Culmination
by Damien Hunt

* * *

Our garden paradise, Earth, is long dead. All that remains is a desolate wasteland over run by hordes of monstrous spawn disgorged from the daemonic hells. What remnants of humanity remain, do so in ignorance of our true state of damnation, all save a few select souls. Instead, the surviving masses of mankind cower within the super city structure known as the Zone and attempt to lead the semblance of a normal life. Deep within this honeycombed structure, in a decrepit sublevel four, Fates chosen madman guides a prophecy in its struggle for fulfillment...

* * *

He creeps ahead, urging her forward with impatient gestures when the way seems clear. She follows without complaint, struggling to stay quiet and looking wildly around her with wide blue eyes constantly expectant of doom. She is a dirty, tired, frightened, torn and starved young girl of no more than fourteen, but with the hollowed eyes and worry creased face of someone thrice her age. Fresh spilt blood, just starting to dry, stains her scavenged collection of mismatching cloths, mingling with the uneven layers of dirt across her face and matted into tangles of long dark hair. She doesn’t notice, it isn’t hers. He is better kept than she is, and less obviously terrified. Black cracked leather encases his skinny, but much larger frame. He is several years older than the girl, at least eighteen and moves purposely through the alleyway ahead of her.

Ahead of them the alley widens into a large yard, a congestion of discarded industrial refuse piled high within the gap between warehouses. A maze within a maze, mottled in scrap metal greys and decaying rust reds that hide uncountable jagged edges and corroded sections awaiting collapse. He pauses, crouching low to observe the junction, listening and watching and waiting. Slowly she moves up behind him, sitting down upon the dark concrete and resting her eyes on the back of his closely shaven head.

She doesn’t know what is going on, she merely sits waiting for him to command her. Lifting one hand up from the pavement to push a sticky lock of hair out of her face she notices the dark print. Dark on dark, in the outline of her hand on the concrete where it had been resting only a moment ago. Confused, she looks closer and the lock of hair slides down over her face again, almost wetly. Almost, but with a stickiness to it so that it clings to her cheek. Slowly, already knowing but in a denial that requires horrible confirmation, she turns her palm up to see it smeared in dark dirty crimson. Images rush through her mind’s eye. Friends torn to shreds, disemboweled and eaten alive. Howls of delight and hunger mingling with wails of pain and torment. She retches violently over the bloody hand print and hangs there over the mess, panting and weeping.

“Van,” she says, the attempted whisper choking on pain and sorrow so that it croaks out, “they’re all gone...”

He hisses at her for quiet and turns, one hand coming up reflexively. But he stops, remaining where he is so he can keep watching. Punishment can wait, first he has to get them through the conduits alive. He doesn’t see her lack of reaction, but obediently she says no more and continues to sit in shock and silence. Van watches the junction for a few moments more, then steps away into the shadows and is gone. There is no motion for her to follow, so she stays where she is, wallowing in the stink of vomit and the blood that had been her friends. Slowly it is drying against her skin.

It takes Van long, uncountable minutes to make his way through the rust maze towards the muffled grunting he had heard before, when he was with Layna. He pushes revolted and angry thoughts of the stupid little cunt away, concentrating on staying quiet, staying alive. Wiggling his way into a small niche full of eaten through corrosion holes, he spies the very thing that hunts them both. Everything slows to a sudden crawl accept his chest, which clinches up and stops all breath in frozen lungs. Mid-beat, Van’s heart gets caught up in the clutch of horror as he stares at the monstrosity beyond the thin dilapidated sheet of scrap.

It is small, even smaller than Layna, but short limbs are corded with thick muscle and it moves with the jerky motions of something that finds only discomfort in any kind of motionless. The creature appears at first to be naked and horribly disfigured, but Van notices the feeble stitching and realizes with a further twisting within his guts that it wears the skins of its victims. Its face is a mockery of humanity, twisted like melted wax and melded with that of a snarling beast. A great nose, wet with filth, flares taking in deep breaths to taste the air. Slowly the beast turns back to continue its work, grunting in annoyance or contentment or some other feral emotion beyond the understanding of Van’s reluctantly defrosting brain.

