ParaAgent Quest #14

Thread #14 because Zippo was still a big silly man who couldn't into archival.

yuki.la archival link (once again, unsure how long this will be up for): https://yuki.la/qst/3702033

Once again, you find yourself thrust back into the path of peril despite your best efforts. Not that said efforts really amounted to much, a snide little voice snipes from the back of your head. The dome of mist enshrouding the resort you and your team had been sent to reconnoitre hardly… shit, an hour ago at most, looms like a milky white boil on the surface of the earth. You find yourself and your remaining three companions, one having been on the wrong end of a backhand by a beast from the mountains and is currently about to be taken back to the Antarctic home of Division Six in order to receive proper medical care.

You sigh, wishing that you could have gone back with her. The old man running the show, however, has decreed that all hands on deck are required. Personally, you’ve risked your neck enough for one day, but you can imagine the consequences of turning tail will swiftly outweigh whatever brief satisfaction you might get from sticking it to the old guy.

Checking the gun in your hands one last time, you find that--similar to the last three times you did so--a fully loaded magazine of balefire ammunition remains attached and ready to unload on anything that thinks to try and take a chunk out of your ass or the asses of those around you. Fire works wonders on the wendigo no doubt still at large somewhere in the resort itself, and your own brand of fire magic has demonstrated effective against the other things that lurk within as well.

Despite your misgivings, though, you can’t help but feel a little better about things this time around. Not least because there’s a whole mess of other people around with guns and magic of their own heading in with you. After some one-sided discussion with the gravelly-voiced ex-Marine from Brooklyn leading the operation, you and yours found yourselves...

>In the first wave
>Near the centre of the formation
>Back at the rear

Despite your best manoeuvring, you and your team were placed among the very first groups to enter. The idea is to move into the centre and give the place a clean sweep. Ideally, one or more of the teams will find the source of the mist and either destroy it or remove it. Personally, you’re more partial to the former than the latter.

Entering the dome once again gives you a chill and you shudder. Once again, your vision is cut down to a scant handful of metres ahead. Two teams to your left and right, roughly twenty metres away each, are shrouded from view. Swallowing uncomfortably, you place the butt of your gun in the crook of your shoulder and keep your finger near the trigger, close enough to slip inside the guard and unload if anything jumps you, but also far enough that there’s no true risk of you suddenly rattling off a few shots and maybe hitting one of your friends by accident.

"Well," you send, "Here we are again. Same drill as usual; keep close and keep an ear out. Remember you’ll start feeling a weird chill if one of those things gets clo--"

A trilling shriek reverberates through the air, somewhere off to your right, quickly followed by alarmed shouts and even more swiftly by the rapid pop-pop-pop of gunfire. The noise is instantly familiar--someone somewhere has just been attacked by a wendigo.

>Way you see it, the more bodies that are around to put between you and any more monsters, the better. You’d best go and help out.
>You were told to keep the formation. It sucks, but you’re going to have to trust that the team under attack can either handle themselves, or that the one behind them can...

"Well," you say, "Hope you guys took the time in the pow-wow we had earlier to load up, cause we’re heading on over to assist."

"Wait, what?" Naru is behind you, but you’re pretty sure you can feel her gaze of disbelief on the back of your head, "I thought we were heading to the main lodge--or the centre of the resort?"

"Change of plans, we’re helping out."

"Why?" Diedrich asks, suspicious.

Because the more bodies between you and any further danger in this place--and there almost certainly is further danger beyond that of the wendigo and whatever the hell the shadowy thing-ma-jigs are called--the better your own chances of getting through this alive are. You don’t say this, of course. In fact, you’re struggling to think of an explanation that won’t sound either incredibly disingenuous or like you’re flat-out lying; which you would be in either event, to be fair.

Unable to think of one, then, you say instead: "Just keep up or your ass’ll get left behind."

He grumbles; you can hear him do so, but he follows like a good little soldier. Arnold for his own part simply shrugs and checks his shotgun over, probably to make sure it doesn’t jam or misfire again.

Rushing through the mist, you note that the shades have yet to make their appearance. Curious. Maybe they only show up further in? Though, you’re pretty sure they all vanished when you found Iszolda… maybe their disappearance has something to do with the shadow you pulled from wherever it came from? Ah, questions for later. You’re coming up on the fight, and soon you’re not going to be able to have the luxury of idle thoughts.

>Try and let the guys ahead know you’re on the way in and see if you can’t work out some way of coordinating
>Keep it quiet--you’ve no idea if there’s another carnivorous horror waiting to pounce in the murk

Then:
>Lead in with a little hellfire barrage
>Open up with the Tommy Gun once you’ve got a target

You approach the fight with growing caution, the keening shriek of the wendigo interspersed with the cries and shouts of whichever group of unlucky bastards is engaging the thing, coupled with the rattle of gunfire. For a moment, you consider attempting to make contact. You swiftly realise that however your team’s telepathic network is set up, it doesn’t allow you to break into others. Seems like a bit of an oversight, unless whatever futzed yours up a while ago is still in play.

That, then, leaves vocal communication, and you’re pretty damned reluctant to just shout out that you’re inbound. After all, there’s no telling whether or not there’s another lurking monstrosity nearby waiting to pounce. So, in the end, you decide against it altogether in favour of retaining the element of surprise.

