I would discover, those who had been touched by the Dream kept some measure of their memories even when time reset. Well, as Gehrman and Doll would correct me, time wasn't exactly resetting. My deaths in the Dream became what could be, and I was then set back to do it right this time.

Father Gascoigne, once a priest or other holy man from a land unknown to the common Yharnamite, could remember that he had killed an enemy who would not remain dead. And, as a hunter, he did what he did best.

The next time I fought him was outside of Gilbert's home, the hunter having tracked me down. We slammed against fences and into Gilbert's window, much to his distress. I could hear my friend coughing, possibly dying from panic, as I screamed out in pain. I'd like to say I gave as good as I got, but in the end I died and Gascoigne lived.

The next several days were some of the worst in my short life. I knew what would come every time I lay my head down: whether it took hours or minutes, the relentless maddened hunter would find me and we would battle. The pain and suffering were intense, but the true agony was the certainty: in my normal waking life, I understood the certainty that Emma would hurt me. In my dreams, I knew that Gascoigne would kill me.

I struggled, argued, spat curses at him. It was so much noise to his ears. I'm sure, to his broken mind, I was just another fur-covered wretch. He didn't laugh, didn't cajole. Didn't even make animalistic sounds. Gascoigne was silent and efficient. Night after night he pursued his prey, slaughtering his way through other beasts in order to seek me out. Our cat-and-mouse chase led all across outer Yharnam, to the steps of Iosefka's clinic. It was there, bleeding out on the stairs before her door, and hearing Iosefka's worried voice call out, that something in me settled, stone resting within my sacrum.

This would never end until I ended it.

I returned to Odeon's tomb, knowing the hunter would be following me. At this point I was all but certain that he was the girl's father, and so I played my gambit: I wound the music box and set it on a stone lantern. The slow, clicking melancholy disturbed the night air. When the hunter finally arrived, he was not the composed pursuer he normally was. His chest was heaving, face sweating. He gripped his weapons so hard they shook. "Where did you get that?" he snarled, spittle flying. "WHERE DID YOU GET THAT!?"

"Your daughter gave it to me," I shot back in an even voice, rolling clear of his leaping strike. "Because your wife left without it. What did you do to your wife?"

He stumbled. "V-Vi? No, I didn't– I would never–!" The hunter whirled on me. "Goddamn beasts! You took her from me!"

It was the closest he'd gotten to human, but he'd clearly been insane long before he met me, if a music box was the only thing that kept him from killing or abandoning his family. "I'm no beast. What happened to your wife? What did you do?"

"Liar!" A sweep of the axe. "Deceiver!" I ducked behind a gravestone to avoid the scattershot from his gun. "You took her from me! I heard her scream!"

Keeping low, I crawled around the gravestones and plucked up the music box, winding it again. He screamed as it played. He leapt for me again, shattering the lantern with a single vicious strike from his axe.

"Murderer! You beasts are all the same!" I could hear his tears.

"Your daughter still needs you! Will you just abandon her? Forget her like you always do!? Bury yourself in your hunt until nothing else matters!?" I was screaming now, tears running down my own face. Was I still talking to this hunter? Was I even in Yharnam? I wound the music box one more time, letting the tune creak out. He hunched in on himself, shouting, sobbing. Had I done it? Would at least one family not be utterly shattered?

The change had been brewing, likely since he'd begun to forget his family. Nothing could have stopped it. But many nights I fear that I may have pushed it along. That my attempts to break through to his humanity had instead scraped on his guilt and sent him fleeing into his animal side.

The hunter's sobs became a bestial roar as his clothing burst, a colossal shaggy beast at least eight feet tall standing where before had been a broken man. He charged at me, crushed gravestones without effort. A claw caught me in the chest and sent me flying. I tried my best to dodge out of the way, firing in retaliation, working to get some distance. Any distance was negligible as the newborn beast closed it in a single bound. Claws shredded my coat, ripped through my clothing, shattered my ribs.

Coughing blood, I injected myself with the last of Iosefka's special vials and stumbled away. His claws caught my coat and lifted me up, then he threw me through a tree. Somewhere in my flight I lost hold on my saw cleaver. I looked up through concussed eyes at the flailing, blood-maddened beast. I couldn't die like this, couldn't leave this monster alive. It would kill others. Gilbert, Iosefka, the hunter's own daughter.

Something glinted on the ground. I dived forward, praying my unfocused eyes could perceive depth enough that I wasn't doomed to fail. My fingers closed on the hunter's own axe. I somersaulted to my feet and whirled around, driving the weapon deep into the beast's neck. I shot it just as Gehrman had told me, arresting its momentum when it tried to claw me, and chopped again. Blood spewed from its neck, healing my wounds. It was slowing now. I struck again, nearly severing its head, and the monster fell back.

Even semi-decapitated as it was, the creature still wasn't finished. Claws rose up slowly, reaching threateningly for me. Upon the miserable monstrosity, my mind superimposed the face of my father, face twisted in hate and desperation.

I screamed in terror and rage, and brought the axe down onto its chest. It kept fighting, trying to stand, to claw me, to do anything. I brought the axe down again, slicing through its ribs.

Again, into its organs.

Again, splitting its chest wide.

At some point I'd resumed crying, robotically lifting up the axe only to plunge it back into the beast's chest cavity.

I don't know how long I stood there, mutilating that dead thing, until Eileen the Crow found me.

(BREAK)

"Stop that, now," a wizened woman's voice gently chided. "I understand you're scared, but this isn't you. You're no beast. Not yet, though if you let yourself keep as you are…"

At first I thought I was seeing Death, in the dim light of Oedon's Tomb. White face, heavy hood, ragged cloak. As my vision cleared and I wiped my tears, I saw instead a feather-caped woman more reminiscent of a plague doctor. A jagged knife rested loosely in one of her hands.

"Settle down, child, and dry your tears," she said, stepping smoothly to lean against the staircase that led up to the chapel proper. "It won't do to lose yourself on this, of all nights."

"I–" My words were forcibly cut off. I lurched to the side, tugging down my face covering to vomit profusely and noisily on the stone. Thin but strong hands took me beneath the arms to hold me up.

"Been quite some time since I met a hunter this new," the woman chuckled. Her accent was also strange, emphasizing the 'u' in hunter. "What a mess you've been caught up in. What got into your head to start the hunt tonight?"

I reached back to pat her shoulder in what I hoped was a universal translation for 'I'm good.' I coughed a few more times, spat some bile from my mouth, wiped my face with the tail of my coat. "I… I didn't have much of a choice. I was brought here."

"An outsider, eh? So unlucky. And you were brought here?" At my confirmation, the bird mask tilted. "Do you Dream, then?"

My eyes widened. "Y-you know about that?"

"Aye." She made her way back to the stairs and took a seat on the steps, patting the stone beside her. "I'll wager the majority of hunters who can still string together a sentence Dreamt at some point. Tell the little doll I said hello."

I sat beside her, body going almost limp. "Sorry, but who are you?"

"So new I'll bet you don't even know the various hunter traditions. Then again, had you known, perhaps you'd not have been so eager to speak with me." She folded an arm across her chest and bowed slightly. "Eileen the Crow, hunter of hunters. Those poor souls who go mad from the hunt, it is my duty to put them down." Eileen gestured to the corpse I'd been destroying, as it dissolved into mist.

"Poor Gascoigne; once, hunters used to still call him Father. He was a holy man from another country, so he said, who fell in love with a lass from fair Yharnam. A good man once. I think this was a long time coming. He had more will than most, but he was falling apart."

"That reminds me too much of my father," I muttered, then suddenly began crying again. Some girls cry beautifully. In the Lord of the Rings movies, Arwen was only more beautiful when she cried. My eyes get puffy, my cheeks redden, I sweat. And right now I was bawling, howling my sobs. It was too much. I was just a child: I shouldn't even have to deal with what I faced in the real world, much less all of this.

Eileen shifted, not really sure what to do. "You need to steel yourself, girl. You can't go falling apart, not tonight. There are no humans left, they're all flesh-hungry beasts now. And I won't be around to help you come back from whatever state in which you find yourself."

That actually helped me come back around. Hiccuping softly, I lifted my goggles and wiped my eyes. "Th-that's not true. I know at least two people who're still human, still good people. There's still hope," I protested. There had to be. If there wasn't hope, what did I have left?

"Then the night hasn't claimed quite everyone yet. This land is still doomed, but I suppose you can try to save a few." Her casual statement rankled.

"Nobody deserves this hell," I protested.

"Nothing about deserving," Eileen countered. "Bad happens to good all too often: no scales are being balanced. I doubt any efforts toward rescue will bear fruit, but I have been wrong before. If you think you can be a grand savior that's your prerogative." She stood and shook off her feather cape before fishing in a pouch on her belt. "A welcome for the new hunter." She offered me four small, folded sheets of parchment. "Now best be on your way: there's no shortage of beasts to deal with. Try to leave the hunting of hunters to me. No easier way for an inexperienced hunter to become blood-drunk than in dealing with the mad."

Eileen strode off into the darkness, leaving me with my thoughts. After sitting for several minutes, I remembered that I'd promised to find the little girl's mother. From everything the hunter – Gascoigne – had said and screamed, I knew that I wouldn't like what I found. And sure enough, on a roof overlooking the graveyard, I found the corpse of a lovely blonde woman. On her chest was a massive red brooch the color of fresh blood. I delicately unpinned it: if I was going to tell the girl the truth (and I was still undecided), I'd need some proof.

Inscribed into the back, like you might find carved into a tree, were two names within a heart.

Gascoigne Viola

It was disturbingly easy to get Alan Barnes' assistance in acquiring a surreptitious bodycam. Emma had her dad wrapped around her finger, to a degree that it made sense why Alan either didn't know or didn't care that his daughter was bullying her former sister in all but blood, daughter to the man who'd been Alan's best friend in college.

This and further details were revealed as Sophia and Emma discussed Taylor. At Emma's inquiry as to Sophia's sudden increased interest, the athlete responded, "I dunno, it's just getting boring for me. Hebert's been a wet blanket since she went into the hospital and I need excitement. It's no fun just beating a dead cat against the wall. Hebert's broken, so why not find a new toy?" Truthfully Sophia didn't need some grand chase or challenge: simply exerting her power over another was entertainment enough, and hurting someone fit that criterion. Emma was still her friend, though, and if she could direct the redhead away from the walking massacre then she would.

"She hasn't learned her place yet," Emma insisted. "She keeps coming to school, going through the motions, like being a good little lemming will get her anywhere. Taylor needs to understand that a weakling like her isn't wanted, doesn't belong."

Damn it, Emma… "If you say so," Sophia shrugged. "I'll probably start looking for new game, myself. Hebert's lost my interest. Have fun." Well, that discussion could have gone better.

Worse, now the ball was in Greg's court. A looming incident that could cost her friend's life, her own reputation, her freedom, and it all rested in the hands of Greg Veder.

I'm doomed.

(BREAK)

The first step of any investigation is to establish parameters. If you just try gathering any and all information, you'll end up with piles of useless intel and only stumble onto clues through sheer luck. Likewise, if you set too narrow a focus then you risk throwing out vital info because it doesn't fit your expectations.

Greg had prepared as soon as he had help, putting together his own conspiracy board. From aliens to zombies to faerie changelings, all sorts of potential ideas were on the table. Most of them were probably complete bullshit but it always pays to keep an open mind.

Now came the second and most important aspect: actually gathering the intel. The best analysts in the world can't come up with answers if they don't have information, and the best theory will go unproven without evidence. Stage 1 of that info-gathering began on Monday.

Taylor still looked undead, the circles under her eyes just as dark as ever, and the girl had taken to sneaking a can of caffeinated energy drink inside her backpack with one of those attachable sippy tops so she could slurp it when she thought nobody was looking. Whatever was happening, Taylor seemed desperate to avoid sleep.

Was it a problem at home? With her dad, maybe? He never really heard her talk about her dad, but before she started scaring him Greg also never heard or saw anything that was a red flag for abuse. And he'd been looking – maybe not for that specifically, but he liked to think he would have noticed if it'd been there. So some other reason for her to be avoiding sleep. Of course, the need for caffeine could be something else: perhaps her powers left her constantly exhausted. Or there was some sort of time-dilation where things took longer for her than for anyone else. Could she be living hours in another person's minutes, and so got sleepy that much faster? Maybe she was traveling to another dimension – wherever she got her costume and weapons – and time didn't work the same way there as here. Maybe she'd only ever intended to be a hero in that other universe.

In Earth Aleph, where Japan was one of the world's booming economies, anime and manga were big and there was a genre called isekai. Greg had no clue what it translated to, but essentially it was a normal person dropped into a fantasy world. Normally those stories just ended up weird Mary-Sue wish fulfillment that left the reader unsatisfied, but some of them explored the ideas of how a person from the modern world might react to a fantasy one, and how someone adapted to a world where killing was a way of life might struggle to function once brought back to the real world.

That idea held some merit, but it still didn't explain Taylor's behavior in school. Unless school was her anchor, something she was doing to keep reminding herself she was normal. That didn't really make sense, on second thought. Why would she come to such an awful place as Winslow, with Emma Barnes there, if she wanted to feel normal and give herself solid mental ground?

No, idle theorizing would do no good. Operation Taylor Investigation had to get down to the nitty-gritty, and that started with getting Taylor into his team for World Affairs' next group project. Then he could come over to her place to study and discuss ideas. A body camera would do for now, and if he found something that felt like a clue...maybe Greg could somehow buy a stealth camera from Leet or Toybox, to plant in her place? It made him feel terribly like a stalker, but Taylor wasn't this killer cape. She was a sweet, timid girl and needed his help.

They didn't have terribly many classes together so, during Computer Science after finishing the light workload Mrs. Knott assigned that Monday, Greg opted to browse Parahumans Online and see if anyone had leaked or otherwise distributed information about Taylor's debut on the cape scene. According to some information leaks, the PRT were designating her with the intimidating name Bloodmoon, ostensibly to discourage people from trying to approach her. Thankfully the various people posting used "he" and "she" interchangeably to describe Bloodmoon depending on who was talking, so nobody seemed to know her real identity.

More interesting was the information shared by others. Greg and Sparky were both firm believers in the power of basement-dwelling weirdos on the internet, and that belief was once again justified: Somebody was aware that the Empire was moving in shipments of guns and brought this up, which forced the PRT to admit that the cape they were already labeling as a villain had halted a massive load of automatic weapons which the PRT had seized in the aftermath of the massacre.

Even more notable, after the PRT's admission about the guns came a deluge of insistent, cajoling and threatening posts demanding that the Parahuman Response Team be honest about what happened at the ABB warehouse. According to the poster, there had been more body bags removed than ABB grunts had been stationed there, and at least one person had been brought out alive. If Greg had been the one making those accusations, he'd have suffered another ban – and possibly a permanent one. But the mods didn't silence this poster.

Finally, Reave (account name for one of the PRT's liaisons for Brockton Bay) shared the whole story. The Azn Bad Boyz hadn't just been occupying some random warehouse: they had been shipping girls between locations. Perhaps some had been imported, some ready for export. Nobody could be sure because the survivors weren't talking. But there had been at least two dead girls there, beaten to death or dead from infection, and one or more still alive by the time Bloodmoon attacked. And the cape hadn't touched a hair on the girl's head.

That kicked off a shitstorm that was apparently still ongoing, new posts flooding in as users argued whether Bloodmoon should be counted as a villain or even a vigilante, countless low-content posts simply stating "Good riddance" or a variation of such, and threadbans being tossed out left and right.

Reading through all this, Greg bit his lip. This was the injection of hope he needed, the bit of proof that Taylor was still in there beneath the costume and the blood and the violence. He'd been obsessed with her for almost two years now, and more than ever hated himself for his cowardice in not defending her. But he knew the kind of person she was: protective, stubborn, gentle. The willingness to kill was new but it was focused, and even more than he'd presumed. Even when Bloodmoon was out and active, it was still Taylor. And she could be saved.

(BREAK)

Now or never, Veder, Greg girded himself. World Affairs was here. He'd need to swallow his fear, focus on his goal, and actually talk to Taylor again. More than that, he had to convince her to work with him and Sparky.

On cue, Taylor shuffled into class and took her seat just before the bell. Madison batted her eyelashes teasingly at her and Greg rolled his eyes. How did this girl not notice the seething danger just beneath Taylor's skin? Primal threat radiated off the girl like stink off a linebacker's jockstrap!

Mr. G. started in on his little lecture and it was so much noise to Greg. Gladly never really had much interesting to say but usually he tried to at least frame it in a cool way, sitting on the desk with his tie mostly undone. Right now Greg couldn't have been less interested in what the teacher was saying, just waiting for Gladly to get to the project.

"Now, since we've been dealing with parahumans this semester, I think it's fitting that our group project should focus on them as well. I want you all to gather in groups of three or four and put together a presentation on how the economy has changed due to parahumans," Mr. G. Declared. Jackpot!

"Taylor," Madison singsonged, "you can come work with Katie and me." Unknown to her, Madison had just played right into Greg's hands and he hadn't even needed to do anything. He just had to speak up now, before Mr. G. could say what a splendid idea it was that someone was helping the class pariah.

His voice first came out in a cracked squeak that he managed to disguise with a cough. "Ah, sorry Madison. Sparky, Taylor and I already agreed to work together on the next World Affairs project. I'm sure you can find another third for your group."

Gladly sat back behind his desk, pulling out some papers. "Alright, the rest of class is for you all to plan. Feel free to mill around and gather up with your partners. If you haven't got a full three-person group by the end of class, stick around and see me and we'll see what we can do."

Greg had to smack Sparky, who was busy doodling in his notebook. "C'mon. You know Taylor won't come to us."

His longtime friend pouted. "Do I have to? She's so boring."

"You can bring your notebook, dude. Just show some solidarity."

That perked his friend right up. Sparky was insensitive sometimes, but easy to please.

It felt like one moment of truth after another. Greg had to continually steel himself against the fear that made him want to run in the other direction. Every step forward on this plan could crumble apart if he faltered, and the pressure felt like a hydraulic press on his skull. Still, he was proud of himself that he only stuttered once. "H-hey, Taylor. So, sorry to rope you in with Sparky here but I know you didn't want to get stuck with those two. But, ah, I think we could come up with a good project. Sparky's really good with numbers, I know a lot of cape stuff, and you're really smart." It was coming more easily now. "Maybe we could meet up after school? Get one of those side rooms at the library, maybe?" It was definitely too early to go over to her house yet, not just because the body camera wasn't scheduled to arrive until Tuesday. Taylor's trust was in short supply and she could see a premature request to come to her house as some sort of threat – and someone like Taylor, like Bloodmoon, responded to threats in a very visceral way.

The girl still hadn't said anything, just blinking owlishly at them. Then she parted her lips, working her jaw for a split-second like it was suffering from disuse. "Uh, okay?" she replied in that cute, confused voice in a way that was entirely Taylor.

685

Vherstinae

May 5, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

May 10, 2022

#138

My mind swirled with ideas as to what I might say to the poor orphaned girl. Even more so, what she might do if left all alone. She couldn't be older than ten, maybe not even that old. Could I count on her to stay locked in her house? What if something tried to break in? Damn it, I was only a teenager, I wasn't prepared for anything like this!

I was spiraling. I needed to stop and focus. Center myself. Be on the lookout for beasts, I reminded myself. Concentrate on that for now, stew on the existential crisis of responsibility in the background. Heading up the massive steps took me to the biggest damn church complex I'd ever seen. Everything was carved from stone, many of the statues and all of the pillars were hewn from a single stone each and immaculately carved. The statues were horrific, Lovecraftian nightmares fusing the human and the inhuman. Portrayals of robed figures with heads like stinkhorn mushrooms, arms raised in supplication or perhaps triumph. Were these portrayals of Oedon? Perhaps his – its – angels? If so, I'd take my chances with Biblically-accurate angels.

As I explored the complex, multiple mausolea and smaller temples, I found an honest-to-God treasure chest. The big thing was ornate and hidden in a shadowy corner, and I opened it fully expecting a trap, or an ambush, or for a mummy to pop out and yell at me. Instead I found a strange tool. Divided into parts, it looked like a sextant and some bizarre combination of measuring scales and one of those 3D chessboards I'd seen in a novelty shop. I had absolutely no idea what this thing was but as I watched, some of the oddities that Doll called the little ones (I guess I should start calling them that too, if only so we had common parlance) rose up from the solid bottom of the chest.

With the opportunity to watch this time, it was honestly fascinating. First came the churning substance, as a pseudo-liquid like whiteout bubbled up from nowhere. Then the little ones rose up in a cluster, emerging from the liquid as if surfacing from beneath the water. The stark white faded away, leaving a slight… Mist was not the correct term, but my eyes interpreted it as mist or fog despite it not drifting away. The area where the little ones met the solid surface was disrupted by this mist, preventing me from seeing it clearly. Perhaps it was like the headache I'd gotten when Doll had started using her magic and I'd looked right at it. If so, I was glad I couldn't see what was going on.

The little ones grabbed the tool, moaned in what I presumed was thanks or perhaps congratulations, and pulled it down with them. Then the chest was empty and its floor undisturbed. Even the dust was still in place. "This place is so fuckin' weird," I muttered to myself.

Normally when I hear the word 'chapel,' I think of a smaller church – someplace where one or two dozen people at most could gather for worship. If the naming conventions held true and this was a small church… Well, put simply, Oedon Chapel was massive. Vaulted ceilings at least fifty feet high, probably a hundred feet from front to back, with a raised central dais a dozen feet or more across. Everything was beautifully carved, even the floors were textured. Alcoves featured little pedestals, some with what I could only presume were artifacts. I couldn't begin to imagine how Oedon was worshiped, but however they did it they did it in style. And all around me were massive urns with wicks, all burning and releasing a scent I somewhat recognized.

It had been difficult to place at first, because I'd gotten used to the scent. It was the smell of the moonlight-flowers that clung to me. Well, not quite that smell, but this was an approximation. And, my brain registered, there had been a candle, lamp or incense holder releasing that same scent at Gilbert's window and at Gascoigne and Viola's house. And here were hundreds of these, filling the entire cathedral with the smell.

"Well now," a voice chirped from my right, "even steps, not muttering to yourself, and you can stomach the incense. Unless my ears deceive me, I do believe someone with their wits still about them has come to the chapel. I was starting to get worried I'd be the only one left," the man finished with a slightly unhinged giggle. I couldn't tell if it was a tic, a nervous breakdown from fear, or if I was dealing with a madman.

I turned to address the speaker and froze. Once again, I was confronted with something frightening. He had gray-black skin like ash, not of the same texture as human skin. I could tell it was almost papery. He was far too long – arms almost like tentacles, topped with spindly-fingered hands, even a face too long and narrow. Gehrman at least appeared in the realm of reason, but this...this creature's pointed chin and nose were elongated so much as to be obviously unnatural. Milky eyes blinked unseeing, and it undulated in ragged red robes, long torso resting on the stone. This creature had no legs.

"Are you mute?" It spoke in a friendly, youthful male voice. Someone in his early twenties, maybe? Definitely a Yharnam accent. "I sure hope not or that'll make things difficult. I can't exactly see, you see?" Another giggle.

I tightened my grip on the pistol. "...Sorry if this is rude," I said at length, "but what are you?"

If he was offended, he didn't show it. "I'm a person! At least I think I am. Best we can figure, me parents left me here for the priests to care for me. I can't entirely blame them, I've never met anyone like me and nobody else has either. No legs, eyes don't work, they tell me I'm the wrong shape and color. Let me tell you, it's the 'no legs' thing that's the most inconvenient," he chuckled. "So I live here at the chapel, at the priests' generosity. What brings you through here, traveler?"

I kept a healthy distance. "I'm heading to Cathedral Ward, to the Healing Church. I think I need their help to get home." I looked around. "You said there were priests here?"

"Well I'm glad you clarified, since you're in Cathedral Ward already. And yes," his face fell, "there were priests here. This hunt...it's different. Everyone's locked up inside, as you do, since it always ends. It'll end this time too, mark my words, but something tells me it'll end badly. The priests got their gear together and went out to help people. That was hours ago and not a one has come back." He tilted his too-long head. "You don't sound too frightened by all this. Are you perchance a hunter?"

I shrugged. "I guess so. That's what Gehrman tells me, at least."

His lips spread in a disturbing smile. Even his teeth were too long, and all of them oddly blunted. "That's wonderful news! I've been waiting for one of your ilk. Maybe we can make a difference yet!" As if sensing my incredulity, he continued. "Far as I can tell, the beasts are getting bolder. The usual little incense dish isn't always enough to keep them back. Even some folks hiding away are going bad. Yharnam's done for, mark my words. But that doesn't mean that we can't still help people." The ragged mutant waved a long arm in a sweeping motions. "The incense in these urns all together is strong enough to scare off any beast, and it'll last well into the morning if not longer. If you find any folk with their wits about 'em, tell 'em about Oedon Chapel here. They'll be safe. And if we can get some supplies, close off the doors, we can make a good stand of it till the hunt ends, come what may." He trailed off with that unsettling giggle again.

"So what's your name?" This was the longest conversation I'd had with someone that wasn't through a door, aside from Gehrman and Doll, but they didn't exactly count considering they were in a pocket-dimension Dream.

"Don't have one," he shrugged. "Priests always just called me 'my child' or some such, others called me the Chapel Dweller like it was a profession. I'm naught but a humble beggar, no skills to count as a profession."

I blinked. "You're the second person without a name I've met tonight. Would you like one?"

He smiled again. "Oh sure. I've tried to come up with one for meself, but nothing ever felt quite right. Do you have a name, miss hunter?"

I wanted to believe he was a gentle wretch, a victim of circumstance who had genuinely good intentions. Yharnam hadn't beaten hope out of me yet. However, the saying always goes to trust but verify. "I'm Taylor. Nice to meet you." Hopefully Iosefka or Gilbert, or maybe Doll might know about him. Doll from stories told by other hunters, but still. Gehrman was probably too far out of date to know. "I'll have a look around. If I find anyone, I'll keep you in mind."

"All I can ask," he declared with another laugh.

(BREAK)

Gilbert didn't know about the beggar, having never made it to Cathedral Ward himself. He listened as I explained my current problems, then I heard the grinding of wood on wood. He wheezed and I could hear him staggering.

"Gilbert!" I cried out in concern, his shadow approaching the window.

"This is probably...the last time I can move like this," he wheezed. "But Taylor, you've been kind to me and I want to repay that kindness, as well as give you the chance to succeed at your quest." He fumbled with the window, managing to slide it up somewhat. His hands were bandaged, gnarled, shriveled. His body looked withered like a corpse or a wizened old man. I still couldn't see his face: I was certain this was intentional. He passed something through the bars: it looked like a strange watering can, or an oversized airbrush tool. "When Iosefka told me about the beasts, how they're a risk but don't like fire, I got ahold of this. Now I want it to be yours." I tried to protest but he cut me off. "If you must, consider it a last request from a dying man. Don't get trapped here, Taylor. Burn your path to freedom." Gilbert shoved the device into my hands and with great effort shut the window again. He staggered back to his bed. "N-now off with you, lass. I need to read my new book and get some rest."

I smiled softly. "Rest well, Gilbert. If I can, I'll get you out of here too."

His shadow tiredly waved me off. "I've made my peace, girl. Unharmed by this plague of beasts, I can die human and on my own terms even if the schedule's not mine. And I can help my new friend get out of here."

(BREAK)

My reasons for meeting Iosefka were twofold: I wanted to know if she had any information on this beggar and if he was trustworthy, and I was looking for her advice on what to do with the little girl. Could she make an exception and open her door to let the girl inside? I slaughtered my way through the huntsmen and the beasts – it was almost by rote at this point – and knocked on her door. "Iosefka, are you busy?"

The voice that echoed through the door shortly thereafter was smooth, assured, the voice of a confident doctor. It was decidedly not Iosefka's voice. "Oh, well hello there. Who's this again? I've been so busy I'm having trouble keeping track of voices."

My spine felt like it was made of frozen metal. The chill that circulated through me was only rivaled by when I realized I'd never see my mother's flute again. I swallowed hard. If Iosefka was being held hostage, if there was hope of saving her, I'd need to avoid alerting this other woman. "I-it's Taylor. From earlier tonight?"

"Ah, Taylor. Of course, how could I have forgotten? How are you, dear girl?" The words were right, but they were completely insincere. I could feel the falsehood, taste its bitterness on my tongue. This woman had no idea who I was or what my relationship was to Iosefka.

"I'm alright. I was just in the area so I thought I'd check in, make sure you're still safe in there."

That perked her up. "Oh yes, I've set up quite the safe area in here. In fact, I think I can accommodate more patients – or, if not patients, at least guests in need of safety. If you find any survivors, send them to my clinic. Upon my oath as a healer, if they are human I will look after them, perhaps even cure them. This sickness, these beasts, they are not to be feared."

A far cry from the gentle woman who'd feared for her patients' health and safety.

"This time the night is long," the woman continued. "I might be trapped here, but I should do some small thing to help. How about I even offer a reward for your assistance? Tempted?" she purred.

Play along, I exhorted myself even as I gripped my saw so hard it shook. Like Gascoigne had shaken when he heard the music box. "Y-yeah, a reward would be nice."

"Wonderful! Well, off you go, then. If you find anyone who's still human, send them to Iosefka's Clinic! You can assure them there's no place safer!"

"Don't worry," I replied, "I'll get right on that."

It took all my willpower to walk away rather than run.

(BREAK)

"Gehrman!" I shouted, charging out of the mist in the Dream. "I need directions!" I skidded to a stop, lowering my voice once I found him. The wheelchair-bound man sat before one of the desks, fiddling with a device – the same device that the little ones had retrieved from outside the chapel!

"I expected as much," the old man replied, not looking up from his inspection. "What possessed you to bellow so greatly I half-expected the roof to collapse upon me, Taylor?"

"Iosefka – one of my friends in Yharnam – I think she's been kidnapped. Or...or she's dead," I responded, throat suddenly blocked by the volume of my worry. Iosefka had been the first person to sing me to sleep since my mother died, the first altruistic soul I'd encountered in so long. It was through her that I managed to cling to hope and take those first tentative steps toward freeing myself from this nightmare. "I need to know if there's another way into the clinic. It's in western Yharnam, Northwest I think. Big building, full of gurneys and medical equipment."

Doll peeked in from the doorway. "The ministration clinic that Laurence once frequented on his charitable missions," she clarified for me. I didn't miss how Gehrman's hackles rose, shoulders hunching defensively when she spoke.

The old man did his best to silently let out his tense breath through his nose, pretend he hadn't just been so on-edge he might well have split in two. "...Aye, I know the place. It's connected by underground corridor to a village in the Forbidden Woods."

Even with my panic, I couldn't keep my eyebrow from rising and the sarcastic comment slipped out with no regard to my emotional state. "It's called the Forbidden Woods? Did you let somebody's edgy thirteen-year-old name it?"

Gehrman waved me off. "Nah. Woods're infected with some sort of disease. People went mad, monsters moved in. Even the beasts avoid the place. Course, they would've been forbidden regardless with the schism between the Church and Byrgenwerth, but that's just one reason to avoid them. Now give me some paper, lass, anything will do: it won't be terribly detailed." I provided him a scrap and he began to scribble. "I made it a point not to spend much time out there. Never felt right even before the infection. Snakes and worse out there in the fetid swamps, and I always felt like something far too intelligent was watching me from the shadows." He drew a basic path, some buildings to represent a village… "The trapdoor should be around this area, provided a shack hasn't been erected atop it." Gehrman rolled his chair around to look at me as he passed me the paper. "Now tell me why you need to get inside through a back way."

I did my best to condense the information, telling him about Iosefka and why she was important to me, as well as this new voice pretending to be her. At length, Gehrman sighed and gazed at me with those sorrowful eyes.

"I won't tell you not to try saving her, though I will caution against it," he warned. "I can guarantee you that your journey won't have a happy ending."

I squared my shoulders. "Even if I can't save her, Iosefka and her patients deserve vengeance at the very least."

His frown deepened. "Do what you will." Gehrman turned back to his device.

In an attempt to avoid leaving things on a somewhat negative note, I spoke up again. "So what did I find, anyway? What is that thing?"

"Blood-gem tool," he responded, resuming his inspection. "We used it to concentrate blood and blood gems into our weapons. Blood, the echoes, is representative of strength and fortitude. By making this symbolism physical we fortify our weapons just as we can fortify our bodies. The blood gems… I have no cultural touchstone to help you understand, so simply comprehend that these are solidified concepts written in blood and given physical form. When worked into a weapon, they can provide powerful advantages. Some keep memories of trauma and carry drawbacks, but suffering always breeds strength so they can be the most powerful – if you can handle the danger. Kegs used to be fans of seeking those kinds of gems, the madmen." The mix of fondness and derision in Gehrman's voice when he mentioned Kegs reminded me of how Dad used to talk about his cousin Rob, so I could only imagine that Gehrman saw them as having their hearts in the right place but their heads up their asses.

"Interesting. Once you're done looking it over, maybe I'll try it out." I stepped closer, moving slowly so as not to startle him. Gehrman didn't seem to frighten easily, but what I had planned… "And thank you, for the map." I leaned down against his chair and gave the old man a gentle hug. He'd been alone for God only knows how long, his only company being someone he obviously couldn't stand. If Doll's words meant what they seemed and he couldn't even travel to Yharnam, Gehrman must have been starved for human contact to a degree even I couldn't fathom.

I didn't hold the embrace for more than a second or two. He stiffened in my arms and didn't respond, verbally or physically. I left him to his work and approached Doll.

"Thanks for the help there. So who's Laurence?" I asked her.

"He was one of Gehrman's old friends, a brother in arms," she replied evenly.

"Was, huh?" I let out a low breath. "Gehrman's lost a lot of people, hasn't he?"

"And even more within this Dream. Countless hunters he mentored, far fewer was he able to free. Too many succumbed to madness or beasthood. I sometimes walk the path and look at all of the names, to recall everyone who has fought to escape the hunt." Doll was always subdued but she sounded particularly melancholic there.

"I wanted to ask you," I changed the subject with the subtlety of that bridge monster, "do you know anything about a blind mutant in Oedon Chapel?" I described the strange man as best I could.

"I believe so, at least in passing. Several people have mentioned someone of that general description. None have commented on his character, so either he is inoffensive or has simply not done anything to draw attention from those hunters who encountered him."

I sat on the garden wall. "So, this might be a difficult question, especially since you live here and don't have much context. But I need to ask somebody for advice and with Iosefka unavailable you're the one best equipped, I think. There's a little girl, orphaned now. Her mother was killed by beasts, her father went insane and turned into a beast himself. I… I don't want to leave her alone in her house. Young and trusting as she is, she might wander off or let some maniac inside. Do you think it's better to bring her to Oedon Chapel, so she'll at least have someone to talk with? Or is she safer in her house?"

Doll stood silent for a time, apparently thinking while she was perfectly immobile. It was a bit disconcerting to see how she didn't breathe, didn't twitch or fidget. "On the worst nights, beasts become so bold that even incense will not frighten them away. A dish burning through the night would not provide safety. A chapel filled with incense urns would turn away more and larger beasts than a dish would, and Yharnamites build their places of worship with thick stone doors."

An answer that didn't exactly tell me what to do, but Doll raised good points. As long as the beggar could be trusted, Oedon Chapel's stone doors and thick walls would likely be safer. "Thanks, Doll. I'll see you later."