Van lets out the breath that he realizes he has been holding, but slowly, carefully. Above the creature, painted along the wall of one of the warehouses fencing in the junkyard, is a massive symbol. Arcane and mysterious, it is blacker than black and the shadows around it seem deeper. What light flickers down from the sublevel’s cracked, dilapidated system of phosphorescent lighting is not enough to feed the dark sigil and it has the appearance of being angry about this. A pungent wave and a loud wet smack snaps Van out of the strangeness of it all. The creature begins tossing its own shit at the symbol and then grabs its massive member in talons and pisses over it. Van starts to understand the grunting noises as frustration, the creature continues attempting to deface the strange seal. Van makes his way back, slow step after slow, silent step.

He finds Layna where he left her, sitting next to a pile of rags with a blank stunned look on her face, staring at her hands. He rolls his eyes, momentarily wondering why he bothered wasting and risking the time to return for her, but still motions impatiently for her to follow as he skulks back into the junkyard maze. She looks at the strange leathery ring around her finger, rises and follows slowly. Fear remains in the cloudy blues of her eyes as she follows, but it is distracted. Obscured by confusion, curiosity or perhaps a little of both.

* * *

The door, or the remains of what used to be a door, kicks in with a satisfying clatter of rotten sheets of melded plastics. A cloud of stained fibers rain down on three small shapes standing just outside, only one of which remains in the dust path. Seemingly not bothered by the choking debris, the small thin boy steps into the building while the other two remain coughing outside. With a shake of his long dreds, the boy clears his head of the dirty layer and surveys the ruined interior of a once been low rent pitch café.

He turns, ready to call in the other two, but a shifting mass grabs his attention first and he crouches instinctively. Barely eleven, the small boy crunches his body into an incredibly small defensive position, almost blending completely into the wreckage strewn floor. The mass turns into a simple bum, wakened by the ruckus of falling door and the boy’s startled look of apprehension turns to a sickly sweet grin. Anticipation, an almost glee, struggles to sparkle through the numbness of his dull yellowed eyes. It is a look that mirrors the weak light filtering through the lurid crystalline rod in his small hand.

“Hoboy,” the bum turns a trod upon, broken face towards the child’s rapid, almost slurred voice, confused, “innot yurday slurpee, nowsyou mine.”

The kid unfolds from the defensive crouch and advances towards the bum, who manages only to croak out some incomprehensible question while trying to rise. Understanding dawns sudden and shocking upon the wretch as the kids sharpened rod of warped glass is raised high. It is an unmistakable position, one that announces clear intentions of violence. It is too late for escape and he or she or it manages only to stumble across the floor with increasingly wild thrashing within its canvas wrappings.

“Tripp,” comes another young voice from the doorway, this one set in a more controlled tone. It is without the heavy inclination of a command, but spoken with the confidence of one who expects to be listened to. The dred-head punk turns, lowers the strange resin dagger and all eagerness fades to leave remaining only that dull lifelessness.

“yeasss,” even the excited quickness in his voice slips away, the slight slur remaining but slowing into a long series of s’s, “juss som sslurpee ibirnaten in da pad bosss.”

Three youths now, the canvas covered bum dashes in panicky stumbles along the wall away from them all, escaping into the darkened conduits. The three look at each other, the largest one scowling at an ignoring Tripp, before they move across the room towards the dirt scrubbed window.

A few squeaking motions and one thump later and the three are peering out onto a conduit partially illuminated by the flickering luminescents above. Tripp’s face is pressed directly against the window, layers of dirt across his face merging with the layers of filth across the window while the other two peer through small rubbed clean spots, observing the empty street. It isn’t a main artery of the network of roadway conduits, but it is still a large road, the extra space carved from the surrounding rundown neighborhoods to accommodate the wide loads of shipping rigs. The “boss”, watching from the lower of the two cleaned spots, smiles. He is pleased.

The “boss” turns away from the window and makes his way back to the crushed in door in the back, the taller young boy following silently while Tripp continues smushing his face into the window to watch the roadway. There is reluctance in the tall boy’s step, but he helps drag the heavy thick duffle bags into the abandoned pitch café. As the bags are lain across the floor, Tripp pulls himself away from the window to start going through them, a bit of that reckless eagerness slipping back into his dull eyes. Left behind in the window is a strange face print with dred lines smudged into the multiple layers of grease, dirt and smoke stain.