Something lights up the mist closeby; a bright orange glow swiftly followed by a roar you’ve since come to associate with your own hellfire. Someone’s letting off some magic. For a moment, you allow yourself the luxury of believing that they’ve got the situation handled…

A belief that is rather quickly shattered when the glow is suddenly snuffed out and a long, high-pitched scream echoes through the mist.

Deciding there is no more time to be lost if you want this bunch kept alive, you charge on with the others at your back. In the span of a few seconds you burst into view of the beleaguered team. One of their number lies in… pieces a few paces to your left. The others crouch over another; alive but badly wounded if his pitiful mewling and bloody, shredded legs are any indication. Both members open fire on the advancing carnivore, which looks singed but not dead by any stretch.

Hopefully, you’re about to change all of that. Lining the drooling, legless monstrosity with its guts trailing behind it like a grisly cape, you place your finger inside the guard and squeeze down on the trigger…

>1d100 TN 60+

Rolled 76 (1d100)

This time, you are prepared for the noise, and the recoil. The Tommy Gun chatters in your hands and vomits a tide of lead at the prowling wendigo. Bullets punch into parchment-thin flesh before igniting. For a split-second, each detonation lights up in a kaleidoscope of colour before settling on baleful blue in the time it takes to formulate a thought. This fire then spreads, travelling across the monster’s skin; coursing through its deceptively wasting muscles and latching onto its very bones. Balefire, you’ve learned, burns everything.

Truthfully, you can’t honestly conceive of a worse way to go.

Kind of hard to feel bad for the shrieking abomination, though…

It thrashes, swiping blindly in either rage or pain or whatever passes for panic among its inhuman kind. The threat, however, has been eliminated. Already, it’s wreathed in flame, and you don’t doubt that soon, the spirit will escape its body and scream away to find a fresh host it can latch itself onto like a ghastly parasite. The team you arrived to assist watch in muted awe--or shock, you honestly aren’t sure, too wrapped up yourself in the sheer spectacle of the wendigo’s fiery demise.

Sure enough, a smoky silhouette rises from the carcass of the thing, which has fallen to the ground and now lies still, save for the odd spasmodic twitch as the monstrosity finally registers that it’s meant to be dead.

"Nice barbeque," Arnold says, "Wish I’d brought summint for the cookup."

T"hink you’d have just ended up burning your arms off," notes Naru, crossing over to the survivors of the team with you.

There are three of them; a woman and two men. All white and, from the sounds of it, all American, too. You kind of wonder how that worked itself out. All of them stare up at you in wonderment and a hell of a lot of gratitude which you suppose you’ve earned considering you stopped them from ending up as monster chow.

“Shit, I don’t know where you came from,” the woman says, short and laboured, like she’s still catching her breath, “But we owe you big time.”

>Any time. So, what happened?
>Not a problem, but we should probably get a move on before another one shows up.
>Sure thing. Is this all of you?

“Not a problem,” you tell them, affecting the air of a guy just doing what he thought was natural, “All the same, we should probably get a move on before more show up.”

As if on cue, more gunfire echoes through the murky air, swiftly followed by distant shouts and another, all-too-recognisable shriek. This set sounds quite a lot more distant, though. Somehow, you doubt you’ll be launching into another side trip so swiftly; you doubt that you’d make it in any kind of time to make a difference. Just have to hope the party under assault are up to the task.

You crouch down low to take a look at their injured guy, frowning. There’s no earthly way he’s going to be able to walk. Quite frankly, you won’t be surprised if he needs to have both legs amputated in the state they’re in--yeesh.

A small part of you wonders how on earth you’re taking in the poor, groaning bastard’s horrific wounds with such… relative calm. Maybe you’re desensitised? Maybe your upbringing’s given you a tougher stomach than most? You’re not sure how the latter works; the worst you ever saw was--

“Hey. Earth to Adam.”

Blinking out of your rapidly-derailing through train, you find Naru crouched opposite and fixing you with a flat stare.

“You good?” she asks, “Kind of been crouched there staring at…” she shrugs and shakes her head vaguely, “nothing really in particular. Kind of freaking out the guys we came to rescue. You remember those guys, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course,” you say, “Sorry. Got lost in thought there.”

“Muuuch better times to do that than now,” she mutters under her breath.

“Thank you, Naru,” you say, turning to the two functioning members of the team you just bailed.

“So,” you start, “I don’t suppose any of you know a way of patching this guy up?”

Both the woman and man--with features so… generic and plain you’re honestly feeling bored just looking at them--shake their heads. The lady has a nice set of eyes, though. Bright green. Like emeralds in--

You bite the inside of your lip hard enough that you draw blood. Not the time, Adam. Focus. Keep alive.

“Hey,” the man starts, glancing around, “Where’s Michael?”

“Michael?” Arnold queries, “Izze the--” he turns to the ravaged corpse lying in raggedy pieces a few feet away.

“No, no,” the man shakes his head, “That’s… that was Gene.”

You catch Diedrich grimace out the corner of your eye. There’s… not a lot left of the poor bastard.

“Hey, wait,” the woman perks up, glancing around, suddenly alert, “Where’s Michael?”

“Michael?” you ask, already getting the sense you’re not going to like where this is going.