"Farewell, Taylor," she said with the tiniest smile. "May you find your way safely through the dreaming world."

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May 10, 2022

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Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

May 13, 2022

#169

I returned to the lantern in the middle of Oedon Chapel's dais. The little one holding it wiggled at me, and for the first time I really took note that I could only hear them when in the Dream. Its mouth was certainly moving so I expected it was trying to make those bizarrely deep moans, but silence greeted me. Must be the dimensional shenanigans, something with them not being here in their entirety. In a roundabout way it made sense, in that only I could see and interact with them but sound wasn't nearly as discriminatory.

The crippled mutant perked up, looking around in fright. "Mm? Who's there?"

"It's Taylor again. Don't panic."

His head turned on its too-long neck to face my general direction. "A-and how'd you end up in here? I certainly didn't hear footsteps." Another giggle, despite there definitely being nothing humorous in his questioning.

"It's a long story. I don't know if you're familiar at all with the idea of teleportation. Suffice to say that until I can escape Yharnam I at least have the ability to move around with relative ease to places I've already been."

"Well, well I'd appreciate it if you announced yourself on arrival. Don't know how much me insides differ from the average person's but I'm in no mood to see if I can die of fright." It was interesting that he was a little indignant but was calming down. In a way that made me a bit more inclined to trust him, that he wasn't putting on a purposeful air of obsequiousness.

"Sorry for the scare." My apology was genuine. "Can you perhaps give me advice as to where the priests might've kept chairs, tables, that sort of thing? I have a little girl with nowhere else to go so I'd like to set her up here rather than leave her with an incense dish alone."

He chewed his lip with those blunt teeth. "A little girl? How little are we talking? You do know I won't be able to keep an eye on her or give chase, for obvious reasons."

Time to see how he reacted to the next part. "Well it's either here or Iosefka's clinic…"

"A clinic? Out west, for blood ministration? Those places have strong doors. If there's still enough staff it'd be a far better place for a little girl." And that reaction sealed it. It came out so quickly and lacking in subtlety that I couldn't imagine it to be a lie. This poor man was trying to help as best he could.

"Thanks for the advice. Sorry to say, that was just a test. Someone...someone's either kidnapped or killed Iosefka. I'm going to either rescue or avenge her, but in the meantime the girl will need to stay behind these particular strong doors."

"...I don't know if I'd be enough entertainment to keep a child occupied," he said at length. "And if she wandered off, got herself hurt… I couldn't forgive meself."

"She's a hunter's daughter," I did my best to reassure him. "She's just a little too full of hope and willing to talk with others. I'm hoping, myself, that she'll understand the seriousness of the situation especially on the walk over." I began shoving the huge stone doors shut, closing off the entrances. Even with the physical boost Doll gave me, it was back-breaking work and I grunted with the effort as stone ground against stone.

"As for furnishings, I think… Wait, no, I don't really know what direction I'm facing." He posed and pointed forward and to his left. "There's a storage room over there. Think you might have to move a few urns, can't be sure, but there should be chairs and some other things."

"Thanks," I smiled as I began to retrieve a few things. Some chairs, a fold-out wooden table… Now I just needed a deck of cards or some other thing to occupy someone's time. "I'll work on thinking up a name for you if you're still interested."

"Either or," he shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Suits me just fine regardless."

(BREAK)

I set out from the chapel on foot, hacking my way through the various beasts and monsters on the long, tedious journey from the chapel to Gascoigne and Viola's home. By the time I reached the window I was winded, battered, and covered in blood. I still hadn't settled on what I would tell her, so it'd have to come organically.

I rapped on the window. "Are you still awake?"

Stocking feet padded over, pulling the curtain aside hesitantly at first, then more fully once she recognized me. Now I got a good look at her. Honestly, the girl reminded me a good deal of Vista from back home. Her long blonde hair fell in slight waves down her back, tied lightly with a white silk ribbon to keep it from falling in her face. Bright blue eyes, almost cyan, glittered up at me. She was tiny but had the look of a preteen, so my estimate of around ten – a small ten, to be sure – was probably accurate. A hopeful smile adorned her face, but I could see the metaphorical cracks. Somehow, between then and now, I think she realized what had most likely happened. Or perhaps she had already by the time I'd first met her but still clung to desperate hope.

"Hello, Miss Hunter," she chirped. "Do you have any news?"

It spilled from my mouth before I could stop it. "I-I found your mom. She...beasts got her. Your dad killed them all, but…" I was only barely able to pause myself and edit things. I wasn't about to tell her the truth of that particular interaction. "I got to talk with him a little, before he passed. He loved you and your mom very much."

Tears spilled from her eyes like waterfalls, absent sniffles or sobbing. It was a near certainty that she'd already acknowledged what was likely to happen but just hadn't admitted it to herself. "I, wh-what…?" She couldn't speak, throat closing up.

The fear that I was breaking another member of this poor family nearly overwhelmed me, but I pressed on. I withdrew the brooch from my pocket. "They would have wanted you to have this. It's...it's yours now." I rested against the window lattice, feeling my body going limp as I shared in her sorrow. "I… I lost my parents too. My mom died and my dad forgot me, and evil people stole the flute I used to remind him. I couldn't… You needed to know the truth, even though it hurts, because your life isn't over. It's going to hurt, it's going to hurt every single day. But you're still alive. Your parents' love and dreams live on in you and you can't give up because of the hurt. You can't give up like I did," I finished with a whisper.

The window slid open. Her little hand rested on mine, holding my hand as much as the brooch. What a strong girl. "Sssso what do we do now?" she asked, forcing the words out through trembling lips and a throat that kept wanting to seal up, a voice that shook and tried to hiccup.

We… "The beasts are getting more aggressive. Just the incense dish might not keep them back tonight. I found a place, Oedon Chapel, outside the Tomb. It has a lot of incense, enough to scare off most any beast, and huge stone doors to keep out anything else nasty. I'll take you there to wait out the night. You don't have the magic or weapons I can rely on, so your job is just to stay alive so you can make a new life after all this is over. My job is to kill every single beast I can and save as many people as I can manage."

She nodded gravely, accepting the brooch. "Let me get my shoes. The front door is over this way." The window closed.

I took off my hat, pulled down my face covering and lifted my goggles so she could see my real face. "Do I… Is it okay if I come in? My shoes are pretty nasty."

The girl was all business now, the woman of the house. "Daddy used to have the same problem. Usually Mummy would clean it up, but for tonight I think we can leave it. Bigger issues to deal with, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Grab whatever food will keep, we'll put it in a rucksack. If you have a favorite doll, or a deck of cards, anything to help keep yourself occupied. I'll hopefully find more people but right now the only other person at the chapel isn't going to be the best company. He's nice enough but was born with a lot of defects."

She looked over at me when I said that. "Defects?" The use of the term seemed strange to her, and I suppose it probably was. I described the Chapel Dweller and his eccentricities. "And he doesn't have a name, either?"

"Yeah, we're working on that for him."

Her little head poked out of the kitchen from where she was folding up a tablecloth to form a sack. "I just realized, I never asked your name."

"Heh, nor I yours. I'm Taylor."

"That's a pretty name," she smiled. "I'm Siobhan."

I took her hand and led her out. Not a moment too soon, apparently. I don't know what was pursuing us, but as we walked away my sharpened ears picked up the sound of rummaging from within Siobhan's home, followed by a maddened female scream. "Where is it!?"

We walked more quickly.

(BREAK)

Siobhan was a strong girl. She didn't say anything about the corpses we passed. Then again, perhaps I was misjudging her stoicism. This girl was the daughter of a hunter, someone who killed these monsters as a profession. It only made sense that she wouldn't see this as quite so horrific, much like how I would be horrified at having to slaughter a cow but a farmer would see it as a part of life. Interestingly, I still internally cringed at the idea of having to kill a cow. I guess there was a fundamental difference between killing things that mean you harm and killing something harmless out of necessity. Still, she followed behind me up the various ladders and didn't complain when her shoes and stockings got soiled. I led her to Oedon Chapel and introduced her to the Dweller, who was surprisingly cute in his nervousness over how to handle her. It made me think of C-3PO.

Once again, his impotent mother-hen attitude set me at ease. He might not be able to keep Siobhan safe, but at least I was assured that he meant her no harm. "So who could give me directions around here? I'm trying to find a few places, including the entrance to the Forbidden Woods."

He actually gasped at that. "The Forbidden Woods!? Not even beasts stray far inside there. The monsters out there are the stuff of nightmares. Why in the Vicars' good graces would you ever want to go to that hell?"

"Because the back entrance to Iosefka's clinic is through there. If she's still alive and being held hostage, I have to rescue her. If she's dead, I have to avenge her. She was my first friend in Yharnam." My voice was even, stern, resolute.

His long neck bobbed his head. He understood but clearly didn't like it. Something he had in common with Gehrman. "Well, I don't know much outside of these walls. But the streets of Cathedral Ward should surely have people still alive and possessed of their wits. You can ask around while helping people back here. I can all but guarantee at least one of them will have the answers you need. Only thing I can tell you is that the gate to the Grand Cathedral should still be shut. The leader of the Hunt is required to open that gate, or whoever to whom he gave his emblem. Last Hunt, that was noble Ludwig, but I don't know who bears the emblem of Chief Hunter since the Holy Blade passed."

I nodded, humming, seated in one of the (admittedly rickety) chairs I'd retrieved. "Any other advice?"

"Well, on the night of the Hunt, resources are going to be focused on, well, the Hunt. Plus, as an outsider, you're going to be looked down on. Whatever problems you face, you're likely going to need to negotiate with the Choir – maybe even Vicar Amelia herself. If you had something to offer in return for their help, you'd be in a better position." He smiled. "I know there's an artifact in the ruins of Old Yharnam, something that the priests have long tried to retrieve but were stymied by beasts – and hunters, of course, have far more important tasks than playing errand boy. However, if you were to bring whatever is held within the Church of the Good Chalice, I think it might earn you an audience with the Vicar herself."

I stood and stretched. "Thanks for the advice. You hold up here as best you can, Desmond."

He blinked those milky eyes. "What now?"

"Well, I was thinking of names," I smirked, "and you look like a Desmond."

A giggling guffaw bubbled up from his chest, and he beamed at me.

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May 13, 2022

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Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

May 20, 2022

#244

A new area to properly explore meant that I was once again flying blind. I opted to return to the Dream and check in on Gehrman and Doll, set the old man to work on a new map for Cathedral Ward. "It's almost refreshing to have so much tedium," he commented. "While I'm busy here, feel free to investigate the blood gem tool, or see what your badges can get you." He smirked at me. "My old eyes are still sharp: I noticed that saw badge on your lapel."

In truth I'd forgotten about it. Just another thing picked up through the aqueducts, and when I'd grabbed it I remembered about the sword badge and had wondered if it was similar. Then came Gascoigne and I had plenty of other problems. "You said hunters could requisition equipment. How would I do that here?"

He waved me off. "Go bother the weird things in the birdbath. They have all sorts of stuff they pick up from Yharnam."

Once I was at the birdbath, I had Doll as an amused audience as I did my best to communicate with the little ones. "Gehrman? Why are they trying to offer me a big friggin' rock?" I called.

"Kirkhammer," he hollered back. "Good for squishing things."

Doll showed me how the weapon worked, how the narrow thrusting sword slotted and locked into place with the massive stone head, and it made me a bit uncomfortable how easily she handled the enormous slab of rock. Carvings in the side were worn away with age but the occasional large numbers that hadn't entirely faded made me think this thing was covered in scripture. I gave the kirkhammer a few experimental swings but didn't like the sheer weight. Far too much for a slip of a girl like me: every motion made it feel like I was going to go flying in the style of Looney Tunes. The little lantern they offered next was much better. It didn't provide much light with its tiny candle, but according to Doll the candle would never run out. I could attach it to my belt and have at least a bit more illumination than normal.

On presenting the saw badge, the little ones again held up the weapons they'd offered me at the start of this journey, plus something extra. It reminded me of my existing weapon, only instead of a glaive on one side the weapon narrowed into a sharpened point and had saw teeth on both sides. I tilted my head at Doll. "So what's this thing, and why's it here?"

"Gehrman called it the saw spear. It is a modification, some would say an improvement, to the saw cleaver with which you are familiar." Doll ran her hand along the flat side of the weapon. "As you might already suspect, beast hunting has a metaphorical component. Blood gems are concepts made physical, and so the physical can be made a concept: the serrated weapon is anathema to the beast. While the teeth may catch on a hunter's clothes, they will find their mark and rend open a beast. The spear may be good for travel to the Forbidden Woods. There are creatures there who are more vulnerable to the symbolic righteousness of a thrusting blade, such as that spear tip."

I got the feeling she knew a lot more than she was letting on. However, she'd been honest with me thus far and had already admitted to occasionally being limited in what she was able to say. Maybe this was another case of me not being ready to understand something quite yet. "Oh. While I have you here…" I fumbled in my pocket for the sheets of paper that Eileen gave me. "What're these things?" The symbol drawn on the paper looked like a minimalist trident with the outer tines pointing inward, or maybe something like a medieval mancatcher.

Doll gave a soft smile. "That is quite a gift." She turned the paper upside-down, so the tines pointed downward. "These are what is known as the Bold Hunter's Mark." Seeing that I had no comprehension, she sat down on the garden wall and placed the papers in her lap. "It will not work here but when next you are in Yharnam, close your eyes and envision yourself returning home. This symbol should appear in your mind. If you concentrate on it, you will find yourself brought back to the Dream. This is a useful ability but also a costly one: you are returned as you were when last you were within the Dream. All blood echoes will slide off your essence."

"So it's for if I get stuck somewhere? Trapped?"

"In essence, yes. Hunters themselves have been hunted before, particularly by the knights of Cainhurst during the war. Most hunters who found themselves captive had no recourse, but one connected to the Dream could escape." And here she mentioned something else for which I had no context. Cainhurst? War? "This, on the other hand, is a Bold Mark. Written in blood-gall ink and placed into physical form, this paper acts as an anchor and lets you bring your blood echoes with you, at the cost of destroying the Mark."

I perked up. "So if I'm in a bad situation, this is an emergency exit that lets me keep my blood echoes? I'll have to thank Eileen next time I see her. Oh!" I smiled at Doll. "She said to tell you she says hello."

Doll's smile widened a fraction more. "Eileen is a sweet woman," she said, "and strong-willed. Even after she was freed from the Dream she continues to work to bring peace to blood-maddened hunters. She has found her calling, and I am proud to have helped her to discover it."

On recommendation from both Doll and Gehrman I decided to give the new saw spear a try, and went to the blood gem tool to enhance it. Gehrman looked over my shoulder to talk me through how to guide blood echoes through the various reservoirs and drip them down into physical form, before slotting blood gems that disappeared into the weapon. When I was done, the saw subtly pulsed with power in time with my heartbeat before it settled down. I expended the last of the echoes enhancing myself, letting Doll weave the supernatural energy into my body to make me stronger and faster.

(BREAK)

I returned to Oedon Chapel and said hello to Siobhan and Desmond. The girl was keeping her odd new friend entertained by telling him stories of her daily life: to a blind man who lives in a chapel, it must have been enthralling. After brief greetings I headed out into Cathedral Ward proper. The door to my left – I think it was to the north but couldn't be quite sure with the way buildings wended – opened into another graveyard and a small well. These graves looked almost impromptu, as if they'd had too many bodies to bury and decided to dig graves here. That couldn't be good for the water table, could it?

With each enhancement from Doll, my senses seemed to be sharpening as well. I could head soft leather boots on the stone path. A large, unnatural man came up from the downward-sloping road. Upon seeing all of him, he had to be at least seven feet tall. His clothes, oddly enough, were at least vaguely fitted to his size. Not tailored but definitely not the kind of shortening of the sleeves that happened with the bestial hunters. He wore a white duster coat over an all-black ensemble, and a broad white hat over a scarf-covered head. The strange man's overly long face was on display, almost as white as the little ones, and a different kind of long than Desmond's. Instead of having too much chin, he had...just too much face. It reminded me of the Easter Island heads in a way, the odd length of the skull. Black eyes with barely-visible irises of some yellow-hazel color completed the unsettling and inhuman look.

I tightened my grip on the saw, knowing what was likely to happen. Sure enough, he brandished his sharp-tipped cane threateningly and his jaw distended further, down to his sternum. A rasping noise came from his throat like someone with no vocal cords trying to shout. With a flick I opened the saw spear and darted in. Since he was wielding the cane in his right hand, I ducked past him on the left and stuck to his left hip as best I could. He spun to his right, bringing the cane up to my side. Thankfully the haft of the cane wasn't really sharpened, just had hard-angled corners, so it didn't cut but the impact of metal against my ribs wasn't pleasant. I had to drop out of melee and cradle my cracked rib, injecting myself with a blood vial to make sure I wouldn't impale my lung. I returned to the battle, more wary of that cane and how hard he could hit. He battered and stabbed me, but I bled him and healed my wounds with his claret. When he dropped I made a note to ask Doll and Gehrman about this white-coated weirdo.

Opting to see what lay in the direction from which the waxy-faced cane man had come, I headed down and soon felt the ground shaking. I could hear the rattle of chains, the soft clanking of something like a cowbell. Was...was there some sort of gigantic bull here?

I rounded the corner to see an honest-to-God giant. No, no bull, but it might've been better. This thing was titanic. The bridge monster had been a good ten feet all hunched, probably twelve to fifteen at full height. This abomination was fifteen feet while stooped! I wouldn't be surprised if it was a full two stories when it straightened up. It looked like an emaciated corpse, wrapped in rags as if in some attempt to maintain its modesty. Its legs were loosely chained together, though with more than enough room to walk so I saw no point in the chains. Its hands were chained to a gigantic axe, most of it rusted and bloodied though where the haft transformed into the head's central column it was instead elegantly-textured silver with something of a Norse theme, if I had to guess. Over the creature had been placed a gigantic sheet, perhaps the old white cloth of a Victorian-era tent, secured around the neck with rope to form a sort of makeshift cloak. And seated atop its shriveled head, casting its seemingly eyeless face in shadow, was a hat sized perfectly for its head. And even though the head was too small for its deformed, lanky body, it was most certainly still massive.

The thing trudged toward me, readying its axe. "Fuck me," I groaned, and lunged.

The fight was surprisingly not terribly difficult, though that was entirely because I avoided getting hit. I was all but certain that a single stroke from that axe would cleave me apart, and a punch or kick from a monster that could heft a chunk of metal like that would do no good for my bones. I darted between its legs back and forth, slicing at its ankles and sawing the backs of its knees. When it toppled forward, I leapt onto its back and charged up along its spine before my empowered legs propelled me into the air to drop back down, impaling it through the back of the neck.

Then I heard more chains, felt more shaking, and opted to book it.

(BREAK)

Cathedral Ward was a maze. It made sense: Yharnam was a huge city, so its center was probably built up more organically in a frenzy to make use of the available space. In this case, that meant spiraling out in great tentacular city streets along the contours of the minor hills that rolled beneath my feet. Going through this place, the map only barely helping, I fought my way through dozens more bestial huntsmen and a few full wolves. Weirdly enough, in a barrel that I just happened to break during a skirmish with a gunman and a huntsman with a pitchfork, I found a neatly folded outfit. It was all black, with a strange visor for the eyes and a stole like Gascoigne had worn. Was this perhaps a clergy outfit? Why would someone have stored it here?

As I took a breather and pondered, I saw the glow from the corner of my eye. The little ones rose up again, holding out their arms welcomingly while one wiggled in the outfit's direction. I quirked a brow. "If you're offering to take this for me… Thanks, I guess?" They bundled the clothes up into a ball and disappeared into the street. "Okay then."

The streets wound and flowed up and down Yharnam's hilly terrain, up stairs that became cramped kill boxes as I was flanked by beasts (Thank you Gilbert for the flamethrower), and through elegant open hallways until I found a place of relative calm. I could smell the faux-moonflower incense mixed with other smokes, and found a man meditating before what looked like a shrine. Embossed on a headstone resting atop the shrine was the appearance of a man, tall and lean, with a massive wild beard.

I looked down at the meditating blond, who was now looking up at me. He tentatively released his grip from a massive wood-and-steel wheel. Was...was that his weapon? "The way you hold yourself," he muttered almost under his breath, "you don't seem mad…" He stood. "You're a beasthunter, aren't you? That's precisely how I started out!" Well, this guy was excitable. "Ah, beg pardon. You may call me Alfred," he smiled, "protege of Master Logarius – the hunter of Vilebloods!"

I blinked behind my goggles. "Uh, I'm Taylor, hunter by necessity. You'll have to forgive me but I'm an outsider to these parts. I don't know of, ah, Logarius or Vilebloods."

Alfred glanced back at the headstone, which I presumed was a likeness of Logarius from his reaction. "Well, as Master Logarius told it, there was once a scholar who betrayed his fellows at Byrgenwerth and brought forbidden blood with him to Cainhurst Castle. It was then that the inhuman Vilebloods were born. They are fiendish creatures who threaten the purity of the Church's blood healing. In his time, Master Logarius led his executioners into Cainhurst to cleanse it of the Vilebloods. But all did not go well: despite the acts of the noble Executioners, the leader of the Vilebloods yet lives. Master Logarius became a blessed anchor, protecting us from evil." He looked down and shook his head. "Tragic, tragic times, that Master Logarius should be abandoned in the cursed domain of the Vilebloods. I must free him so he may be properly honored in martyrdom, so I seek the way to Cainhurst Castle."

"You say 'in his time' and that Logarius led the Executioners," I pointed out, "but you never mention going along with them. Plus, this sounds like it happened years ago and you can't be older than thirty."

He flushed all the way to his ears. "Ah, yes. I...suppose that to claim the title of protege may be a tad presumptuous. I was deeply inspired by Master Logarius and learned all that I could of the great man denied martyrdom. I am the last of the Executioners, and the first in more than two decades. But regardless, what say you? We may hunt different prey but we focus on keeping the people safe. Why not cooperate, pool our knowledge?"

Well, he was apparently a religious fanatic calling himself the apprentice of a man he'd never met. But I knew little and any information I could get would be useful. I just hoped that it would be accurate. "Sure. Not sure how much I could tell you on my end, but I'll try."

"Very good indeed! Here, take this, to celebrate our acquaintance." He passed me oddly shimmering paper. "Fire paper is little use against vilebloods but of great help against beasts. I picked it up in my travels but have had no cause to use it."

Fire paper? I'd have to ask Doll or Gehrman how to use it. "Thanks. So I've heard of Byrgenwerth a few times now. What is it?"

He shook his head. "A wicked place, I'd say. A noble cause misused. Byrgenwerth was once a place of learning, a gathering point for scholars and occultists. And the tomb of the gods, carved out beneath Yharnam – which should be familiar to all hunters – was originally accessed from there. Well, a group of prospectors discovered a holy medium down in those catacombs, and this led to the founding of the Healing Church and the establishment of blood healing. So in a sense, everything sacred in Yharnam can be traced back to Byrgenwerth."

This was a lot to try and comprehend. "So why is Byrgenwerth wicked, if all the good stuff came from there?"

"Well," he shrugged, "I am but a layman – a simple hunter, concerned with facing evil rather than unraveling the mysteries of the world. I don't know the full story but Byrgenwerth rejected the miracle of blood healing. As such, the Church has declared it forbidden ground and the wood around it is infested with monsters. It's unclear how many, if any at all, of the scholars remain alive, as this schism occurred decades ago, but only they know the password that will open the gate to the Forbidden Woods. It was a final childish insult to Vicar Laurence, to seal the entrance from their side as if to say that they were the ones who forbade us."

"So, Cainhurst," I prompted, hoping to get a bit more information than just 'they're evil'. "Why are you searching for the way? It's a castle; how hard could it be to find?"

"Some manner of glamour protects it," Alfred responded. "Those who enter the ever-present fog find themselves back where they began no matter if they focus on walking straight or take no end of turns. I've heard that there is magic to pierce the fog, or to somehow guarantee safe passage, but each time I've set out from Hemwick I've found myself back where I started."

"I have a last question, about more recent history. I'm trying to get into Old Yharnam, specifically the Church of the Good Chalice. Do you know how to get there?"

Alfred laughed a sudden, surprised yelp. "My lady Taylor, truly providence has set us together on this day." He led me to a lever and, with a grunt, flipped it. A nearby statue ground off to the side, revealing a dark staircase. "In case beasts ever wandered up, we couldn't have them invading fair Yharnam. So we kept a stone over the main passage. I suppose on the night of the Hunt it doesn't matter much."

I nodded and began to descend. "Take care, Alfred. If I find anything about the Vilebloods or Cainhurst, I'll let you know."

626

Vherstinae

May 20, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

May 20, 2022

#257

Tuesday arrived with little fanfare. It was getting more difficult for Sophia to justify her time with Greg to the rest of her clique, which grated on her to no end. Veder was an imbecile but he was also the only other person at the entirety of Winslow who had his eyes open. Sophia needed time with him to plan on how to deal with Hebert. At this point Sophia didn't know what to think about the girl always drowning in hoodies and sweatpants, and until she had more information she didn't want to risk taking action. Bloodmoon was exceedingly dangerous, willing to kill to a degree that Sophia hadn't seen since herself… And able to kill far more easily than Sophia ever had been. Even her first kill, that ambush, had left her battered and bruised–

She didn't want to think about that. Not his gargles as he choked on his own blood, or how her mother cried the next day. The two were linked in her mind and no amount of satisfaction and safety from the former could make her feel good about the latter.

If she couldn't justify spending time, then maybe she could make it look like aggression. As they entered the building, Sophia slunk to Greg, grabbed him by the shoulder, and slammed him into the lockers. Not enough to do real damage, but enough to make noise and draw a grunt of surprise and pain from him. "Just keeping up appearances, Veder," she growled under her breath. "If we want to go unnoticed, we have to play the part."

Greg's eyes widened and he actually managed to suppress the wide grin. "Now you're finally getting it," he replied, mirth still present in his voice. "So we had a productive evening," he began the debrief. "Taylor didn't talk much but her mind's still sharp as a tack and she knows her shit. She was lucid and with-it the whole time so I don't think insanity or wackiness from sleep deprivation can be blamed, at least not entirely."

Sophia grunted in affirmative. "Bodycam should arrive today so I'll get it to you after school and maybe you can visit her place later this week. I might be able to get ahold of a plantable spy cam from my own less savory sources, but without letting them in on this – which I won't do…" The genuineness of that statement in her own self-interest made it a good fake-out to pretend it was an assertion of loyalty, not that Sophia thought of it in such big words. "I can't guarantee I can get anything. Still, I'll see if I can swing by her place tonight and see what she does once all the lights are out." With another shove and a threatening statement of "Later, Veder," Sophia prowled deeper into the school.

(BREAK)

There was a scent in the air around Hebert. Sophia didn't really know how to articulate it, nor would she bring it up to anyone else. Her friends would just make a joke about the girl stinking, and Greg's mind would likely go somewhere dirty. Sophia hadn't noticed it before, only in the days since she saw Hebert kill those men. It wasn't a smell she had ever encountered before. Something instinctively said that it was a flower scent, but she couldn't place it and it definitely didn't smell floral. At the very least the scent was pretty strong and helped Sophia keep track of Hebert, since the girl made next to no sound when she moved. Without that assistance, it'd be like tracking a beanpole ninja.

..."Beanpole Ninja" sounded like the kind of movie Greg and Sparks would watch, and she hated that such a thought popped into her mind.

Hebert's overall behavior hadn't changed even after her massacres. She continued to trudge tiredly through the halls, reacting to surprise or intense stimuli with the sudden violent motion of a cornered animal. It reminded her of that Vin Diesel movie that had apparently been one of her real dad's favorite popcorn flicks. 'You ever look at lions in the zoo?' Hebert reminded Sophia of one of these wild-captured lions, pacing and watching. But what she couldn't decide was if Hebert was pacing to try to escape, or attempting to burn off her wild energy and settle down. The girl seemed desperate not to make waves despite her clear level of power. Was she hiding, waiting until the right moment to strike? Or was she really of two minds, like the Breaker of whom Vista spoke, and was trying to smother her violent side?

Sophia kept a comfortable distance from the black-haired girl, giving Hebert the requisite sneers when prompted but making no effort to harass the girl. She was sticking with her assertion to Emma that she was seeking new prey.

The only thing that Hebert had done less in recent days was to hide. One could argue that the way she moved all but soundlessly from one place to the next and slid like liquid through the crowds was a form of hiding in itself, but she no longer went to the third-floor bathrooms to eat lunch. Her overall sedate lack of reaction to harassment, not looking beaten down so much as just tired and bored, had led a number of Emma's clique to give it a rest with the bullying. It's not really fun when you can't even make your victim flinch, after all.

So it should have occurred to Sophia that Emma would try something else big, to provoke a reaction from Taylor. And when she saw Emma's particular smile, the 'knife goes in, guts come out' type of smile, Sophia knew that something bad was going to happen. She did her best to pick up the pace and close the distance to stand beside Emma. If she was going to save her friend, she'd have to be there to intervene.

The whole posse was there, forming a sort of dam in the traffic and blocking Hebert's path. Emma, Madison, Julia and Sierra made a wedge, and Sophia slid easily into place. "What's up, girls?" she asked as casually as she could manage. Whatever nervousness was in her voice was probably mistaken for anticipation.

"Oh, we were just having a chat with Taylor here," Sierra replied flippantly.

"I've been worried about you, Tay," Emma cooed. "You've been looking so sad and lost. You're not crying yourself to sleep again, are you? Last time you did that it was for a whole week, and I worry a crybaby like you might be worse this time."

Hebert's eyes widened. Her jaw went somewhat slack. Her lip trembled. Sophia, when she'd grilled Emma more thoroughly about Hebert, had heard of how Taylor had cried herself to sleep for days on end in Emma's room when her dad was even more useless than he was now. That was quite a low blow to strike, and Sophia heard the softest intake of breath from the tall girl, a shaky inhalation to precede a sob.

Then Hebert's pupils pinched. The top and bottom squashed inward, leaving her pupils shaped more like an octopus'. Her quivering lip pulled to reveal sharpening teeth, transforming into what looked like jagged fangs before Sophia's eyes.

Panic shot down the athlete's spine. Time slowed down, adrenaline surging through her veins. She only had a literal split-second to take action, and she had to defuse the situation: trying to fight Hebert would only get them all killed, she was sure of it.

I hope you can forgive me, Emma.

Sophia turned and delivered a sharp right cross to her friend's cheek, sending Emma sprawling to the floor. Hebert startled, her face going back to its normal gawkiness as she tried to process what she'd just seen. "Damn it, Emma," she snapped. "There are some lines you don't fucking cross." She turned slightly, one eye on Hebert. "My dad's dead," she said to every onlooker. "I'm not gonna stand around and let anybody use that against a person. Some lines…" she repeated, trailing off.

Emma stared up at Sophia, tears spilling from her eyes as she rubbed her reddening cheek. That would probably bruise. The rest of the girls were giving the pair space, afraid of Sophia's wrath as much as Emma's retaliation. Sophia stooped down and took Emma by the arm, pulling her up as gently as she could. "C'mon," she said with genuine affection, "let's get some ice on that."

(BREAK)

Upon meeting Greg for the hand-off of the camera, he updated her that Taylor had been in a haze for most of the day. Well, Sophia's actions had left an impact at least. And now came the true test of her skills. Since she wasn't schedule for patrol that night, Shadow Stalker put on the costume she kept at home and stole out into the darkness to spy on Hebert.

Sophia never would have considered finding the girl at home before. Hebert was entertainment, a distraction and a free punching bag. It didn't matter what she was like at home. Now that she had to understand, Sophia took note that the girl's neighborhood was almost as bad as her own, the result of plummeting property values from nearby gang activity. The homes were all well-made, brick edifices with wooden porches and patios, probably built in the 50s when suburbia was first becoming a real thing. Most were run-down. Hebert's place was too, but not to the point that it was falling apart: the neglect was obvious, however.

Hopping from rooftop to rooftop, circling the house, Sophia looked for a light on or any sign of activity. It was around 10:30, well into night, yet one window on the upper story still showed light. Unfortunately it turned out to be her dad's room and Mr. Hebert was lying in bed reading a book. Sophia finally got a good angle on what looked like motion in a dark room, and brought out her monocular. It wasn't anywhere near as good as PRT equipment, but it was easy to carry and she didn't risk any electricity interfering with her powers.

A wraith stalked around in the pitch dark, pacing almost violently. Sophia could see bits of movement, the girl jerking her limbs or perhaps shaking her head and setting her long hair in motion. Then the pacing girl froze. For a moment Sophia thought she'd been made and began to very slowly lower herself behind the lip of the rooftop, then her brain caught up to her eyes and she noticed that the light radiating out from Mr. Hebert's room had apparently gone out.

Something happened then, some kind of soft light and mist. Sophia's eyes crossed and her skull pulsed, and she found herself again dry-heaving. She fought through whatever sort of attack her body was having and managed to keep blurry vision on the window. After a few minutes, as Sophia's sight returned to normal, the window opened. A gloved hand gripped the sill, and Bloodmoon leapt out onto the grass.

The killer cape knelt beside the tree next to her house, hovering her hand in empty air. More mist set Shadow Stalker's world off-kilter, and she caught a glimpse of soft violet light coming from something that didn't exist. Then Hebert's body swirled in on itself and dissolved into mist, disappearing. The remaining low-set fog dissipated, leaving no evidence other than an open window that Bloodmoon had ever been there.

Leaping through the air and turning to shadow, the vigilante defied gravity's pull and drifted through Hebert's window. This was supposed to be Greg's job but she was not going to turn down a golden opportunity. The first places to check were the closet and under the bed, but neither held a cache of Victorian Tinkertech and the closet didn't have the look of a place that had just been plundered. There was no sudden absence of mass from the retrieval of a costume. No crawl space either, so where had Hebert gotten her outfit in that short time?

On the top shelf of the closet was a collection of moleskin journals. Sophia plucked the topmost one from its position – taking a moment to memorize how it had sat so she could put it back with Hebert none the wiser – and clicked on Hebert's table lamp before opening the journal. It contained documentation of every abuse that she, Emma and the school in general had performed against Hebert, documented in such painstaking detail it made Sparky's spreadsheets and Greg's conspiracy board look like finger paintings. Every punch, kick, shove and mean word spoken in November and early December was written down. This seemed to be the most recent journal at least by stack, so where was the January edition? February and March? Had she stopped documenting things when she started to get tired? Maybe when she got her powers?

It didn't make sense. Shadow Stalker put the journal back as close to exactly how she found it. Maybe the newest copy was in Hebert's nightstand. No lock on it, not that it would have mattered… She retrieved another journal, this one cracked and burned. She couldn't help but wonder why. Had Hebert set it on fire? Recycled a junk journal rather than buy a new one? Most of the journal was empty, so Sophia flipped back to the most recent entry.

The lumenflowers were bad enough, but I can just pluck them. I've started to find lumenwood growths at the warehouse, and I swear I can hear the baby crying. The Brain wasn't lying, not that I ever thought it could: things are leaking over. It was bad enough when the Dream was seeping through, but the Nightmare is as well. I can't let it. I can't sleep anymore. I won't let this evil infest my home. Dad, if you read this after I'm gone, I'm so sorry.

Almost compulsively, Sophia closed the journal and opened it to the first page.