With a flicker of blue flame, Tripp lights up a black nicstick and sits among the heavy duffles laid open with various explosive charges and detonators. The smoke billows thick and pungent around his head as he works. The “boss” stands watching at the window and the tall boy grunts with effort as he pushes the scratchy frayed remnants of sheetplast into the kicked in back doorway. The portal is, as much as possible, closed, sealing them in and others out. He makes his way back to the front, slowing noticeably as he passes Tripp, who continues to work unhindered and oblivious within his cloud.

“Your quieter than usual,” the “boss” asks quietly, but again with that unmistakable authority, “what’s bothering you Will?”

Will makes no inclination that he is going to give an answer, or has even heard the question, instead the tall stocky boy continues standing at the window, looking out into the never changing flicker that is both day and night in sublevel four.

“Will?,” he says, this time with a touch of emphasis.

Will turns, glances quickly, as quickly as he can, at Tripp and then turns back to the “boss” saying in a slow carefully spoken voice that caries a deeper yet still childish tone, “I don’t like this, Max... I know we can use the cred...”

“That’s right big guy,” with very little effort, Max cuts him off sharply, “the cred, we need this payoff, after this we are streaming, so relax.”

Will turns back to the window, his dark brown eyes furrowed, troubled. After a long moment, feeling Max’s eyes continue to observe him, he says sullenly, “I just don’t like it, going after some big box’s gear... no corp uses storage down here unless they want to keep it hidden from the law dogs or the unity...”

Tripp rises and begins pulling a duffle laden with rigged explosives towards the front door, humming a cheery tune with the black asphalt nicstick still smoking thick between his lips. With a creak of long unused hinges, he is gone, crossing the conduit out front of the building seemingly without a care in the world. Will glares at the dred head through the smudged window.

“Just chill Will,” he chuckles, always finding the silly rhyme amusing, perhaps cause he gets to use it all the time, “Rags said this was the spot, gave me the key, even told me the exact time... this is going to sync, worry not.”

“If just one boxed merc comes down here, we all die,” Will continues, complaining without any real strength to his words, knowing the futility of it, but courageously or stupidly continuing anyway, “not just us, but every living soul down here will be aced...”

“ENOUGH!,” Max grabs the bigger kid’s shoulders in a surprisingly strong grip and shoves him against the window, “were doing this, get it?! So shut up yer whining, make yourself useful and help Tripp set up before some joe sees the little drek pulling all that shit across the conduit.”

He pushes Will towards the door, smudging the entire pane of greasy window. Standing there, eyes blazing with annoyance and conviction, Max waits while the dour boy nods silently and moves to grab the remaining two duffles. As he pushes through the door to the conduit, he hears Max mutter darkly behind him, “is not like we got much choice, you know well as me, you don’t consider his advice, you just accept it... bad mojo you ignore the Ragedyman’s word...” Will nods to himself as he crosses the threshold, knowing this to be unfortunately true and truly unfortunate.

* * *

He perches above what luminescents still manage to work in this gone to shit level, arms and legs clinging effortlessly and tirelessly to the framework of the sublevel’s cealing. Below him lie crumbling neighborhoods of pathetically low rent housing blocked in by huge sections of warehousing, chemical processing plants and camouflaged research structures. Few, very few transports move through the refuse overrun conduits, but there is movement here and there. He moves on through the network of girders and cables, into a shadowed grid of malfunctioned or destroyed lighting and lets the thermals glaze over visual input. Discovering the multitude of movement, hidden only a moment before, he is not surprised. Everything stays in darkness down this low. Only prey moves openly, foolishly.

He watches, moves on and watches some more. Methodically moving through the spread of the sublevel, he covers a great deal of observable area from his high up vantage. From time to time he drops a near invisible filament far below, dangling an audio input bulb like a small silver pearl floating on the wind. No one notices and more is discovered. Data is collected, sifted from the audio and visual to glean patterns, seeking a singular prey from the multitude of wretches hiding in this deep hole. The darkness will not hide him.

<< INCOMING TRANSMISSION... PRIORITY AUTHENTICATION ACKNOWLEDGED... ACCESS GRANTED... AUDIO VISUAL FEEDLOOP UPLOAD TAP 97847X0CCC0D... COMPENSATING... REROUTE THROUGH INTERLEVEL DATA FEED... MAPPING GATEWAYS 5225 . 5225 . 5225 . 0 . PPPoDT RESOURCES... PROCEED >>

“What do you want?,” it was not a voice, but a thought subvocalized and transmitting through layers of data terminal pathways, yet still it manages to hold an edge of menace and annoyance over the interruption, “busy now, working.”