“There were five of us. Gene is, well...” he looks away, afraid to say more, like not voicing it will somehow undo the fact that Gene is beyond dead.

Well, shit.

>We can’t spend time hunting for the guy; unless you saw which direction this Michael of yours ran off in, he’s probably gone.
>We’ll look for the guy later. Right now, your friend needs more urgent attention.
>Ugh. Fine. A few of us will have a quick hunt, but no promises.

You fix the green-eyed woman with a frown. She’s not a little wild-eyed; same with the other guy who’s still able to move under his own power. You recognise the look. You’re pretty sure you had the same one when you found your dad...

“Lady,” you say, keeping your voice low and calm, “if Michael is around and didn’t come running with all the gunfire going on, I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“But--”

“We don’t have time,” you cut her off, “Not if you want your other friend here to make it. I’m no doctor, but that,” you point to his savaged legs, “doesn’t look like something you can just shake off.”

The woman looks uncertain, and for a stunned moment you think she’ll actually try to argue the point. Thankfully, rescue--or at least, good sense--comes in the form of her teammate.

“Lily, he’s right. We’ve got to get Theo out of here or he won’t make it.”

She hesitates for a moment, until a glance down at the critically injured Theo gives her all the impetus she needs to make the smart decision. The nod she gives is more a jerk of her head at first, but you see her steel herself and the next is more firm. Decisive.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, we can look for him later. First things first.”

You’re wholly unconvinced you’d find the guy even with two full teams, never mind two understrength ones, but you say nothing as she and the other guy--whose name you haven’t got yet--lift their friend up. It isn’t a gentle process and Theo moans, his head lolling. You’ve half a mind to ask if anyone can put the poor guy to sleep.

“Uh, which way is out?” Lily asks, pale, but a lot more alert.

>Point them in the right direction--you’re fairly close to the edge of the resort, they’ll be fine
>Escort them out; be a damned shame to have spent all that effort saving them only for them to get ambushed on their way out

Never one to miss an opportunity, you give Lily your best ‘everything will be fine’ smile.

“Don’t worry,” you tell her, “We’ll lead you out.”

She’s hesitant at first but another look at the badly mauled Theo cements the decision and she nods. Her other more able friend follows suit.

“Yeah, that sounds great. Lead the way,” he then glances back down at Theo, “All right, old pal, we’re going to lift you up on three, okay? One. Two. Three!”

Despite Theo’s limp protestations regarding what is no doubt considerable pain, the pair hoist him up. The man’s feet drag along the ground though and he cries out before dialling it down to a pathetic whimper. You can’t help but wonder if the guy will ever walk again, such are his wounds.

The distant rattle of combat has died down now, though you weren’t paying enough attention to take a guess at who won. You hope it wasn’t the wendigo. Putting the thought out of your mind, you turn your attention to your own group.

"We’re leading these guys out of the resort. Get around them and well, you know, keep your eyes peeled for any more hungry critters. Be a damned shame for them to kick the bucket after the time we spent rescuing them."

Naru casts a glance deeper into the resort, working her jaw around. Eventually, whatever she was thinking, she either casts it aside or files it away for now, shrugging her shoulders. Arnold stands vigilant, his fingers rap-tapping against the pump of his shotgun, while Diedrich is as twitchy as you’ve come to expect. You watch the blond man keep a half-step away from jumping at shadows and frown--if not for his uniform, you’d honestly never have believed he was any kind of soldier.

That said, you doubt he was expecting to have to be called upon to fight terrors such as you’ve seen.

Makes two of you.

You and the fresh additions start making your way out of the resort. It’s painfully slow going, and Theo won’t stop groaning, and you spend a lot of time crunching through the mysteriously frozen grass wondering what manner of fresh hell the noise might bring.

It seems as though you’re given your answer as shapes begin to materialise in the distance. At first, you think it might be another team; one in the last wave, perhaps. This hope is quickly dashed as you realise that said figures haven’t moved so much as an inch since you spotted them. The sinking feeling you get is vindicated as you move closer to find the shades are back, and they seem to be blocking your way out…

“Oh god,” Lily gasps, “Are those…”

>They’re creepy but harmless. We’ll carry on, just… try not to touch any of them.
>So far, each time these things have appeared, they’ve brought something with them. Get ready for trouble.

“Form up, people, and get ready for some kind of trouble,” you say with a grimace, “Each time these shades show up, they’ve brought something with them.”

You can’t see either of their faces, so intent are you on not getting taken by surprise, but you’re pretty sure you can guess what kind of expressions they’re making about now.

“We can’t stop,” the man--whose name you still don’t know--hisses, “Theo won’t last much longer!”

You grit your teeth, grinding them beneath pressed lips. You can feel the malevolence in the air, and are all but sure that pressing on would be a costly mistake. At the same time, however, the other agent is also correct: unless you get Theo out soon, you’ll be lugging a corpse.

“Some’ve us could always stay be’ind,” Arnold offers, like he’s commenting on no more than the weather, “Keep whatever it is occupied good an’ proper while you an’ them get their mate out.”

>Out of the question. No one splits off, we’ll have to press on as one.
>Fine, two of you will stay while the others carry on (pick who stays/leaves)
>We can’t carry on into an ambush. I’m sorry, but Theo will have to hold on a little longer while we work out what’s going on.