After enough prodding from both Doll and Arianna, I'm writing my experiences down. Arianna's listened to enough hunters to know her stuff, and I suppose Doll has the same experience from another angle. I can't really talk to anyone there, they don't have the context to understand. Arianna, Adella, Siobhan… They have enough on their plate already. Desmond would have no clue. Gehrman, I don't dare make him sadder than he is. And Doll knows nothing firsthand outside the Dream. If I'm to vent, as I'm apparently already doing, it'll need to be to a damn book.

The entry went on for much longer but Sophia heard a creak and panic set in. If she was caught by Hebert's dad it would be bad enough. But if Bloodmoon had teleported back home… She set the book back in its drawer, closed it as quietly as she could, and shadowed out the window.

696

Vherstinae

May 20, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

May 31, 2022

#318

Things had been quiet recently. Well, not in general, but definitely quieter than usual for the Archer's Bridge Merchants. With that new cape hitting both the Empire and ABB, the other gangs were scrambling to balance their plans. E88 had lost a significant source of weaponry (and it sent a little shiver down Joaquin's spine just what they'd been planning to do with so many Aks) while the ABB had lost a handoff point for their ranches along with at least one still-living girl, at least if PHO was to be believed.

And this was why Joaquin was standing guard duty at a street corner, trying to pretend that he didn't have a kludged-together automatic carbine hidden in his puffy jacket, rather than hiding deeper inside the alleys near where the product was being distributed. Skidmark wanted as much advance warning as he could get if "Chopper" showed up to go three for three on Bay gangs. People had tried to tell him that the PRT were already billing the lethal vigilante as Bloodmoon, but Skids either didn't care or was too busy to pay attention. Skidmark was an exceptional multitasker but paid little attention to whatever his brain considered extraneous information, and something as simple as a name through which they could have a common identifier of a mass-murdering parahuman wasn't something Skids considered overly important.

Inside the warehouse deeper in the district, various drugs – mostly meth and heroin, but also significant amounts of cocaine and weed – were being divvied up for distribution on some of Squealer's newest experiments. From what Joaquin had heard higher-ups saying, this was another step on her quest to make a completely invisible car: the vans each had some sort of device that didn't make them invisible so much as made observers either not care or forget about their presence. The exact specifications eluded him as much as it did the lieutenants (and privately, he suspected they escaped Squealer just as much), but they didn't have much battery so the drivers were expected to drive as quickly and carefully as possible once the switch was flipped. It was one of the most organized operations the Merchants had undertaken in recent memory, and Joaquin wasn't certain if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

On Skidmark's orders they were distributing to more boltholes and keeping a smaller stash at each one just in case "Chopper" came knocking. He couldn't do nearly as much damage if there were only a handful of people and a few thousand dollars of product at any given location. Of course that necessitated this one big operation to move everything, when more Merchants were in one place than had been in almost a year.

Joaquin was a Merchant not out of any real loyalty but because he was another drugged-up washout who dropped out of school and decided life would be easier if he just hurt people to get what he wanted. Of course, in Brockton Bay, if you weren't white or Asian (and even if you were, if you weren't a supremacist bigot) then you were pretty SOL in terms of gangs. Joaquin had no real love for the Merchants and while some of the ground-level people he considered friends he had no such connections to even the lieutenants let alone the capes running the show.

So when the screaming and explosions started, he called the PRT to report a cape attack and went home rather than risk his life for drugs and people who didn't care about him and vice versa.

(BREAK)

"Alright cumstains, get this powder mobile! I want these vans loaded faster 'n it takes me to fuck your grandma!" Skidmark always did have a way with words. This was the big move, distributing the vast majority of their product before they began setting up proper small-scale distribution channels. Until the killer-cape situation was resolved, any large gathering of gang members ran the risk of drawing his attention and losing their product. He spared no thought for the people who would lose their lives as well: they didn't matter.

The Merchants behaved in a manner as if they were almost proud of their sleaziness. They reveled in debauchery and monstrousness that made both sex slavers and neo-Nazis recoil and cringe. Whether it was in forcibly addicting children from middle-class or well-to-do families, or even just kids with a reputation for being well-behaved and trying to work their way out of the ghetto; taking their own sex slaves that they took their turns abusing between renting them out to johns; or arranging hobo fights to the death and charging for entry, the Merchants seemed to understand that their existence was tied to the Bay doing poorly. And so, like any parasite, they worked to keep the Bay in decline and strife whether knowingly or acting purely on instinct.

A strange noise came from the warehouse's sliding door at the front. It was locked from the outside, a massive padlock on the hasp to be easily seen from a distance and trick the casual onlooker into believing nobody was home. Skidmark's head whipped around and he jerkily snapped several times in quick succession, cutting his thumb on his jagged fingernails. "Somebody check that shit out. I'm fuckin' busy."

Shotgun at the ready, one of the Merchants grabbed the handle and gave a sharp tug. The door didn't budge. He shrugged, turning back. Whatever it was, the door was still locked so it was probably best not to draw attention by going out and looking around.

Then the door slid open, Bloodmoon dropping the mangled padlock from her hand as the slim cape stepped inside. She reared back and planted a forceful kick on the small of the man's back, folding him like a jackknife and sending him flying inward to crash into several of his compatriots. The confused and frightened shouting gave her time to advance. Moving with alacrity to match or exceed the greatest natural sprinters, she closed the distance and drew her weapons.

The Merchants were a known entity. They occasionally had more than three capes, but their current leadership had been in place for several years now and all three survived where others died or were captured. Squealer was a Tinker who built shoddy, massive devices that could vaguely be called cars: typically focused on size and durability, they often broke down but were terrifyingly effective when functional. Skidmark was a Shaker whose power was initially weak, the ability to lay down a directional field that acted almost like a treadmill, gently pushing whatever was in the field. However, he could layer the zones atop each other until he had a stationary railgun. In enclosed spaces or chokepoints he was a nightmare if given time to prepare. Mush was a Brute, and there was some debate on what his other classification should be: the man drew trash and debris to himself, encasing his body and building golem-like armor. If they were ever to fight in a landfill, Mush might actually be more frightening than Lung. But overall he was mostly an inconvenience, difficult to keep down as his actual body took little to no damage while he recycled the detritus that was broken off his form.

Their hunter had taken this information into account.

She leapt into the air, drawing a wrought-iron hammer from the hanging holsters at her sides, as well as what resembled a giant airbrush. While airborne, she slapped the back of the hammer and a flame began to crackle within the cage-like head.

Mush was lucky that he saw the hit coming. He had begun collecting debris as soon as the yelling started, and quickly shifted it to interpose between him and that hammer.

SCHKROOM!

The sound alone was like being hit with a body blow, causing everyone within the warehouse – Bloodmoon excepted – to stagger from the sheer echoing noise. Mush was launched backward, impacting the wall and slumping over. Bloodmoon spun the hammer in her hand and moved to finish him off, then was forced to undulate her body like a liquid to avoid the majority of gunfire sent her way. Bullets caught her in the side and arm, pitting her body and causing her to weep thick blood, but she didn't slow in the least.

Another lunge brought her amidst one of the larger collections of Merchant gunners, and she slammed the hammer into the ground. The explosion, the sonic force, and the concrete shards kicked up caused all of them to flinch, and Bloodmoon capitalized on this with a single rotation, finger depressing the trigger of her flamesprayer. The men were wreathed in licking flames, screaming in panic and agony as they attempted to divest themselves of their burning clothes.

She ducked under a folding table, rather limply launched from Skidmark's hastily-erected fields, and leapt once again. This time she hurtled to the wall and kicked off, leaving footprints chiseled into the metal, before hurtling in to decapitate the Merchants' leader with that brutal blunt object. Bloodmoon genuinely hadn't anticipated that the Merchants would be able to plan tactically in chaos like this, due to their poor performance in gang fights. So when Squealer popped up from behind Skidmark wielding some abomination of a shotgun, the airborne young woman couldn't effectively dodge out of the way. She shifted her weight as best she could so that the blast only took off the top of her skull rather than her entire head, but a good portion of her brain was now missing as well as one eye, her hat and goggles gone.

The gang couple didn't even swear when Bloodmoon landed on her feet and kept moving. They let out stifled squeaks of horror and began to retreat. The cape's hair had come loose from its tie, spilling out as she moved like shadowy tendrils that undulated through the air. She juked backward from another shot, this one a desperate hail-Mary from Squealer as the Tinker ran for one of the bulky vans. Bloodmoon made a detour to grab one of the Merchant gunners, holstering her weapons briefly to grab him by the collarbone and hip. In one motion, only a little jerky from the organic resistance, she ripped the man in half and held his body above her, pouring his blood and viscera onto her mutilated head.

The entire battle paused at this. Only those in the corner who were still burning were otherwise preoccupied, their panicked shrieks providing the perfect background sound for the otherwise silent scene as Bloodmoon anointed herself in the lifeblood of a man, her head rebuilding itself by the second.

In that moment, Adam Mustain remembered when his grandmother had dragged him to church as a child, beating him when he was belligerent and didn't want to spend five boring hours sitting in a pew. "Holy Mary, mother of God," he muttered under his breath, trying to remember the words to any prayer he could. Because the thing before him, inky tendrils of night swirling around its head as its eyes glowed like yellow moonlight, was something out of hell itself. "The Lord is with me and I shall f-fear no evil…"

Instead of taking the van on the run, Squealer gunned the engine and did a burnout to spin the vehicle around. Her tooling with the engine made it able to go from 0 to 60 in under a second with some amount of reliability, and she launched her armored vehicle directly at the murderous cape.

Bloodmoon dove into a roll to one side, carrying farther than any normal person possibly could, then pivoted smoothly and leapt up to bounce off the massive crossbar rafters. A second forceful launch planted her firmly on Squealer's roof, driving the fingers of her left hand into the plating as best she could to balance herself. She'd come prepared for Squealer as well, swapping to her other melee weapon. The hammer was replaced with a crude piston system that mounted to most of Bloodmoon's arm, a broad spade-like head at the end of the piston. She squeezed the grip in her hand and twisted, causing the piston to pull back and lock into place. A punch downward was punctuated with the piston driving forward, a blade-tipped pile bunker. The force of Bloodmoon's punch, combined with the kinetic energy of the strange weapon, punctured straight through the van's armored roof. Bloodmoon then drew back her punching hand and gripped the roof with it, withdrawing her flame weapon and letting it belch into the hole she'd made.

Squealer screamed and leapt out of the still-moving van, hitting the concrete floor and tumbling over and over, scraping and bruising and shearing off sections of skin while the van smashed into and through the wall. Bloodmoon smoothly stepped off the van before it impacted, approaching Squealer who was trying to continue with Stop, Drop and Roll. Her spade locked into its deployed state, becoming an arm-mounted blade.

Once again she had underestimated her opponents, presuming that they would be nowhere near as canny or tenacious as those she'd fought in the Nightmares. As a massive and stinking facsimile of a hand engulfed her, Bloodmoon realized that Mush had not been knocked unconscious – or had recovered quickly – and had been gathering armor the entire time. Mush hurled her through the hole the van had made, giving chase to confront her in a less confined area. By the time he got outside, Bloodmoon was already standing and wielding that hammer again, her moon-glowing eyes piercing through his armor and straight into his soul.

"What do you want with us?" Mush bellowed through his golem. "How did you even find us?" He continued to advance, moving as swiftly as his trash form would allow. He didn't really expect a proper answer, but most capes couldn't resist some bit of banter or taunt as the fight went on. Bloodmoon continued to be utterly silent, not so much as crying out once this entire encounter.

She met his charge with her own, slapping the primer on the back of the hammer to once again ignite it. Not going for center mass, she instead leapt and ran up his golem's arm, bringing the burning, explosive hammer to the artificial joint.

SCHKROOM!

Mush staggered to the side, the impact sending him reeling even with all of his armor. Then the cape opened up with that fire weapon again, igniting every flammable bit in the side of his armor. Mush had to spend precious seconds micromanaging his golem to redirect the flammables to the exterior so he didn't catch fire himself. His assailant was not idle.

SCHKROOM!

His leg was gone at the knee, toppling the golem. Mush began to rearrange again, pushing himself toward what would be the 'head' in order to make an escape route for himself. He hurled all of the trash at once at the cape, hoping to at the very least slow Bloodmoon while he launched himself in the opposite direction.

Mush's attacker tore through the rubbish with her bare hands, once again revealing those luminous eyes as she watched him scramble away. Then, as if by some preternatural sense, she exploded into motion, a high-arcing backflip to avoid a full dumpster that Skidmark had fired at her. The projectile hit Mush's trash bulwark and began tumbling end over end, Mush only barely scrambling out of the impact zone.

At the apex of her jump, seeming to hand upside-down in midair for the briefest of moments, Bloodmoon drew a long pistol inlaid with elegant filigree and pulled the trigger. A bullet flashed, silver against the dim light of city night, before Skidmark's head blossomed with crimson. The shot came from high enough that his fields didn't affect it, the large-caliber round removing most of his skull. Landing in a crouch, Bloodmoon hit the primer on her hammer and this time threw it. It whirled almost as elegantly as a thrown knife and, while its aerodynamics left something to be desired, landed close enough to Mush that the resulting explosion and concussive force left him laid out with severe internal bleeding. Mist rose up around the hammer and it sank into the ground, disappearing.

The few Merchants who hadn't fled or died assembled into a firing line at the hole in the warehouse, shooting wildly with pistols, shotguns and even some automatic rifles. Bloodmoon responded to the assault with several pirouettes and sideways flips, elegantly weaving through the majority of shots while she drew her handheld flamethrower and let it expel its deadly contents, like a dragon breathing its fire into a knight's fort.

Before Bloodmoon could approach further, a distinct paff sounded as a containment-foam grenade exploded against her feet. The foam began expanding to engulf her body and, for the first time, the cape showed some semblance of humanity as she appeared to roll her eyes, extracting something from her belt before she disappeared in the yellowy off-white of the rapidly solidifying foam.

Miss Militia and Dauntless had been nearest to respond, while Armsmaster and Velocity were across the city at the time of the call and still on their way. With the amount of explosions and fire, many people had suspected Lung to be in the area but the dragon-transforming head of the ABB had been confirmed to still be within his territory that night.

"Nice shot, Militia," Dauntless said as he floated down. "So this is Bloodmoon?" he jerked a thumb at the ball of foam. He looked around at the corpses strewn about the area. "Jesus. Sure looks like his work."

Miss Militia wasn't listening. Hannah Roosevelt had survived a war and had seen far more than her share of atrocities. She could pick up the cries of a broken soul at this point, and amid the pained shouts and pitiable moans of the burned survivors she caught the sound of such sobbing. She stepped over charred bodies, making mental note that Skidmark was among the losses. Miss Militia wasn't foolish enough to go unarmed, keeping a low-gauge shotgun in her hands.

There, partly burned, missing most of her hair, and covered in shredded skin from road rash, Squealer hugged her knees and rocked back and forth, crying her eyes out. When Miss Militia approached to secure and handcuff her, Squealer instead leaned into the taller woman, wailing harder. "They're dead," she blubbered. "He killed them!" She continued to hiccup half-coherent statements like this as Militia found herself in the awkward position of holding a crying supervillain.

The high-pitched roar of Armsmaster's motorcycle announced his arrival, and Velocity only briefly returned to normal speed in order to greet his compatriots before he got to work cuffing the survivors. Armsmaster approached the foam pile to confirm that Bloodmoon was still alive in there, due to the utter silence. A quick scan gave him a result he didn't like, and he prepared a second foam grenade while he began cutting into the hardened foam.

Within the foam was an empty person-shaped hole.

Armsmaster bit his lip in consternation. "We need to update the Director. This is far more of a problem than we'd anticipated."

Last edited: Jun 4, 2022

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Vherstinae

May 31, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Jun 12, 2022

#374

The journey through the dark tunnels, built as though they were rooms in some elaborate mansion, was dark and consummately uncomfortable. The darkness I no longer minded: my eyes were far sharper than they'd ever been before (sharper, I expected, than any normal human's) and the tiny lantern on my belt gave enough additional illumination that I could see well enough to dodge the massive wolves in the tunnel. The beasts were colossal, bigger than cars, yet still scrambling around on their bellies and as pitiable as that first monster I'd fought in the clinic. My saw spear bit deep and ripped them open.

No, the true discomfort was in the cramped space. So dark and winding, with no exit in sight, I could feel familiar sheet-metal confines at the edges of my consciousness. It probably made me more brutal with the wolves than I should have been, something on which I reflected as I tore open a wolf's ribcage with my bare hands, the beast long since dead.

Eventually the tunnels came to an end at a massive pair of double doors. Pinned to the doors, practically glowing in the dim light, was a sheet of specially-treated vellum. I plucked it from where it had been secured by a dagger. This town is long abandoned, it read. Hunters not wanted here. Well, Mr. Note, one one count I'm not really a hunter: just a girl trying to escape this hell. And on the other count, it doesn't matter what someone wants. I never wanted to come here, so whoever wrote this note can just deal with it. I placed my hands on the doors and pushed, grinding open the massive barriers.

The moon hung low, lightly obscured by misty clouds. It stared down, glowing a weak yellow, like a dying man looking through a window at the rest of the world. Some of the mist for the clouds, I realized, was actually wispy smoke. As my eyes swept across the cityscape of Old Yharnam, something came over me. I couldn't say exactly what it was, some combination of emotions that I couldn't properly parse. But it was so powerful that I dropped to my knees, staring at the corpses of old buildings that still smoked despite having been burned more than five decades prior. The structures had once been beautiful, homes and places of worship and business all built by hand, with love and care and dedication. And now they hung open, the half-burned skeletons reaching to the skies with ashen fingers of masonry, begging for salvation or even to understand the pain that had been unleashed upon them.

I couldn't say how long I rested there on shiftless legs, eyes drifting glassily across the long-dead sadness. Eventually, I suppose I became inured to the ghosts of the past. Accepting their pain and moving on, hoping to learn from it. I still looked with awe at Old Yharnam. While the new city was mighty and built upon itself to an obscene level, on some level it lacked this...personal aspect. For better or worse, Yharnam was a city built in worship. Everything was constructed for that purpose, to glorify the Church and the gods. This place, Old Yharnam, I could already feel in it the kind of impression that I got from Brockton Bay's historic district: it was built with a sense of community, the people coming together not for any greater purpose or to glorify themselves or others, but simply out of love and caring for their families and neighbors. Oh, the size of this dead city and the heights of the buildings eventually gave lie to my observations, but even here at the top of the city the little cobblestone bridge held that feeling of something deeply personal. This had been a community foremost, and no matter how high they had built the people hadn't forgotten that.

In my introspection, I almost didn't react quickly enough as a beast leapt through the coiling smoke, claws bared to rip out my throat. I yelped in a way I hadn't in weeks of fighting through Yharnam (God, time was starting to blur. It hadn't been more than, what, two weeks in the real world? But death after death in Yharnam, I'd probably been here for a month if not longer if you totaled up all the time I spent wandering, fighting, dying…) and leapt backward, snapping up the saw spear to tear open the monster's neck. As it choked on its own blood, I looked down at the beast and cringed inwardly. It was a terribly human-looking creature, emaciated with grayish skin clinging to its bones. Patches of black fur grew from it, some of which were covered in tightly-wound bandages. Its eyes had glowed with sickly yellow pinpricks of light, and its jaws were only mildly distended – reminding me more of a bulldog or other snubbed canine rather than the elongated wolf muzzles.

The creature's chest heaved as it breathed its last, giving its death rattle. My ears perked up as more beasts began to stand, scrabbling against the lovingly-laid cobblestones and preparing to attack. I withdrew the weapon Gilbert had given me, which I'd learned was properly called a flamesprayer. If these damn things hadn't had enough the first time the city burned, I'd give them more until they learned.

In the middle of hacking my way through the throng of burning beasts, a voice pierced the carnage, carried by some makeshift director's megaphone. "You there! Hunter! Didn't you see the warning?" Someone was alive here, living among the beasts? Then Iosefka's words from my first night came back to me. Some beasts have enough humanity to pretend. Was this a beast that still thought it was a person? A disturbing thought. "Turn back at once," the man's voice bellowed. "Old Yharnam, burned and abandoned by men, is now home only to beasts." I managed to figure out that the voice was coming from a figure perched on the massive clock tower, sitting at some sort of perch. "They are of no harm to those above. Turn back, or the hunter will face the hunt."

Easy for him to say, when these monsters weren't clawing at him. To try to partly appease this maniac, I staged a fighting retreat and moved back up the staircase I'd been descending. The beasts kept coming, afraid only of the fire my weapon spewed. Then bullets began to skip off the stone, followed closely by the staccato boom of an ancient rotary gun. That crazy bastard was shooting at me with a goddamn chaingun! He was ranging, clearly not having fired it in a good deal of time, working to aim it with what had to be primitive sights.

I darted forward, hiding behind a massive and beautiful statue. Where above the religious statues were Lovecraftian, here they were closer to the gorgeous Renaissance sculptures that glorified beauty. Bullets twanged as they were deflected by the ridiculously sturdy stone. The last beast fell, lunging for me as I took cover, ending up impaled on my spear.

After a few seconds of sustained fire, he stopped wasting ammo. I took off my hat and put it on the end of my spear, waving it in lieu of a white flag. "I'm not so foolish as to be fooled by a simple hat on a stick," he boomed.

I stepped out on the same side I'd been waving the hat, cupping my hands around my mouth and shouting as loud as I could. "I wasn't trying to fool you! I want to talk!"

"I can't hear a word, you mooncalf. If you don't want to fight, then turn right around and go back to Yharnam. The beasts here are no threat to you."

Damn it… I really didn't want to spend the whole journey through Old Yharnam getting shot at. "I'll be back!" I yelled, turning around and leaving for the moment. I needed to find something that could be used as a megaphone.

Remembering that Gehrman had helped found the Hunters' Workshop, I went back to the Dream to speak with him. As we looked for metal or something else sturdy that could be turned into a voice-amplifying funnel, I asked him about the maniac on the clock tower.

"Someone defending the beasts?" Gehrman asked incredulously. "Madness. Utter madness. The beasts are lost. The only thing you can do is grant them release in death. Those few beasts who retain enough humanity to speak or even hide their nature, those are the worst of all. They hide depths of hatred that a normal man cannot even comprehend, evil beyond measure. Everything twists to be persecution in their minds, and they strike out at everyone even as they undertake more and more depraved acts. Cannibalism, corpse desecration, mass murder… Abhorrent beasts, we called them, the worst aspects of humanity given form and terrible power."

"Was one of these beasts shooting at me?" The way Gehrman spoke about such a beast, it sounded like even the old veteran feared them.

"Unlikely. The way beasthood goes, people lose their humanity and ability to use tools as they degenerate. The Abhorrent, they eventually claw their way back to the ability to pretend, but I've never heard of one voluntarily using tools. They kill with their hands and teeth until you force them to show their true face."

Too proud to show your true face, eh? Gascoigne's words rang in my mind. He'd fought monsters like this before, hadn't he? Killing monsters that pretended to be people… "So, what am I dealing with?"

Gehrman shrugged, clearing off a desk as he began fiddling with vellum and sheet metal. "Some poor sod, probably who lost someone important in the Burning. Latched onto the idea that the people are still trapped in the beasts' bodies, forced to watch as their bodies commit atrocities."

"God," I whispered. "Is that a possibility?" The idea of being forced to watch without any control as my body killed my loved ones…

Another shrug. "Couldn't say. We can't exactly question the beasts, and if they are trapped in their bodies then it comes back to my original policy: out of respect for the people they were, give them a quick death. I…" He paused, trying to conceal an almost violent twitch. "I would hate to be trapped in my body, watching as it harms others, knowing that I have no control. It is no mercy to leave someone alive in a state like that. You head outside, now. Ask the birdbath things for a torch or something: beasts dislike fire something fierce, and if you can ward them off without killing it might give you the time needed to reason with the gunman. Or to line up a shot."

I could tell he was sending me away for some reason, something he didn't want to talk about, didn't want to think about. Gehrman had lost a lot, and so I opted not to press. Maybe I'd ask him later.

An hour or so later, with a new sturdy torch in hand, I received a makeshift armored megaphone. Hopefully it'd be useful.

(BREAK)

I returned to Old Yharnam and was pleasantly surprised when the beasts did indeed avoid me. They clustered, claws bared and fangs slavering, but though they made threat displays none came close enough to strike. The torch was doing its job. I held the megaphone before my mouth. "I told you I'd be back," I boomed.

"What in the gods' good names is wrong with you, girl?" came the reply. "I told you to leave. There is nothing here for you."

"You don't even know who I am," I retaliated. "You have no idea why I'm here."

"I know you're a skilled hunter. Adept, merciless, half-cut with blood as the best hunters are. I saw how smoothly you killed, which is why I must stop you."

Half-cut with blood? What did that even mean? "You presume I'm here to hunt, that I came here to kill beasts. I only kill to defend myself. I'm a hunter in name only, fighting by necessity!" One of the beasts got closer and I whacked it in the face with the torch. "Back off!" It yowled and fell back, scrambling on the ground as the fur on its face licked with flame.

"Are you, now?" He sounded patronizing. "And so what brings you to Old Yharnam, dead and cursed and left solely to the beasts? What beside the hunger for more creatures to hunt?"

"The chance to escape this hell! I've spent night after night in Yharnam, killing and dying, rescuing those I can. I don't belong here! I need whatever relic is inside the Church of the Good Chalice, so I can persuade the Healing Church to give me an audience. Right now they're my only hope to find some way out of here. Yharnam is not my home. I never wanted to come here. I… I want to sleep and not come here."

He was silent for a long time, more than a minute. I had to thump the beasts several more times in the interim. "...Go, then. Harm not the beasts. They are victims of this madness. If you can promise me that, I'll not hinder you."

"I can't promise outright pacifism, but I can promise that I won't hurt them unless there's no other option. If I'm backed into a corner and a beast wants to kill me, I'll choose my life over the beast's. But I won't hunt them and I won't pursue them."

"More reasonable than anything I've come to expect from a hunter." He leaned on his gun, hands off the triggers from what I could see. "I suppose I can live with that until you fully embrace the truth. What's your name, lass? I want to remember it, as I expect to hear it spoken by others one day."

"It's Taylor." I'd come to realize quickly that people either didn't have surnames or they didn't give them out openly.

"And I am Djura, last of the Powder Kegs' legacy. I no longer dream, but I was once a hunter too," he replied, sounding very tired. "There's nothing more horrific than a hunt. In case you fail to realize, the things you hunt...they're not beasts, they're people. One day you'll see. But for now, off you get before I change my mind."

I wasn't in the mood to debate the beasts' humanity through a megaphone while in the sights of a freaking chaingun. I took my leave by his permission and dodged through the beasts, descending into the corpse of the city.

Once I was out of Djura's sight, the beasts became more vicious. Some had white cloths thrown over them, and at first it took me a bit to figure out what they even were. I thought I was dealing with some sort of new goblin, especially as their claws and teeth made my skin fester. Then I remembered Gehrman's story about the ashen-blood plague. These beasts had been covered with sheets because they'd been presumed dead, then these infected monsters got back up and started wandering around!

In one house, still set for dinner, I found a packet of white tablets along with some parchment with instructions. Apparently it was medicine to cure or at least mitigate ashen-blood. I popped a tablet and maybe it was the placebo effect but I felt better for it.

Beasts burst through walls to ambush me, and the torch was no longer effective. It made me wonder if the beasts up top were more docile because Djura was aware of them and believed them to be people. Doll called Yharnam 'the dreaming world'. It made me wonder just how much of this was real. I'd been here, in this same night, for days on end. Even discounting time resetting, I'd spent well more than a full night's time and it was still evening. Old Yharnam had been burned fifty years ago but still smoldered. Unless the beasts were chronologically immortal, I'd expect most of them to be dead by now. Just how much of this world was powered by belief, anchored by symbolism?

I emerged into a clearing below the clock tower, plumes of smoke concealing more beasts. And in the center, standing as though the beasts were his audience, was a man in a black leather hood. He turned to me and brandished his own saw spear. The man's face, with a shaggy chinstrap beard, looked incredibly sad but his stance and overall presence didn't radiate sadness like Gehrman did.

"A new companion?" the man shouted, projecting as if he was in a stage play. "No, you smell of blood and ash and weapon oil. You are here to kill, not to join in our grief. I will be your dance partner, then, and drink you dry!" He snapped the spear to its extended form and lunged for me.

The man didn't fight as well as Gascoigne, but he was still a hunter: fast, aggressive, always on the move and looking for a better angle. Pity for him that I'd cut my teeth on a far more deadly opponent. The hidden beasts joined in the fight, waiting to attack me from behind as the hunter and I dodged around one another. The pseudo-courtyard had some charred trees in a manmade copse at the center and we wheeled around it, lunging and parrying, sawblades biting together and tangling. I fired my pistol and he jerkily dodged; he fired his and I flowed out of the way. I was confident I could win this fight, at least until a beast attacked and I ran it through. The hunter capitalized on my overextension and brought his spear down, forcing me to abandon my weapon or lose my arm. He swung again and I fired, catching him mid-swing and leaving him stunned for a moment.

What happened next was done on sheer instinct. I moved in, locking my fingers into a spear shape, and drove them beneath his ribcage. My long talons sought out his heart and I closed my claw around it, feeling it beating violently. I tore the organ free, slathered in blood, my distended fingers slowly transforming back into a normal hand. I stared at that hand in mute horror, realizing that it had – ever so briefly – been akin to the claw of a beast.

I opted to keep moving. I could have my existential breakdown after I was done in this hellhole.

Last edited: Jun 13, 2022

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Vherstinae

Jun 12, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Jul 30, 2022

#404

The structure past the clock tower was almost certainly a cathedral. It held a lot in common with Oedon Chapel, the ornate tiling and sculpting, but once again instead of eldritch monstrosities the statues depicted beautiful robed men and women, saints or angels. Of course there were more beasts, roaming around in the rafters, hiding around corners. I hacked through them when they chased me down, heading out onto a balcony that overlooked the central chapel. What I saw there…

At first I couldn't explain it. A massive beast, partly flayed, was crucified and hanging from some broken rafters. The more humanoid beasts of Old Yharnam gathered around the corpse in a circle. What were they doing? Why were they here? Then it hit me: these creatures, formerly people...they were here to worship. They were paying reverence to the beast corpse, honoring it like the central figure of their religion. They were once people and not only had they embraced beasthood, whatever remained of their humanity had them worshiping a symbol of beastliness, a symbol of what they could become, something to which they aspired.

I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood. My breath was coming in great storming heaves. I was overwhelmed with rage, with burning hatred. These creatures were praising monstrousness, the capacity to harm and kill their loved ones, to slaughter innocents and scrabble in the dirt and mud and viscera. I let out some sort of a noise, a horrific rumble from deep in my throat which I hadn't even thought a human being capable of making. The worshiping beasts turned to stare up at me.

The next thing I knew, I was standing in the central chapel. My body was shaking violently from adrenaline, still gasping for air, my body and face and my surroundings absolutely slathered with blood. I'd killed them all. My clothes were undamaged, but I'd found that – bizarrely enough – my clothing repaired itself when I absorbed blood to restore my wounds. I'd almost certainly taken damage in the preceding fight. What worried me was that I couldn't remember it. Had I been so furious that my conscious mind had shut down, putting me entirely into an animalistic fighting state?

And why had I been so angry?

Well, no, that answer came easily once I took a moment to consider it. My home was falling apart. People died every day. The world was coming unspooled, monsters obliterating cities while petty gangs tore at the scraps. And it was all even worse in Brockton Bay. The defeat of the Marquis was supposed to have been a new leaf in our history, an end to the Bad Old Days. But if anything, the city was even worse. At least when the Marche had been around the gangs held to a gentlemen's agreement and much of the violence was contained. Now we had racial supremacists to the left and right, one side actively attempting ethnic cleansings while the other played on those very acts to encourage unity despite preying primarily on the very demographic they claimed to unite with their sex-slave farms. And in the middle were drug dealers, trash so vile the other two gangs could actually agree on something – even if only on their hatred of the Merchants – that would never have flown in the days when the drug trade was much more heavily regulated by the criminals. The evils back home gloried in their wretchedness, and to see things that were formerly normal people join in that gleeful destruction...it had unleashed something within me.

I just hoped I could keep it contained.

(BREAK)

Old Yharnam went deeper and deeper, now the massive buildings were fully underground and pressing against rough stone ceilings. Was this how it had been, built out from the depths of the earth? Well, from what Alfred had said, Yharnam was supposedly connected to ancient underground tombs. Had near-literal mole people dug their way out of the dark? Anything was possible in this twisted place, I supposed.

Some of the wolves were even bigger now, the size of pickup trucks or more. They certainly hit like trucks, and I nearly died several times. I used my saw spear to hack at their limbs, their joints, rip them apart. Once a wolf lost a leg, due to how their bodies scuttled and flopped they were much easier to deal with. I ripped open throats, severed spines, readied myself for whatever would come next. Because I still hadn't found the Church of the Good Chalice. And something told me that whatever guarded my prize would be far worse than anything else I'd found in Old Yharnam.

Upon finding a lantern, I opted to return to the Dream and consult with Gehrman.

"Some of their claws burn, eh? Even after all this time? I suppose ashen-blood lingers," he commented.

"I don't have to worry about that, do I? Getting infected?"

He shook his head. "No hunter who fought ashen-blood beasts ever came down with the sickness. Well, I can't say no hunter and be entirely honest, but it takes long-term exposure. I'm talking about years of living among the plague."

I showed him the tablets. "And these help deal with it? I found them in an old kitchen."

"Aye, with those you're safe as houses. Antidote, we took to calling 'em in our line of work. Very strong antitoxic properties. If you get poisoned, a tablet or two will flush your system. I think the white things collect them, so you can check the birdbath if your supply gets low."

I decided to ask him something directly. "Gehrman, do you know what's in the Church of the Good Chalice? What the Healing Church would want so badly?"

The wheelchair-bound man shrugged. "Before the Hunts I spent a lot of time out of the city but my guess is that the name is the answer: it likely contains a Dungeon Chalice." At my expression of total uncomprehension, Gehrman shook his head. "Damnation, you've not heard of them in your time here?" He took a breath. "There's no way I can easily explain it to you, because they defy explanation. With the right ritual, you can travel to another place, a time in history. We call them Dungeons because they have universally been places of pain, violence and suffering. But you can learn much, find blood gems that don't appear in Yharnam, discover ancient artifacts. They're exceedingly valued by the Church as part of Laurence's legacy."

I didn't press him on that, despite recognizing the name Laurence. Why would Gehrman's friend have a legacy important to the Healing Church? Well, I opted to go behind his back and ask Doll.

"Laurence was the first Vicar," she explained, "the founder of the Healing Church."

That floored me. Gehrman's old friend founded Yharnam's healing church? How old was he? How long had he been here? The questions only continued to pile on and I had no satisfactory answers. Alfred had mentioned a Vicar Laurence but I'd had no idea it was the same one as Gehrman's friend. Did this mean that Gehrman was familiar with this Byrgenwerth place as well?

Before leaving, I took the time to stock up on antidote tablets and got Doll's help fortifying myself further.

(BREAK)

The final trek to the Church of the Good Chalice wasn't as bad as the preceding journey. Certainly it wasn't pleasant, with beasts leaping out of smoke to attack, but compared to freightcar-sized wolves the smaller ones just didn't pose that much of a threat.

