Weekend Edition

"The Order is many different things to many different people. A relic of the past, a gilded cage...'the real monsters'. All manner of slights, some more deserved than others. Many believe the Order has become too powerful, too overbearing. But where they see power, I see strength. Where they see overbearing, I see care. To me, the Order is a promise from one man to another. Once, we broke that promise. It is our duty, and our choice, to never let that happen again. That is why we became strong. That is why we came to Aulrein. For we understand the dream of the Frontier. Every man born unto this earth does. To take back what was lost...and march onward to the future. No matter what shadows may fall on these plains. No matter how dark the road gets. With unmatched and unyielding courage, the Order will be here, and must be here, to guide mankind through the night and into the light of dawn."

As I sat in the office on the second flor of the barracks, hastily scurrying down my notes, I found myself struck by his beaming countenance. His answer was grandiose and self-righteous, as typical of the Order, but his eyes held the spark of a man looking towards his future. His remarks were planned and practiced, no doubt, but held some key differences from the supposed doctrine laid out in the far-off capital. As my pen danced across the pad, I wondered who he felt he was speaking too. I pushed him on that point. His features hardened. He stod up, stepped over to the window and loked out over the stre--

"Dammit."

She swore under her breath, removed the paper from the typewriter and making a mental not to get that 'O' key looked at. She moved to strike a line through the error, but, reading it over again, decided to strike out the entire paragraph. "Too much praise. Not enough skepticism." With a sigh, she returned the paper to the machine, glanced at her notes, the clock, her notes again, and then back to the page. "And far too subjective."

Claire was a reporter, a journalist, working in the employ of the Aulrein Post, the most-widely read paper published in the Frontier, and the only one published daily in Dammerung. It was a quarter past four on a Friday afternoon, and she was struggling to finish up her draft on what was supposed to be a major story: a one-on-one interview with Colonel Dale Johnson, the Commander of all Order forces on the Frontier. This was her third interview with the man and, in her eyes, the most important, occurring right in the middle of an ongoing an extremely controversial Order operation. She had been sitting on this almost all week, wishing she had been able to ask a few more questions here and there. What was the Order's objective? Why did they need to shut down the railyard? Why did city leadership agree to it? She had pushed other sources for answers, but to no avail. As such, see couldn't help but feel her story was incomplete.

And now she was in danger of missing the deadline for the Weekend Edition.

The sound of uneven footfalls on hardwood floor alerted her to a familiar presence approaching from behind.

"Claire?" A voice came from behind.

"Mr. Bradly?"

Robert Bradly was the editor-in-chief of the Post. An approachable and easygoing, man even for his line of work, he had gained a curious notoriety in the office for being the head of the news industry in town but having a nigh-nebulous past. So much so that discerning the details had become a pastime for the journalistic staff. Claire, for her part, had traced back to a lengthy career at a newspaper in Joufoss, but Bradly's penchant for naval metaphors had most of her co-workers trying to place him on every ship between Zipangu and the Order Capital.

"Claire, is that interview done yet?"
"Not yet, sir."
"You've been sitting on it for several days now."
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm just so sure I'm on to something. I'm this close to figuring out what the Order wants from--"
Bradly let out a sigh.
"Claire, I know you care about this story--
"Yes, so that's why I need--
"But it isn't our job to write stories.    These are trying times, Claire. Tensions are high and rumors are everywhere. If we fail in our duty to right the ship, to discern fact from speculation then...then what hope is there for anyone else. Understand?"
Her lip gave a slight quiver before she steeled herself once more and set about typing away.
"Yes sir."
"It isn't our job to search for a story. Our job is to find the truth and tell it to the world."
"I... yes, sir."
He took a discarded page from off her desk and skimmed it over with a cocked eyebrow.
"If you need more time, we could just"
"It's fine, sir."
"Well, keep up the good work then."
"Thank you, sir."

With that, Bradly took off with his signature gait. The sound of his shoes echoing across hardwood reverberated through the office, blending and fading with the clacking of typewriters until the two became indistinguishable.