“No,” your decision on Arnold’s suggestion is immediate, “No one breaks off. Not in this mist. We stick together and press onward.”

The two agents lugging Theo about appear distinctly pleased with your decision, and Lily leans in to murmur what sounds like reassurances in his ear. His only response is to groan softly, as he’s been doing on and off since you started moving. Diedrich glances his way and mutters something you don’t quite catch in German. You’re pretty sure you made out at least one curse word, though.

Swallowing, you carry on, passing another empty cabin, all of you keeping wary eyes on the shades. Even now, they multiply. It seems the second you or someone else takes your eyes off one area, they spawn. It’s exactly like it was when you were here previous: all of them are locked in a running pose; reaching out for you like somehow the people they might have been believe you can save them somehow.

Taking in a shivering, breath, you try not to dwell on the probable fate of the poor bastards who once occupied the resort, but it’s a futile effort. All of these were just average folks; business owners and office workers or tradesmen with no connection at all to the weird, weird world that lurks beneath their own, taking a few days to spend with their partners or families… or even just to get a bit of peace from all the talk of war that dominates the news.

It’s as you ponder You stumble and curse, your foot slipping in the sloppy muck of--

...wait a second.

With a pounding heart, you turn your gaze down and find, with a creeping sense of dread, that the frosty grass that crunched underfoot has now become sloppy, thick mud. The change is sudden, but that isn’t what almost stops your heart in your chest.

The mud is the colour of ink, and it ripples almost like seawater as something disturbs it.

You have a really nasty feeling you know what’s coming, and even as you open your mouth and suck in enough air to bark a warning you can’t help but feel you’ll be too late.

>1d100

Rolled 49 (1d100)

Sure enough, it’s too little, too late. A familiar shadow lunges from the earth, arms spread wide almost like it’s trying to embrace the whole party. The creatures claws seem to cut the very air, tearing what look like lines in the very fabric of reality, bringing your mind briefly back to that clock tower in France from a few weeks ago. Unlike that tear, however, which was a pure random fluke--at least as far as you’re aware--this is inflicted by a being wholly aware of what it is doing.

Darkness spreads from the wounds in the very air, surging forward to engulf you. A scream you recognise as belonging to Diedrich echoes from somewhere behind you, briefly overlapping with the shrieking wraith as it descends, and a part of you finds it morbidly amusing that he managed to get a scream out before you did.

It’s strange. Faced with your impending demise, you’d have thought you’d be a lot more frantic. You won’t lie, you’re quite attached to life, and the thought of having it so suddenly snuffed out sits ill with you at best; so much so that you quite believed that a dignified end was firmly out of your reach. Back when you were still living in New York City, you had it in your head that you’d scrape and beg and grovel and generally sink to whatever depths would be necessary in order to ensure your survival. Funny, then, that despite numerous brushes with death, you’ve not really done any of that.

Maybe that will stand you in good stead when the time comes to chat to the Almighty about your varied (and numerous) misdeeds in your tragically brief time. Who knows, you might even get to see your folks, provided what they say about the afterlife turns out to be true…

Or maybe everything will just go dark and you’ll stop thinking.

That might be nice, too.

So when the thing finally descends, and you don’t feel yourself split into rags that vanish through the fabric of time and space itself… you’re a little confused.

All around you is dark. Not the kind of dark like someone had flicked off a light switch and it’s night outside. No, this is like someone flicked off the lights to reality itself. There is nothing, anywhere. Not to your left, nor to your right, behind or in front of you. Neither is there anything above or below. You are in a void…

>”...hello?”
>Try wandering around the empty space?
>Keep still and quiet, maybe this is another kind of trap

Well, one thing is for certain: you’re definitely not dead. At the same time, though, you’re certainly not at a misty little lakeside resort up by the Great Lakes. Whatever that thing did, it wasn’t trying to outright murder you, though lord above knows it certainly could have.

Odd.

Speaking of odd, this pitch black space you currently find yourself in…

“Hm,” you hum, reaching out tentatively with a hand. Sure enough, you meet no resistance, though the motion feels… weird. You bring your arm back down, placing it where it was on the handguard of your Tommy Gun, and feel out the area around you with your foot. You’re standing on something, you can feel it as sure as anything, but for all you can tell, there’s nothing there.

Another weird little detail that’s starting to niggle at the back of your head: despite the darkness, you can see your outstretched limbs as clear as day. How?

“Goddamnit,” you grumble, frowning. Just your luck to get whisked away to some kind of phantom dimension or alternate reality without anyone else.

Well, however fucked your situation is, you don’t feel up to sticking in one place. God only knows when the thing that brought you here might make an appearance and if there is a somewhere in this nightmare scenario that the shadowy shit won’t be, you’d like to be there.

Also maybe getting a move on will make you think about something other than how probably fucked you are.

Your first step doesn’t pitch you into a long, unending fall, and neither does the next; nor the one after that. In good time, you’re off at a comfortable jog in… fuck, you don’t know what direction, you just settled for straight on. You wish you had a compass, and then wonder how or if it would even work in this bizarre place you find yourself.

There’s no telling how far you wander, or how long said wandering takes you. Long enough that you’ve slowed your pace to an ambling stroll as the weight of the kit you brought takes its toll on your already weary limbs. Combat, you’ve swiftly discovered, is exhausting. Makes you wonder how those brightly-coloured heroes in those comics that kids read can manage it.