Upon pushing open the doors to the smaller church, I was assaulted by a horrific stench. It was a combination of rotting meat and wet dog, with the sickly sweet undercurrent of some kind of overripe fruit. Then I saw the monster within. Horribly emaciated, flayed and wearing its own ravaged skin as a cloak, the same kind of beast as in the other church. Were these some sort of devils that lived to profane churches? It paced before an altar upon which something rested, snuffling and scrabbling at wrecked stone floors. The church was set with many stone columns to support the roof, the central channel wide open.

The beast whirled around and saw me somehow, throwing back its head and rearing up on its hind legs, letting out a screeching bellow that caused the flayed skin to flap. Saliva and sweat and slime flew everywhere scattering that sickly rotting-fruit stench all over the church. It came storming at me, practically walking on its elbows as its gangly arms continually lashed out at me, punching and clawing and grabbing and smashing. I dodged and wove all around it, taking minor blows, already beginning to feel sick. My veins were burning: was this thing secreting ashen-blood poison!?

I slashed and danced back, downing a tablet and quickly feeling the pain fade. This was now a battle of attrition: I needed to finish it off before I ran out of antidote and dropped dead. I couldn't wait it out, kill the beast with a thousand cuts. I charged back in, spearing my weapon at the monster's ribs. I struck true and was rewarded with a backhand so forceful that it ripped me from my spear, leaving the weapon lodged in the beast's side. Thankfully I'd come prepared this time, the saw cleaver resting at my side as a backup.

The flayed monster bled harder as it moved, my saw spear still tearing apart its insides. I kept dodging to the left around a pillar until it lunged and, just as I'd hoped, the handle of my spear caught on the pillar. The serrated head was therefore forced upward and deeper into its ribcage, hopefully tearing apart its organs. The monster screamed and I felt my gorge rise.

Its tattered skin flapped, letting me see the emaciated wolf skull gazing up at me with disturbingly human eyes. Its skin was pulled tight like latex over bone, and a thick maroon haze began filling the air around it. I vomited in my mouth immediately and popped another two tablets, which didn't do much. Somehow the creature was producing so much poison that the tablets couldn't clean my system!

I needed to end it now. Looking at the beast, my mind formulated a plan. As the beast stormed toward me, I met its charge. This wasn't the real world. This was the Dreaming World. Metaphor and meaning could become physical. Hunters killed beasts, using serrated weapons that symbolized the slaughter of these animals. And right now, "I am a hunter!" I screamed, putting all of my focus on the metaphysical concept of being a hunter, killing these monsters to protect the innocent. Both hands gripped the saw cleaver and I brought it up into the flayed beast's elbow, pushing through the joint. I pushed off the ground in a forceful forward leap, shoving with my arms, every muscle in my body focused on a single point. I moved through the beast's arm, which fell to the ground with a wet thud.

It whirled and gave chase, now stumbling with only one full arm but not stopping. It had to rear up a bit now in order to attack and not lose momentum by faceplanting into the floor. I briefly holstered the cleaver and waited for it to rear up again, then once again put all my force into a leap. I caught it by the flapping skin and pulled hard, yanking it further and further backward until I threw it fully onto its back! One hand kept a grip on the skin, trying to keep the monster from righting itself, while the other drew the cleaver. I approached from the side that lacked a claw and brought the cleaver down, opening its throat. I slashed and sawed again and again, wanting to make sure it'd bleed out. I grabbed at the saw spear as I retreated, trying to pry the weapon free, but only wrenched it around more. Well, I'd hoped to open another gushing wound but hopefully the sheer internal damage I was doing would count for something.

I leapt out of the beast's aura, popping another tablet and a blood vial as I felt the burning within my veins stop. It finally righted itself and gave chase, and after two laps around the church I began to worry that I'd miscalculated and it was somehow living through all of the exsanguination. But no, it was running solely on spite. When my spear's handle once again caught on a pillar, the creature let out one last shriek and collapsed dead. Once the haze of violet-red subsided, I ripped my spear from its ribcage and moved to claim my prize.

What I suspected to be the Good Chalice still rested on the altar, atop a stained silk sheet. It was a small thing, hewn of polished stone, and reminded me of the Holy Grail from Last Crusade if it'd been made of stone rather than wood. I picked it up, feeling no special supernatural effect, and tucked it into a pocket.

I opted to take the Dream Express out of Old Yharnam, rather than making my way back through that madness.

(BREAK)

Before returning to Oedon Chapel to regroup, however, I checked in on Siobhan's house. Whatever had screamed like that was hopefully gone, but I wanted to know just what had happened.

Her home had been turned over, practically upside-down, but it definitely looked to be the work of some kind of looter rather than a beast. No claw marks and there weren't signs of monstrous strength, but rather things were flipped by someone running on adrenaline and overtaxing their body. I eventually decided I wasn't going to get any answers and headed back toward the Chapel, passing many little houses. One of them had a dish of incense burning, and the acid tongue of an old woman was hurling insults at a corrupted dog that scratched and barked at her door.

I pegged the animal in the head with a bullet and approached the door. "I know guns like those," the voice creaked from within. I could see the shadow of a classic old lady, with the frilled mushroom-looking nightcap, through the barred window. "You're a hunter, aren't you? And not like those clumsy fools who take up a pitchfork and think it makes them a hero. I can't even hear your steps."

"I guess I'm a hunter," I replied. "By necessity rather than any search for glory, though."

Her already bitter-sounding voice turned outright hostile. "And an outsider, at that. This is all your kind's fault, you know! Bringing your diseases here and spreading them: something the Church couldn't cure took hold and now we're all doomed! Well, Miss Hunter," she condescended, "it's your job to protect people like me, and make up for what your sort unleashed. It's clear my incense isn't working anymore – you'd best have some sort of home base that can hold someone like me!"

I wanted to leave her there. She knew nothing about me but was already making snap judgments, and saying them aloud to my face. But I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I just abandoned her: simply being a bigot wasn't worth a death sentence. "I'm headed there now. I'll take you, but I'm warning you now: I have a scared girl there who's just lost her parents and a kindhearted cripple. If you hurt them, if you make them feel bad or rant against them, I'm dragging you outside and locking the door behind you. I'm here to keep everyone safe, and I won't let you harm or chase away other survivors." There was fire in my voice, a firmness I hadn't known I still possessed. I could retaliate but this was the first time I'd really laid down the law.

There was a pause for a good period of time, then a wheezing laugh. "At least someone still takes her job seriously. Fine, foreign girl. If you're keeping people safe I'll still my tongue best I can." Her door began to rattle as she undid multiple locks, stepping out with the help of a cane. She was ancient, eyes suffering the early stages of cataracts, skin blotched with liver spots and as thin as paper. Her body was stooped so far forward that with that cane holding her up she looked like a lower-case h. "Well?" she snapped. "Let's get going before I keel over from old age just standing here."

566

Vherstinae

Jul 30, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Jul 31, 2022

#422

Everyone was talking about the huge fight that went down amid some of the derelict warehouses on the northern end of the docks. Rumor had it that Bloodmoon had struck again, decapitating the Merchants' leadership and taking millions' worth of drugs off the street in one fell swoop. Both online and at school, debates raged about the morality of the situation. Bloodmoon was taking action and proving to be an implacable opponent, and a single unknown vigilante was far more effective at taking the risks of breaking cape etiquette than a team would be. Normally, when the gloves come off, villains are far better at hunting down a person's loved ones and have far fewer qualms about pulling the trigger in that case. But with a complete unknown, no loved ones to find or workplace to bomb, the villains could do nothing but hunker down. Perhaps what New Wave had thought to accomplish with the defeat of the Marquis might actually be brought to fruition with Bloodmoon: the ousting of major parahuman crime from Brockton Bay.

For one Greg Veder, he had a herculean task in front of him. Namely, not turning into a total fanboy and blowing his cover. He'd always known Taylor was strong, able to survive the abuse heaped upon her. But there's a difference between the strength to handle life's daily beatdowns and the strength needed to attack a gang at near-full strength, all capes present, and scratch the whole thing in one go.

On the one hand, Taylor having that kind of power was terrifying. There was something deeply wrong with her, something broken in her soul, and she needed help to heal. On the other, it could be his crush talking but there were few people he'd trust more with such power than Taylor. If he and his unlikely comrade Sophia could help Taylor recover from whatever was eating at her, he'd sleep easier at night knowing someone like her was keeping watch against evil.

And it was into this ever-more delicate balancing act that Greg was thrust, as Taylor and Sparky sat in his bedroom to discuss ideas for their project. Sparky was seated in a beanbag chair and Taylor perched like a gargoyle on Greg's bed, stocking feet framed on either side by her spindly hands. Greg himself sat in the rolling chair before his computer, trying not to look directly at the girl who'd inadvertently adopted one of the signature 'brooding edgy antihero' poses.

It'd been weird, seeing Taylor interact with his mom. Every second the girl seemed ready to bolt or bawl as Mama Miriam Veder lavished her with affection and sandwiches. "You're so skinny, sweetheart! C'mon, I'll make you a couple to take upstairs. You like PB ? I've got crunchy and creamy peanut butter, and raspberry jelly!"

That plate sat empty, Taylor having devoured the contents like a soldier would wolf down rations in a combat zone. To keep himself from saying something stupid, Greg opted to launch into this mostly unprepared. "Alright, so I'll be honest, I've been busy with other stuff and haven't had the chance to focus on the project nearly as much as I'd wanted. My first thought was how the Endbringers disrupted trade, but I don't know if that would count as parahuman stuff."

"Plus," Sparky commented, "you know a fuckton of others are using the Endbringer angle. It's big, flashy, grabs attention."

"Which sucks," Greg nodded at his friend, "because the disruption of trade caused a major increase in local manufacturing, which is a great angle."

"The Elite," Taylor said flatly. Two sets of eyes turned to focus on her and she actually flushed a little at the attention. Another thought popped into Greg's head: was she always like this and he'd never noticed due to lack of close contact, or did Taylor somehow get more adorable since turning into a killing machine? "Ah," she half-squeaked, "the economy isn't just legal means. A lot of the Elite are capes who tried to do business before the government cut them off for 'unfair advantages', right? So you have a massive black market of cape-produced goods, stock speculation, all sorts of stuff like that. And if Sparky is as good at running numbers as he is at putting together raid plans on that Space Opera thing you play–"

"I am," Sparky interjected.

"...Then we can get a bunch of police reports and news articles about Elite underground businesses. Because that's economics too."

Greg gave a genuine smile. "Taylor, you're a genius! Sparky, you and I can get that going. I can do my best to help with the writing but, well, you're the best writer out of all of us, Taylor. I know your internet's slow at home – hope you're not mad but I asked Mrs. Knott about your computer situation since we're kinda spread-out – but I think I can set up a File Cabinet and as long as we keep it to text only you should be able to open things and edit the paper. Sparky and I will swap stories ourselves and I'll just put into text what the articles say."

Taylor nodded, focused on the practical. "That sounds good. I don't think I'm as good a writer as you're giving me credit for, but…"

"Ah-ah," Greg admonished. "No buts. Remember when Mr. Gladly had us swap papers to test our ability to catch typos and shit?" He blushed a bit himself, remembering how Taylor had handed his back covered in red marks. "You write really well. I want you to take the lead on the actual writing: you can do it."

Her wide mouth curled up into a hesitant smile, and Greg felt his stomach flip-flop. It was such an anime cliché to the point that even he felt like a tool, but in that moment, there was only one thing he could think:

I must protect that smile.

(BREAK)

This was the first time there had been survivors of a Bloodmoon attack who could actually talk. Maureen Cho didn't count, as she'd hunkered down on reflex and had only heard the violence before the killer cape left her prison open; the other surviving girls they'd recovered from the ABB transfer site were further insensate and currently on Tinker-made detox, completely useless for information.

Now they had actual survivors, witnesses – best of all, they had a cape who'd survived for the better part of a decade on her canny, acumen and sheer stubborn will: the rest of the Merchants were being debriefed by the BBPD but were varying degrees of useless, yammering about everything from laser eyes to tiny glowing aliens. The sheer carnage had been too much for them to comprehend most of the fight. Only a few things stuck out as consistent, and hopefully with the event burned into Squealer's mind they could get a more complete picture. Seated behind the one-way mirror, Emily Piggot sipped her holistic brew of caffeinated carob – better for her damaged body than coffee – and watched the interview.

"Interview begins at 12:34pm Eastern Standard Time. Deputy Director Wilson Renick and Miss Militia interviewing parahuman Tinker designated Squealer." The older man's voice was smooth, businesslike. Piggot didn't like interviewing capes herself. She didn't like capes in general. She'd been a field agent, her job to bring down these wannabe-demigods. Meanwhile Renick had been in intelligence and counterespionage, a man specialized in logistics and human resources. "Squealer, do you consent to this recording?"

It was a formality to call her by her cape name, a politeness that had to be respected simply because of the volatile state of the Bay. Everyone sitting there knew that the haunted, scarred blonde was Sherrel Bailey. The jumpsuit – not prison orange but rather a surplus workman's gray for her emotional wellbeing – was the most clothing she'd worn in public in her entire time as a cape. With a body like hers, it seemed that she had been all too eager to show it off. Now she seemed tiny, mousy, not the six-foot towering bombshell that the PRT were used to facing. Her hair hung limp, her eyes were sunken worse than Renick's (saying a lot, considering the celebrity most often mentioned as his lookalike was Peter Cushing) with deep rings of black from lack of sleep. She hugged her legs and rocked a little. Finally, in a voice soft and hollow, "...Yes, I do."

They'd wanted to have Armsmaster present as well but there just wasn't enough room in the enclosed space without things starting to feel cramped, which might make the traumatized woman feel threatened. Usually Tinkers were encouraged by another Tinker present – or immediately launched into a rivalry. Miss Militia was there because Sherrel had latched onto her as an anchor. "Alright, we need to understand what happened last night, and you're the one best equipped to tell us," Renick stated, his voice soft. "I wish we could give you more time, but we don't have that luxury. Let's start from the beginning. You'd gathered to distribute drugs?"

Squealer stared into empty space for several long seconds before nodding seemingly in slow motion. "Yes. With the nazis and slants getting hit, we figured it was likely that Chopper would try to go three-for-three."

"And Chopper was...your term for the cape that attacked? That we've designated Bloodmoon?"

"...Yeah. Skids couldn't be bothered remembering the name. Came up with Chopper so we started calling him that." Several tears slid noiselessly from her eyes. "W-we didn't want to get caught with our pants down. I rigged up a few panel vans with my Somebody-Else's-Problem generators. If...if I'd worked faster, or built fewer vans, maybe we'd have done this sooner. Maybe he wouldn't–" She cut herself off and started crying, weeping for several minutes.

Once Sherrel began to calm down, Miss Militia spoke up. "I'm sorry to put you through this. We need any information you can provide that might help us face Bloodmoon in the future, to capture him."

"Fuckin' typical," Squealer muttered under her breath, the microphone picking it up. "Cunts." She steeled herself and looked up. "We were all there, getting things loaded up, when there was a noise. Sounded metallic. Not a ping, more like...a wrenching noise. Skidmark sent somebody to check it, door didn't budge. We'd...locked it from the outside, so it'd look more like nobody was home. Then the door opened, and he was standing there. He kicked our guy, folded him in half, and came in like...like something out of Hell itself."

"What weapons did he use?" Militia asked. "The destruction doesn't match the other attacks."

Squealer clicked her tongue. "He had some sort of mini-flamethrower that never seemed to run out of fuel, and this big-ass hammer. Wrought-iron, like a cage. Maybe...three feet, pommel to end. Slap something on the back of the hammer – like where the claw would be on your everyday claw hammer – and something in that cage crackles to life. It was like a furnace, and it made a huge explosion. He came in, staggered some of the boys, knocked Mush out in one hit. If Mush hadn't seen it coming he'd have died then and there.

"Then he's coming after us. Jumping around like some sorta Mover, bouncing off the walls. I waited until he was coming right at us and got him with my shotgun. He twisted a little but I still took off most of his head." This was a part upon which every interviewed thug agreed, and with further context it was even more worrying. "He landed and kept moving. I took off his hat and goggles with the shot. Had one eye left, it was glowing yellow, like the harvest moon. His hair came loose from its tie but...but it didn't move like hair. It was…" She held her hands up near her head, weaving them in random circles while wiggling her fingers. "...writhing. Like tentacles. Lovecraft. He–" Sherrel took a deep breath and shuddered violently. She took in a deep breath, held it, and slowly exhaled.

It took a fair while for her to continue her thought. "He stopped coming after us. Went after one of our boys. He...he grabbed the guy, ripped him in half – HE RIPPED HIM IN FUCKING HALF!" she screeched, lunging forward in her chair to grip the bolted-down desk. "And held him over his head. The blood, the meat, the...viscera, it was, i-it was anointing him. And as we watched, his head grew back," she finished with a hissing whisper.

Several more moments passed. "Those eyes, they're like nothing you've ever fucking seen. I swear I was looking at the Devil, or at least a demon. That, that thing, he ain't human. I tried to run him over with the van. Figured, if a gun won't put him down, a couple tons of metal might keep him pinned long enough for us to get out. Somehow," she let out a manic giggle. "Somehow this fuck gets on the roof and punches through the armor plate like it's nothing. Pours fire into the cabin." She gestured at her scarred body. "Mush threw him outside at that point."

"He recovered from unconsciousness?" Renick asked, for clarification.

"He always was tough. Hard to keep down." She swallowed hard. "I didn't see what happened to Mush, but I know he died. Put myself out just in time to see Skids standing there like some movie hero, launching shit bigger than almost any time before. That cape flips over a dumpster – backflips over a fucking dumpster, like this is a goddamn John Woo movie – and shoots my man in the head while upside-down in midair. The crew forms a firing line and starts shooting, and this fuck dodges most of it. Sets 'em all on fire, coming for me. Then, well, then you showed up."

"Indeed. Thank you for your cooperation and your assistance, Squealer," Renick nodded.

"You wanna thank me? Kill that son of a bitch."

"Interview concludes," Miss Militia said as she clicked the recorder. Squealer was escorted out.

Emily depressed the button until it clicked, keeping the channel open. "None of this bodes well," her voice crackled into the interview room. Since it was less cramped than gathering on the other side of the mirror, the other two stayed put.

"It was bad enough when he was killing normal people," Renick sighed. "Gangers die, that's normal around here. Maybe in greater numbers than usual, but still. But capes? There's blood in the water now and I fully expect Kaiser and Lung to start making moves."

"Capes value their own," Piggot nodded to herself. "Neither Lung nor Kaiser would bat much of an eye at those killings. But once parahumans are on the table, suddenly they get nervous. And without any easy target for retaliation, they're going to have to make shows of strength. And that means hitting the ordinary people of Brockton Bay," she spat.

On the one hand, Piggot almost wanted to applaud Bloodmoon. The cape wasn't behaving like so many other killers, putting fellow parahumans on a pedestal. Apparently this was about hunting criminals, regardless of cape status. But this was only riling the remaining gangs and Emily severely doubted that Bloodmoon could hold his own against Lung and the entirety of the Empire. If the killer cape could somehow cripple the other gangs… Well, they'd have yet another threat to worry about, but if Bloodmoon was more vigilante than bloodthirsty murderer, perhaps they could arrive at some sort of detente. It was almost certainly a pipe dream: capes didn't behave like that. Then again, Bloodmoon was bucking a good deal of cape preconceptions already.

She was going down a rabbit hole of maybes. Back to the present. "A Mover who dodges bullets and jumps with enough force to leave footprints in metal; a Brute who can survive losing most of his head and heal it back with the lifeblood of another human being; a cape armed with Tinkertech that can devastate entire crowds; a teleporter that doesn't need line-of-sight; a Stranger that confounds Thinkers and can somehow slip away unnoticed dressed like that and covered in blood. Any one of those would be a considerable threat."

"We're dealing with all of that in a single person," Renick finished her thought.

"When Lung moved here, he fought the entire Protectorate and won," Emily stated bitterly. "But neither he nor Oni Lee nor Hookwolf – nor some bizarre event where they cooperate – scare me as much as Bloodmoon." She swallowed heavily. "Renick, I'll need to talk with you in my office."

Wilson still had contacts on the other side of the law. If their own Thinkers couldn't peg Bloodmoon, and their Tinkers were working blind, they might have to reach out through illegal channels – get assistance from Toybox or the Elite. Emily was willing to take the hit to her pride, and to PR if it got out, if it meant keeping the city from devolving into outright war and slaughter.

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Vherstinae

Jul 31, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Aug 18, 2022

#454

Danger hung in the air like static electricity. Despite the Merchants having been easily the lowest rung as far as Brockton gangs were concerned, they were still arguably a major power if for nothing else than their control over the lowest echelons of nearly every category of crime. Their leadership's destruction had decapitated the gang and it was only a matter of time before things descended into outright warfare as the other two gangs carved up the Merchants' territory and – more importantly – their criminal enterprises.

It was likely disbelief in the sudden disruption of the status quo that had kept things quiet for so long. The reality that a cape-killer had exterminated the leadership of a gang wasn't something easy to accept. But it had been two days of inactivity and Sophia could taste the violence in the air. She found herself as twitchy as Hebert, half-lunging at any provocation as she anticipated the call for all hands in a gang war.

Greg had noticed but had managed to retain his laser-focus on the Taylor issue. She had begun updating the paper on File Cabinet and Greg reported to Sophia that Taylor hadn't lost her eloquence: the paper was coming along well, with the boys' research and Taylor's talent for words. He still hadn't been invited over to her place, but with her history that wasn't too much of a surprise for all that it was disappointing. Likewise, since Bloodmoon hadn't been since active, Sophia hadn't had the chance to sneak into Hebert's room again with actual preparation and photograph that burned journal.

The two situations – the Taylor investigation and the brewing gang war – would come to a head one overcast Thursday, in a manner that no-one could have predicted.

(BREAK)

The third floor of Winslow wasn't used for terribly much. According to stories – because nobody had either time or inclination to fraternize with the teachers – the third floor had originally been intended as a major development for Winslow's academic advancement: an entire computer-science wing and a new chemistry lab would have been its crown jewels. Instead, most of the rooms lay empty and a scant handful of classrooms held sessions. However, most of these classrooms were disused a majority of days, and even the lockers were a ghost town.

It was here that Nicole Suarez was confronted by a bulky oriental senior, Jun or something. Nicole was a burnout who had managed to turn her weakness into an advantage: she got addicted to methamphetamine shortly after starting high school but leveraged her unobtrusive nature to become a schoolyard dealer for the Merchants. In exchange for a sample of the product, she sold to other students – sometimes even other gang youth – and on occasion pocketed a tiny bit of the profits. Nicole was small and slight, very cute, and mostly well-liked among the delinquents.

Jun pressed his forearm against her collarbone, pinning her against the lockers, smirking down at her. Nicole tried to muster indignation through her fear. "I already told you, I don't have anything. The bosses aren't distributing, which means I don't have anything to sling."

"Oh, I figured," Jun replied, his lips curling further into something decidedly unpleasant. "Y'see, our own bosses–" Nicole's eyes darted to the green bandana tied around his arm, "had a standing policy: try to keep the inter-gang violence to a minimum so some little schoolyard fight doesn't escalate into gang's stepping just because some schoolkids got pissy. But you see, you don't have a gang anymore. So you're up for grabs."

Her eyes widened in horrified realization.

"You're not Asian, so you don't really count for the gang proper. But I could always use a pet dealer. And if you can't getanything to sling, well, we can find something else for you to do in exchange for keeping you safe," Jun practically purred.

"No," Nicole whispered. "No, please…"

Jun rolled his eyes. "Y'see, this isn't a yes-or-no question. It's an either-or. As in, either you work for me, doing what I want…" A switchblade clicked open. "...Or you spread for this."

The tiny hispanic girl looked like she was going to throw up then and there. All color had drained from her face, cold sweat beading across her skin. Her fear was so overpowering that it could practically be smelled. She began to cry, big droplets spilling from her dark eyes. The only thing she could think to do was to stall in the desperate hope that this would be interrupted, as Jun steadily dragged the blade down her body, rasping it against her clothes toward the junction of her legs.

"What the hell's going on here!?" Salvation came in the form of the most unlikely rescuer Nicole could imagine. Greg Veder, the school's resident weirdo, was trying his best to stand with shoulders squared and radiating masculine energy. His success was questionable at best.

Jun pressed his elbow against Nicole's sternum so he could brandish his knife toward Greg. "What, skinny, you wanna be next?"

Greg did his best not to swallow hard. "One chance," he said, trying to channel Taylor at her scariest. "Let her go."

Jun turned more to square off against the newcomer. The pressure from his elbow let up just a bit. It was likely the only chance she'd get: with a scream, Nicole shoved her entire weight and strength against Jun and then pushed off from him to run past Greg. Jun caught up before the little girl could make it and caught her by her shirt, causing them to fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs and swearing. Greg intervened, grabbing Jun's jacket, but he slipped out of it: attacker and victim fell into the stairwell, rolling over each other down two half-flights to plop before the second-floor access door.

Jun hit the ground back-first, the wind leaving his lungs. It journey was aided by Nicole landing on his chest. The girl scrambled to her feet, still whimpering a litany of "No, no, no," and continued her journey down the stairs in pursuit of freedom. Meanwhile Greg pounded down the stairs, unsure of exactly what he could do, but he knew he had to do something. He tried to pounce but Jun moved just before Greg landed, leading the skinny boy to collapse onto the landing as Jun resumed chase.

Stunned, with his ears ringing, Greg tried to force himself upright. It was slow going: he'd hit the landing hard and both his arms felt like broken porcelain. He heard the heavy first-floor door open, however, so did the only thing he could think of – taking in the deepest breath he could, the boy bellowed in the hope that his voice would echo out through the open door. "RAPIST!"

At this point, Jun wasn't really thinking. If he was, he'd have cut his losses and vanished into the crowd with the anonymity of being just another troublemaking junior ABB member. But his brain was jostled by the fall and his pride was hurting twofold. His lizard brain was focused on the twofold goal of pushing and silencing the girl who refused to know her place. And so, as he gained ground on Nicole, his tunnel-vision stopped him from noticing the tall and slender girl, shoulders too broad and hips too narrow, looking at him with hard hazel-green eyes.

Until a strong hand seized his throat like a vise and stopped him in his tracks. Taylor had heard Greg's shout, seen the tallish Chinese boy chasing the girl with single-minded ferocity, and understood.

"B-back off," Jun choked out, jabbing the switchblade directly at Taylor's face. She casually leaned out of the way of the strike, her grip only intensifying on his throat. His next stab aimed at her arm, to force her to release him.

Taylor released him through a nearby window, hurling his body out onto the Winslow campus.

Sophia Hess' ears weren't quite as discerning at the hunter's, and she hadn't recognized Greg as the one who shouted. Attacks in Winslow were common, and entirely not her problem. Why should she stick her neck out? Then she heard the shattering glass and decided it was worth at least investigating.

The murmuring already didn't bode well for the situation deescalating. "I think that's Jun," and other variations were heard from ABB devotees, while Empire kids could be overheard saying things like, "Slant's attacking a white girl!" This had not been the way Sophia had expected or hoped that the brewing tension would come to a head. The pit of her stomach went into freefall when she caught sight of just which white girl was being 'attacked'. Clad in her typical loose jeans and oversized hoodie, Taylor Hebert stepped outside through the broken window, radiating danger.

"Shit," Sophia heard herself whisper. As if things weren't bad enough, of course Hebert would be at the center. More ABB youth began to pile out to support their comrade, squaring off to posture against a thoroughly unimpressed Hebert. And then, of course, the Empire came crashing into their ranks to support one of their race.

The guy thrown through the window was down for the count, but one of the green-wearing students decided to act in solidarity and drew a thick survival knife, beginning to swipe at Hebert. She wove past his jabs and wide strikes with almost comical ease, feet sliding across the dirt as if she was on roller skates. Then she caught his arm. And, with the slightest twist, his arm crackled like styrofoam as his radius and ulna snapped inward.

Oh no. If Hebert destroyed these kids, the Protectorate would almost certainly investigate. Hebert would be studied, Sophia's activities would be outed, and Bloodmoon would probably make a beeline for her. But there was no way to defuse the situation, no way to pluck Hebert from out of that chaos and pack her away somewhere.

And so there was only one thing to do.

As still more people filtered out of the school, most sported armbands of red-and-black or green, but a noticeable minority didn't seem to have any allegiance and were just joining in for violence's sake as the schoolyard brawl was rapidly transforming into a riot. Hebert snapped another arm, smirking like a cat playing with its food. And then her next target was floored as Sophia crashed into him with a leaping drop-kick.

Sophia hit the ground like her instructors taught her, small of her back taking the impact and hands slapping the floor to help her spring back to her feet. She immediately ducked and slid out from an incoming blow before her attacker was body-checked by a blond-haired brute of a young man. "Stay out of this, sheboon," he snarled at her. "This is the Empire's fight."

"She doesn't belong to you," Sophia replied, kicking him in the back of the leg to cause him to lose balance and subsequently get laid out by a twitchy ABB member. In immediate hindsight, this was also a terrible idea, as now Sophia was targeted by both sides of the riot. She duck and wove, unable to get in a blow with her focus on defense, and instead opted to pursue Hebert. Someone seized her by the wrist and Sophia managed to twist free, skipping backward away from her attacker. Hebert was currently occupied with crippling yet another colors-wearing ganger and, while not startled, was certainly at least a bit surprised when Sophia bumped against her back. The taller girl looked over her shoulder, one thin black eyebrow arching elegantly in a silent yet still frustratingly imperious question.

"Shut up and fight, Hebert," Sophia spat before adopting a wing chun stance. Now that there was a little more room rather than the crush of bodies, she could put her mobility to work. Against her back, she felt Hebert shrug and the girl turned back toward the encroaching crowd, strong and solid like a tower. Sophia leapt toward an Empire kid, which seemed to be enough of an explanation for Hebert. The tall girl was still untouched, weaving formlessly around fists with contemptuous ease before lashing out at nearly invisible speeds to shatter limbs with quick and violent motion.

Speed, quick-striking counterattacks… Sophia had to utilize momentum and leverage to deal any real damage to opponents. She might be vicious and muscular, but she was still only a fifteen-year-old girl. Her physical strength wasn't exactly overwhelming. It was yet another thing that stung her as, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hebert almost casually toppling bulky jocks.

The riot was fully out of control at this point, and Sophia and Hebert were only one part of it. Hebert almost casually flowed through the fight and Sophia did her best to stay near the taller girl, taking the occasional blow that would leave ugly bruises on her dark skin as she wasn't always fast enough. Not like Hebert, who was still untouched other than the occasional blow she opted to block.

Those who weren't actively fighting had gathered into a semicircle, cell phones at the ready to record the mayhem. In particular, Greg Veder watched with knuckles white. For all of her strength, he feared for Taylor in some primal manner. The moment he'd realized she was taking part in the fight (and, honestly, why wouldn't she?), he ran to his locker. Greg wasn't particularly strong, or fit, and he didn't know how to fight. What he did know, however, was just how heavy and sturdy his biology textbook was. And now he stood at the ready, in case Taylor needed him.

There! As Taylor practically danced around a knife-wielding attacker's strikes, an Empire guy came up behind her with a heavy rock. Greg moved almost before he knew what he was doing. Without so much as a war cry, just a shout as he heaved the textbook, Greg brought it down on the bigger boy's head. The book's spine broke a bit from the impact but his target didn't drop like a sack of potatoes as TV had led him to believe. So he struck again and again. By the time his unwilling opponent was laid-out on the ground, Greg was sweaty and exhausted with a handful of paper, the rest of the book having come unbound and lying around them.

Sophia noted this as she fought, such an oddity: weaklings didn't fight back most of the time, but sometimes they did. However, she hadn't heard of a weakling like Greg charging into a fight not even to protect himself. And now he was reaping the consequences of his actions, as another Empire boy had him by the collar and blackened his eye.

Then Greg's eyes widened and he did his best to go boneless as a flying body impacted his attacker. Hebert had thrown her latest opponent! Veder scrambled back into the crowd of observers, obviously unsuited for this fight.

At this point, Sophia and Taylor had been fighting alongside one another for long enough that the shorter girl was adapting to how Taylor fought, and the taller girl was taking Sophia into account. As Taylor wrenched yet another arm out of its socket, she leaned forward to allow Sophia a flying kick – sliding over Taylor's sturdy back – to bloody the nose of a big ABB brute.

As Taylor straightened up, someone finally managed to catch her. A huge Empire senior – probably close to 6'6" – grabbed the hem of Taylor's jacket and yanked it up. It was a dirty trick to blind and trap the opponent with their own clothing. He went to bring down an elbow on Taylor's spine, and the girl simply juked backward, ripping herself free of her jacket.

Eyes widened at the dark-haired girl's appearance. In just a tank top, Taylor's body had no extraneous meat on it. However, unlike with an anorexic, her body was so bereft of fat because the girl was preternaturally, disturbingly lean. Tightly corded muscle flowed along her arms like the most wiry of street fighters, undulating beneath her pale skin with the slightest movements.

Sophia watched as Taylor grabbed her hoodie and yanked it from her opponent's hands. He let go but the initial tug caused his arms to rise a little. Taylor caught him by the wrist and pulled, swinging him across in front of her. Then, with a forceful jerk, she arrested his momentum and his shoulder came out of its socket with a sickening crack-pop.

It seemed that the sight of one of the school pariahs as a sudden white female Bruce Lee took what fight remained from the crowd. It was little more than cleanup now, most of the remaining rioters dispersing.

The entire incident lasted barely more than ten minutes. More than thirty boys and girls from different grades and gangs lay beaten on the dirt. And finally the sirens were audible.

(BREAK)

Sophia didn't know if the BBPD people bought her story. She'd wrangled Greg to back her up, telling a tale of a bullied girl who'd had enough and how neither of them could stand idly by while Taylor faced the school's entire gang population by herself. Hopefully, by her presence, people would look at her and not Taylor: once her name was mentioned, the PRT would intervene and the investigators would begin to presume that Sophia was the one who'd had the most impact – after all, between a cape and an ordinary person, you'd naturally expect the cape to do more damage.

And now, as Taylor waited for her father to come pick her up, Greg sitting beside her as a sort of awkward moral support… Sophia approached with three root beer bottles in hand. "Veder, Taylor," she offered each one a bottle.

Taylor looked down at the bottle and back up to Sophia, her dubious expression saying enough.

"You kicked ass out there. Took those fuckers apart. I figure that deserves something, so…" she hefted her own bottle. "My treat." Sophia sat down and braced the metal cap against a bit of brickwork, slapping the top to pop the cap off the bottle. "You did good yourself, Veder, for not knowing how to fight. You didn't hesitate. So, you get a soda too."

Greg imitated Sophia, trying to pop the cap, while Taylor simply flicked her thumbnail under the cap and popped it off in a single smooth motion. Then she held her hand out for Greg's bottle and its mangled cap, doing the same for him.

None of them said anything further

Danny Hebert arrived at his daughter's school to the aftermath of carnage. Cleaning crews were scattering sand to soak up bloodstains and then scraping it up with snow shovels. EMTs scurried to and fro, loading people onto stretchers. Many had bloodstained clothes and deep stab wounds, even more had limbs broken and bent at unnatural angles. He saw at least one body bag.

The school had called him, said Taylor had been involved in a fight. He'd had no idea what exactly that would entail, considering how little the school had done before then. If all of the bullying, the abuse, the...the bruises, if all of that hadn't warranted a call, how bad was it this time? With all of the damaged bodies, his hair stood on end over his entire body and he felt the cold chill of fear settle into his ribcage.