<< RRSP SENT: YOU KNOW AS WELL AS WE THE DETAILS OF THE CONTRACT. WE RIDE ALONG THIS, YOUR LAST RUN. >>

If a rumbling growl of dismissing irritation can survive subvocalization and transmission, it didn’t seem to affect the buzzing chatter of his invading benefactors. “I hunt alone, you want this contract collected then fuck off.”

<< RRSP SENT: NOT THIS TIME, THE CONTRACT IS ONLY HALF THE DEAL AND YOU KNOW IT. DATA ON THE APPARITION MIRAGE MODEL DRIVE IS AS IMPORTANT AS THE COLLECTION OF THE BOUNTY. >>

A shower of sparks rains down onto the rooftop of a relatively, for this slum, high rising building below him after his fist rages out and through the nearest string of incandescent rigging. He doesn’t worry about being seen, but realizes he is being foolish, letting them annoy him. He calms with a mechanical efficiency. “You’ll get your fucking data, just stop chattering so damn much.” A quick internal command later and he hears them no more.

<< BOXWALL FORTIFICATION SEQUENCED AND SECURED... DATA DUMP INITIATED SET NODAL FRAGMENTATION... DISPERSAL INTERVAL COUNTING >>

His last great hunt continues and he revels in the cool flow of adrenalin electricity mix through the efficient perfection that is his body, mind and will.

<< PRIORITY ALERT: MIRAGE SYSTEM EXHAUST SINK UPPER ECHELON REACHED... AUTOSHUNT OVERRIDE ACCEPTED... CRITICAL ECHELON ETA 11:27 MINUTES >>

* * *

The three of them stand back behind the window, peering out across the wired conduit. Three pairs of eyes blending into the grease stained panes of transparent plastic, patiently counting down to the appointed time.

Tripp stands shuffling in place, the last puffs of thick asphalt smoke drifting about his head as his dreds drag new traces through the window grease. His eyes are lifted now from that lifelessness, a chemical induced giddiness playing within them and eager for the coming fireworks, awaiting the delight of chaos.

Will stands motionless, towing over the other two, his finely chiseled face set in a statue like thoughtfulness or blank thoughtlessness. His brow remains creased, troubled and fearful of tonight’s coming consequences.

Max watches, but absently, his eyes far away and a stiff satisfied smirk upon his lips as he plays some long sought after scene within his mind. He whispers the name Van once to himself, with fists clenched in anger.

The appearance of headlights sweeping around the nearby corner bring all three of the boy’s attention quickly to the conduit once more and marks the end of the silent countdown.

* * *

Both lie in the large mound of piled rugs, canvas, clothing and blankets that marks the extravagance of Van’s bedchamber. He slumbers naked atop the pile, content and spent from their endeavors. Layna lies awake a short distance from him, having slipped to the edge of the “bed”, away from his touch without appearing to be trying to leave. Fragments of clothing wrap about her small body, clinging to flesh still wet from sweat.

A light tremble shakes across her shoulders as tears spill from one good eye, the other swollen shut and growing a deep ugly shade of purple. The tears do not last, they rarely do, but they always return shortly. She plays absently, curiously, at the leather ring about her finger for a time, then slips finally into a shallow troubled sleep. Alone, she curls up, hugging herself for comfort, and tosses about lightly as even in her dreams she escapes not the molestations of pain and loss. It is the explosion that frightfully wakens them both.

* * *

The explosion really is quite fantastic, ripping concrete and metal across the conduit and through the cargo rig that was sluggishly making its way past the abandoned pitch café. Fragments, some aflame, blast their way through the nearby buildings and across the upper reaches of the sublevel, accompanied by the settling cacophony of screeching metal and roaring flames. The cab flips, rolling into a building and collapsing the wall and a section of roofing onto the flaming wreckage. The trailer settles to the ground, rigging and hitch blasted into ruin. However the cargo itself remains secure within the heavily armored trailer, waiting to be claimed.