Oh, right, they don’t really exist.

You’re dwelling on that thought longer than you’d really like when a sound mercifully distracts you.

Unfortunately, it’s not quite a good sound.

A distant shriek, and one you recognise as belonging to the shitbag that sent you here.

>Weary bones be damned, it’s time for more running
>You know what, screw it, maybe another fireball in the thing’s face might get it to throw you out of here

Frustration surges through you. You’ve been running and fighting and trying your damnedest not to get killed for what feels like a few days instead of a handful of hours. You could try running, but what would actually be the point? Wherever you are, it’s a safe bet that this thing comes from here. Fleeing would probably only play into its hands.

So, with a flush of rage--one born of fear, anxiety and a growing desire to give the old New Yorker salute to whatever asshole in charge put you through all of this--you stop and turn. A word spoken and one arm ignites; purple flame rippling along the limb, ready for you to compress into projectile form and hurl it with gusto.

"Yeah, come find me," you mutter, voice low and dark with murderous intent. You're sick of being pushed around like this. You think you see a speck in the distance that looks vaguely like what you're looking for.

"You hear me?" you shout, clenching and unclenching the fingers of your blazing hand, "I'm right here you coward! You want a fight, you come to... to..."

The sight of your ambusher resolves itself much more swiftly than you imagined, though not in a way you expected--or wanted. What you'd taken to be a very squirmy-looking fuckstick from the void is actually a goddamned swarm of the things...

"...oh, that's just not fair," you groan.

>...oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. Bring the heat (TN 60+)
>On second thoughts, maybe discretion is the better part of valour (TN 65+)

The sheer undeniable futility of your situation almost makes you want to laugh. And cry. Probably about half and half. Can’t run--nowhere to run. So, it seems as though you have but one option.

Ah, hell, what’s that old saying? A cornered rat fights fiercest?

It’s appropriate enough.

“Well,” you sigh, shaking with a blend of pure terror and a rush of adrenaline as you prepare for what is undoubtedly going to be a very unpleasant few minutes, “I guess it’ll be pretty damned hard for me to miss, at least.”

>1d100 TN60+ Bonus of +5 because of target-rich environment

Rolled 90 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

Your Tommy Gun won’t do you much good--balefire it might be loaded with, but you saw buckshot and bullets phase right through the thing that tried abducting Iszolda and you’re under no illusions that you’ll do any better now. So, you sling it over your back and cut loose, both hands now ablaze in violet fire.

“Right, then,” you say, sucking in a lungful of air and wondering just how much your dented reserves of energy might last you, “Let’s make this a little more interesting...”

Combining two fields is a tricky business--you’ve heard stories of people who had quite literally exploded trying--but you were ever a cautious learner and, for all your various faults, your particular talents were one of the few things you took very seriously.

So you hope, when the horde of shrieking spectres find not one, nor five, or even a dozen, but a small platoon of identical men, all wielding purple fire, that they can feel something equivalent to shock. The onslaught pauses for a brief instant.

You grin.

“Let ‘em have it, boys,” you call, casting the first of what will be a brisker fusilade than you’d really like. It takes quite a lot of control and even more power to keep this facade up, and you’re hoping it’ll last long enough for…

...you don’t actually know.

Fire sears the first of the encroaching spectres into a shrieking mist, and another, and another after that. Dozens of fireballs land among the mass, exploding with all the flash and dazzle you’d expect from the real thing. Of course, they’re not. Not all of them, anyway. You’re good, but you aren’t quite that good.

Of course, then, it’s only inevitable that the majority of the things crash into your makeshift army and start cutting it to ribbons. You imagine that it would be quite the gruesome spectacle if they were real people. All the while, though, you fling fireball after fireball, making sure to target the ones that are actually headed your way while also trying to keep the numbers of fake Adams up.

It is, unfortunately, a losing fight, and in a much shorter time than you’d like, you find yourself alone, sweat running down your face and feeling like you might keel over any second. The fireball in your hand gutters like the light of a candle in the wind and dies.

This is it, then.

Or so you believe, until an inky black puddle opens up beneath you and swallows you whole before you can so much as yelp in surprise. You fall, for what is a terrifyingly long time, too exhausted to even scream. The void still encompasses you, and then you feel…

It starts with a crawling sensation, like an insect running up and down your bare leg. The one becomes two, becomes ten, becomes a thousand. You try to correct your plummeting enough to take a look and catch a glimpse of some kind of tar or mud crawling up your body, slowly swallowing you up. The parts of you already covered feel numb, disconnected.

You do scream then.

And then, as if incensed by the noise, it progresses further, faster, cocooning you in a cloying murk that seeps in through your ears and sludges its way into your nose. You take one last, panicked gulp of air before it forces its way into your mouth and down your throat, finally muffling your screaming. You gag, but the blockage prevents you from vomiting. Your chest burns, everything feels awful and you can hear something whispering in your ear get it out get it out getitoutgetitoutgetitout--

You wake up screaming, clawing at yourself with frantic hands, pawing at the sludge that…

...isn’t there.

You spend a moment in dull, stupefied silence, confused, probably a little traumatised… and incredibly thankful just to still be alive.