Until, coming through the crowds, he saw his beautiful baby girl, completely unblemished, drinking root beer with two other kids who looked far worse for the wear. The gangly boy had a horrible black eye, his sclera mostly red from ruptured blood vessels. The athletic girl already had nasty bruising marring her dark skin.

The way Taylor sat gave him pause. It was the kind of easy caution that Danny would see in military veterans who joined the Union. While on the surface Taylor looked relaxed, the way she held herself betrayed muscles coiled to spring. Her lips might sport a gentle smile but her eyes darted about, monitoring her surroundings and ready to commit violence upon whatever disturbed her. And then her eyes landed on him. In an instant, the visage of a dangerous protector melted away and he was again looking at his daughter's big soulful eyes. She sprang up and jogged over to hug him.

"Hey Dad. They told me they called you. I've been waiting with Greg and Sophia, wondering whose parents would get here first."

"We figured my mom or Sophia's would be last," the boy piped up, his voice a little ragged from the obvious pain of his eye.

"Taylor, are you going to introduce me to your friends?" The question was a bit more loaded than Danny had wanted it to feel, and he really didn't want to voice his thoughts: I thought you didn't have friends.

If Taylor noticed, she didn't show it. "This is Greg, we're working on a project in World History together. That's Sophia, she's in some of my classes. They helped me in the fight."

Danny blinked at her easy, almost casual declaration. Taylor had always been non-confrontational, and now she was so nonchalant about having fought in what had quite obviously been a riot. "So you were in the middle of that?"

"Was she!" Greg leapt unsteadily to his feet. "You should've seen her, Mr. Hebert!" He began to gesticulate wildly, trying to express the events. "She was like Bruce Lee or something, darting all around and dropping, uh, d-dropping…" He started to wobble and Sophia grabbed him by the waistband, tugging him down to land in her lap. She then shoved him to the side, back onto the stairs.

"Dumbass," the black girl scoffed. "You probably have a concussion. Don't wave around like that."

What happened to my daughter? Danny took advantage of the other kids engaging him. "Are you two okay? You both seem pretty worse for wear."

"I've had worse," Sophia replied. "Winslow's not exactly a nice place. Veder, on the other hand," she looked over at the boy, "I'm still not sure what you were thinking, or how you're still standing."

"Hey," Greg protested, "that guy was gonna hit Taylor. I wasn't about to let that happen."

"That's if he could hit her in the first place," Sophia cut in. "But honestly it was pretty impressive. I thought you were a bit of a bitch, Veder, but you got guts."

Much as he worried for these kids, Danny had his daughter to worry about first and foremost. "I'm gonna get Taylor home. Will you two be alright?"

"Sure," Greg smirked. "Sophia might not be on Taylor's level but I think we'll be good in a pinch. And I have a few more textbooks," the boy chuckled at a joke that Danny didn't get, while Sophia looked torn between being scandalized and humiliated.

Danny placed a hand on Taylor's back and made to guide her away. For the briefest moment, his motion was arrested as it felt like he was pushing on a granite boulder. Then the moment passed and he was herding his gangly daughter to the car.

"Oh, Mr. Hebert!" Greg called after him. "That project I'm working on with Taylor, would you mind if I came over to your house on Saturday so we can work on it some more?"

(BREAK)

Jenna Hess and Miriam Veder arrived at roughly the same time. One stomped forward indignant, while the other was a blubbering mess of worry. While Greg was buried in incoherently babbling mother, Sophia stared down her own maternal figure. "What did you do this time, Sophia?" the older woman demanded.

"She protected people, that's what," Greg interjected. "I was trying to stop this ABB guy from doing horrific things to a girl. Sophia joined in and had my back. It sucks that it turned into a big thing, but she did a good thing."

While that wasn't the entire truth, it was shockingly accurate and Sophia couldn't remember the last time someone not in her clique (other than Ms. Bright, her "social worker") had stood up for her. Even her own mother hadn't been terribly supportive of her ever since…

She swallowed hard and turned back to her mother, eyes a mixture of defiance and hope that she wouldn't have to be defiant.

"Is this boy telling the truth?" Jenna questioned.

Sophia nodded. "I got into the fight to protect a mutual friend, not Veder so much, but yeah."

"Oh screw you," Greg laughed. "You didn't do it to back me up?" he teased.

"Hey, you could do with some toughening up," Sophia said with a smile, one that she realized was genuine. She only smiled like this when she and Emma had quiet moments together. "You didn't bitch out, which is more than I can say for most of the school. You could do with some actual training, but I guess a textbook works in a pinch."

Miriam just looked between the conversation, confused.

Inwardly, Sophia was just as confused for different reasons. First Taylor hadn't ratted her out when she'd had ample opportunity, and now she was feeling camaraderie with Veder? Was this the Hollywood "brothers in battle" shit? Was it some additional aspect of Taylor's power? Or was something truly changing?

(BREAK)

Emma Barnes felt as if her world had lost its axis. She'd spoken to her mom when she picked her up, but Emma would be damned if she could remember a single thing she'd said. She was running on autopilot, still processing what she'd seen and experienced. Little extras occasionally swam into her awareness: Sophia had kicked ass, as expected. Greg had, surprisingly, fought until getting his ass handed to him. But she couldn't focus on any of that for terribly long. Her mind always centered back on Taylor.

When the fight started, before Emma had realized who the main combatant was, Emma had been impressed. The tall, willowy girl in the oversized clothes moved like a dancer, weaving beautifully between blows like the entire thing was choreographed and the other performers were moving in slow motion. This girl was fighting alongside Sophia, which was one of Emma's dreams – one she would never, could never realize. Training to fight would harm her figure, and any scars to her face or even her body could destroy her modeling career before it could even get off the ground.

Then Emma caught sight of the girl's face, and her world had tipped 110 degrees. Taylor was the one destroying these gangbangers. Taylor was the one putting even Sophia to shame in the fight. Taylor was flowing through the opposition with the gentle, playful smirk she'd wear when she was about to win a board game. Taylor always wore her heart on her sleeve. It made her terrible at poker, but at the same time even knowing Taylor had some dastardly scheme planned didn't make it any easier to actually counter those schemes in Risk, or Scrabble, or Protectorate.

Seeing Taylor with that expression, happy and confident and supremely in her element, had briefly warmed Emma's heart. It brought back memories of happier days, when Taylor hadn't been the albatross around Emma's neck that she had desperately attempted to dislodge; when Taylor hadn't been her punching bag, her tool to convince herself she wasn't broken inside. But then she remembered what she'd spent nearly two years doing, and fear settled in. That fight had proven to Emma that she couldn't take Taylor. In a serious fight, even Sophia couldn't take Taylor. What good would shadow powers do against someone too fast and smooth to hit? Eventually Sophia would slow down or slip up and Taylor would have her. So what could Emma do?

That question would haunt her over the entire weekend: What can I do? Another, quieter question haunted her when she was drifting off to sleep, or had quiet moments to herself: what should I do?

(BREAK)

The drive home was awkward. There was tension that Danny had no idea how to defuse. He didn't even know how to begin broaching the subject. He'd seen the bodies, at least one corpse. He'd seen the bruises on the other two. How was Taylor unmarred? It was obvious she'd been in the thick of things. Was it pure luck? It was certainly possible, according to quantum physics, but the likelihood approached zero.

The school would be closed at least until Monday, so that gave him time to find a good opportunity to try and safely ask just what had happened. Not just today, but overall. Taylor had been making progress for a couple of weeks, then backslid hard and had been practically sleepwalking through life. Now he found out she had friends and was getting in massive fights?

He opted to make lasagna. Annette's recipe. Taylor helped. In those brief moments, the preparing and baking and the cozy dinner, they almost felt like a family again.

(BREAK)

The next day, while a good part of him wanted to stay home with Taylor, Danny also had to help keep the Union going and offer direction in the face of what promised to be a new gang upheaval. Plus, the internet was better at the DWU office and he wanted to do some research. Little shits couldn't help posting everything online, and he was sure that at least one kid must have recorded the events.

In-between organizing the dockworkers, Danny sat down at his desk and searched up "Winslow riot." Plenty of news stories, of course, but he was more interested in the image-macros and "memes."

Even with his suspicions, when he clicked on a forum thread titled "Badass Winslow chick," he still expected it to be about Sophia or another girl at the fight and maybe he could see Taylor in the background. Instead, he was inundated with gifs of his little girl weaving around multiple simultaneous attacks with contemptuous ease, splintering limbs like balsa wood. One image in particular left him slack-jawed: it was a photo from behind, but that hair was unmistakably Taylor's. Her jacket was gone and her arms rippled with corded muscle as she wrenched a much-larger man's arm out of its socket. Beneath the picture was the caption: Training to Replace Alexandria.

Danny took a moment to assess some of the other pictures and gifs, realizing something important: Taylor wasn't wearing her glasses in any of them. Come to think of it, she hadn't worn them during the drive home, or while they made dinner. When had she stopped wearing them? How had he not noticed?

"Taylor," he mumbled to himself, "what happened?"

(BREAK)

The early-morning light shone through the massive bulletproof-glass windows of the conference room. Emily Piggot sipped her carob, face set in a heavy frown as she looked at the others in the room: Wilson Renick; Triumph, Wards captain at least until his graduation; Miss Militia. "So how much of the speculation is close to the mark?"

Renick had set several lower-level intel operatives to combing the most-frequented sites for discussing parahumans, and had done some of the work himself. The older man gave a firm shake of his head. "Thankfully, very little. While there was of course the usual speculation that anyone who walks away from a fight must be a cape, the majority wasn't directed at Hess." He turned his laptop so his boss could see the screen. "Most of the discussion centers around this girl, the tall brunette. Referencing and research leads us to believe the girl is named Taylor Hebert." He clicked to another tab, the Training to Replace Alexandria image dead-center. "To be perfectly honest, I don't know if a girl her age could develop musculature like that naturally. Moreover, if it was possible, it would still require near-daily regiments of intense exercise, and Hebert doesn't seem to fit that profile. No gym membership, no presence on exercise or self-improvement ideological fora, and school records paint her as some sort of complaining troublemaker rather than the type who would intervene to save a girl from a would-be rapist – if the reports on the inciting event are to be believed. And with the Empire kids, Merchant holdouts and ostensibly neutral parties all giving essentially the same story, I'm inclined to believe it."

"So something in all of this isn't adding up," Piggot nodded as much to herself as to the others. "To me, this seems like a low-level Brute package. Recent trigger, perhaps? That solves the lack of regimented exercise…"

"But not the altruistic bent," Renick picked up her train of thought. "The kind of attention-seeking troublemaker that the school reports paint might stop a rapist, but she'd wait until he was already attacking a girl for maximum attention and adulation."

"Winslow's a hole," Triumph spoke up. "Stalker says as much quite often. In a place where a riot like this can happen, and where much of the student body doesn't bat an eye at the scream of 'rapist', who's to say Hebert hasn't been the victim and the incompetent or uncaring staff just wrote her off?"

"Bullying leads to a trigger event, and a new Brute steps in to protect someone in the way nobody ever protected her," Militia injected. "It shows strong altruistic tendencies. We should keep an eye for new capes with her general build: someone like her would be a good fit for the Wards."

"Stalker spoke up and did her best to direct attention onto herself and away from Hebert," Renick noted. "It doesn't exactly seem her style, but if she too suspects a new trigger she might have been trying to keep the girl out of the spotlight, keep her from getting railroaded by the gangs. Or by us," he finished with a chuckle, considering that they'd had to drag Shadow Stalker into the Wards almost literally in handcuffs and an ankle bracelet.

There was a gif beneath the image on Renick's screen, a clip from the fight as Hebert wove around attackers. The way she slid to the side, pushing off with her right foot and sliding left, body dipping low and then smoothly rising to her full height for a quick strike, it tripped something in Emily's memory, but she couldn't put her finger on exactly what. "The best we can do for now," she said at length, "is keep an eye out for a new Brute, and hope she doesn't piss off Lung, Hookwolf or Bloodmoon." The director let out a puff of air from her nostrils, a noise that would easily be interpreted as a snort, especially with her heavyset face and upturned nose. "Maybe we can convince Stalker to make a new friend."

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Vherstinae

Sep 2, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Oct 7, 2022

#573

Overall, Ethan Lis mused, life as a cape isn't worth it. Oh sure, there were cool powers and flashy fights and all the attention and adulation. All that was nice. But the powers came from the worst day of your life. The fights were all too often vicious beatdowns wherein one side had to pull punches while the other tried their best to deal lethal blows. And the attention was even worse than your average celebrity, because you had to be perfect at all times while maintaining a secret identity. But then he would see Alice, his kicked puppy. Just Puppy, nowadays. And she'd smile at him. And it was all worth it.

Alice, in her hero identity as Battery, juked through a hail of gunfire and upended a sedan to provide some cover while she built up another charge. Coil's mercenaries unloaded some rounds into the vehicle but were hesitant to use the underslung cutting lasers on their rifles, likely due to not knowing what else they'd cut through – Ethan would love to imagine the hesitancy was born from some secret heart of gold, but most likely it was fear of proportionate retribution should their laser bisect a child.

Ethan leapt into the path of a flying parking meter, the projectile losing all momentum the moment it connected with him. Assault absorbed the kinetic energy, storing it for future release while ensuring that one-half of the Empire's air corps didn't splatter her targeted mercenary across the asphalt.

It wasn't at all clear what had started this fight, but Rune and Crusader were engaged in a running firefight with at least a half-dozen of Coil's well-equipped faceless goons. The spear-wielding ghosts descended once again – excepting the pair that served as Crusader's floating palanquin – and made strafing runs at the mercenaries, who were forced to scatter before returning automatic fire and haphazard upward laser shots. Assault could only hope those shots would dissipate before going far enough to hit a plane or a satellite...or worse, clip the Simurgh and wake her up grumpier than usual.

The not-a-theme team of Assault and Battery were decidedly not the right group to handle this kind of ranged firepower, but they were the only heroes in the area at the time. While Assault bounded around after Rune and did his best to avoid Crusader's ghosts, Battery had managed to subdue two mercenaries thus far: one whose zipcuffs had been cut by his fellows, and one whose broken arm and leg took him out of the fight. It was difficult gauging just how hard you could hit a person wearing body armor and not deal lethal damage. She needed to go for breaks but not compound fractures. From the corner of his eye, Ethan could see Alice gritting her teeth. It always tore at his heart, the way her power caused her pain the higher she built her charge.

Almost too fast to track, Alice pushed off the ground (leaving a divot in the asphalt) and launched herself around the side of the car, grabbing the bumper to help her swing her weight and redirect her momentum. With her enhanced senses and the functional effect of time dilation, she could plot her path to the nearest soldier. She came in low, pushing up with her thighs and bringing her fist in for a gut punch to shatter his body armor, knock the wind out of him, and bleed off some of her charge until she felt herself safely in the nonlethal range. Instead of buckling like she'd anticipated, the man tried to tough it out. Wonderful, a glory hound or some other idiot who thought he could walk off a blow like that. By not folding around her fist, he instead forced his ribcage to start breaking from the parallel pressure, and the intense pain made him clutch his weapon more tightly. The underbarrel laser went off, punching through the sedan and straight into the driver of a delivery truck who'd just rounded the corner and was in the process of realizing what a shit show into which he'd stumbled.

The beam impacted the driver in the chest: it took his brain a few seconds to catch up to the realization that he was dead. In that time, his body spasmed and locked up, going into an aggressive form of shock. His joints straightened as best they could, pressing down hard on the gas, before he finally slumped and the truck careened out of control.

Without enough of a charge to take on a multi-ton truck, Battery was forced to leap aside. The mercenaries likewise scattered, and Alice didn't exactly feel guilty that the man she'd winded was unable to get out of the way: the truck impacted the sedan, which toppled and landed on the mercenary who'd inadvertently shot the truck driver. The truck slowly listed rightward, tilting toward a corner cafe where the patrons huddled behind tables and countertops. They'd been too afraid to head out the back and risk getting nabbed by E88 gangers or more of Coil's goons.

Assault cursed and slammed his foot into a concrete column, expending all of his stored kinetic force to fire himself horizontally. Arm outstretched, he managed to make contact with one rear tire and bring it to a momentary dead stop for the time his fingertips brushed it...and then the other three tires and the vehicle's sheer bulk dragged it out of his reach as he slammed into the ground, expending what energy he'd absorbed in order to arrest his own momentum and keep from road rash. He scrambled after it but it was already too far away. There was nothing he could do: that truck would hit the wide glass window and barrel through, shredding and crushing everyone inside.

There was an almighty crash, but no excessive shattering of glass. The truck lurched forward onto its two frontmost wheels, then slammed back down with enough force that its undercarriage fell out. A worrying form pried itself out from the truck's grille, wrenching her arms free from where they'd sunk through and quite literally throttled the engine. Bloodmoon spared a glance over her shoulder to ensure the civilians were safe, allowed herself one brief stiff nod of acknowledgement and self-approval, and then charged into battle.

The mercenaries scattered yet again, only just having started to reform their ranks, and one had his head blown open like an overripe fruit. His advanced helmet was barely a hindrance to Bloodmoon's powerful pistol. The weapon's elegant filigree glimmered in the sunlight. In her other hand she carried a sword, some bizarre hybrid of katana and cavalry saber.

In the aftermath of the driver's death, even as the truck had barreled down the street, Crusader had been lining up another charge. Apparently Bloodmoon resolved to teach him the error of that particular course of action. Her left arm snapped up, wrist whipping the weapon into place, and the pistol let out another bellowing report. At this point Crusader had this kind of thing down to reflex: his ghosts were all but invulnerable while he most definitely was not, so the cluster broke off from their charge to interpose.

The ghost that took the hit burst, shattering apart like some bizarre glass balloon. Crystalline residue floated through the air before dissolving into nothingness. The silvery bullet fell straight down to hit the ground with a soft clink, before disappearing in a tiny cloud of mist.

Bloodmoon cataloged this information, only slowing her advance for a moment, drifting leftward. She holstered her weapons and reached out to grab the sedan that had crushed the mercenary's lower half, fingers digging into the chassis. She stepped, right heel leading while the foot pointed backward, and spun to hurl the car at Crusader.

A sedan is a small car but still not a small object, and it was thrown with considerable force. Crusader tried to drop beneath it but didn't like his odds, so all of his remaining ghosts (other than the two carrying him) threw themselves in the way and the car impacted. Immediately afterward, something impacted the car.

The moment the car left her hands, Bloodmoon was running. She drew the pistol again, slamming some grayish powder down the barrel, and leapt through the air to bring her feet crashing into the sedan she'd thrown. She leaned over the car and pointed the gun at Crusader's head. To his credit, he managed to lean to the side and once again interpose a ghost between him and the gun. Bloodmoon fired, and crimson sprayed through the air. Propelled by the bone-marrow ash of Hemwick, the bullet punched clean through Crusader's ghost and kept going. It embedded into a nearby building and soon vanished as well. Crusader's ghosts dissolved and the sedan plummeted to earth, Bloodmoon riding it like a surfboard.

Assault leapt at Rune again, not just to try to capture her but to chase her off. He didn't want a kid, who probably had time to turn her life around, to have that life ended because she picked a fight with a mass-murderer. The girl took one potshot at Bloodmoon, who casually slapped the concrete out of the air, before fleeing with her tail between her legs.

Gunfire rang out again as the mercenaries tried to rescue their legless companion. Well, most likely they didn't expect him to survive but didn't want his identity being uncovered: it might lead to more of them being found and possibly providing links in the chain toward unmasking Coil. The mercenaries had Battery pinned down in an alley. Still completely silent, Bloodmoon began closing the distance.

A few of the gunmen let out arrhythmic shouts of alarm and began to open fire, with predictably negligible results. Until one of them activated his laser. The pink beam seared across the street, carving into a storefront, and Bloodmoon's left arm fell steaming to the ground. Immediately a torrent of mist rose up around it and the arm sank into the street.

Assault felt the world lurch around him as he witnessed this. He no longer got any kind of motion or pressure sickness, but he remembered being seasick as a child. The sensation was like that, but centered behind his eyes instead of in his gut. He staggered, eyes rolling in their sockets, and that asynchronous input pushed him over the edge. He clutched his stomach and began vomiting onto the sidewalk. Across the street, Battery let out a keening wail, the kind that could crack glass, as she clutched her head and spasmed on the ground. The gunmen weren't much better off. Some were already beginning to shake it off, but none were combat-ready.

Bloodmoon's posture shifted. From stalking with back bent, she now stood tall and proud with shoulders squared. An elegant cane emerged from the ground and she clutched it, smacking the tip into the asphalt once. It broke apart into a segmented whip. She lashed it forward and the tip embedded in the legless body, ensuring his demise. Almost matching Battery in raw speed, Bloodmoon darted between the soldiers, body-checking one or two to get them in formation. She whirled around and between them, a blur of gray, before coming to a stop just long enough for them to understand what had happened. With a violent tug, she drew the thin wire cable and bladed segments tight until they severed body parts. As if choreographed, she slammed the tip into the ground again and locked the whip back into cane form at the exact time body parts began to fall meatily to the ground.

The killer cape sheathed the cane into the loose ties at her hip and reached into her voluminous ragged coat, retrieving what looked to be an old-time syringe. She stabbed it into her leg and carelessly cast it aside. Assault looked away from the syringe the moment mist began to rise around it, then wished he'd stuck with watching the injector. From Bloodmoon's severed arm, a torrent of blood rushed out. It crawled over itself, extending longer and longer, a gangly sinewy limb like undercooked steak badly cut by a blunt knife. The limb terminated in six or seven twitchy appendages that briefly looked like massive scything claws, then the whole thing turned into a black mass of tentacles (or at least that's what Assault would swear he saw) before it collapsed back into an arm – a fully-clothed arm, the sleeve of her coat unblemished. A flicker of metal and she was holding that exact same pistol again.

A man's desperate cry cut through the air at the same time as an explosion. "Help! Help me! My wife and daughter are still inside! I- I couldn't get to them!" The storefront that the laser had pierced… Brockton Bay didn't exactly have zoning and so many stores had veritable apartment complexes above them. The laser must have hit a gas pipe "W-we're on the fourth floor!" he gasped, looking helplessly at Assault.

Assault glanced over at Battery, who was still groaning and clutching her head. Whatever'd happened to Alice, she was in no condition to help. Almost unable to believe himself, he looked to Bloodmoon. The cape's black goggles bored into his eyes, then Bloodmoon nodded sharply. She bounded over to the building and spun at the last moment, slamming back-first into the edifice and making a stirrup with her hands.

Ethan couldn't hold back the happy laugh as he charged ahead, planting his foot in Bloodmoon's hands and letting her hurl him to the fourth floor. She then leapt up after him, feet balancing on the barest of brick seams and windowsills. He was holding his nose and coughing when she sprang in beside him. "Shit, there's already a lot of smoke. You good to-?" His eyes widened at the sight of Bloodmoon tugging down her face cover. The jaw revealed was very young, easily high-school age. Wide mouth and thin lips. Bloodmoon dropped to the floor and began sniffing noisily, like a dog. The cape scuttled along on all fours, moving about as fast as Assault could on two. "Uh, okay then…"

Once the pair got closer, they found an open door and heard a dog barking from inside. A distressed Pomeranian bounced in place, barking frantically at the rubble of a bedroom door. When the pipes ruptured it must have brought down some of the beams: no wonder the man couldn't help his wife and daughter. The dog yelped when it saw Bloodmoon and nearly leapt into the fire to get away. Replacing her face cover, the cape pointed at Assault and then at the dog. He nodded and plucked the little critter into his arms.

Bloodmoon easily wrenched the beams aside and was hit in the face with a gout of flame. The beams had been almost stoppering the blazing leak in the ceiling. A single violent beat to the face and hat banished the clinging fire. "Go," the cape shouted, in a deep and guttural booming voice that did not at all match the narrow and wiry body. "I've got this."

–––––––

This was the first thing I was doing that could actually be called heroic. Fighting the gangs was a good thing, unequivocally, but I was doing so with a lot of bloodshed and using fear as a weapon. I relaxed my vocal chords, no longer needing my approximation of Ludwig's booming timbre. "Hello? You can come out: I'm here to help," I called in a voice just a bit deeper and older than my normal tone.

The master bathroom opened, a frightened mother and daughter staring out at me. They were soaked with water, clearly having hidden in the shower in the hope that the water would help them. "W-we were trapped. Please, can you get us out?" the mom begged.

I shucked my coat and nodded. "Grab onto me." With them both holding onto my front as best they could, I wrapped the coat over them – especially over the top. One hand beneath their rumps to hold them up, the other around the upper part of the coat to keep it in place. I charged through the flames, barely noticing how they licked at my hair and face. I turned right, heading down the hall to a window on the opposite side from where Assault and I had made our entrance. My ears picked up the hiss of more gas: unblocked, it was likely about to blow. I turned with my back to the window and pushed off, crashing through the glass and frame. Before my eyes a fireball rushed out of the apartment and toward me, propelling me further outward. It blew my hat off and burned away most of my hair, but my coat was undamaged – as was the cargo beneath it.

We plummeted some forty feet and I took the impact in my legs, grunting a bit but otherwise unharmed. "You alright?" I asked softly as I set them down to don my coat once more.

"Yes," the mother said through a watery half-smile. Her family had lost much, if not everything, but they were all still alive. "Thank you so much."

With my face covered I couldn't really offer a smile, but I swept my arm to direct them out of the alleyway. I spotted where my hat had fallen and with a thought I directed the little ones to retrieve it. I'd collected a fair number of echoes, especially from Crusader, and didn't want to give them up. With no lantern nearby as yet, I'd have to expend another Bold Mark. It was alright: I had enough that this one wasn't a major expenditure. I placed the Mark to my head and spiraled in on myself, appearing at the warehouse.

–––––––

The man almost broke down when his wife and daughter emerged from the alleyway, and Assault got to personally deliver the dog to the man's daughter. "Who was that, who helped us?" the wife asked.

"Yeah, he deserves his own action figure!" the girl giggled, still riding the adrenaline high.

"I think she was a girl, sweetie," her mother gently corrected.

"Well, he or she hasn't given us an official name for the record yet. I'm just glad they were here to help us out," Assault replied with his near-patented Heroic Smile. He led them over to the PRT van that had rolled up in the interim, while the family waited for the fire department. Meanwhile Assault made his way over to his partner and wife. "How's your head, Puppy?"

"I'm not sure," Alice whispered, hunched in on herself. She hadn't looked so haunted since the time he almost killed her during his time as Madcap. "I saw things, Ethan. Things I know man was never meant to see. It was only snippets, but still… Whatever Bloodmoon is, I think it's a lot worse than we figured."

"Yeah," he said, picking her up in a classic princess carry, "we'll have a few new things to add to the dossier."

661

Vherstinae

Oct 7, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Oct 28, 2022

#621

With the curmudgeonly old bat safely ensconced in Oedon Chapel and under threat of ejection – both her and her chair – if she were to be unpleasant, I opted to take Desmond's suggestion and explore for more survivors. Much as I wanted to rescue (or, more likely, avenge) Iosefka, I couldn't pursue her to the exclusion of the other people trying to weather the storm of this nightmarish Hunt.

For the first time in a while, I patrolled Cathedral Ward with a clear head. My biggest threat, both literally and figuratively, was those massive patrolling giants with their axes. I still didn't know who decided it was important to attach a tin bell to the robes securing their ragged cloaks: it didn't make more noise than the jangling chains or their thundering footsteps. Maybe it had some religious significance. Regardless, those giants and the long-faced freaks in white (I'd forgotten to ask Gehrman about either of those things) were still dangerous but felt less so: I'd gotten faster, and acclimated to fighting lightning-fast feral hunters and that church-haunting demon wolf, so I practically danced around these slower opponents.

After a bit of wandering, I came to the massive gate. Contained within was a memorial and graveyard, dominated by a central obelisk that apparently commemorated the vicars as they passed. According to Gehrman and his map, this circular set of walls and gates was the central intersection across Cathedral Ward. All major foot traffic crossed the graveyard, to remind the people of those who came before. Standing before the gate, looking up, I didn't like my odds of climbing it. Most Yharnam walls had wrought-iron spikes over the top, likely to prevent unwelcome beasts from scuttling up and over, and the immense steel structure before me was no exception. While immaculately rendered, the various depictions of Old Yharnam-style angels and the stinkhorn monsters from Oedon Chapel were all jagged and angled spikes and blades. I could potentially climb up the gate, but too much risk of leaping over those spikes. If one bit of clothing or a limb caught on them, I'd be impaled and helpless.

This was apparently the gate that would open upon presentation of the Chief Hunter's emblem, but I didn't have any such emblem – much less an idea of what it might look like. Odder still, if the gate had people watching for the lead hunter to return, I couldn't see anyone. I could hear two or more giants shuffling around, but nobody seemed on guard. In fact, the lever that probably controlled the gate was unmanned. Or, no… As I looked at the lever, mist rose up around it and a whole cluster of little ones appeared! "Ah! H-hey!" I waved at them, trying to get their attention. After a bit they noticed me and imitated the wide wave of my arm.

"You little guys understand me well enough. Think you can help me out?" I called. "See that lever you're clustered around? The metal stick?" I held up my left arm like the lever, thumb out and crooked like the spoon that would need to be pushed in. "I need you to grab it up near the top," I followed my own instructions with my right hand gripping my left, pushing the thumb together with the hand, "Squeeze the two metal pieces together, and then pull it forward!" I shifted my left arm along the elbow, swinging it like the lever would presumably tilt.

They stared vacantly at me and I repeated the instructions once or twice more. I could almost feel their collective sense of wonder as my instructions finally sank in. I watched in no small amount of pride as these little creatures, who seemed to primarily operate according to some sort of programming, managed to follow new directions. Metal creaked, gears ground and steel screeched as the massive gate opened. "Thanks, little guys!"

With the main gate open, I could move far more easily throughout the labyrinthine Cathedral Ward. I ran into some new horrors in my travels, because of course Yharnam wasn't finished showing me nightmares. The first was a gurgling something in a ragged burlap sack-robe, and thankfully I couldn't see its face. Its flesh had the freakish translucent grayness of old skim milk, and I could see countless sluglike tentacles hanging out from the shadow of its hood. It waited, feigning cowardice, until I was distracted by one of those fucking crows. Then it charged me from behind, spinning me around. Its hood shrugged back as the most massive slug of all – or maybe some kind of feeding tentacle – emerged from the maelstrom that was its 'face'. It drove that tentacle into the seam between my eye and skull, just as I'd once fantasized about doing to Emma with my tongue, to feed her all of the horrors I'd experienced.

Instead of feeding me new terrors, this thing was sucking, taking from me. I could feel a profound sense of loss as it drank, what, my brain? My memories? Much as I might want to forget most of what I'd experienced in Yharnam, I wanted to forget on my terms. I wanted to forget because it was my choice, not the hunger of some brain-sucking parasite. From the moment it grabbed me, my body had gone limp, somehow paralyzed and helpless under this monster's touch. But I'd had enough taken from me. I'd lost enough. Every bit that was taken from me, the void was immediately filled by white-hot anger and roiling hatred. The creature touched that hatred, the well of pure anger churning within me like a tempest, and it recoiled.

This time I leapt and tackled the creature. I didn't bother drawing my weapons: I used my hands, my claws, my fucking teeth. I shredded this monstrosity, tearing it apart as it screamed and flopped, terrified under my grip. I took my time, wanted it to experience the same fear and helplessness it had inflicted upon me. When its skinny arms finally stopped flopping, I wiped my mouth clean of the egg-white residue and felt restored. In disemboweling this abomination, I had reclaimed whatever it had stolen from me. I straightened up and spat on its corpse before replacing my face cover.

Good or bad, they were my memories, and I wasn't going to allow anything to steal part of what makes me me.

My other new encounter was less immediately alien, but it radiated an aura of pure wrongness. Its body and head were covered in black sheets, while emaciated grayish limbs were left bare. In its left hand, it clutched a bloody sack that it kept slung over its shoulder. At first I thought it was another of the long-faced weirdos, but this thing took far more abuse and nearly killed me with a single punch. If the two enemies were related, it was only inasmuch as they had similar tall and lanky frames. The long-faced freaks in white were the Aegis to the sack-men's Alexandria.

The sack-man moved with incredible speed, covering massive distances in a single bound, hitting harder than just about anything I'd encountered thus far. My only saving grace was that this thing seemed to need a moment of buildup before it could attack. I flipped the saw spear to hold it underhand, like the Romans would hold their spears. Baiting the sack-man into another charge, I push my enhanced legs to their limit and leapt into the air above the monster. My gamble paid off: it needed at least a full second to react and move again, and by the time it had followed me with its eyes (presumably, at least. The head under the sheet definitely moved and seemed to track me, but I had no clue how) and began preparing to dodge, it was already too late. I brought the spear down with my full body weight and the strength of both arms, the point burying straight into the sack-man's head. I kicked off its chest and landed well away just in case of retaliation, but instead I got to watch it stagger a bit before dropping over dead.

Something in me didn't even want to approach its corpse to retrieve my weapon. This thing made me uncomfortable on a primal level, twinging some ancient survival instinct. Even the corrupted huntsmen and other monsters avoided the sack-man whether it was alive or dead. Apparently I'd found a monster that even other bogeymen considered a monster. On the one hand, I was proud that I'd killed it. On the other, it was unlikely to be the only one.

(BREAK)

Back into the foggy Yharnam streets, slaughtering my way through huntsmen in various stages of corruption, I heard a new voice. "Get off my porch, you smelly beasts! If I have to go get my mallet, you'll be sorry!"

That startled me enough that I almost lost pace. I only just tore out the throat of a bestial axeman before he could get in his own swing. I was beginning to understand just how different Yharnam was, but even then, such a casual response to flesh-eating monsters? Once I was done with the corrupted huntsmen, I approached the door and knocked. "Uh, hello sir? Are you alright in there?"

"That accent...you're not from around here, are ya? An outsider who's come to join the Hunt? What a pathetic idea."

"Hey, it wasn't my idea to come here. I'm just trying to find a way home. But until I can do that, I might as well protect people from the beasts."

"You what?" His voice was confused and indignant. "What, you think I'm a beast? Well maybe I think you're a beast. And step away from my castle!" Either he was crazy or he just couldn't hear too well through this heavy door.

"Do you have a window?" I called, raising my voice. "I think we're having a misunderstanding."

"A…!? Oh, enough of you. What, you think this is funny? Well I certainly don't. So be gone with you! I'll have nothing to do with your beast hunts," he shouted.

From behind me, my enhanced ears picked up the sound of curtains sliding open. "Do you mind?" inquired a soft feminine voice. "Not only are some of us trying to sleep through this horrible Hunt, but this level of noise is bound to draw more beasts."

I moved over to the new window and watched from the corner of my eye as a shadow appeared in a window beside the door through which I'd just been talking. So the weird guy wanted to eavesdrop, huh? "Hi there, miss. Sorry about that. I'm trying to get people someplace safe. An incense dish might not be enough tonight."