Shattered bulbs from above rain down with sparks, bouncing across shattered concrete and flaming wreckage as three small forms make their way quickly and quietly across to the trailer. One of them reaches up and slips a disk of circuitry, trailing a mesh of cables from his backpack, into the back access panel of the trailer. With a groan of abused metal the back begins to swing open on slow hydraulics.

Max yelps in victory and slips immediately inside, followed by Tripp. Only Will hesitates and turns to give the surrounding area, and all its carnage, a worried survey. Then he too enters the trailer, if only so they can get the hell out of there the sooner.

The second explosion interrupts their looting, unexpected and alarming as the shockwave shakes the trailer violently. The dreds of Tripp’s head slip out of the back door and he glances around before slipping out and around the side to stare in sudden shock at the rippling ice blue flames that have torn the cab asunder and continue to blaze as they move slowly away from rubbled building into the conduit. He stares, frozen, until the shadowed shapes begin emerging from the alleyways, skulking first and then galloping openly into the blue radiance to reveal themselves. Horrid bodies twisted into a half state of mortal child and demon, companioned by the feral baying and howling of hunting animals drawing ever closer.

Tripps turns and runs in a stumbling panic, yelling a shrill warning to the others before he pushes himself roughly back through the heavy security door, yelling, “shutitshutitshutitshutitshutit!”

Pushing past the freaking Tripp, Will and Max glance outside, immediately seeing more of the horrid monsters emerging from the darkness and prowling rapidly towards them. The horror grasps Max stiffly and he drops the duffle to his feet and stares agape as all his plans crumble. Will patiently pulls the duffle back into the trailer, calm or just simply numb. As Max fumbles with the keycard, attempting to set the door to close once more, Will watches with a strange fatalistic fascination as the demonic children get ever closer to them. Max pushes his way back inside and disappears as the hydraulics kick in once more and the door begins slowly closing. Will stands silent vigil as the last inches of the portal swing close. The last sight he has is a snarling tusk filled face of rage and hunger as one of the monsters hurls itself towards them and is denied its prey. The door closes and locks in place with a resounding thud, echoed by a frenzy of hammering. He shakes his head and mutters in helpless frustration, “fucking Gorethawl.”

* * *

<< PERIMETER INTEGRATION COMPLETE... CALCULATING... TRAJECTORY DISCERNED >>

The discovery of the anomalous dimensional-tainted entities, even in all the apparent chaos of their movements, was a lead of some potential when taking the contract’s profile into consideration. They ran, alone or in small packs, across the sublevel, in a pattern that became all to quickly recognizable to him as he watched from above. They were hunting.

Soon, even these familiar patterns changed, however it was a simple feat to analyze the sudden shift in their behavior and discern their general trajectory. It was as if they had, as one, caught the scent of some new important prey, however no amount of olfactory data collected identified any such trace. Continuing to follow his only and best lead, he moved on ahead of them, to the most likely calculated point of convergence. And there he waits, still perched above, observing with an infinite patience. He had, however, not calculated the possibility of a bomb.

The explosion, a sudden blazing flare, burns out his thermals and blankets all visual input in a field of harsh white static feedback. Only moments behind the eruption, as internal systems attempt to bring visuals back online, the rigging that serves as his perch takes the full pounding of the bomb’s wreckage laden shockwave. It collapses, dropping him amide a shower of twisted metal, shattered lighting and sparks. He twists in the air, landing perfectly upon the concrete conduit with a deep crunch of cracked pavement, clanging metal and clinking glass. He stands, steps smoothly out of the small crater and pauses.

<< VISUAL DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE... THERMAL FEEDBACK THROUGH OPTICAL PROCESSORS... 20/20 LL DOWN 70.4%, THERMAL DOWN 100%, ANOMALY M/D DOWN 20%... COMPENSATING INPUT... ADDITIONAL INTEGRATION OF PERIMETER MOTION SENSORS ACCESSED >>

It isn’t much, but it will do. Shades filter through the white haze, shades moving with a pale purple haze overlaying them and filling in detail. Proximity detection injects visual alerts into the input as red warning centers to the grotesque shades slinking around him. Following the sudden jerking shockwave of a second explosion is the strange overlaying of a strong blue tint from behind him, the readings strong enough to test the limits of his already badly damaged visualware. But it is a mystery to be solved at a later time from the now recording data and he focuses on the challenge before him.