At least… you think you’re still alive.

You glance down, finding everything on you that you recall having before. Either you are indeed still alive, or the entity running the afterlife has an awful sense of humour.

Grunting with effort, and still feeling incredibly drained, you pick yourself up and blink away as much of your fatigue as you’re able. Casting your gaze about yourself, you find that you are in...

>The interior of a burning mansion
>A dark, dank, damp system of caves
>A thick, dark and snowy forest

WRITE-IN: >A security office in a run-down pizza joint

...well, of all the places you could have wound up, this was probably one you’d have least expected.

You stand in an office. A ratty, run-down looking office at that with a battered, positively ancient desk with stacks of old paperwork and a chair that looked a light breeze away from collapsing. A window peers out into the interior of…

...hold on.

“It can’t be,” you murmur, unable to believe what your eyes are telling you. You take a wary step towards the door, suspicious that this is just another trap. When nothing screams out from the shadows at you, you take another step and reach out for the door handle. Again, nothing untoward happens.

Still on guard, you turn the handle and open the door. The glass windows give you a clear view out onto what should be a bustling city street filled with chattering pedestrians and honking cabs. There’s no mistaking your environment, though--the chalkboard menu, the cooler behind the counter filled with bottles of soda, the filthy grey and white checkered-tile floor, the dented cash register, even the smattering of crummy, cheap wooden tables and chairs that dot an open space off to the side…

This is Garluccio’s.

You used to get pizza here.

You’re home.

Blinking again, you creep slowly over to the window, pressing a hand to the glass gingerly--like the scene will shatter like glass if you push too hard. Peering through, you can see that opposite Garluccio’s is Joel’s Candy shop. Next to it is a closed down store, one that had been shut down long before you first stepped foot down this way. On the other side is the shoe shop…

It’s all the same.

Heart hammering in your chest, you reach down and place a hand against the door handle before pulling towards you. The door holds firm. You try again, more forcefully this time. Nothing. Locked? A quick check confirms.

A sudden surge of anger rushes through you and you raise your elbow to smash the glass--

You stop.

“Come on, Adam,” you breathe, sucking in a breath and reigning in your temper, “Don’t be stupid.”

This isn’t real. You aren’t back home. Something is showing you what you want to see.

Inhaling through the nose, willing yourself to be calm, you turn around to try and work this out--

--and find the stranger from earlier standing in front of the counter.

He is exactly as you saw him last--all in black, short, dark hair slicked back. He regards the pizzeria with curiosity.

“This…” he says, finally, “is unusual. Not at all what I expected.”

So close to the man, you can see that he’s actually quite tall. At least a few inches taller than you--and you are hardly short to begin with, and though his hands are pushed deep within the pockets of his coat, he still exudes an air of palpable threat. All in all, you think your first instincts as to the man were quite correct. This is not a man you want as your enemy.

“Honestly, I was expecting something rather altogether more different to serve as the site,” he says, “Perhaps something from the minds of one of your friends,” he gestures with a hand and, as though they had been there all along, you see Naru, Arnold, and the three agents from before lying unconscious on the floor next to him.

“What--” you begin.

But he cuts you off, “Interesting that you were chosen. Though, I suppose in a way, it shouldn’t be. The ---------- are vindictive beasts. I can’t imagine they’d ever have allowed a man who wounded one of their number to simply walk free when he wanders back into their abode.”

He said… a word. You’re certain of it. You saw his lips move. Or start to move. Then… it was like the world went silent as he spoke it; the name. The name of the things that have harassed yout--that brought you here? Come to think, you feel a little dizzy and your vision is a bit blurred. You raise a hand to your face and find that it’s trembling.

“Ah,” says the stranger, “I apologise. So much time spent… I forget that others are untuned.”

>Untuned? What?
>Who are you? Where are we?
>What am I doing here? Where’s Diedrich?

You blink, wholly confused.

“Untuned? What do you mean by that? Actually, more to the point: who the hell and more importantly what are you? And where the hell are we? And while I’m listing off all these questions I might as well ask where the hell Diedrich is too!”

The stranger blinks, and you see the corner of his lip twitch in what you feel damned certain is amusement.

“I apologise. You weren’t meant to get yourself caught up in this. It was supposed to be… cleaner,” the way the word rolls off his tongue, like the sudden disappearance of a resort full of people is akin to a spilled glass of whiskey, sets you on edge immediately. You refrain from launching into a tirade, fully aware that the man before you could likely destroy you in an instant.

He continues: “But, as I said, the--” he clears his throat, “Sorry. Slip of the mind. The creatures who brought you here remember you. It’s not often they’re dragged out from their home and burned by hellfire--on the same day, no less, and they’re rather one of those ‘hurt one, hurt all’ communities.” He spreads his hands apologetically, “Not that you did yourself any favours by choosing to return. I did think I’d made myself quite clear the first time around.”

“What does that have to do with--” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I am in a good mood,” he says, “And despite the noise outside, I find myself with quite ample time. So, I will indulge your curiosity. Who knows, you might perhaps sate my own.”

“Really?” you ask, wary. The way he spoke regarding ‘noise outside’ makes you suspect he’s referring to the various other teams moving into the resort. This in turn brings you to the conclusion that, despite his amicable nature thus far, he’s no friend.