The woman's silhouette approached closer and she cracked the window. "Oh my, what a queer scent. Like the incense, but fresh… Not sure I like it, but I'll take it over the stench of beasts and blood any day. Now, trying to get me someplace safe? That's a line I've not heard before. I'm off-duty on the night of the Hunt, dear. Besides, this is no place for ladies. Wouldn't want to drag you down too…"

It took me a good few seconds to process that. "I… Wait, that wasn't a come-on! I'm trying to evacuate people. I'm a hunter. I've seen more than a few occasions of beasts trying to break inside people's homes, even with the incense dish. We've got a few survivors barricaded in Oedon Chapel. Huge stone walls and doors, and dozens of massive incense barrels. Tonight's just getting worse and I'm doing my best to save those I can."

The window opened further. I could see fair skin, golden hair, long aristocratic features, and one blue eye in the dim light. I realized she was probably trying to read my face so I tugged my goggles and mask out of the way. Her scrutinizing expression immediately softened. "Gods, you're just a girl… By the Good Blood, how desperate have things gotten if we have adolescents fighting our battles for us?" She shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. "Alright dear, I'll come with you. The night has been long and I've so little incense left...I don't know if I could have held out."

"What's this two-bit nonsense you're peddling?" The man's voice cut through the calm night. "You, wench, you really believe this mooncalf's story about some shelter. You're a damn fool to trust an outsider. And you, hunter? Her sort's probably just looking to thieve some of your coin."

Did this guy just live to be contrary? He was warning us both against each other, as if everyone was continually conspiring against one another. "Look, come with or don't. I'm not your keeper. If you want to stay here, that's your prerogative."

Now that I'd turned toward the man again, I heard a door open behind me. The woman stepped out in an elegant burgundy dress. She was tall, easily over six feet, with a long neck and equally long, delicate limbs. She looked fragile, almost ethereal. Yet another tall woman who was effortlessly beautiful and made me feel inadequate. Wonderful. Then she gave me a sweet, shy smile and my feelings of indignation dissolved. The two looked nothing alike, except perhaps for fairness of skin, but that smile reminded me of my mother. "My name is Arianna," she curtsied a little. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hunter."

"Ah, you can just call me Taylor. And I'm no good with the fancy stuff. Is a handshake insulting?"

She giggled and accepted my handshake, her larger and longer hand still somehow feeling small and fragile in mine. "Delighted to make your acquaintance." She adjusted the strap of her rucksack, presumably loaded with her essentials.

"Right, then. If you two are off to make asses of yourselves, you could at least have someone with common sense among you." The man emerged from his own home. He was old, late fifties at the youngest, with a scraggly graying beard. He was ugly, an oft-broken nose sticking out like a tree branch, jaw and chin sticking too far forward. It was the kind of bizarre face that would look sweet and grandfatherly if it was adorned with a gentle smile. Instead he gave everything a judging sneer. "Don't say I didn't warn you when this one eats you," he said to Arianna. "And that goes for you when this one picks your pocket," he preemptively scolded me.

I couldn't hold it back. "The fuck is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," came the immediate reply. "It's the rest of the world that's mad. Now get going before we all age backward or some other insanity comes to curse us."

(BREAK)

When we got back to Oedon Chapel, it seemed that I wasn't the only one who felt Arianna had a motherly nature. Siobhan was immediately taken with her fellow blonde and I could see the little girl blinking back tears. Meanwhile the old man and the even older woman had instantly hated one another. In the sniping match that ensued I at least got his name, which was Eustace. The old lady still had yet to share hers. Eustace took up position atop one of the pedestals formerly intended for relics, watching the chapel like some sort of guardian.

I strode up to look him in the eyes. "I'll tell you the same as I told her," I jerked my thumb at the old woman. "This is a safe place. If you hurt anyone here, by word or deed, I'll bodily eject you from this church. Understood?"

"Quite the act you're putting on. I'd almost believe it if I wasn't so worldly," he replied. "Out of respect for you keeping your ruse up for so long, I'll spare you a nugget of advice: beware the blind man. There, the beggar sits, at the bottom of the bloody food chain… And then he's here, acting like he owns the place. He's not to be trusted. What's the want with all these people, anyway? That little weasel has a murky past, I guarantee it."

"I'll… I'll take that into consideration, Eustace. That said, you should probably keep your suspicions under your hat for the most part. Safer that way."

"Of course it is. I don't know why you insist on babbling your accusations directly to each and every person. Liable to get yourself killed," he responded, utterly lacking in self-awareness.

I took some time to check in on Siobhan and Desmond, and assure myself that Eustace wasn't going to be a threat. The man was odd, to say the least. He accused everyone of wild things without a hint of evidence or even reason for supposition, yet also warned us all away from each other as if protective of each one of us individually...when he wasn't suspecting us of plotting against him.

Siobhan approached me with a folded letter. "Taylor, I found this while I was exploring." My eyes went wide at the fear of Siobhan wandering out and Desmond had to have sensed my apprehension.

"Don't worry, miss. We were in verbal contact the whole time and she didn't leave the chapel. There are plenty of storage nooks and places to hide for meditation," he reassured me.

She presented it again. "I found this. I think it says Byrgenwerth. That's connected to the Forbidden Woods, so it might be helpful."

The Byrgenwerth spider hides all manner of rituals, and keeps our lost master from us. A terrible shame. It makes my head shudder uncontrollably.

Well, presuming that was how you spelled 'Byrgenwerth,' it could indeed be a clue. A spider somehow hid rituals? I asked Desmond about it and he was just as perplexed. "I don't know about any spider, but Byrgenwerth is supposedly a dangerous place. As for who wrote it, doesn't sound like one of the priests. Vicar Amelia isn't lost, and anyone who could otherwise be considered a master is deceased. Ludwig the Holy Blade, the previous vicars, they're not lost. They're interred in the central graveyard."

"Perhaps some sort of cult?" I ventured.

He shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I don't think so. I would've guessed it was someone from Byrgenwerth if it was a cult, but the way it talks it doesn't sound that way. I'm sorry I couldn't be more help."

"You're fine, Desmond. Just do your best to keep everybody safe and stable, okay?"

"Alright," he smiled with his long blocky teeth.

(BREAK)

Stepping around a massive supply cart (seriously, that thing was almost the size of a freight car, and there didn't seem to be enough room for the proper number of horses. What, did they hitch it to one of those giants? Fuck, that might be exactly what they did), I opted not to waste time and simply shot the undulating crow. Damn things always managed to get in a few hits once they got airborne. At the top of the long, winding steps into a higher section of Cathedral Ward emerged one of the long-faced goons in white. Carrying a lantern in one hand and the trademark pointed cane in the other, he descended slowly and deliberately. The lantern looked...off, however. As he got closer, I realized what was wrong. The lantern was covered in eyes!

They grew over the glass like barnacles, the sickly purple light from the flame reflecting out through the pupils. The eyes twitched and undulated, watery and round, looking fully alive. He gave that long-jawed rasping battle cry, raised the lantern, and three will-o-wisps rose out through the glass. The floating flames drifted toward me. I took a shot and the bullet passed clean through one although, satisfyingly, it did hit the bastard behind it. I juked to the side and the wisps pursued, finally impacting me. The pain made me recoil as it felt like my blood was literally boiling within my veins. The ringing in my ears from pain-induced tinnitus was so bad that I almost didn't hear the surprisingly light footsteps behind me. I leapt aside just in time to avoid a sack-man's charging punch.

I was done with this. I smoothly holstered my saw spear and drew the cleaver, extending it into a glaive with one motion. I spun to deflect the cane strike from white-face, sending him stumbling toward sack-man. The area wasn't as open as I would have liked, especially with these massive figures crowding me, but the stepped dais toward the actual stairs was hopefully roomy enough and there were several areas into which I could juke if I kept tactics in mind. Unfortunately, the two monsters seemed willing to cooperate and were also focused on tactics, splitting up to flank me.

I slid to my right to dodge another punch, then had to bend forward at the waist to avoid the cane. I could hear the sack-man's grip tighten on his burlap and pushed off with my legs, moving further to the side as the sack impacted meatily on the ground. It bled more, whatever was within having been pulverized by the blow – which left the stone in the street nearly broken to powder.

I snapped up my pistol and shot the white-face when it tried to stab down at me, but before I could capitalize on the staggered enemy, the sack-man joined in. It stomped at me and followed up with another punch. I switched my grip as quickly as I could, gripping my glaive two-handed, and lopped off the black-clad monstrosity's arm. It took far more effort than even I had expected, comparable to trying to cut through a stone column with a single stroke, but I'd managed it. The creature let out some bizarre pseudo-screech that sounded almost like a scream played in reverse, its body now roiling with strange wisps of smoke-like red energy.

The wisps came in again and I dodged, right into the cane. I barely bent in time for the cane to brush over my left shoulder, and even then it would leave a bruise. I popped back up to standing and used my new momentum to lodge the glaive into the white-face's torso, splitting it nearly in half. Speed was key and so I made to abandon my weapon for the moment, until it grabbed me by the wrist. The white-face wasn't willing to surrender so easily and clutched onto my arm even as life departed its body. It held me in place just long enough for the sack-man to close the distance and bring its bloody burlap cargo down onto me, smashing me into the ground. I felt my collarbone, shoulders and all of my ribs shatter. It shuffled forward and finished with a stomp to my skull.

Instead of waking up back in Oedon Chapel or the Dream, I had visions of trying to see through thick cloth. Of chanting, screams, maniacal laughter. The sound of metal going into and through flesh.

I awoke, some time later, to my first encounter with a Nightmare.

543

Vherstinae

Oct 28, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Nov 19, 2022

#658

When I regained consciousness I was cold, bleary-eyed, and everything hurt. I'd been sleeping on hard stone and my every joint and tendon protested. I leapt to my feet in panic – and promptly fell over due to my hip joints not quite functioning – upon realization as to why I was cold: I was naked. Everything had been taken from me, all the way down to the tie I used to gather my hair at the base of my skull.

The area was comprised of uneven stone slabs, some nearly flush and others with as much as an inch or two of clearance or descent into the floor. At first I thought it was all some sort of orange sandstone, until I realized the place was lit by massive braziers mounted into the wall, crackling with miniature bonfires. They bathed the entire room in orange light. My enclosure was what could only be a jail cell, the metal bars reinforced and linked by crossbars. I grabbed and wrenched but these things were ridiculously sturdy. Then I tried the door. The bars were just as durable, but the hinges apparently needed maintenance: I tore the door from the wall, ripping through the hinges with horrible cacophonous shrieks.

Footsteps echoed down the only hallway attached to my prison. They were nearly silent, and only the echo of the enclosed hall and my sharp senses let me pick up the stealthy slap of bare feet on the stone. One of the sack-men entered. It squared its shoulders, clenched its free fist, and advanced on me.

Normally, my excessive anger frightened me. I'd inherited my passions from both of my parents. My father's side of the family were known for their tempers. Typically it was the men of the Hebert line, but as sole heir I suppose it came to me as well. My grandfather had been a good man overall but had a hair-trigger, and his only saving grace in that respect was that he came out of a rage as quickly as he entered one. For my father, his temper had an incredibly long fuse but when he at last ignited it was spectacular, and frightening. While it had ultimately been to our detriment in getting any compensation from the school, I did enjoy hearing secondhand stories of how Danny Hebert had literally kicked down Principal Blackwell's door after my hospitalization. It had been the first time he'd mustered any kind of passion since Mom's death.

My mother had likewise been passionate, a very cold kind of anger when she unleashed her temper, and she could rile herself up with ease. It was something that she worked to avoid, always vaguely citing something bad that happened when she was younger. I drew the conclusions that whatever had happened, it'd involved other people because Mom never seemed to trust herself to make friends on her own. She had plenty of friendly acquaintances, but the only people she trusted were those she met through Dad or other already trusted people.

As for me? The massacre in the church, where I couldn't even remember what I'd done to those beasts, was proof enough that I'd inherited the worst aspects of temper from both sides of my family. And ordinarily I would be terrified of unleashing that. The last time I had, it'd been against that brainsucker. And now, clutching a jail door in a white-knuckled grip, feeling equally horrified and violated in my nudity, I let it out.

The first hit swept the creature off its feet and sent it flying into the wall so hard it partly embedded there, prying itself loose and giving me the time to close the distance once again. I thrust the door instead of swinging, hitting with a narrow edge and smashing the sack-man back into the wall once again. I shifted angles, focusing on striking with the very corner of the door, and continued my assault. I didn't let the creature have a moment's respite. It wasn't until the resounding noise of many broken bones accompanied the monster slumping dead to the floor that I even considered letting up, and I smashed its head a few more times for good measure. By how I was sweating and panting, I'd been beating the thing for a long time even before it collapsed. I wiped my sweat-slick hair back and out of my eyes, and got moving.

If not for ambient light coming through, the hallway would have been pitch-black. I emerged into a bizarre gray cylinder, some kind of colossal multiple spiral-staircase. It looked like there was one floor below and two floors above me. I'd have to explore them all to...escape…

I was an idiot. Doll had told me of the Hunter's Mark, imbued into my mind, that would let me escape imprisonment. All I had to do was close my eyes and envision the Mark. There it was, the upside-down trident thing, maybe emblazoned on a disk or within something like a soap bubble. I paused only for a moment, wondering if I should try finding my things first, but ultimately decided that nothing I'd had was irreplaceable. If I couldn't somehow retrieve it, it was an acceptable loss. I touched the Mark with my mind and spiraled in on myself.

Maledictus…

A distant chant, a call-and-response between what sounded like a guttural preacher and a choir, greeted me. My bare feet met cold stone. I was back in the jail.

My knees gave out. I sank to the hard floor. My hope had just been pierced and deflated. For as much horror as Yharnam gave me, other than Gascoigne there had been one common thread: I could fight back, I had agency in a way that I didn't in the real world. But now, I was somehow trapped here. My escape didn't work. The jail door was back on its hinges, the wall unmarred, the floor absent a sack-man corpse. I was locked into the moment I'd awakened, much like how I saved a snippet of myself in time at a lantern.

A lantern, that's it. I needed to find one. If I could focus on that rather than sliding into despair… I ripped the door from its hinges once again and waited for the sack-man. At the very least, this would offer me some catharsis in beating this nightmare to death once again. The black-wrapped creature's limbs were so thin, skin that simultaneously reminded of both leather and paper stretched tight over bone. Part of me wanted to remove the corpse's wrapping, to see its face and prove to myself that I was undeservedly frightened of this monster. But ultimately I couldn't bring myself to do so. The sack-man radiated an aura of fundamental wrongness, of something that should not be. I didn't want to see what features it kept hidden.

I emerged into the staircase-cylinder again and, on impulse, went up a level. As I headed cautiously down the hallway, door at the ready, something darted across the doorway at the far end. It was short and hunched, but I thought it was human. Or at least humanoid. Hoping for a fellow escaped prisoner but steeling myself to face an enemy, I stepped through and turned to my left to face the scurrying person. It was a horrifically stooped old woman, face tumorous and covered in bandages, back hunched like a camel. She was bent so far forward that her elbows scraped the ground, her hump pointed straight up, and her neck bent at a nearly ninety-degree angle.

I didn't need to speak. I'd gotten good at reading body language, or at least reading hostile body language. I yanked the door free of the hallway just as the old woman gurgled "More!" and struck out with a bizarre knife. I deflected with the door and beat her over the head.

Spindly fingers seized my neck, squeezing a nerve that made me lock up. Another old woman bent me backward, cooing unpleasantly. "These will be good for my collection," she rasped through too few teeth, spraying me with foul-smelling and -feeling spittle. She raised her own knife, curved and featuring a divot trench sort of like a cesta for jai alai. That was what she used to carve out my right eye.

It came in at the inner side, the cold knife pressing against the bridge of my nose as she worked the bladed tip under my eyeball and wiggled it around, loosening my eye from its socket while slicing through tendon and nerve. I lost sight in that eye and she finally popped it free from my head, letting me drop so she could hold my eye up to the brazier's light and admire it.

The moment she released me, my body could move again. I hit the ground with a meaty thud, spasming for a moment from the intense pain. Then I lunged up and snapped her wrist, tore the knife from her weakening fingers, and carved open her throat with it. I lifted her up and pried my eye from her hand, placing it against the socket and hoping this evil bitch had enough lifeblood in her to make this gamble work. As her blood poured onto my face, I felt my eye wiggling like a tadpole. The nerve reattached itself and my eye slurped back into place. I staggered to the side and vomited noisily, pouring bile and stomach acid onto the stone. I never again wanted to feel my eye swimming in my own head.

This floor looked to be some other jail cell. Degenerate huntsmen from Yharnam languished in the cells, and of course the beastly excuses for humans tried to attack me when I passed by. Even with me naked and essentially unarmed in such a cramped space, they posed no threat and I broke their heads open against the steel bars. Passing through another door, I found two sack-men loitering around a massive table. Arranged on that table, almost like evidence laid out in a police procedural, was my gear.

I needed to press what little advantage I had. If they could flank me, or trap me somewhere I couldn't escape, I was doomed. The rooms here were tight, cramped. But the ceilings were at least twenty feet tall. Maybe I could use the verticality. I charged and at the last moment shifted my momentum, leaping toward the wall and bouncing off. I came in from above, wielding the door like a claymore, aiming for heads exclusively. Even if I couldn't kill them immediately, head trauma would hopefully disorient them. I hit the ground, bent my knees and leapt again, catching the other sack-man with a jail-door uppercut. I ricocheted off the wall and came back to the first sack-man, bringing the door down width-wise onto its head and smashing it into the ground. Choking up on the door, I lunged backward, catching my second opponent in the midsection. It doubled over and I spun to deliver my best haymaker to (presumably) its skull, following up by grabbing its head and slamming it directly into the wall several times.

Once again grabbing the door by its base, I lifted it up and slammed it down on my first enemy, knocking him back to the ground. This blunt object was decent for bludgeoning, but the sack-men were sturdy. The first one had taken more than a minute each time to beat it to death with this door, and I didn't exactly have the stamina nor was I willing to rely on my luck to hold for that long. I quickly scanned the table and found my weapons. The cleaver embedded itself in the head of the second sack-man as he staggered to his feet; the spear nailed the first's neck to the floor.

I strained over the pounding of my own blood in my ears to hear if any other footsteps were on their way. Once I was satisfied that I wasn't going to be ambushed, I let myself collapse and pant for air. My arms felt like noodles: I'd had to put every last ounce of my strength into each and every strike just to have a chance against these things. Slowly, shakily, I rose to my feet and began to get dressed.

Once I was fully clothed and armed once again, I continued exploring this lockup. From where the sack-men had been treating my gear like evidence, the room connected to what had once been a larger chamber. Now it was mostly rubble, leading to a tunnel excavated by claws. I placed my fingers over the scratch marks in the stone: it certainly looked like a beast's handiwork.

I crouch-walked through the tunnel and emerged into a massive clearing. At the far end was a set of colossal ornate doors, and the only thing that stopped me from making a beeline was the mass of something resting on the ground before the doors. Something bestial had dug that tunnel, and dollars to donuts it was the same thing that looked like a fucking hill down there. I didn't want to fight something big enough to imitate a landmass if I didn't absolutely have to, so I climbed back into the tunnel for now.

Yharnam was a hilly landscape, rising and falling ground levels leading to a lot of verticality in the construction. Despite the fact that the floor I'd just been on led out to ground level, there was just as much chance that the floor above would also lead to ground level on a different side. I didn't relish going to the bottom floor, however: the idea of dark tunnels, perhaps connecting to the ancient ruins of which Alfred has spoken, made me viscerally nervous. At least I was clothed and armed, now. I could put my practice and instincts to the test rather than relying on animal fury and a metal door.

Heading up the last winding staircase, I barely had the presence of mind to leap backward as I heard burlap strain under too-strong fingers. I dodged a swung sack by the slimmest of margins, feeling the disturbed air hit what little exposed skin there was on my face, and perched on the stairs by an even smaller margin. The very tip of my toes balanced on one step, and I carefully shifted my weight to rest on the step below.

I heard the rapid staccato of footsteps from past the sack-man, leather boots on stone. "Oh, so you found a new playmate," the huntress said, not breaking stride as she ran the sack-man through with a silvery sword. "Am I not enough for you?" Her question had a playful lilt to it, her exposed jaw displaying a wide smile. I plastered myself to the side of the wall as I saw her shift her weight. She grabbed the sword with both hands and wrenched upward while planting one foot on the sack-man's back, shoving it down the stairs. I batted the corpse as it fell past me, knocking it into the open air and hearing as its broken body smacked the multiple stairways until at last it impacted the stone floor with a heavy smack.

"What's your name?" the huntress asked, her voice pleasant. Her eyes were covered, like Gascoigne's had been, but her clothes were in impeccable condition – the black robes so well-maintained that they shimmered in the dim light.

"I'm, ah, I'm Taylor. Thanks for the assist there. I'm trying to find my way out of here. Do you kno–"

"Bored now!" With that same wide, childlike smile, she lunged down the stairs and thrust her sword at me like a fencer. I barely deflected, staggering back, trying to watch my balance on the stone steps while simultaneously guarding against this woman's attacks.

"Wh-what!? Why are you-!?" Metal sparked as I parried another strike, forced back to the previous dais.

"No more talking! I want to playyyyy," she whined, attacking again and again. I blocked each strike, retreating further, now going up the stairs in the other direction. I didn't want to fight a hunter in such a cramped space, and thus far she wasn't attacking all-out. If I could keep this madwoman entertained until the room opened up at the top floor, then I could fight properly.

Once we made it to the top, I skipped backward and my feet touched solid, mostly-even floor. From there I squared my shoulders and baited her next strike. She came in with another thrust and my pistol caught her in the sternum. As she staggered, I lunged for once and caught her in the solar plexus with my clawed, spearing hand. I reached inside her and ripped out thick chunks of whatever organs my talons could find, casting the viscera to the ground. I watched as she fell backward, mouth open in shock.

Then she staggered back to her feet. "My turn," she chirped with lungs that didn't exist, blood pumping from a heart that had been ripped into thirds. She flicked the sword over her shoulder and I heard the metallic clink of something locking in place, then she drew a kirkhammer from her back. I didn't even have time to utter an expletive before she was on me, moving faster than Gascoigne had.

I lifted my pistol to arrest her movement as I had before, and she anticipated my move. As my finger squeezed the trigger, her hammer met my hand. My wrist shattered and the pistol went flying into the dark recesses of the room. I staggered back and swiped with the saw cleaver, but she danced around my blows. This wasn't figurative: her feet were going through kicking and skipping motions like Irish step-dancing. The one time I managed to lead my target and get a blow on-point, she deflected my cleaver with the massive side of her hammer and spun to maintain momentum, catching me in the left side and sending me flying. I felt my ribs break, before the ribs and shoulder on my right side likewise broke – when I smashed through a stone column from the force of her blow.

Neither of my arms worked. My body was mostly broken. But I'd be damned if I was going to die here and end up in that jail cell again. With my luck I'd be naked again and this crazy bitch would know I was down here. I gnawed at my face covering, managing to tug it down with great effort as I watched her dance and twirl and giggle like a toddler. Whatever was wrong with her, she was definitely behaving like a child. And I could work with that.

Sure enough, she skipped forward and held the kirkhammer behind her back, leaning in to smile at me. "Aw, are you tired? Do you need a nap like the others?" She had to tilt her head up to properly look at me, exposing most of her throat.

That was when I struck. Legs braced beneath me, I sprang up and caught her throat in my jaws. I bit down hard, splitting open her carotid, and began to drink. I needed blood to heal myself, and needed to exsanguinate her before she could properly retaliate. I sucked hard on her neck, drawing the blood faster than it could pump. My bones crackled like pop-rocks as they set themselves, hands coming up to hold her arms in place. I lifted her into the air, angling her so that gravity would aid my meal. I swallowed heavily, the heavenly flavor accompanying the most filling thing I'd ever consumed. I felt fulfilled, utterly satisfied, and yet I still hungered for more. I briefly opened my mouth wider so I could bite harder, sinking my fangs into her flesh and gulping down more blood until finally my prey was spent.

I dropped the husk of a woman and staggered, adrenaline catching up with me. I closed my eyes and braced myself, letting the shakes run their course. I needed to calm down. I needed to…

I needed to dance. Why just try to let the adrenaline run its course when you can burn it off productively? The ground here was just uneven enough that it might catch my feet, so I could turn it into a game, train my footwork. I shuffled and bounced across the stone, trying to imitate what little I remembered of the foxtrot from cotillion classes my grandmother (that is, Grandma Rosier, my mom's mom) had paid for me to attend.

And if I was working my balance, why not try those stair railings? I skipped over to the stairwell again, picking up my pistol and holstering it as I went. Some little things were waving something from the floor, but I paid them no mind. "Hop!" I leapt onto the railing and began walking along the narrow surface, arms out to help maintain my balance. The little things moaned, making unpleasant noises. I didn't like how they glowed. "Quiet! You're breaking my concentration!"

Apparently my voice was louder than I'd expected, or maybe it echoed more. Regardless, my sharp senses picked up new footsteps coming down the way. I turned and beheld new friends, eager to join in the fun. I took the closest one as a dance partner. We jigged and hopped and leapt around the room, eagerly painting the walls together as we went. My partner was so jubilant that it began to sing, a wordless warble. I giggled and tried to imitate the noises as I pressed my partner against the wall, spreading more of the lovely crimson paint. Eventually my first partner was too tired and had to lay down, so I moved on to the second. More and more were happy to join my jubilation, dancing with me and singing and cheering from the sidelines, firing off party poppers. I had to occasionally pause to scold those ones, as some of the confetti almost hit me and I didn't want that in my hair.

Occasionally one of my dance partners would offer me a drink, and it would be rude of me to refuse. Of course, that would leave my partner almost immediately exhausted, so I'd have to lay it down for a nap. Soon enough I was the only one left on the dance floor, having waltzed and skipped and paso doble'd everybody else under the figurative table. The walls were so beautiful, painted with our efforts, the shining crimson so much more palatable to the eye than the drab gray-green stone. I hit one of the walls face-first with a wet slap, swirling my hands in the paint to draw little figures in otherwise blank areas. A giggle bubbled up from within my chest and I couldn't resist letting it out. This was the happiest I'd been in years, easily the happiest since...since… I vaguely knew that something bad had happened a while ago but couldn't remember what. Oh well, probably better that I didn't think of such things.

What did come to mind as I thought about the past, though, was an album that both my mom and dad loved and that they used to play a lot when I was younger. It was by a band called… Nope, couldn't remember that either. What a ditz I was today! But as I strode and skipped and painted around the room, the words rose from my throat and I sang to my audience, the echoes bringing it back around to make me part of the audience too.

Too many lonely hearts,

In the real world!

Too many lonely nights,

In the real world!

Too many bridges you can't burn!

Too many tables you can't turn!

Don't wanna live my life,

In the real world!

510

Vherstinae

Nov 19, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Nov 24, 2022

#686

Someone else was singing. It was too slow-paced for my taste but I still wanted to join in if I could. Through the doors was a veritable jungle gym! I danced and climbed and ran along the narrow footholds like a combination dance floor and rock-climbing wall. There were a few more dance partners too, large and small, and some cute chubby things just begging for affection. Fuzzy puppies hopped and begged for attention and how could I deny them?

I danced and sang and cheered, trying to get the distant singer to match the peppier pace of my songs, but I suppose he wanted to be boring. I pouted, my cheeks puffing out. I couldn't find where this singer-man was, so once I'd explored everything I could, I came back inside. It worked for me: outside was too uneven, hard to paint. Inside I could see the beautiful coats of crimson, the splotches where I'd splatted and slid along the wall myself, my little finger paintings. I was no artist, that's for sure, but I gave myself points for enthusiasm.

I went down to the staircase and, well, I tripped. After so much dancing, eventually my feet tangled in themselves and I hit the steps face-first, tumbling down again and again. I honestly wished I could've seen it from the outside: it would've been like a comedy movie! Bonk, thump, thwap, smack, clonk, bump, SLAP!

Thankfully, the floor broke my fall. Upon confirmation that I could still dance, I headed deeper into this new place. It seemed boring but maybe there was something hidden within. I liked to squirrel things away so nobody could find them, after all. I shuffled and moonwalked past elegant pottery, admiring the glow of my eyes in the occasional mirror. Then I heard something else. It wasn't quite singing: I couldn't say for certain what it was. But it was mostly rhythmic and I skipped across stone. It was almost certainly a voice, and a voice meant a new friend and dance partner!

I found her, hunched in the corner as usual. Taylor always ran away, always went to hide somewhere and hope nobody saw her. Even though she was pretty and people liked to see her smile she was so ugly nobody could miss her walking from place to place, staring at her with morbid fascination. Her black ringlets were tied up with a gray silk bow and looked shorter than usual, which was odd. Normally she let it spill down her back due to how pretty it was, a way to connect with her mother even when her mom was still alive the only pretty thing about her and even that was stretching the definition. Now it rested just past her shoulders. She wore voluminous black robes to hide her body the way she always hid nowadays, even though back in the day her best friend said she had the build to be a high-fashion model, something they could do together albeit with different specialties deservedly so with how lanky and pathetic her frame was, an insult to the female form.

Taylor looked over her shoulder and saw me. Her blue eyes widened, her breath hitched and she started to silently cry. Big teardrops spilled from her eyes. She'd always cry when she hid, too afraid to try anything about it. Too weak to stop it. Oh, she told herself that she was enduring it, that it was a sort of test like that of Job: that she couldn't tell her father because he'd destroy himself. But that was all varying levels of false. The truth was that Taylor was weak. She'd only tried to fight back twice and had given up complaining to the staff not long after. She didn't leave, she didn't do something drastic as she easily could have with the various gangs in her city. She just kept going and took it. Did the little freak get off on the abuse?

I felt my lips curl downward. I hated Taylor, hated her with every fiber of my being. Not a day went by when I didn't want to kill her, feel the life leave her with my hands around her neck. She was such a weak coward, too afraid to do anything except suffer. Yes, she was right here in front of me. I could finally kill her without worrying about the consequences. I could be rid of her! She'd be dead and gone and I could be free without her as the albatross around my neck!

She was talking, pleading, but I didn't hear a word of it. She hadn't begged in a while but I knew just what she'd say, more hollow pleas from a helpless creature – no, something that willingly made itself helpless and then wallowed in self-pity. I closed my ears against Taylor's entreaties.

Yes, I could be rid of her. I didn't want her, I didn't need her. I hated her so much that my veins burned with anger every day she was alive. Nobody wants her here. We'd all be better off if she just died.

Why were my eyes burning? My vision was getting hazy, I could feel moisture on my cheeks. Was it raining? I looked up at the ceiling to see dry stone, rubbed my eyes to clear them. It didn't work much. They quickly blurred over again and my face was only getting more wet. I looked back down to the black-haired girl, but as my vision cleared, I realized it wasn't Taylor. They were superficially similar – tall, pale, black hair, wide mouth, terrified – but her eyes were the wrong shape and color. She held herself differently, more delicate as opposed to Taylor's gangly and awkward stance. But if this girl was here, then where had Taylor escaped to? I swept my gaze around the room, once again spying my reflection in the mirror…

"...Oh."

––––––––––

Adella stared at the maddened hunter. Her pleas had fallen on deaf ears, perhaps literally so. Those eyes, glowing like the yellow moon, stared down at her as the hunter's face adopted an expression of disgust, loathing, outright hatred. And then the hunter's eyes began welling up. She looked toward the ceiling and when she lowered her gaze, she looked at Adella as if it was the first time she was seeing the nun of the Healing Church. Then the hunter's eyes swept the room and she looked at herself in the mirror.

"...Oh."

That one word held so much emotion. Disappointment, disgust, anger, and so much pain that Adella worried she would drown in it just from proximity.

And then, Adella the nun witnessed a miracle.

The hunter slumped to her knees, shoulders and chest heaving in great trembling sobs. When next her eyes opened, she stared at Adella with bloodshot hazel eyes radiating pain and guilt. "I'm so sorry," the hunter whispered.

It took Adella far longer than she would have liked in order to find her words. She'd never even heard of a blood-maddened hunter showing any sign of remorse or reversal such as this. Compound onto this the fact that the pain in this woman's voice was so deep it was all Adella could do not to sink to her knees and mourn with her.

"...Who are you?" she finally asked the hunter.

––––––––––

The question threw me. I knew the answer I should give by reflex, but was that even true anymore? Moreover, should it be true, since now I'd experienced...what, some aspect of my subconscious? I couldn't deny that those had been my thoughts. I'd never known, not consciously, just how much I despised myself. I hated myself with an intensity eclipsing my antipathy for Emma, Sophia, Madison, Julia, Blackwell, Gladly… Everyone in the world combined, and it still didn't compare.

"C...can I get back to you on that?" I asked jokingly with mirth I didn't feel, forcing the corners of my mouth to turn up as best they could from my face set so solidly in an expression of despair.

"You...you came back from madness," the black-robed woman stated, her voice holding an almost reverential awe that surpassed her fear. "How? What happened? You were ready to strike me down, and then…?"

And then I recognized Emma's voice in my own thoughts. "...I realized I was being someone I'd never wanted to be," I hedged.

The silence stretched on until she finally decided to break it, realizing I wasn't going to volunteer anything else. She gave an elegant bow as if it was tradition. "I am Adella, a nun of the Healing Church. Were you brought here by those monsters, as well?"

I swallowed hard and nodded. "I was trying to find a way out. It...it didn't go well."

"I have been hiding here for hours at the very least, possibly longer. I'll not make it much longer on my own. Please, Lady Hunter, may I accompany you?"

On instinct that was being honed by my time in Yharnam, I sized her up. Adella was shorter than me, delicate and rather pretty without being a stunner like Doll or Arianna. With how frail she seemed, swimming in those robes, she probably wouldn't be much help in a fight. "You'll want to hang back. If anything jumps out, I won't be able to protect you because I'll be too busy dodging. Keep a good distance between us so anything that attacks will focus on me."

It was with a mostly-clear mind that I went back to the top floor, and if my stomach weren't empty I would have vomited again. Instead it felt like my spine was falling out of my body, utter despair seeping into my bones. My dance partners had been sack-men and feral huntsmen. The paint was their excess blood. I could see cave paintings in blank spaces where I had doodled with the blood.

Deep, familiar moaning came from behind me and I perked up. Little ones! They were here! Oh god, they'd been here. I'd ignored them in my stupor. I turned around and walked up several more stairs to another dais. Several chairs were arranged, one of which had a desiccated corpse seated in it. His clothing had long since rotted away but the strange iron birdcage around his head remained. I reached down and lit the lantern that the little ones offered, locking myself into this point in time.

"Can you use lanterns?" I asked Adella. She cocked her head at me in confusion. "Lanterns like this one," I clarified, gesturing at the purple lantern. Her bemusement only intensified. "...Shit, you can't even see it, can you?"

She squinted. "I see...some manner of haze which tells me you must see something rather than simply being mad. But no, I see no lantern of any sort before you." Her eyes widened and she looked unsure if she should apologize: I had just recently been mad, after all.

"Well, that complicates things. Come on." I needed to focus on saving someone. I could break down once we were free. I couldn't allow myself to abandon Adella.

The top floor opened into a roadway reminiscent of an English suburb, narrow and tall houses on either side of the cobblestone street and numerous abandoned carriages left in the street or crashed into steps. Everything, from carriages to buildings to the streets themselves, was slathered with blood. I had massacred more sack-men, huntsmen, corrupted dogs and even several giant pig-monsters. The street terminated in massive double-doors at one end and a conspicuously bricked-up wall at the other. The doors wouldn't budge and the bricks were left unmarked by anything I did, even getting one of the carriages rolling and crashing the whole thing's weight into the wall left no mark at all.