"It had to be perfect," she thought. Bradly gave her this chance because she trusted her, and she couldn't let him down. More so, this was her chance to prove she could handle something bigger than baseball games and boxcar trains. Something worldly, with far-reaching consequences. Finally, she could drop the fluff and get into real reporting.

But first she had to write this story.

She gave another sigh as she looked up at the blank page before her, then closed her eyes, shoved her typewriter out of the way, and violently slammed her forehead against the desk. The brief ruckus, followed by a faint "ouch," promoted a curious glance from Carl, who she quickly waved off with a forced smile.

"Good thing you didn't hit the typewriter. Heard that one's got enough problems already," he whispered.

Carl was the resident expert on events outside the Frontier, but was also a fairly lonesome man, such to the point he rarely uttered a word outside strictly-professional conversations. Claire sometimes wondered what was going on in his head when--

Claire stopped herself mid-thought. She had gotten off track again. She needed to focus. She began re-reading her notes, wracking her brain--metaphorically this time--in hopes of getting the words to flow. She decided, if nothing else, she should at least finish off the roughest of drafts just to ensure her shorthand was converted into something resembling an article. It was painfully slow and agonizing work, but at least it was some progress. Perhaps the editors would not be too hard on her, although she was still concerned what her very obvious struggles with such a serious piece could mean for the future of her career.

Twenty minutes in, Claire was again interrupted by a distinctive and familiar sound. The chimes at the front door of the office had just rang. Someone had just stepped inside and was now making their way across the room. Claire turned just enough to see a flash of red before quickly snapping her head back to desk.

"Alan."

Alan Fields was a young man, reportedly in his early twenties. From what she had heard, he was a scholar--having recently graduated from some far-away university he returned to his hometown of Dammerung not even half a year ago. Every now and again he turned up at the Post in order to rent out one of their smaller presses--presumably to make copies of some leaflet, or pamphlet, or other such work for circulation around the city.

And every time he turned up at the Post, Claire always found herself working three times as hard just to get anything done. She herself had no idea why he had this effect on her. Scruffy brown hair and a ratty college blazer. Surely there were other, more handsome, more noteworthy men in town but--

Claire caught herself slipping again. Another grueling hour and she had managed to punch out something vaguely resembling a coherent article.

"Next week," she sighed.

She collected her draft from the typewriter, and locked both it and her manuscript in the drawer under her desk. She slipped into her off-white jacket, picked her matching hat up off the table, and bid work adieu with a mumbled "Evenin', Carl."

Carl, for his part, peeked over his desk and offered a meek "Evenin' Claire," just as the door chime sounded again.

***

The quarter-mile walk from the office to her apartment wasn't particularly long, but the increasingly warm Summer evenings, combined with the less-than-productive conclusion to the work week, left an exhausted Claire sweating in her suit. The final two flights of stairs were particularly taxing, and by the end of it all, Claire came bursting into her apartment with a resounding huff.

Her apartment was one of the cheapest--that is, most affordable-- this side of the river. One room, serving as a combined living area and kitchen, featuring a small couch, a table, and a simple stove. The lone adjoining room was a bathroom with a small closet. The uniting theme of the apartment was size: small. Fortunately, Claire's meager frame only made this point notable when she had guests.

Another perk of having a small apartment: less space meant less work keeping things tidy. It only took her a second to notice when something was out of place, such as that small envelope lying just in front of the door. She picked it up and placed it on the table, making a mental note to have another look at it after changing into something comfortable.

In contrast to the shabby state of her abode, she was quite proud of her attire, taking the utmost care to hang it properly in her closet. An off-white jacket paired with matching slacks and felt hat. Not one of those top hats like they wore up at the Keep. This hat had a wide brim, albeit not as wide as the one the guard captain wore from time to time. An earthy brown vest complemented the jacket, although she regretted not opting for a similarly-colored button-up shirt considering the recent weather trends.