“I’m quite serious, let me assure you,” he nods, leaning back against the counter.

“No selling my immortal soul to the devil?” you ask, only half-kidding. He chuckles but otherwise gives no response. That… is a little worrying.

“Well… since you’re being so nice about it, I guess I should start with my missing man.”

“This Diedrich you mentioned?”

You nod.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest,” he says with a polite shrug, “If the…” he pauses again, brow furrowing in consternation, “Hm, going to need to find a way to refer to them. ‘Creatures’ is a little too... mmm, crude a description.”

“Diedrich?” You press, a little impatiently.

“Oh, sorry. Well, if he had been transported, as I presume you and,” he motions with a hand to the pile of unconscious people at his feet, “they all were, he would be here. If he is not then he either was not taken or he is dead. I’d offer my condolences, but I suspect you’d find them disingenuous in the extreme.”

“That’d be a word for it,” you mutter.

He ignores the remark, “As to your other questions? Well, my name is Edwin Hollard. I am what is commonly referred to as a sorcerer.”

You feel your bowels churn at the title. Sorcerers, unlike mages, are born with magic in them, and are thus capable of feats several orders of magnitude more powerful than even a genius mage. If this isn’t just an idle boast--and truthfully, nothing about his body language or eye contact suggests that it is--then this would well explain how he was able to transport you and your team away so effortlessly.

Trying to find a way of taking your mind off the fact that you share a very enclosed space with such a powerful being, you press on with another of your earlier questions.

“Right, right. Uh, you mentioned ‘attuned’ or something, when you said that word, what--what does that mean?”

The man--Edwin--pauses, appearing suddenly thoughtful.

“It is difficult to explain,” he says, after almost a minute’s pondering, “It is… imagine having been born blind, or crippled, and suddenly, midway through your life, being able to see or walk. That, I suppose, would be as good a way to describe it as I imagine it’s possible with our rather limited perception.”

“What do you mean?”

He chuckles again, “Oh, I really don’t think you want to know the answer to that, my good man. But, seeing as you asked so nicely...”

He points a finger at you. For a moment, you struggle to work out what he’s doing, until you feel a spark of power in the air and then--

--it wakes--

--you gasp. Your lungs burn as though you’ve been holding your breath for hours on end. You are soaked in sweat, on your knees, hands and elbows propping your inexplicably weary body up and the only thing keeping you from lying face-down on Garluccio’s dirty floor. Your vision is blurred and unfocused, and there’s a ringing in your ears that seems to come from the inside of your head.

“Whu--” you speak, and find your throat feels dry as the deserts in Africa. The next thing you know you feel a roiling in your gut. There’s no stopping yourself from emptying the contents of your stomach onto the ground. The stench makes you gag and groggily, you force yourself up on shaking legs that feel like they’d snap if someone so much as coughed at you.

“That,” Edwin peers across the room at you, “is very interesting.”

You really aren’t sure you like the sound of that. You already feel another wave of nausea coming, and your stomach feels like it’s doing its best to cramp up.

“You’ve been touched,” Edwin notes, “Not too long ago, at that. Within the last three months at the very most. Granted, there’s nothing but a residual presence, but even so...” he trails off, considering, “Maybe there is more to your appearance here than simple revenge on the part of the--ah, excuse me, I almost did it again. I must ask: how did you come across the shard?”

You’re still struggling to keep your buzzing head up and not on the presently much-filthier floor, but even dazed as you are, you catch movement--from another door, behind the counter. The handle turns slowly. Silently. And a face you don’t think you’ve ever been happier to see steps through it like a ghost--Nathaniel!

He looks like he’s been run ragged--his once pristine clothes are torn and bloodied and half-shredded. His expression, however, is determined, though when he locks onto the back of Edwin’s head, it twists into a rictus of scantly-suppressed fury. Well, Dawson clearly wasn’t pulling your leg when he said Nathaniel had beef with the other guy.

Despite his obvious hatred of the man before him, Nathaniel plays it smart. Edwin doesn’t react to the other Englishman’s presence, so it stands to reason he’s not heard him.

That means it’s down to you to keep the man distracted until Nathaniel can deal the finishing blow.

>Hold on, I still have one last question you haven't answered. Where are we, exactly?
>Shard? What? I don’t remember…
>There was a cave in the Pacific. Something underneath the earth...

Well, time to see how good your acting skills are.

While you aren’t a hundred percent sure what a ‘Shard’ is, you think you can guess. The whole place stinks of… whatever that thing under the island in the Pacific was. It’s only logical that’s what he could be referring to and, much as you don’t want to, you drudge up the memory.

“There was a cave,” you start, slowly, affecting the air of a man gradually recovering his wits and sifting through his memories, “Somewhere in the Pacific.”

You pause for dramatic effect. Edwin’s gaze is fixated on you, and he’s clearly listening intently. Why he wants to hear a story of how you encountered a mind-bending fragment of something other instead of going to find it himself you don’t know, but you figure at this stage, that and the sorcerer’s curiously upbeat mood are the only things keeping you alive--or conscious, which you figure amounts to more or less the same thing.

“Go on,” he motions with a hand, “What did you see?”