Adella wandered the area, stepping gingerly through the smeared blood and staring at everything with a combination of wonder and horror. "What happened here?" Her whispered question was one steeped in sadness. It sounded like she knew something about this place, and it had once been vastly different.

"Looks like this is a dead end," I muttered. I was afraid of that. In a place built on dreams, of course the only means of escape would be to face the giant monster. I led Adella to the lantern again, making sure to reestablish the time anchor. I wanted Adella to remember that she'd seen the street.

"Alright," I said, both resolve and resignation in my voice. "If we're both to get out of here, we're going one floor down. There's some sort of monster guarding another set of doors. I'm all but certain that those doors lead somewhere else and should open, mostly because it makes narrative sense."

Adella looked at me askance.

"I'll want you to remain in the tunnel and watch. If I win, there's a good chance I'll be too tired to come and call you, so I'd rather you were close enough to see and come down on your own."

When we made it to the tunnel, Adella placed her fingers on the claw marks with horrified awe. "What manner of beast could do this?"

"The one imitating a hill down there," I gestured with my saw spear.

Adella swallowed hard and fished in her robes. "H-here, Miss." She began passing me bottles. "I stole these from this damned place. They were collecting them, hoarding them. Firebomb bottles. The flame is a beast's natural enemy, so they may be of use."

I gave her a nod and accepted her bounty, heading down the slope. What at first looked like a mossy hill resolved itself into a pile of bones, wispy fur still clinging to most of it. Of course, I couldn't have been lucky enough for the thing to be dead.

The monstrosity rose up, its bones apparently held together by static electricity. Its face was snubbed, skull far too humanlike for my liking. It made no noise as it opened its mouth, having no lungs with which to scream. The crackle of lightning served as its roar.

It moved far too quickly for its size, its reach terrifying. The sparks danced across my coat for the most part but occasionally one found its mark through my clothes, leaving melted skin in its wake. Then it hunched in on itself and unleashed a spreading dome of electricity that flash-fried me. My blood cooked within my veins and I felt my body rupture before I died.

(BREAK)

I opened my eyes to see Adella stood before me on the dais. I led her back to the tunnel. "Adella, do you know about any beasts that are mostly bone and generate lightning?"

She actually gasped. "You speak of the Darkbeasts?"

"I suppose so. Best I can figure, one of them is guarding the door. Can you tell me anything that might help?"

Adella ran through a few different stories and allegories, hopeful that I might find something of use. Darkbeasts were apparently crystalized hatred given form, unleashing the wrath of the heavens which they had somehow stolen in their frenzied hatred. They were still beasts, their bones somehow still vulnerable to fire and serrated weapons, because of the symbolic nature. There were stories of Ludwig hitting a Darkbeast so hard it clattered apart and had to spend time putting itself back together.

Well, I drew the saw cleaver first. I didn't know if it would help, but maybe I could fight near a lightning rod.

The natural arena was at the end of a sloping path that overlooked what seemed to be a bottomless pit. Knowing Yharnam, I wouldn't have been surprised if it was indeed bottomless. On the far side, just before the depression wherein the Darkbeast awaited, was a set of small cliff-hill things. Before I challenged the Darkbeast this time, I jammed the cleaver's butt into the ground and left the extended glaive to serve as a lightning rod. I flicked the saw spear to full extension, opting for leverage to deal more impact damage. Maybe I could knock this damn thing apart too.

It moved so quickly I couldn't keep track, not consciously. But my body felt the sudden wind, the pulse of ozone, and I knew what to do. I relied on my instincts to dodge around the Darkbeast, at one point leaping through the gap between the colossal monster's radius and ulna. Its idle sparks mostly snapped at my glaive instead of at me, leaving me with its claws as my primary threat. I wove and juked, slashing when I could, and somehow striking this thing's bones still restored my wounds. Maybe its marrow served as blood?

It hunched in on itself and I braced. This was the make-or-break moment. The last time, the dome had primarily walked across the ground. Individual bolts connected like chains over the top, but it was a ring of lightning at foot-level. Presuming that these bolts were solid and it wasn't just aesthetics – not exactly a scientific conclusion, but I was fighting a gigantic undead wolf-monster that had formerly been a person – I could leap through them and over the ring and emerge unharmed.

I charged, tucked my legs, and sprang. The lightning singed my coat, I felt the air leave my lungs from the sheer static presence in the air, but I emerged overall unscathed. The Darkbeast was locked in a stance to continue pushing the lightning. I didn't know how long it would last, but I could get in some free hits. With my right hand I slashed at its ribs. With my left I drew firebomb after firebomb and hurled them at the monster's head. Its tail, barely more than a chain of bones held together by lightning tethers, struck my back and sent me flying. I felt my ribs break but I wasn't worried: I could turn this to my advantage. I dropped the last firebomb, the fragile glass shattering into a useless fireball on the grass, and clutched the saw spear in both hands. The Darkbeast turned to look at me, claw raised to shred me.

Big mistake. It put its face right where I'd anticipated, and I swung for the fences. If I hadn't reinforced the saw spear with blood echoes and stones, I expect it would have shattered from the impact. As it was, I could nearly see the shockwave from the strike. The Darkbeast's head snapped back and then, just as its neck arrested the movement of its skull, the creature lost cohesion and collapsed into a pile of bones.

I snapped the spear back into a compact saw for speed of cutting, diving into the monstrosity's body to hack it apart. Electricity snapped at my body and I felt the creature's ribcage reassembling: I crawled free before its body could grind me up like rotating cogwheels.

Before my feet touched the ground, the Darkbeast was already on me. Its claw speared me through the chest and I planted my feet on its palm to leap free before it could pin me into the grass and dirt. I hit the ground and lost more of my breath, fishing in my coat for a blood vial to inject. I kicked off the grass just in time to avoid being crushed by its ribcage as it crashed down above me. I danced backward and drew my pistol, shooting it in the eye socket as a bit of a hail-Mary. No effect, as I could have anticipated. The Darkbeast spun around me, almost taunting me with its speed, claws digging divots in the landscape to arrest its momentum.

And then another firebomb crashed into its head. "Leave her alone!" Adella's shrieking voice, cracking from fear and volume, echoed to me. The girl was unarmed and unarmored, with one more firebomb in hand. The Darkbeast turned its head to assess the new threat, dismissing me as a minor nuisance.

Symbolism and metaphor had physical meaning here. The Darkbeast was going to kill the girl I had mistaken for Taylor – for myself. I was going to save her. More than that, I was going to save Taylor. I was going to protect Taylor. No more hating myself. I was going to drag myself out of the darkness! I sprang forward and went into a handstand, pushing off with all my strength. My legs tucked against my chest and at the last moment, as I felt the barest touch against the soles of my shoes, I kicked with all my strength. After the fact, I realized I'd been letting out one savage scream through the entire attack.

My kick caused the Darkbeast's skull to buckle, then the impact I'd given it before finally gave way. The bone cracked, then broke open, and the entire skull shattered. I flopped to the ground, both legs nothing but jelly filled with bone splinters. It took two blood vials to get my legs functional again.

"Thank you, Adella," I said as I rose unsteadily to my feet. "While that was brave and you saved me, in the future please don't risk yourself like that. I...I can take it. If you die, there's no bringing you back."

Her expression was resolute. "You're the only hunter who managed to save herself from madness. I'll not leave such a miracle to die in ignominy."

That… There was a lot said in that statement, more than I was willing to deal with in the moment. I pushed on the double doors, which ground open to reveal Old Yharnam. Taking a deep breath, I had Adella follow well behind me again as I hacked my way through the beasts until we made it to the surface, where I instead chased them off with a torch as Djura had requested. I'd have to stop by again and speak with him, but for now I was too bone-tired. I could only compartmentalize for so long before I had to confront what had happened.

I got Adella back to Oedon Chapel and she was genial to everyone although her smile was strained when she met Arianna. I wonder if she too felt inadequate. The nun set up on a bench and began immediately reciting prayers, setting Desmond more at ease than I'd ever seen him. The soot-skinned cripple closed his eyes in the first moments of true peace he'd had since well before he and I had met.

I bid quick goodbyes to my little community: honestly I wanted to stay, but I couldn't handle what was happening. I needed to let it out and couldn't do that safely here. Arianna and Siobhan both seemed to understand at least vaguely, offering me sympathetic looks but not stopping me.

(BREAK)

In the Hunter's Dream, Doll was waiting. "Hello, Taylor," she said in her breathy, accented voice. "You appear unsettled. What has happened since we last spoke?"

"Is...is Gehrman around?" I wasn't sure if I wanted to speak to the old hunter about this: he was helpful but was obviously holding things back. Still, if he was an option, I wanted to at least contemplate it.

Doll shook her head. "He is sleeping at the moment. As before, I would request you not wake him. He rarely sleeps peacefully and so attempts to avoid it until he can no longer do so."

I took her by the hand, leading her back to the garden wall where we sat down together. "I...there's something wrong with me, Doll. Something deeply, genuinely wrong."

She sat, and listened. Never judging, never interrupting, asking only occasional questions when I was spiraling in on myself. I told her what happened in the Old Yharnam church, what happened in the prison. How happy I had been, until I'd seen Taylor, seen what I thought was myself.

From there I couldn't stop myself. It fell out in a deluge, the same as the tears that poured from my eyes. I told her about Emma, about Sophia, about Anne and Aunt Zoe and Uncle Alan. I told her about Mom and Dad, about how Mom died and what happened afterward. At some point I'd ended up with my head in her lap, my hat to the side as she stroked her fingers through my hair like my mother used to do.

At length, Doll spoke. "I am uncertain of what advice I can offer you. I am confined to this Dream: it is my world. While I have secondhand knowledge of many things, I cannot offer personal advice which I know to be accurate. What I can say is that it often helps me to organize my thoughts if I go for a walk through the headstones, contemplate those who have come and gone. Perhaps you should take a walk while I think if I have anything else I could offer you, aside from a sympathetic ear?"

I looked up at her and swallowed heavily. Was she trying to get rid of me? Was she genuinely trying to think of a way to help? Either way, she'd done nothing but help thus far. It would be rude to reject her suggestion. I wiped my eyes again and nodded, putting my hat back on and standing up, smoothing out my clothes. "I'll...I'll see you in a bit, I guess."

It was with unsteady steps that I strode across the slightly uneven flagstones, reading a handful of what had to be hundreds if not thousands of gravestones. The bigger ones had what appeared to be place names – Pthumeria. Loran. Ashenport. The smaller ones were people's names in every language, all Anglicized. Chinese names, Japanese, Spanish, Russian… So many, did they all pass through this Dream? How long had this place been in existence? Did time truly exist, or matter, in this Dream?

And then everything came to a stop. My eyes refused to process what they were seeing. I stood dumbly, staring blankly ahead, tracing my pupils over the embossed stone.

This...this was impossible. This was wrong. This was a lie.

Annette Hebert

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Nov 24, 2022

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Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Dec 1, 2022

#709

Lightning crashed. Steel glinted in the dim light. I spiraled through the sky, lashing at my opponent, who deflected every strike. Propelled on wings of hatred and despair, fueled by yet another betrayal, I fought heedless of the danger to myself. My foe needed to be punished, no matter how long it took. The clouds and fog served as stepping stones as I careened around the pillars, my every blow sent off-course from its rightful path. Tears blurred my eyes to the point that I could barely see my enemy and I didn't dare blink, lest I lose sight. Finally I couldn't help it and blinked as I swung, putting full force into the blow: I wasn't changing course regardless of if I could see. My saw cleaver arrested its flight, caught midair. I reached to draw my pistol and her hand crossed my body, locking around my wrist and preventing me from aiming.

"Taylor." Doll's voice had the slightest hint of impatience, the tone of a parent done with their child's outburst but unwilling to be harsh. I blinked my eyes clear and saw that she was the one holding my wrist; her thumb and fingers were clamped firmly, unrelentingly around my cleaver's blade.

I...had been trying to fight Doll? To kill Doll? "Oh god." The words came out of me in a wheeze as I deflated, releasing my grip on my weapons. With effortless grace, she holstered my pistol and took me by the waist in one smooth motion, gently pushing me to sit on the garden wall. She folded the cleaver with the practiced ease of a master and set it on the grass beside us, before she sat beside me. "How...how long…?" I couldn't finish the question.

"Less than a minute. I am glad that you came to yourself before firing your pistol. It would disturb Gehrman's sleep."

"How are you so selfless?" It was all but unfathomable to me that she seemed to never give a single thought to her own wants, needs or wellbeing.

"I am as I was made," she replied simply.

The silence stretched for longer than was comfortable. I finally had to ask the questions that had been boiling within me. "How are you not angry with me? I just tried to hurt you."

From where she'd been looking out at the misty expanse and distant columns, Doll turned to look directly at me. Her pale eyes locked onto mine and she gave me a tiny smile. "You were in pain. The moment you recognized me, you stopped. You are a good girl: it would be uncouth to hold a grudge in this circumstance."

I took in a deep breath and let it out, slowly, almost whistling through my teeth. I tried to speak three times, and my voice kept catching in my throat. I closed my eyes and forced myself to speak. "You sent me into those gravestones. You knew my mother's name was there. You...you've mentioned the graves repeatedly. How long have you been trying to get me to find out?"

I opened my eyes to find her smiling wider, approval in her expression. "Since the moment you gave me your name. You are the spitting image of your mother, only younger and with green eyes rather than brown." She didn't volunteer anything more: I had to ask.

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"I believe I can best answer with another question: if I told you that I had known your mother, even if you believed me, would you not have eventually come to suspect my motives? Offering such a connection, volunteering it, would gnaw at you. You have been betrayed and let down, lost those close to you. In addition, this was knowledge that I had no way of knowing if you were ready to accept. By leaving it up to you, the chances were better that you would discover it when you had suffered sufficiently, experienced enough horrors, to understand and accept it."

More of the idea that understanding in Yharnam took suffering. I couldn't exactly refute it. "Well, I might be willing to accept it, but I still don't understand. How...how did she come to be here? What happened to her?"

"The Little Ones found her, brought her here for me to balm her wounds – much like as with you. However, she never departed. There was nowhere for her to go. When she first became sensate, she asked if this was the afterlife. Her tone was derisive. Gehrman explained better than I could that this is a stopping point. I spoke with her multiple times as she worked." Doll paused for a moment, as if to take a breath. "Her only concerns were to somehow make it back to her family, and especially to you. She cried for hours when I explained her circumstances as the Little Ones understood it."

The pieces fell together. "Sh-she came here after the car crash?"

Doll nodded. "Her soul had departed your world and come here, to the Dream, drawn to serve a vital purpose. The realization that she could not return home, that she had died, it broke her. Only when Gehrman was able to free her did I once again see the woman whom I had grown to consider a friend. According to her, she hoped she would go to heaven. I hope that she went someplace good."

Tears flowed freely down my face. I cried not in great heaving sobs but in a resigned gentle deluge, understanding how little I could do. "Then she's gone," I stuttered through my tears.

"She loved you with an intensity I have rarely seen," Doll replied in a roundabout fashion. "When I discovered that you were her Taylor, I resolved that I would do anything and everything I could to aid you. To do some level of justice to the love she felt."

Doll looked up at the moon, hanging low in the sky, opalescent and glittering. She regarded it contemplatively, worrying her bottom lip with her ivory teeth. "I was made to love, to serve. But even had I not been, I would want to help you. And I would still love you. You have a passion, a beauty within you that surpasses even your mother's. I truly believe that you can do anything, and I will do what I can to aid you."

I couldn't trust my voice. I threw my arms around Doll and sobbed as I hugged her close.

I don't know how long she held me, how long I cried. Eventually my tears ran dry and I pulled back to look at this beautiful, wonderful...I suppose I could still call her a person. "Doll, why is Gehrman so tense around you? It's just the two of you here, and the little ones. How did you end up here?"

She gave me a sad smile. "I cannot tell you as it is not my story to share. When you believe that it is the right time, ask Gehrman. The story is painful, and so even though I know you will not I must still caution you against asking frivolously – if only to reinforce the gravity."

Shortly thereafter the workshop door creaked open and Gehrman rolled out, covering his mouth as he yawned. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything important," he muttered as he saw me hugging Doll.

"Actually, I was hoping to talk with you." I gave Doll one last squeeze and stood up, opting to leave my cleaver in the grass for now. I would ask him about my mother at the end: for now I had other information to gather.

"So I've been wondering about some of the freaks around Yharnam," I said as he wheeled back inside with me behind him.

"You'll need to be more specific, lass," he chuckled.

"Well, the first ones I found were these big bastards, almost twice the height of a person, swollen and round. Big and dumb and violent, kinda gray-green."

"Huntsmen's assistants, we took to calling them. They became somewhat common once Ludwig started rallying Church hunters. In essence, they were there to help equalize the difference in strength between common huntsmen and the beasts. Don't ask me how they're made," he waved me off, "I couldn't begin to tell you. They're the work of Choir experiments, as are most things, I suspect."

I tilted my head. "You say Choir like it's a proper name. What are they?"

Gehrman sighed a little. "I was never particularly pious. Essentially, the Healing Church had two subdivisions – three, once the Church hunters became a thing. The Choir is…" He wiggled his hand in a 'so-so' gesture. "It's a dual title. Technically any of the higher-ranking Church members are of the Choir, but it's also a specific division within the Church that deals with… The best way to explain it, at least as far as I understand, is that the Choir raises their voice to be heard by the gods. They also began working on advanced thaumaturgic and alchemical methodologies for assisting Church hunters. Perhaps the assistants were early attempts to enhance hunters." He shrugged. "Regardless, assistants are universally slow-witted and strong, seeing violence as the only solution."

I did my best to explain the white-faced freaks, giants, and sack-men.

"The white-faces, we of the Workshop called them Church doctors. Can't remember who coined the phrase, but I believe they came from an experiment with blood to see if they could make themselves immune to the beastly scourge. Now, I've never seen a doctor succumb to the scourge, but they seem to be lacking something: I'd say that, in a very real way, they lost their humanity in the exchange. The giants, I have some ideas but nothing I'm confident enough to say aloud." He was being cagey again but it didn't feel important enough to push.

"As for those ones in black?" he continued. "I have nothing for you. I've heard of them from hunters who've come to the Dream but I could tell you nothing of their origins or if they have some special weakness. I have some very dark, worrying suspicions but, as I'm sure the doll has told you, you're probably not ready to know them yet."

I nodded, then steeled myself. "You knew my mother."

He blinked and turned to regard me sidelong. "Did I?" He didn't sound like he doubted me, more that his mind was simply so burdened that he wasn't sure he could remember.

"Yes. Her name was Annette Hebert. She came here after a car accident, and when she found out she couldn't come back to me she was broken until...until you freed her." I almost couldn't finish the sentence, but I had to make it clear.

His eyes lit up at the last statement. "Ah, I believe you're right." His eyes widened as he looked at me again. "...Gods, you really do look just like her."

"How did you set her free?"

Gehrman shook his head. "You're not ready to know. Moreover, even if you were, I cannot tell you until you are ready to be freed." The emphasis he put on being unable to talk...was he being kept here against his will? I couldn't imagine Doll doing something so cruel. Were they both trapped here due to some curse?

"How do I become ready?"

"Just like I told you the first night," Gehrman chuckled. "Go out and kill beasts. You're a hunter, your duty is to slay the corrupt and save those you can."

I nodded, relatively certain that I'd get nothing else from him on that angle. "What can you tell me about Byrgenwerth?"

He steepled his fingers, contemplating his words. "The Byrgenwerth Academy was – perhaps still is – the most advanced place of thought on the continent if not further. Particularly under Provost Willem, it pursued the understanding of our place in the world and how to potentially change it. It sponsored expeditions into the Tomb of the Gods, the massive tunnel network beneath Yharnam. Byrgenwerth scholars were some of the few who referred to the Tomb by its proper name, Pthumeria. Or perhaps Pthumeru. I was never exactly clear on that. Eventually, their discoveries proved too great to contain, and the great place of knowledge lies decrepit amid the horrors of the Forbidden Woods."

Gehrman turned his wheelchair around to face me. "If you want to know more, you'll have to go through the Woods. But before you do so, there is another part of history that you should experience." He rolled past me and began rummaging in one of the desks, rifling through drawers. Eventually he withdrew a key embossed with a stinkhorn creature. "Ascend Oedon Chapel. Explore what you can find there. It… I believe you'll find it important, though perhaps not helpful."

With that bit of cryptic advice, he wordlessly dismissed me. I said my goodbyes to him and Doll, stopped to enhance myself further, and then departed.

(BREAK)

Before I went exploring again, I was feeling sentimental. I checked in on Gilbert, who was...well, clearly not fine, but no worse than he'd been before. He coughed and could barely speak, but wished me well. I hated that I could do nothing for him.

Returning to Oedon Chapel, I found that the survivors were getting along well enough. From his perch in the corner, Eustace beckoned me over. "A bit of advice for you, miss high-and-mighty hunter," he sneered, then continued to speak in a protective tone. "Keep an eye on the lady of the night. She despises the nun, her purity, the woman in black a representation of what she could never be. I wouldn't be surprised if there was violence in the future. Mark my words, the whore is capable of great cruelty in the name of her bruised ego."

I gave him a slow nod. It was unlikely that I'd actually take it into account, but this paranoid bastard was at least watching out for us in his own ineffectual way and that deserved respect to a degree.

"So many people underfoot," the old woman griped. "And they wonder why I don't leave my chair."

I approached Adella, whose face lit up. "Lady hunter!" She swept into a deep, elegant bow. "Perhaps we can properly finish our introductions this time?" Her face betrayed a mix of mirth and sadness.

Ah, right, I'd never told her my name as I'd been in a crisis. "I… I guess you can call me Taylor. It's nice to properly meet you." I sat down beside her on the bench, making small talk about how she was settling in. Finally I asked what I'd been wondering for a while now. "When we were in that prison, you acted as if you knew the street outside. Do you know where we were?"

Adella swallowed heavily. "I wish I didn't. And I might still have been wrong: the whole place, it...it wasn't right. But it looked like Yahar'gul, the village of Mensis."

"And what's Mensis?"

For a moment she looked offended, then realization crossed her features. "Ah, of course. Your accent is foreign: you'd not be informed on Church politics. The School of Mensis is a division within the Church dedicated to understanding the gods as best we can. While the Choir looks to cast out their voices and draw the gods' attention, you could say that Mensis wishes to show up at the gods' doorstep. I visited Yahar'gul several times as a youth during my training. It was always a dour but fantastic place, rich in history. I...if something has happened to Yahar'gul, and to the School…" She trailed off, but I'd seen the sparkle in her eyes as she talked of the school. If that place had been this Yahar'gul, Adella would be devastated.

"If I can save anyone from the School, I will," I promised.

Adella gently caught my hand as I stood. "Please, before you go… You are an outsider so this may seem strange to you, but you understand the power that blood has. Mine has always been stronger than most. I would offer it to you not simply in thanks, but to ensure you are successful in your hunts – that you have the strength and vitality to save more people." She held forth a syringe full of blood so dark is was like black cherry. It was even darker than mine, which had gotten significantly more crimson since coming to Yharnam. I still remembered when I was younger, my blood was almost pink: I'd inherited a mild form of anemia from my mother, and had resigned myself to never being an athletic powerhouse. At least, until I came here.

"Thank you, Adella. I'll put it to good use."

Up on the dais, Arianna, Siobhan and Desmond were engaged in happy conversation. They brightly greeted me – Desmond a bit delayed due to blindness – when I approached. We conversed about how they were doing and I did my best to deflect when the question was inevitably turned around on me. Arianna saw right through me.

"Taylor, dear. Even if you feel uncomfortable speaking with someone else about your problems, you should at least get them out. Most hunters tend to keep a journal, something to which they can vent. Even if you know that no-one will read it, the act of putting words to paper instead of bottling them up can be a cleansing experience."

"I'll think about it," I replied, needing to leave before I started to cry. The wound of my mother's death was open once again, and Arianna's maternal kindness was scraping against that exposed nerve. As I moved to the locked door in the chapel, for which I now had the key, I caught sight of Adella hurrying to sit down and look nonchalant.

526

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Dec 1, 2022

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Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Dec 12, 2022

#734

An otherwise ordinary weekday was shattered by sirens. Years ago, once it was decided that the Endbringers wouldn't stop attacking, there was an international initiative to outfit every city of sufficient size with old-fashioned air raid sirens. Every now and again, and always after a public announcement of such, a test was performed and the sirens would run to ensure they were functional.

This wasn't one of those cases. The sirens ran for several seconds, cut off, and then blared again. Every single person held their breath and prayed. One continuous blast was a test. Two was an Endbringer attack. Three meant that it was coming to your home. The siren ran past five seconds without cutting out again. Endbringer attack, but at least it wasn't coming to Brockton Bay's shores.

As many people went home from their shopping or social visits, preparing to bunker down in case anyone decided to break the truce, Sophia Hess headed to the Rig. She lacked permission to travel and fight, but at least she could get marching orders to patrol and make sure everyone was working above-board.

(BREAK)

The Rig was abuzz with activity, a manic energy suffusing everyone present. One of the auditoria normally reserved for speeches to troopers had been repurposed as the deployment station for Brockton Bay's capes. All hands were on deck, every last Protectorate hero. Armsmaster, Assault, Battery, Miss Militia, Dauntless and Velocity were all equipped and ready. Lady Photon, Laserdream and Manpower from New Wave were present, as were the majority of Empire 88. Whether due to genuine misguided belief that they were in the right or simply a dedication to PR, the neo-nazi organization always showed up in force to every Endbringer battle. Fenja, Menja, Hookwolf, Victor, Othala and Kaiser were all present. A few more independent heroes and villains had showed up to add what little power they could offer: Chubster's bulbous form stood out the most, the overweight and armored Brute standing tall in his protective purple bodysuit and garish orange plating. As was expected, neither Squealer nor either of the ABB's capes had volunteered to join the battle.

In the background, troopers jogged around to ferry equipment and herd personnel, and the occasional Ward in some level of costume could be seen being jostled somewhere or other. Conversations buzzed back and forth, heroes and villains taking the opportunity to banter with people they'd otherwise be obligated to fight. All conversation died out when Armsmaster stepped forward to speak, and then one more figure slunk into the open hall that was serving as staging ground.

Tall and lithe, clad in familiar yet markedly different garb, the figure wore a well-used top hat and a pale cloth face covering that was decorated with several chains, unfamiliar charms and precious gems dangling from the delicate links. The enormous and ragged coat had been exchanged for something more sleek, still a durable leather overcoat but with less extraneous mass. A pair of silvery spun-wire spectacles framed hazel eyes shaped like an octopus'. On her back was an enormous sword, beneath that at the small of her back was a compact cannon. At her left hip hung her trademark pistol and a sheathed, curved blade.

Bloodmoon had arrived. The killer cape went to speak, then cleared her throat. A deep, authoritative and feminine voice rose from behind the face covering. "I trust there's still time to sign up for the fight?"

Hookwolf was the first to respond, his tone both incredulous and disparaging. He had to be the one to speak up: his reputation as a brute in every sense of the word afforded him a bit more social leeway, and one of the Empire would have to question the woman's presence so soon after her murder of Crusader. "You're here to deal with the feathery bitch? What assurance do we have you won't just turn around and start killing the rest of us?"

Those unnatural eyes locked onto his through his mask and Bradley Meadows, Hookwolf, felt something he'd not felt in a long time. This woman, Bloodmoon as the PRT called her, would kill him without hesitation. But she wasn't striking. She did not fear him, did not see him even as any real threat. If she was staying her hand, she had a reason. Despite the pang of fear, he relaxed. This was a killer with an agenda, and he wasn't on her list today.

"You aren't my prey today," she replied simply. "Don't bare your teeth and I won't strike you down."

There was no way to quickly, concisely and privately share what he had learned, so Hookwolf could only hope that his dismissive shrug and statement of, "Good enough for me" would pre-empt any further posturing.

"We have no more time to talk," Armsmaster declared, his voice loud and sharp to cut off any further conversation or posturing. "Our advance-warning system, thankfully, is best at noticing the Simurgh's movements. She is descending toward Australia, likely the city of Canberra. We have more time to act than normal, as Rocketman's 'SSM' arsenal is currently targeting her. Dragon estimates that her arrival time will be delayed by at least a minute, possibly more. Strider is picking up cadres of parahumans for deployment. Take an armband-" He gestured to the troopers passing out the bands, "and keep in mind that you need to keep exposure to a minimum. If you've been within her scream's aura for too long, you are most likely a Simurgh bomb."

Bloodmoon sidled over to Assault and Battery. "How do I activate this thing?" she asked, securing the band around her arm with nary a protest or question." Assault showed her, which led to the oddly amusing reaction of "Wait, you're calling me Bloodmoon?" Still, the woman shrugged her shoulders and soldiered on.

There was no preamble when Strider appeared aboard the Rig. He strode, businesslike, to the center of the gathering point. "Everyone get close and I'll take us to Canberra. No stragglers, no dragging your feet. Here, now, we're leaving in five seconds."

With the Simurgh's descent delayed by any amount due to Rocketman's Surface-to-Simurgh missile launchers, there was even more hurry than normal: there was a chance, however slim, that they could defeat the evil angel before she could infect the people's minds. In every veteran's heart burned a new flame of hope: maybe this time, they wouldn't have to quarantine an entire city.

Strider shuddered at Bloodmoon's proximity, something about the killer cape rubbing him the wrong way in a manner more fundamental than just distaste for a murderer. Despite that, the teleportation was one of the smoothest that day. Strider prided himself on his power, being likely the most powerful and helpful teleporter in history, but it still took a toll on him. This jump, from Brockton Bay to the staging ground outside Canberra, felt like stepping calmly through cold mist.

(BREAK)

The group's ears were assaulted by the clamor of explosions and a seamless flow of profanity. In the sky above them, the Simurgh continued to descend, juking around numerous missiles that looped back around to chase her. She had long since given up redirecting them, as to counter the strange repulsion fields that caused her telekinesis to go haywire would be ratcheting up too much. So instead she ran, dodging as she drew ever closer to her goal. Clever maneuvering brought the missiles to impact each other, but even then the explosions left her blown off-course from the sheer yield of the detonations. On the ground, a parahuman dressed very much like a rocket – complete with angled air fins – continued a rant about what he would do with the Simurgh's mother, a Tasmanian devil, and a half-tub of Crisco.

Brockton Bay's parahuman reinforcements spread out to begin planning. Bloodmoon trotted off by herself, crouching down and seeming to fondle at something nobody else could see.

In the distance, reality warped as Monorail's VW van appeared. Capes piled out like from a clown car. Other foreign parahumans filtered in through Locomotor's teleportation portal. The Spanish Tinker charged an arm and a leg for the technology and its maintenance, but it was well worth it for instantaneous delivery of defenders even if the energy cost was nearly prohibitive.

Legend's recognizable voice came through clearly on everyone's armbands. "Normally I'd give an inspirational speech and tell you to steel yourselves for what's to come. But this time we have the time advantage. So I'll keep this short: let's not lose a city! Let this be the turn of the tide, as we beat back the apocalypse!"

As veteran capes began to give orders, the Simurgh finally reached her target above the Australian Academy of Science. The roof of the main building sheared off and was hurled above to intercept the last of Rocketman's missiles.

Rapidly crossing the gap between the heroes and the Endbringer was a single figure. Bloodmoon drew the greatsword from her back, running a hand across the flat of the matte blade. Before, the weapon was a depressingly dark gray that appeared crudely carved from a single hunk of metal, sculpted rather than forged. Now, as her hand passed over it, the tarnished blade broadened into a beautifully-forged greatsword: the cutting edge glowed an unearthly green. She swung horizontally, well before any real distance had been closed, and a massive crescent of energy lashed out. The Simurgh was forced to juke back skyward and let the arc pass beneath her.

Then Bloodmoon leapt.

––––––––––

Legend was talking. One of the world's greatest heroes, with the kind of presence that the best orators and actors dream of having, and I didn't hear a word of it. My eyes were locked on my enemy, my target, my prey. Everything else was just noise to my ears, the braying of bestial Yharnamites for as much as I paid attention. The moment the evil angel went into a proper dive, once I was sure of her target, I was moving. Thankfully I'd managed to find a lantern, or the little ones had cheated and brought one with, so I could fight with impunity.

I drew the sword, remembering how we had danced. "Ludwig, lend me your conviction. Mom… Mother… Be my guiding moonlight today. I'll make you proud."

Perhaps it was that my power had grown, perhaps it was that I'd earned some esoteric approval. Either way, a massive arc of light left the sword as I swung. I could feel the raw power sizzle in the air, and apparently the Simurgh did as well, as she launched herself upward to dodge the crescent. I could feel her discordant song in the back of my mind. I bludgeoned it with my own memories of the winter lanterns' tuneless singing. I have suffered far worse madness, monster. You will find my mind no playground.

The ground cratered as I kicked off with all of my force. I hurtled through the air at the Simurgh, who casually waved a hand to catch me in her telekinesis. This was where my theory would be put to the test. I felt her etheric grip on me, then it slid off like I was coated in teflon! With all of my souvenirs from Yharnam, the alien blood running through my veins, I barely counted as being of this world. So temporal a method of control couldn't touch me.

The Simurgh was infamous for perpetually wearing that neutral expression, floating like an untouchable archangel. So I was particularly gratified when her brows furrowed in consternation, just before I swung the Holy Moonlight. I brought it down in an overhead slice, the blade carving into the outermost layer of the Simurgh's armor before the arc of energy followed up, exploding into her and flinging us both away.

Every bestial instinct told me to capitalize on the reeling monster, leap up and continue the assault. But I'd only have so long before she took me seriously and I needed to make use of the time I had. Landing on the science building's roof, I sheathed my sword and moved my hands to my sides, palms facing forward. "We call the watchers to turn their gaze upon us…" My arms smoothly both rose like a jumping-jack. "Feel our sorrow," I crossed my wrists, clenching my fists and my teeth. "And weep with us!"

Five stars, angry and sorrowful eyes of some forgotten deity, materialized before me and went streaking into the Simurgh. She tore up another chunk of building to block them. The first star impacted, and the debris she was using became nothing but dust. She twisted to dodge another, which would arc to detonate somewhere in the distance, bringing down a city block. I hoped nobody was still in there. The remaining three found their mark, briefly creating the effect of a colossal flashbulb and knocking the Simurgh from the sky. She hit the ground hard, already moving, but I was on her.

The Holy Moonlight came down again and again, each strike punctuated by a blast of energy, each one knocking us apart only for me to close the distance. I knew I didn't have long. I'd gambled this far on being functionally an outsider, something not part of the angel's precognitive predictions. Thus far that was holding, but this was still a world-killing monster. It wouldn't just take the beating, and I could imagine that every hit was feeding into some psychic algorithm the monster was building to model me.

I leapt again, bringing the greatsword down in another catastrophic arc, when the weapon halted in midair. My hunter's stoicism actually broke as a shocked "What-?" escaped my lips. The Simurgh favored me with a cruel smile as she clearly held the Holy Moonlight in place via her telekinesis – something I had believed impossible due to her inability to grab me earlier! I hung in the air, gripping the handle, watching the blade crack under the pressure of her psychic grip.

One-handing the sword, I grabbed my cannon from the small of my back and unloaded a surprise shot into the Simurgh's face. At the very least it wiped off her smile.