Some months ago, the entire office had received a special message from the owner of the Post, Mr. Graham Meyer. Hoping to set his employees in the field apart from ordinary journalists, he provided all journalistic staff members with a generous stipend. With some choice recommendations from Bradley, Claire completed a strikingly unique ensemble of clothes to pair with her prized suit. She even topped it off with, ironically, a pair of matching two-tone shoes.

Mr. Meyer was an eccentric man, always giving various odd directives that never failed to spice this up. He was also a very enigmatic man. He had never stepped foot in the office once during her time at the Post thus far. Nevertheless, without his initial financial backing, the Post wouldn't have become what it is today. Not to mention, he personally tracked down and tapped Mr. Bradly for the job of editor-in-chief. Rumor had it Meyer was presently off on another continent, working on a project adapted from some monstrous magecraft. Monstrous as in copied from the monsters. She smirked a bit, and shifted her eyes to the small, silver ring about the middle finger of her left hand.

She had waited long enough. It was time to truly unwind. Firmly grasping the ring betwixt her thumb and index finger, she slowly slid it off with a twist.

She shuddered, her fingers froze up, and the ring fell to the floor with a plink. No matter how many times she did this, she never got used to the feeling of sudden liberation--like a cork shooting off a bottle of champagne. She fell to her knees, awash in ecstasy so overpowering she could manage little more than to cup and fondle her breasts, buckling over and biting down on a couch cushion to suppress her moans for the sake of her neighbors. For a brief moment, her entire being was aflame. The warmth of euphoria assaulted her from within and without as passion poked and prodded, nipping the nape of her neck before subsiding to leave in the throes of her own overflowing senses.

Then it returned, as powerful as ever. Grasping, clawing at her very being. Pulling her down, down, deeper into the darkness. But she was not afraid. This pleasure, inhuman by all accounts, was no stranger to her than her own two hands. She resisted only out of concern of revealing herself to others. Her consciousness faded in and out before at last she collapsed from exhaustion.

Stillness hung over the apartment for but a moment. Then there was a crackle and a spark. Light burst from the fallen ring in a great arc before disappearing into Claire's small form. Her fingers twitched and her eyes fluttered back open. She picked herself up off the floor a cracked a smile as she took in the

A curious invention, that ring of hers. Commonplace in some circles, it contained powerful sealing glyphs capable of hiding a demonic presence so completely that even the most observant Order mage would be nome the wiser to a monster in their midst. At least that was what she was told, anyway, and she really didn't want to push her lick on that point. Further, the ring was not without drawbacks. Claire's sight, hearing, and other senses all too a hit, along with her stamina and agility. Although she remained comfortably above average by human standards, it was still jarring just how clear the world became when she returned to her true form.

The greater drawback came from the transformation itself. By sealing away all that which made her a monster, the ring effectively turned her into a human. Consequently, removing the ring unleash all that energy, resulting in a transformation that was little different from a human girl transforming for the first time. Monsterization inherently involved forcing demonic energy into a human vessel to the point where the vessel needed to physically transform in order to contain it--like overflowing a wine bottle and having it expand rather than burst. The energy did the hard part on its own, really, transfiguring the body and masking the pain with pleasure--unimaginable and overwhelming pleasure, far beyond what a normal human could bear.

Even with the knowledge of what was to become of her, as well as a lack of resistance to the changes, there was little to protect Claire from this sensation and ultimately her mind and body gave out. She had heard tales of some monsters with the stamina and fortitude to remain conscious through it all, but only because the circumstances made it absolutely necessary, and even then they would be left barely able to stand.

To compensate for this, Claire's ring came with an additional enchantment that absorbed and contained ambient energy separate from her own demonic energy. Some time after the ring was removed, this enchantment would release that energy and, hopefully, rejuvenate the user. Naturally, there were risks associated with removing the ring in open areas or with other people around, and a brief moment of unconsciousness was virtually unavoidable. But Claire had gone through this process enough times that she didn't even bother considering the inner workings of her prized trinket. She was more interested in going over the various restored features of her form.