Nathaniel begins to creep towards the counter, hand firmly on the grip of his sword, dragging it from its sheath at an agonisingly slow pace so as not to give away the sound of scraping steel. His own gaze has been locked on Edwin since he arrived, and you can practically feel the murderous intentions the English aristocrat has for his opposite number. You hope that Edwin doesn’t make use of some kind of detection magic, otherwise this whole exercise will have been pretty pointless.

“I...” you swallow before continuing, “There were merfolk in the caverns below. Crazed. Bloodthirsty. Think they were guarding something, it--it...”

“Yes…?”

Nathaniel stops. He can’t be more than a few steps away now, timing his slow footsteps with that of the sound of your voice. Just a little further, now and then, hopefully…

>Keep the charade going. Nathaniel can do the heavy lifting.
>Edwin’s a powerful sorcerer--you need to keep his attention on you. If you make enough of a move, you might just give Nathaniel the opening he needs. (TN?)

Suppressing the urge to swallow, you focus your attention squarely on Edwin. The way you see it, you’ve done and been through a hell of a lot. Someone else can do the heavy lifting for once.

“Go on,” Edwin prompts again, a little more impatient this time around.

“Okay,” you nod, fully aware that if he flies off the handle, there’s very little you can do to stop him, “Okay. There was… something in the cave. It was like--like a field of sapphires.”

“Sapphires?” Edwin leans forward, eyes alight with curiosity.

“Crystals,” you clarify, “They glowed blue, I think. They were everywhere--you couldn’t walk a few paces without crunching on a cluster, like they were growing out of the damned rock or something,” you chuckle, like you think it’s funny. In truth, you don’t, it was not an experience you care to revisit whatsoever, not least with--

--it wakes--

--the thing at the centre still latched onto the recesses of your mind like a malignant tumour.

“Hold on, there,” Edwin says, squinting through narrowed eyes at you, “Did you… feel that, perchance?”

You hesitate, entirely unsure as to what he’s talking about.

“Feel… what?”

He hums, low and even. You can’t tell if it’s because he’s just made a note of something or if he feels some kind of dissatisfaction. Eventually he sighs, and motions for you to continue with a wave of his hand. You spend another moment in silence wondering whether you passed or failed some kind of test before carrying on.

“We came into a cavern. Not a real big one, but it was lit up like the night sky on the Fourth, and all of the light came from… from…”

You try to bring up a picture of the thing you saw, but everything’s just a blurry haze. You feel warmth trickle from your nose down your lips. Something pit-pats on the floor at your feet. You can taste copper in the back of your throat. Why can’t you bring it up? It was such a little thing.

Such a little, little thing…

“Such a little…” you mumble. A small part of your consciousness is vaguely aware of Edwin pushing himself off the counter, a wide grin on his face. You think it’s a funny look on him--he doesn’t look like a real smiley guy. A shadow arises from behind the counter. You dimly recall that you recognise the face belonging to the shadow--its silvery hair, the furious expression, and the blade it wields like the weapon is but an extension of his own being.

The silvery shadow descends in a heartbeat. The sorcerer turns, but it’s too late. Point-first, the blade drives through the man’s heart and bursts out the other end, the steel running red with crimson fluid. The coppery tang of blood fills the air and you find it bringing you back from… wherever your mind was hovering off to.

Nausea fills you and you have to hold a hand out to keep your balance. Your gut roils and for another unpleasant moment, you think you might lose what little remains in your stomach. Gasping, you suck in a deep lungful of air and breathe. Shaking your head once you feel like you can stand walking, you glance over to the pile of unconscious men and women, none of whom have so much as stirred since arriving. Your gaze then travels up to the counter, where Nathaniel…

Your heart stops in your chest.

Run through the heart, with his own lifeblood drip-dripping onto the tiled floor beneath him, Edwin continues to stand looking no worse for wear, notable exception being that he now has a sword rammed through his chest. Even Nathaniel appears stumped by this stupefying turn of events.

“I wondered who that was,” he says, a thin line of blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “I must say, I am surprised to find you, of all people, here. Though in a sense, I should probably not be.”

He turns his head as far as it will allow him to in order to better face the man who impaled him, curiosity writ upon his face, “I am most curious as to how you came to survive all this time, especially given how we parted in our last encounter. Ultimately, though, it’s no matter. I am still me and you, it seems, are still you.”

He raises a hand and snaps his fingers. The wall to Nathaniel’s flank ripples, and the Englishman’s eyes widen a fraction as he works to free his sword. Edwin, however, clamps a hand around the blade, gashing his hand open and spilling more of his blood onto the floor and spattering his clothes. The man makes neither sound nor so much as a wince to suggest that he should at the very least be in crippling agony.

“It’s not often one gets to participate in the murder of the same man twice over,” Edwin muses aloud. You’ve got no time to work out what the hell he’s talking about, you need to do something--anything to keep this batshit crazy situation from getting any worse. What will do--a fireball? No, no, he’d probably snuff it out in a heartbeat. What about another army of fake shooters like you achieved in France? Hell, you don't have the energy for it--you’d probably pass out as soon as you conjured it up and that then would cut the illusion. What about the Tommy G--

A dark shape materialises from the wall, shrieking in mad fury. It strikes too fast for you to follow. You gape, jaw hanging in horror…

...as Nathaniel Arkwright’s severed head bounces across the floor and lands at your feet.

END