The Holy Moonlight shattered. The shards spun in the air and then drove into me, forcing me earthward even more quickly than through gravity itself, as they ripped me apart. I took one more potshot with the cannon.

Bloodmoon deceased, GO-7.

Bloodmoon active, HO-4, my armband spoke in Dragon's pleasant tone as I stepped back into reality beside the lantern.

"Alright then," I said flatly, fingering the hilt of the Chikage.

640

Vherstinae

Dec 12, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Dec 14, 2022

#841

It wasn't often, but on occasion some fool charged into the fight before marching orders could be given. Alexandria was half-tempted to order this cape's armband detonated before he set things fully wrong, but the Simurgh would already be prepared based on his actions so killing the Edwardian-style cape would accomplish nothing. Besides, the top-hatted individual hadn't charged without preparation: he had knelt down and done something that Alexandria couldn't make out, so he was making some sort of plan even if it only made sense to him.

Then the sword transformed. Then the beam: Alexandria could feel the bizarre energy, the pressure as a manhwa character might put it, and apparently the Simurgh could as well since she dodged out of the way and abandoned her activity.

Then, for the first time on record, the angel's calm facade cracked when her telekinesis apparently slipped off the attacker. The sword carved a shallow furrow, then the explosion sent them both flying. Already Alexandria was impressed. This was no foolish glory-hound, or at least not just that. And then the cape crossed his arms above his head.

The blasts that resulted were worthy of Eidolon. The one that missed, it leveled an entire city block – not just toppling the buildings, but outright shattering them. The Simurgh hit the ground and carved a divot, wings and limbs already scrambling to get beneath herself. As she hoisted upright, the cape was on her. Strike after strike, leaving visible wounds, the most damage any one combatant had ever done to the Simurgh – and none but the most telegraphed attacks had once been dodged!

Alexandria actually found herself crying out in protest as the cape's strike was arrested midair, as the first injection of hope was defeated. The cape died with dignity, wiping the Simurgh's smirk with a cannon blast, but was still killed with the fragments of his own sword.

Bloodmoon deceased, GO-7.

They couldn't mourn. They needed to capitalize on the cape's – Bloodmoon's – sacrifice. They still had a little over half an hour to win this fight before Ziz's song infected people's minds. If they were lucky, they could drive her away. Already, Rebecca Costa-Brown was pondering if it would be worthwhile to add her voice to Bloodmoon receiving his own statue in Canberra.

Years of experience saw her organizing the parahuman forces, letting Legend take his own forces while Eidolon did his thing. She began directing the grounded ranged combatants before leading the charge with her own contingent of flying Brutes.

Eidolon shot forward, propelled by a gravitic power that gave him flight and a ranged attack. One of his power slots was dedicated to preventing the Simurgh's song from affecting him, and his third was some manner of kinetic blast to crudely counteract the angel's telekinesis. In a motion that he'd later learn was reminiscent of Goku from an old Japanese story called Dragon Ball, he braced the heels of his hands together to form a pocket for his power to recurve on itself before releasing what was essentially a graser beam. The Simurgh twirled away, giving a wide berth to the energy that tore through the Australian landscape.

Bloodmoon active, HO-4.

What!?

There, already closing the distance, moving almost as quickly as Battery at her maximum charge, Bloodmoon left a trail of dust as his slim but powerful legs propelled him. His hands were on the hilt and sheath of a long, curved sword.

"Wooo!" Assault bellowed between hurling chunks of debris. "Round two, girl!"

It took a significant amount of Alexandria's concentration not to do a double-take. Alright, apparently the slim and boyish figure was a woman. Not everybody gets a power-assisted makeover, Becca, Dominic would surely have admonished her if he could hear her thoughts. Then again, if he could hear her thoughts, she'd be in a lot more trouble than her prejudice against a woman lacking in curves.

A telekinetic pulse threw the current crop of fighters off-course, scattering them as the Simurgh turned to face Bloodmoon. In every other fight, when she prioritized a non-native fighter, it was always Eidolon. What did Bloodmoon bring to the table that made him- made her a more important target?

The ground under Bloodmoon's feet tore up and into the air, causing the cape to stumble. Two more boulders came from the sides to crush the sword-wielding parahuman. Bloodmoon raised her left hand and snapped her fingers.

The boulders crashed together, shattering against one another. Bloodmoon appeared above the destruction in a cloud of mist. How many powers did this woman have? Then again, the sword could just as easily be Tinkertech or an empowerment like Dauntless. Still, Alexandria had no knowledge of a cape called Bloodmoon, so it must be a relatively recent cape. Someone new, with this much power, and fighting like this? As if to punctuate Alexandria's thoughts, Bloodmoon slid under a rock and then leapt, kicking off of more debris and using the Simurgh's attacks as stepping stones to approach the Endbringer. Bloodmoon leapt, bending forward, every bit of her body lining up for a textbook battojutsu strike. A spear made from compressed computers and research equipment shot up from beneath. Bloodmoon teleported to the side, keeping momentum, not even fazed.

The blade unsheathed. Even Alexandria's superhuman senses couldn't track the strike, but the results were self-evident. A sword longer than the cape herself, made primarily of blood so dark it was nearly black, completed the arc of its strike. The Simurgh's forearm was cut halfway through, gouting blood. And one of the angel's wings came crashing to the ground, neatly severed nearly at the base.

The Simurgh's counterattack was blown off-course by a kinetic wavebreaker, followed closely by a gravitic haymaker that sent her momentarily reeling.

"New plan," Alexandria bellowed on the wide-band channel. "Movers, anyone who can take a passenger, back up Bloodmoon! She has a weapon that can hurt the Simurgh!"

Eidolon continued to hammer the Simurgh with pure force, knocking the Endbringer down again and again but dealing no real damage. Two storms of telekinetic debris struck from above and below, forcing Eidolon to divert his attention. He had to blast upward while pressing down with gravity to keep from being shredded.

Then the entire battlefield was momentarily blinded and deafened when another volley of stars hit the Simurgh. The angel hit the ground and bounced twice before coming to a stop, floating back upright with a scowl on her stunningly beautiful features. Legend and Eidolon double-teamed the Endbringer, blasting her from both sides until she telekinetically grabbed Legend and shoved him in the way of Eidolon's graser. While Legend was able to turn into light particles, the man still ended up collapsing on the ground. Numerous other heroes and villains had been downed in the chaos, caught in the Simurgh's area-based attacks, but hopes still dipped when the armband spoke:

Legend down, FM-2.

(BREAK)

Hookwolf had gotten his start in pit fighting, but his mind had proven itself to work on a level far higher than street-fighting tactics. He was a strategist at heart, organizing battle plans for Empire 88. While he was a pagan at heart, revering the norse pantheon, the neo-nazi organization had become a home for him in a way that he had never felt before.

His strategic mind often clashed with his pride, and all too often he'd had to make the decision to let someone else take the glory because it would bring greater victory, with fewer losses. And now he felt the same. Turning to the twins, he spoke gruff but clear. "We need to back up Bloodmoon. I don't care what the jew bitch did to us: in this moment, she's our best chance to bring down Ziz. If killing this thing means I have to play horse for someone we hate, I can live with that." He lunged forward, outermost layer of skin already rupturing to let the blades spill out, galloping closer to the fight. The twins would follow. They would see the wisdom of his words. Or they'd see that he was committed and would join in to save face. Either way.

The harder part was flattening his back, making it somewhat passable as a platform. While he was called Hookwolf, he was nowhere near as distinct as forming an actual lupine head: he had four limbs made from various blades and hooked barbs, typically a scything tentacle like a tail, and a grinding beartrap that could pass as a head. He wasn't good at holding a concrete form, much less something that lacked sharp edges. But he could try. He could try and he would succeed, because this was bigger than him. It was bigger than the Empire. This was about killing a false god that wanted them all dead.

"Get on!" he bellowed through the shrieking clamor of his metallic parts grinding against one another. "I'll get you in close, you kill the bitch!" To her credit, Bloodmoon didn't hesitate. With a simple leap she was planted firmly on his back and Hookwolf began to close the distance. As the Simurgh ascended, he leapt, putting all of his force and mass into the jump. At the apex, Bloodmoon kicked off him and continued to rise.

She snapped her fingers again, turning to mist and flowing through each projectile the Simurgh brought to bear. The angel even tried to interpose other capes to turn away Bloodmoon's swings, but the killer cape simply teleported through them.Then an entire apartment complex ripped from the ground and the Simurgh brought it hurtling upward. Not only was this an unprecedented escalation of pure telekinetic power, it was a clear taunt: 'dodge this, then.'

Bloodmoon did not dodge. She sheathed her sword, turned midair, and drew. The blood on her blade rushed down faster than the eye could track, extending outward to split the entire building in two! So anointed with her blood, the structure slipped from the Simurgh's grasp and tumbled back down to earth.

Bloodmoon followed suit, her arrested momentum and nothing provided by the Simurgh to serve as a jumping-off point leading her to plummet from the sky.

Then her coat split in two at the back.

––––––––––

I hoped this would work. I understood the principle of it, having seen the Orphan's trick, and I had something significantly more solid to use as a base. But I had no experience fighting with this kind of verticality. In a fit of pique, I reached back and removed my hair tie, letting it spill freely through the air.

I pressed my shoulders backward into the cloth, the leather of my first Yharnam coat. Logarius had levitated. Maria had shown a similar ability. The Orphan had flapped its ragged diaphanous pseudo-wings. The coat split and flew open like the limbs of a bat, beating at the air. It couldn't perpetually keep me aloft, but with the new momentum and a push of quickening – I drew again from the power of the old hunter's bone, transitioning to mist to allow the push from my 'wings' to launch me skyward much more than their beat should have allowed – I could give chase.

The Simurgh's attention was focused on me. She was still calling up torrents of kinetic force, striking down other fighters, defending herself. But I could feel her scrabbling at the metaphysical glass of the exhibit, trying to break in and examine me from all sides. Much as I would have liked to welcome her in, I didn't know enough how she'd respond and I didn't want her surviving and learning from the experience.

Another storm of debris came in, moving too fast. It would only cause superficial damage, but...of course! It would shred my coat, deprive me of my kludged flight. I drew in a breath. I hadn't needed Irreverent Izzy's creation for a long time: my own lungs were sufficient nowadays. I threw back my head and roared, casting aside the projectiles. Another beat of my coat and I was closing on her. I caught sight of movement behind the angel and, instead of going for a slice, I lined up a thrust.

––––––––––

This was insanity. What was this fight? Was the spirit of Michael Bay somehow choreographing this battle? Still, the Simurgh's attacks on other parahumans were growing more half-hearted and passive. More and more of the Endbringer's attention was focused on Bloodmoon. After Bloodmoon cut the apartment complex in half, Alexandria no longer knew what to think. That was beyond any blunt-force telekinetic application the Simurgh had ever expressed before, and the response was likewise anomalous in the extreme.

Then Bloodmoon's coat started flapping like wings and sense went out the window. "Okay, fine, we're doing this then," Rebecca heard herself spit. Still, as Bloodmoon rose, armed with that sword, Alexandria saw her moment. Putting on as much speed as she could muster, she wheeled around and caught the Simurgh at the base of the neck. She could feel the Endbringer's attention back on her and near-instantly was wrenched away, but the damage had been done. The Simurgh was forced downward. Bloodmoon's blade embedded in her midsection.

The Simurgh looked directly down at Bloodmoon, opening her mouth and letting out a scream. The sheer force was like a sonic sandblaster. Bloodmoon's clothes and skin rippled from the force. Then she screamed in return.

The sound was fundamentally inhuman. It sounded like whale song. But the sound was not what sent a pang of fear through Alexandria. As Bloodmoon's scream passed through the air, the Simurgh's ever-present psychic song went silent.

Slowly, over seconds, a new song entered the minds of everyone present. It was another female voice, wordless and lilting, a combination of comforting and morose.

A psychic hammer sent Alexandria head-first into the ground like a railroad spike. It was everything she could do to pry herself free before the dirt suffocated her. Looking around, she saw that everyone had been knocked out of the sky by the same pulse. Dragon's voice listed most as down and a few as deceased. The Simurgh physically slapped Bloodmoon, knocking the cape's grip loose from her sword and sending her plummeting to the earth.

Bloodmoon down, DK-8.

Bloodmoon active, DK-8.

The cape cast something aside, likely some sort of Tinkertech. Alexandria wasn't close enough to see. The Simurgh ripped the blood sword from her midsection and tossed it aside, well out of Bloodmoon's ability to retrieve it. She descended, every bit the enraged archangel. Bloodmoon, despite having no melee weapon, drew her pistol and shot the Endbringer in the eye.

Ziz actually flinched from the hit and glared down with her one good eye, the other one bleeding. Bloodmoon stared back, unafraid, hair undulating in no real wind.

Then Bloodmoon held her right hand out to her side.

Something shifted. Everyone felt it. The Simurgh stiffened. The dry grass shuddered.

It felt as if God had turned a dour eye toward their fight at Canberra. Something rose from the ground, from a cloud of mist. Rebecca's vision swam and she could feel His finger descending from on high.

Bloodmoon didn't gesture with the weapon. She held it before her, splitting whatever it was in two, before assuming a strange post. Presuming the smaller weapon served the purpose of the little hand on a clock, Bloodmoon's pose indicated a time of approximately 1:40.

The Simurgh fled. The ground cratered from the telekinetic counter-force that propelled her skyward like a rocket. The evil angel spared no second glance, eye cast skyward, focused solely on escape.

Bloodmoon reassembled her weapon and pushed it back into the ground, returning it to the mist, and finally Rebecca felt the cruel gaze of the Almighty leave Canberra. She let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, nearly vomiting in the process.

"...Dragon, confirm that the Simurgh is fleeing. How long has it been?"

"I can confirm that she's broken low earth orbit. She...she's retreating higher than usual. It's been...it's only been seventeen minutes."

Alexandria watched as Bloodmoon turned and began calmly walking back toward the staging area. "What price," she whispered to herself, "will we pay for this miracle?"

704

Vherstinae

Dec 14, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Dec 19, 2022

#980

Greg Veder's weekend was relatively exciting. On Saturday he met with Taylor at her house for the first time, and found out later that before their meeting Bloodmoon had killed Crusader and a number of Coil's mercenaries, while rescuing a family from a burning building. The murderous cape was rapidly developing more fans, his (or her, the internet was still divided on that, and some were insisting that Bloodmoon was an "it") actions to stop the runaway truck and rescue a mother and daughter further cementing the idea that this was a killer with a heart of gold.

The meeting itself went relatively well, too. From the moment Greg's mom dropped him off, Taylor was on him. This was to be expected: he was a relative stranger coming into her home, and he knew what Taylor got up to. If she hadn't been watching him like a hawk's more OCD cousin, he'd have been a lot more worried.

"Watch out for– Oh, right, we fixed that. Sorry, force of habit," Taylor finished a little sheepishly. "Front step used to be a little rotten and we were always worried it'd break."

"Huh. Well, I'd offer to help if you need any more handyman stuff done around your place, but um… I'm no good at it," Greg replied with a self-deprecating chuckle. He hefted his backpack. "So I brought my laptop: all the articles and such are saved to my disk so you can see the pictures if that'll help."

After a quick meet-and-greet with Mr. Hebert, who seemed glad to see that Greg was clearly a bit nervous about doing anything Taylor might not like, the pair headed up to Taylor's room. Greg also felt a little guilty for wearing the bodycam hidden in his polo shirt's button, but this was to figure out how he could help her. He hadn't been brave enough to stand up for her before, so now he had to take the risk to make up for it.

"You dressed up nice today," Taylor said, voice smooth like metal. "Any reason? Were you hoping for this to be a date?"

Greg's spine tried to crawl out through his back and he fought against freezing up. It was as if a giant wasp had perched on his nose, or he'd looked in a mirror and seen a red-dot sight leveled over his forehead. When in doubt, babble like the incoherent goon you are. "I, n-no! That's, ah, not to say I wouldn't like it to be one, you're really pretty – like, wow – but honestly we barely know each other and I hope that if I ever got up the guts to ask you on a date I'd be straight about it and not set up some schoolwork thing and oh my god I'm still talking." When dealing with someone who might very well be able to smell falsehood, honesty is the best policy.

Taylor seemed to agree, her expression settling on a gentle smile after having briefly looked shocked during Greg's drivel. "Well, I'm glad we cleared the air about that. Anyway, I don't have much room so let's set you up on my bed and I'll sit in the rolling chair. I'm honestly a little glad Sparks couldn't make it because he'd have to sit on the floor."

From there, the two had quite the productive session working on ideas for the paper. And while Greg took the occasional time to look around for a place to hide a camera, or stretch to give the bodycam a better survey of the room, he found himself steadily more engaged by their discussion. By the end he was more invested in the project than in the investigation, guided every step of the way by Taylor. He didn't even notice, in the throes of a brainstorming moment, how Taylor very specifically looked straight into the hidden camera and gave a knowing smirk.

After that came Tuesday evening, when Bloodmoon's PHO page updated before the official Endbringer Battle report, with announcements that Bloodmoon had all but gone mano-a-mano with the Simurgh and won before half the song's time had ticked down. He was lucky his parents were used to him occasionally being clumsy, because he quite literally fell out of his chair in shock.

(BREAK)

The usual meeting room wasn't sufficient, so the same cleared auditorium used for Endbringer staging was subsequently filled with cheap folding chairs. Every Protectorate hero was gathered, along with multiple PRT captains. Emily Piggot was the only one with her own chair from her office, not just for gravitas and reinforcement of rank but to spare her the embarrassment of her extra pounds slipping off either side of the narrow folding chairs.

"We've forwarded the case files and AARs to the Chief Director," Piggot began without preamble. "But unless and until National gives us different marching orders, we need a plan. How do we deal with Bloodmoon?"

Assault instantly raised his hand. Not bothering for her to call on him – he knew she wouldn't – he volunteered his idea. "Stay out of her way and ask her politely not to kill too many people?" Usually the ex-villain would quip, make off-color jokes or otherwise lighten the situation or at least draw ire onto himself to bleed off tension from a dire situation. In this case, he bulldozed Piggot's response, raising his voice above hers to drown her out. Not yelling, but certainly elevating the volume. "No, I'm half-serious. Look, every step of the way Bloodmoon has acted not just to hunt criminals but to protect innocents. Whether it was the girls at the ABB stop, those people in the cafe, or the mom and daughter in the apartment, she goes out of her way to help when she can. I'd say that might be her main motivation: if she gets rid of the biggest threats, then she has to help fewer people overall.

"Do you have footage of her talking to me and Battery before the Ziz fight? Her posture, her speech...her voice might've sounded authoritative on the surface but that was a front. She was shy, almost deferential with how she approached. She doesn't want to be a burden. Mark my words," he punctuated by spiking his index finger down onto his knee, "this is someone who was deeply hurt, someone whom the system failed, and she's doing what she thinks is right so nobody else gets hurt like she did. Maybe she's delusional, maybe she's unreasonable. But what if she isn't? What if we can solve all this just by talking?"

Beside him, Battery shrugged. "He makes a good point, and not just from the hopeless optimist's perspective. Pragmatically, we're dealing with a cape who can make an Endbringer run for the hills – more than that, an anti-Thinker so potent she can outfox the Simurgh's precog. She's willing to fight the Endbringers. Not only would making an enemy of her be a suicidally stupid idea, she doesn't seem to hold any animosity toward heroes. The only sticking point would be our refusal to kill, but as much as it rankles me to say this, her kill count is an acceptable sacrifice if it means we can reduce by orders of magnitude the Endbringers' death tolls."

Assault, having waited until his wife was finished, turned to her with a pout. "Hopeless optimist? Puppy, that hurts. I'm always hopeful. Like tonight, I'm hoping that you'll–" Whap, Battery smacked him in the mouth. Unfazed and unharmed, his mouth was curled in a smirk when her hand departed. "Yep, still got it," he chirped.

"Dragon and I have been parsing the battle footage," Armsmaster spoke up to draw attention away from the couple. "While she's currently briefing the Chief Director, I've noticed a few very significant things. With your permission, Director, I'd like to play a few clips. I recommend that everyone brace themselves – that is, quite literally grab onto your chairs. There's some sort of metaphysical presence to some of these clips that caused my knees to give out even on a secondhand viewing."

"And that's without getting into the song," Dauntless interjected.

"I'd say it doesn't sound like Bloodmoon," Assault posited, "but the first time I heard her speak she sounded like some kind of after-effects Hollywood monster. Plus that roar, so I guess I'm saying that I don't think the song was Bloodmoon's singing but I can't say we should rule it out."

With Piggot's go-ahead, Armsmaster activated a projector. Any footage of a Simurgh fight was scrubbed clean of sound, then reformatted into a .gif to completely eliminate any trace of hidden sound before translated back into a pauseable .mp4 file.

"Our first indication of Bloodmoon's unique anti-monitoring abilities is here." There was a still image of the woman kneeling, fingers touching something, but that something was obscured by digital noise. "Much like with Assault's bodycam, we can't verify what she was doing because the cameras refused to parse it. The few people who noticed made mention that it made them feel a little woozy or seasick, but nobody could make out more than a hazy mist."

"At least we didn't get a disappearing-arm event or the freaky blood cascade," Assault muttered, humor gone from his voice. That had been frightening, and the way Alice had screamed… Beside him, his wife shuddered.

"In a way, it's more worrisome that we didn't," Armsmaster hit Play. Next was footage of Bloodmoon impaled by the shards of her greatsword. Her corpse hit the ground, then after a few frames it was gone. No artifacting, no stutter, no missed frames. "From what I can gather, the moment everyone's eyes were off her corpse, it was gone. Likewise, none of her leavings were found. No blood, no bullets or shrapnel, no weapon fragments. Both the greatsword hilt and the blood-katana disappeared."

"What worries me is the idea that she might have some control over it," Miss Militia spoke up. "Put out a lot of mist to make people sick, leave an opening for retaliation. Or put out no mist so observers – people on her side – aren't rendered helpless in the face of an Endbringer."

"Somehow a conscious decision even after her body died?" Captain Anders shuddered. "Jesus, that's some control."

"Next, when Bloodmoon drew her third weapon. Everyone brace yourselves." Armsmaster played the footage. Zoomed in, it could be seen how a double-ended sword rose from a cloud of mist. Everyone present felt their gorge rise from the mist, before something primal hit them. It wasn't fear, not really. It was awareness of something superior, the ancient pack instinct to submit to a greater being in order to secure one's own safety.

Armsmaster swallowed hard and spoke through gritted teeth. "A-as you can ssssseeeeee, it's some kind of double-sword… One, one blade long, like a Japanese ka-ta-na, the other one shorter and more ma...maneuverable. A, a… Oh, forget it." He paused the video and took a shuddering breath. "It's not worth trying to talk through that footage. It's kind of like someone took a samurai's classic two weapons – the katana and wakizashi – and fit them together at the pommel. When she strikes whatever pose, the mental pressure is most powerful. My working theory is that whatever this aura is, it hit a being like the Simurgh extra hard.

"The final thing I wanted to share is, to me, the most interesting. I didn't notice it until Dragon pointed it out, and I'm willing to bet none of you saw it during the fight either. My suspicion is that, much like how some aspects of Bloodmoon's power refuse to be captured on film, this was hiding from human senses. What that could mean, well, I couldn't begin to tell you."

The projector clicked over to a collage of still scenes. In the afternoon sky, glittering and opalescent, hung the moon.

(BREAK)

"I wish Fortuna was available," Rebecca said quite loudly, "but as she's recovering and this can't wait, we'll just have to soldier on without her." It was a dig, and she knew it, toward the ultimate child soldier, but Alexandria had just had a hell of a day and was in no mood for leniency toward anyone.

From the other room, sipping from a juice box and watching the Transformers movie, Fortuna pointedly ignored Rebecca's jab. From the moment her people had died, Contessa had relied on the Path to Victory to guide her, to the point that she often behaved more like an automaton than a person. On the rare occasions when her power began to take its toll, she scheduled break times to simply be what she had never been permitted to be: a child. And so, childishly, she turned up the volume as Galvatron chased the Autobots through space.

Number Man tapped a stack of papers on the table to straighten them. "The footage and AARs paint the picture of a competent and deadly but rather generic cape, characterized by her anti-Thinker effect and willingness to commit violence. This sudden escalation is many orders of magnitude beyond what we would expect from someone like this."

Legend, Dominic with his mask off, nodded. "Initial supposition would be a cape like Dauntless, but there's no real marked improvement until today. Yes, each time we see her she displays something new, but no sudden trump card or overwhelming level of power. She moved with speed and struck with power unlike anything before. In addition, her behavior on the battlefield indicates someone with a plan, who had an idea how her powers might interact with the Simurgh's."

The Number Man – Kurt, since he never wore a mask – nodded. "Especially with her first appearance not even two weeks prior, Bloodmoon's activity reflects that of a veteran with at least a year, if not more, of constant experience using her power in combat."

David, though he left his Eidolon hood up as he wasn't appreciative of his appearance, shook his head. "That's interesting in itself but it still doesn't explain the change. Some of Bloodmoon's dodges registered as supersonic despite somehow not breaking the sound barrier. That's a far cry from her dodging most but not all bullets and just shrugging off the ones that hit. Everything she did today was magnitudes higher than it should've been," he parroted some of Kurt's words.

Rebecca had been listening to the discussion the entire time, her eyes flitting over the various images and videos of Bloodmoon's fights. "...Unless she's been holding back the entire time." She shook her finger between three screens. "Look at the motions. In every Brockton Bay fight, we see this smooth movement, sliding and dipping and almost skating across the ground, flowing around strikes rather than outright dodging. It's very...martial-arts movie. Now," she moved her finger to the last screen, "look at this one. Jerky movements, violent thrusts with the legs to induce motion, these are the movements of an actual fighter, someone doing everything to win."

Kurt nodded, shifting on his feet. "I noticed that as well. I'd folded it into the idea of escalation, but you may be right: it does make more sense if we instead look at the previous fights as someone not giving their all. The issue is, I can tell she is giving her all."

Since Fortuna was on her break, Rebecca knew what she had to do next. "Shut up, Fortuna! I know what you're going to say!" With that out of the way, she continued. "This is a very...anime idea, but concepts like these tend to have at least some truth in reality: what if she was holding back by imposing restrictions on herself? Like wearing ankle and wrist weights, but for her powers? Be it a Tinkertech device like her equipment or some esoteric quirk, she suppresses her power – maybe out of fear for collateral damage, maybe because she likes the challenge, I couldn't say – and she took off the metaphorical weights for the Endbringer fight."

Kurt made a noise in his throat, running his fingers through his blond hair. "The idea has potential. On some level, I'd like you to be wrong but I don't think you are."

Eidolon took the bait. "Why would you want her to be wrong?"

"You were there. You felt that presence, that pressure, in person. This theory fits best out of what we have currently. And that means, everything Bloodmoon did to the Simurgh? I'm all but certain she was still holding back."

612

Vherstinae

Dec 19, 2022

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Vherstinae

Vherstinae

Patron Saint of Cuddlebugs

Dec 20, 2022

#1,025

His name was Coil. Thomas Calvert was a disguise he wore, a face to show the rest of the world. He'd never been like them, and a single deal – favors to be paid back – had given him the ability to be who he truly was. His power was terrifying in its scope and potential, useful in both active and recreational settings. In his most hubristic moments he would even wager his power against the woman in the suit and fedora, but he was too attached to his power (and his life) to make such an overt move. Any steps taken against Cauldron would have to be couched behind at least a dozen proxies and several layers of deniability. Thankfully, Cauldron seemed content to allow him his plotting.

Brockton Bay was not his home. In truth, he'd only moved here for two reasons. The first was the high ratio of villains to heroes, giving him immense leeway to scheme. The Protectorate didn't turn nearly as much of a gimlet eye to villains killing villains. The second, which he would never admit to himself, was because Emily Piggot was stationed here. Emily was the only other remaining PRT survivor of the Ellisburg Incursion, and the only one who had been vocal in her disdain for his actions. Back before he got his power, before he became himself, he would imagine arguments in which he could properly defend his position: their superior officer was too slow. If they'd waited for him, they'd all be dead. Thomas saved all of their lives! Of course Emily saw things differently. She said that their superior knew the risks and was certain that he would have willingly held the line to give them the chance to escape: that Thomas' shooting him had actually placed them in more danger.

Yes, not that he would admit it to himself, but he chose Brockton Bay because it would let him steal Piggot's career out from under her, to leave her a shamed and destitute wreck whose employment prospects were as bleak as her physical.

Coil did not quite understand his own power. Apparently natural triggers granted some instinctive understanding, perhaps an inherent user's manual, but an artificial power was sorely lacking such assistance. He could see two potential paths, a splinter point of two choices, and could follow them through for an enormous duration – he'd never found an upper limit, but of course would eventually want to have a split for insurance purposes, so he never pathed out more than a day. The problem was that this wasn't exactly precognition: he experienced both timelines simultaneously, so he couldn't simply run his power and plan for both forks. But as long as he could stall in one timeline, pause for gravitas, ramble to sound self-important like a stereotypical villain, it gave him more and more opportunities to split the timeline and try new tactics.

It was how he, through proxy companies, had become one of the wealthiest men on the Eastern seaboard. Owning near-majority shares in Fortress Construction, one of the most prolific Endbringer-shelter companies in the United States, funded a great deal of his plans and gave him contacts who'd proven useful in constructing his own underground base.

Really, it was amusing how the more you played into the stereotype of a villain, the less people tried to look beneath the surface. He dressed up in a costume, hired mercenaries in Cobra-style uniforms with full-on laser guns (on the one hand, not many people remembered or referenced GI Joe nowadays. On the other, that meant his own rather blatant ripoff was less likely to be called out), and thus nobody noticed how the same few proxy companies and fake identities always seemed to be successful in the stock market the few times they played. With enough proxies, he could rotate them and not have any one draw undue attention. Honestly, though, was he really that good, was his power that intense, or was everyone else just varying shades of incompetent? The more he delved into manipulating the human animal, the more he grew to despise it.

And that led to his non-utility uses of his power. He'd been handed the Ring of Gyges in a test-tube and he was damn well going to use it. Incidentally, he'd been inclined to take the name Gyges until he realized it might be a bit too on-the-nose as to what his power was. Far better to take a name and theme not associated at all with his power, and leave people to speculate.

It started out simple enough. If someone got him angry and he didn't have the pressing need for a timeline, he'd split time and punch the offending person. That soon escalated into beatings, stabbings, shootings. He'd use one timeline to take his time murdering a person. Torture, as well, became both a viable interrogation option and a good relaxation tool. In one timeline he'd be having a pleasant chat with his mark, while in the other he had pliers and an acetylene torch. Some days he didn't even have a need for information but would split time for a few hours just to have fun pulling someone apart. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd spent a timeline split to call Emily for an important meeting, then killed her in a variety of brutal ways. His favorite was still when he'd hit her in the face with a nail bomb.

This extended to other proclivities as well. If he saw a beautiful woman and he wasn't running a split, what was the harm in splitting to cop a feel? Of course, diminishing dopamine returns soon forced him to escalate for the same kick. Dragging a woman into an alleyway or attacking her right there in the street: what did he care if he was stopped? He wasn't keeping that timeline regardless. He'd recently branched out to men, as well. They didn't arouse him, per se, but there was something primal in rendering another man helpless in such a violating fashion, hearing an otherwise strong man sob in hopelessness.

And, with all of that occurring solely in abandoned timelines, Coil was blameless. Only he held the memories of all the could-have-beens. In the real world, Coil was squeaky-clean compared to other gang leaders, and Thomas Calvert had years of unimpeachable record speaking to strong moral character.

Recently, however, his plans were being derailed, and the worst part was that the derailing didn't even seem intentional. Over the past month-and-a-half or so, on occasion his strike teams would deploy and be lost with no evidence as to what had happened. Rarely he'd get snippets of his men screaming, but even that turned up nothing. Multiple operations had to be delayed or even scrubbed because he couldn't deploy on the right days, or windows of opportunity would close within hours while he waited to give the order every few seconds with a new split, meeting the same failure each time.

It was at the tail end of January – or was it early February? – when he finally got a glimpse of his antagonist, one who likely only knew he existed as a sort of curiosity. A pair of young ABB toughs who couldn't help running their mouths had mentioned they were on rotation to help transport girls to the farms – the sex-slaving and organ-harvesting operations the ABB ran on the city's outskirts and exterior. He'd had men tracking them, a team waiting to intercept...but the pair never arrived. Later that night was Bloodmoon's first official appearance, as she massacred the stop-off point and left the few still-living girls to be rescued by the authorities. No real loss on Coil's part: he'd intended to break up the stop-off as well, maybe blackmail some payment from the girls' grateful parents, but ultimately Bloodmoon had carried out his own operation without forcing him to risk his men. The footage recovered, of the massacre backlit by the Moon, had been helpful for his research as well.

The slaughter of E88 operatives and the BBPD's subsequent seizure of such a massive weapons shipment was less favorable. A majority of those weapons could have served as backups for his mercenaries, or sold on the black market for favors or untraceable cash. But when he'd sent his soldiers to intercept, all that had resulted was Bloodmoon's body count for the night more than doubling, and the cape looking through one of the body cameras straight into Coil's eyes – as if he knew who was watching and was figuring out how to get to him.

With a new parahuman on the field, Coil had to Make Contact, to get this man's measure. He spared several splits over the next few days to try approaching Bloodmoon as both Coil and Calvert, offering various incentives, and each time he was rebuffed (as Calvert) or his messengers were killed (as Coil). Later, Bloodmoon even began reacting violently to his overtures as Calvert.

The worst event thus far was when he lost an entire team to Bloodmoon. They hadn't even managed to deal lasting damage to the cape, nor had any evidence of how Bloodmoon managed to heal been left behind. From Squealer's interview it was apparent that the mass-murderer relied on blood to some degree, but none of Coil's offensive fishing expeditions had resulted in anything. It was as if something was blocking his soldiers' cameras, some manner of Impurity...no, interference. That was the word he was looking for.

Coil had been forced to accept his team's demise, because the timeline wherein he managed to evacuate his people had led Bloodmoon straight to his base. Bloodmoon had been initially deterred, but the cape had stalked off with purpose...and Coil was willing to bet his colossal life savings that Bloodmoon would have returned with something capable of battering its way into Coil's base. Possibly that explosive hammer or something else equally ridiculous.

But now, after the footage from the Endbringer battle over Canberra, Coil was glad he hadn't pushed Bloodmoon in any kept timeline. This was too dangerous. A Blood-crazed berserker, some Hunter with a vendetta, he – she, apparently – couldn't be bought or reasoned with. No, he'd have to pack up and move somewhere else–

He sat bolt-upright in his chair. No, he can't leave. How would She find him, then? He could almost imagine Her long fingers comfortingly stroking over his close-shorn hair, cradling him close. No, no, he had to stay. He needed to study Bloodmoon. If he didn't… If he didn't, there was the very real chance that She would never visit him again. He'd lose Her, never again dream of Her gentle embrace. No, he needed to figure out Bloodmoon, what made her tick. The deeper he delved, the happier She was, he was sure of it.

If he could make Her happy enough, everything would go back to how it used to be. It would make up for the losses of manpower, of money both real and potential, of time and sleepless nights fearing that Bloodmoon would darken the doorway of his bedroom as Calvert. Yes, he just needed to keep going, keep working. He was close to a revelation, then it would all be good again.

It would all be good again.

It would all be good again.

It would all be good again.

It would all be good again.

It would all be good again