The purple shades gather closer, sensing his presence if not comprehending it, but they gain confidence to test the puzzling apparition before them and circle closer. He takes care in keeping his back to the almost overloading radiance, shifting his footing slightly as its source moves, and prepares to meet the daemonic entities. With a quick shift in configuration, his left hand slides back and locks in place behind an extending blade while his right hand hums with electrical conductors. He waits then, at full readiness and in complete control of his every motion. Efficiently calm, he waits for them to come to him.

<< PRIORITY ALERT: MIRAGE SYSTEM EXHAUST SINK UPPER ECHELON REACHED... CRITICAL ECHELON ETA 1:52 MINUTES... APPARITION MODULE DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE... SYSTEM SINK MALFUNCTION REDUCING ECHELON LEVELS AND EXHAUST EFFICIENCY... AUTOSHUNT OVERRIDE DENIED... COMMENCING SHUNT >>

It is only a thought, not even subvocalized, but apparent none the less, “shit,” and it does not take long for his annoying riders to become aware and respond. Their annoying chatter breaks through his code and into his head, adding yet another unwanted variable to the fight ahead of him. None the less, there is no fear in him. Ever the hunter, not the hunted, he will never succumb.

* * *

Against her weeping pleas, Van ignores her and runs to the rooftop, leaving her behind. Despite the harsh threat of another black eye and the gut wrenching intuition that she has merely sampled the pain that awaits her this cycle, obedience wins out over fear and she follows him. She finds him standing at the edge of the building naked and barefoot accept for his leather pants. Wearing only a slip of clothing herself, she steals to his side as a chill flows through her regardless of the warm recycled currents flowing down from above. He does not put a comforting arm around her.

Following his gaze, Layna bears witness to the same stunning scene and stands lost to it as it plays out before them both. A churning blue inferno burns its way slowly down the conduit towards them, pausing only when it is assailed by small packs of Gorethawl. Perhaps at any other time she would be pleased to see the horrors of her home, the murderous killers of her friends, burned to smoking ruin, but the sight of the pillar of fire burns into her, leaving her icy and in uncomprehending torment.

Gorethawl, baying and howling, fling themselves at the righteous blaze in waves. The horrid pitch turns to wails and screams, shrill and final as they are consumed and the only sound left is the increasing roar of ever hungry flames. It is too much and Layna sinks to her knees, turning away from the sight while Van watches and even chuckles darkly as another cycle of howling and screaming signals the arrival of more sacrificial daemons. Her tremor comes finally to his attention and in simple annoyance, her kicks her away from him. He doesn’t even notice when she rises and, possessed of a sudden hollowed calm, leaves.

The scruff of the door behind him catches his attention and he half turns towards it without letting her wearisome fears interrupt his audience of the incredible inferno. “If your gonna go whimper downstairs, make yerself useful for a change and fetch something for my feet, this scrabble is cutting into my soles...,” he half listens for her typical hapless reply and is angered to hear only a heavy huff. “Layna?... damnit girl, go get my fucking,” he turns to beat some sense into the little bitch and sees only the taloned hand of a Gorethawl reaching eagerly for his face. He shrieks, drowning in terror and the fleshy hand of the daemon. Van’s eyes roll up, filling with blood as the powerful hand crushes his skull, talons slicing through his scalp and with a great crackle of bone Van squeals one last time, pisses himself and falls twitching to the tarmac.

* * *

The box was small, not even large enough to stand in, painted in heavy mat black and perfectly seamless. By careful touch could a single feature be discerned, a sigil scratched roughly into the cube’s floor. From within endless void of the vacant box, the Ragedyman observes his given domain in peaceful solitude and guides the fates of its inhabitants, in accordance to his patron’s will.

The bundle of rags sits relaxed within his haven and lets his awareness expand through the network of seals bound to his will by blood and sacrifice. Here and there, throughout the sublevel, can be found large black painted representations of his dominion, however these are skillfully created forgeries. A small coterie of well paid artists creates these, leaving the true network of small inconspicuous seals safe from discovery. The misleading signs serve well too, as fearful reminders of his providence to those who would oppose him.

Connecting to his consecrated places he looks in on the pieces in play to see if any need to be moved. The strange hunting machine is hidden away within one of the residences near the birthing ground of the Stranger, no doubt tending to the multitude of minor damages endured during his impressive slaughter of the Gorethawl packs. The Stranger, a billowing tornado of cleansing fires, continues to move steady as clockwork upon his path. He finds the girl finally, running blindly through the narrow alleys and notes a lone Gorethawl eagerly tracking her, which will not do at all.

Blood is spilt, tracing thick droplets across the inner dark of the box where it shall forever stay, adding to the layers of such stain. Within the conduits the realm of Under is unleashed upon the Gorethawl. Within its tracking path, hot on the heels of the girl, a black stain spreads across the pavement and a skeletal arm plunges through from the unknowable other side. It grasps with fragmented sharp bones, digging deeply into the flesh of the monestrous child. With snapping jaws the Gorethawl fights free of the biting bones, but more join in the assailment, emerging from the darkened ground and plunging into daemon flesh. Within moments it is held, panting and wailing from its bony prison. Its yowls grow increasingly shrill as the hands of Under bite deeper and pull away at hide, bones and inner flesh until nothing remains behind accept for spatterings of thick hot blood.

Pleased, and with the girl now alone with her mad terror, the Ragedyman lets his awareness move on. He comes to the broodling pits of the Gorethawl where the remnants of the packs have returned, baying mournfully to their mother-father-thing as it licks their wounds and devours the unworthy. He lets his attention settle upon the pits, eager to see this move played out according to the design of his visions.

* * *

<< RRSP SENT: STATUS? >>

He grumbles to himself, picking up the micro-fusion torch and continues the repairs, ignoring the chatter in his head. It continues anyway, asking, inquiring and eventually demanding. Finally, he concedes if only so he can get on with the repairs and commence hunting once more. Picking up a strip of torn canvas from the large pile in the found room, he wipes more of the blood and viscera from his frame, “what do you want?”

<< RRSP SENT: REPORT! >>

“You have the data, you tell me what the hell is going on down here, be useful for once instead of just annoying the shit out of me.”

<< RRSP SENT: STATUS OF APPARITION MIRAGE MODEL DRIVE? >>

He accesses the diagnostics, views them quickly before sending them through a data dump, “see for yourselves, its still working. Its only a damaged exhaust sink, probably happened during that explosion, same time my optics got hit by debris.” He pauses for a minute to let them look over the extensive readout, then adds, “satisfied?, can I get back to work now?” It takes them a few minutes, during which he finally gets the majority of the entrails cleaned out of his gear, but they finally get back to him with a final message.

<< RRSP SENT: CONTINUE CONTRACT, MAINTAIN DATA FLOW, AVOID FURTHER CONTACT WITH ANOMALOUS DEVIANTS. BE ADVISED: LAW SHALL BE CONTACTED IN APPROXIMATELY FOUR HOURS, CONCERNING EXORBITANT DIMENSIONAL ACTIVITY UNCOVERED. GOOD LUCK FAIN. >>

He was not surprised, but still the outrage flowed through him, filtered away by circuitry, but stored for later when he would have the pleasure of meeting his benefactor once more. There would be more than mere cred payed for this contract.

* * *

The pits are extensive, a hollowing out of the basements of entire neighborhoods into one massive labyrinth crypt, housing the packs of Gorethawl. Within the home maze the daemon twisted children live, feed and breed. Storehouses of still living sustenance, man flesh and soul, are maintained and the screams of the livestock resound through the tunnels to be welcomed by the monsters there. Throughout the tunnels can be found as well, the mother-father-thing of them all, the broodling parent of the Gorethawl. An expansion of ever growing flesh without beginning or end, it is everywhere, clinging to the walls and its chosen with loving caress or crushing punishment. Deep within this, in the chamber of deliverance, do the Gorethawl gather before the mountain of flesh and unknown to the pit’s inhabitants, the unnatural cognizance of the Ragedyman observes.

The cavern fills with howls, whimpers, nudges, looks, rumbles, nips, purrs and growls in a din of animalistic communication. Within his box, the Ragedyman wields a razored obsidian ring and makes an offering of himself and his victims to the mysteries of Under. Answering his sacrifice, the whispers of Under come to him in a surge of tormented madness and speak the truths of the Gorethawl gathering. He views the gathering once more, letting the voice of Under speak to him of their discourse.

With a quivering of flesh she-he-it speaks, “listen my chosen, for a new epoch is upon us, one of reckoning.” The gathered attendants settle and look upon their God with reverence and bloodlust. “The prophecy unfolds as it was told, the Stranger, scourge and bane has awakened and seeks us even now.” With mention of the Stranger the crowded freaks surge and howl in dismay.

“What mother, do we do against the Stranger, are we to be consumed by his flames?,” the howl out to her-him-it, some in great fear.

With trembling ire the broodling parent cowes them into once more silence. “If within your breast you tremble in fear then I say to you, you are not my scions and for you is but to go the way of all flesh.” About her-him-it several of the larger Gorethawl take it upon themselves to cull the herd and several squeals rise as the more weak displaying monsters are ensnared up by their merciless brothers and sisters, and tossed thrashing in pain into the daemonic mass to be absorbed and then consumed. From without the mass they can still be vaguely seen, being digested. They will not die quickly or painlessly.

“For those of you worthy of my blessings, the cycle shall bestow upon us a child, a savior come and for all who are worthy, deliverance of this hollow earth into our forever delight!” With these words the gathering starts whipping into a frenzy of celebration, but the broodling parent has not yet finished.

“Go now and hunt, but heed the Stranger for he is death. Bring forth all living flesh, but bring unmarred for more than mere meat shall be needed for our deliverance. My chosen, go now and revel in the hunt.” With the leash snapped free the horde empties of the pits and flows across the sublevel, unleashed and hunting as never before.

Left behind within the pits are the leftover stock of sustenance and with tendrils of hungry flesh they are dragged scratching, screaming and struggling to the mountain of flesh. Instead of joining immediately with the previous feast, they are first defiled in the worst ways, torn asunder and then slowly absorbed until all stains have been sucked clean of the soiled floors and walls.

* * *

It is from several vantage points that the enigmatic Ragedyman watches the ensuing pandemonium. He sees, from within his box of ever darkness, the pitiful, the broken, the lost, the pennyless and the unfortunate dragged screaming, but unharmed, from the conduits, the clubs, the whore houses, the low rent housing and the transports. Unleashed and unabashed the Gorethawl hunt without reserve, save for keeping their prey alive, and revel in their freedom to move through the sublevel unchecked.

He watches for some time, feeling a proudness foster within him as he does so and indulges the rarity of feeling. He has served his patron lord faithfully and without question, knowing that all that occurs does so according to his lord’s will. And so if it should please the lord of Under that his servant feel proud of this loyal service, his servant shall feel indeed.

But it is an indulgence tolerated for only a short time. There is much work yet to be done and the Ragedyman realizes that he is late for a meeting far too long overdue. Once more his consciousness merges with the network of his providence and seeks the next piece needing to be played.

* * *

Upon the completion of repairs, which had gone quite well and without suprise, almost a full 100% restoration of visual input had been attained in all but the thermals. This was of no serious deterrent to a continuance of the hunt.

Leaving the abandoned loft behind, Fain is surprised to see that the great whirlwind of mystic flames, continuing its slow steady path across the sublevel, has moved a fair distance and is no longer being hounded by the anomalous entities. At the current distance, the strength, though still incredibly high, is weakened enough that he can risk direct observance.

<< ANALYSIS COMPLETE... REPLAYING FEED... ADJUSTING C&B LEVELS >>

Through a detailed analysis, he finds the strange inferno to yield yet more surprises. Watching the analyzed feedback he discerns within the blue field of energy, a single source. A figure in the form of a man. Other than the outline of the humanoid figure, little detail can be filtered from the bright fiery blue aura.

<< RUNNING SEARCH... ACCESS TO DT LINK GRANTED... SEARCHING... SEARCHING... LISTING HITS WITHIN SELECTED 90%+ MATCH PARAMETER... TOTAL 0... LOWER MATCH PARAMETERS? >>

It is an enigma that, for all his databased knowledge, Fain cannot fathom. Never before has the engineered contractor seen or even heard of such raw mystical power flowing uninterrupted from a lone human being.

The inferno continues on its way, fading behind the buildings and Fain glances around with his now operational optics. He notices that, although they have now left the inferno alone, the daemonic entities have begun a full scale assault on the rest of sublevel. He rises above the buildings, once more perching within the rigging above, and watches as packs of the creatures drag living bodies from every available source and carry them off, alive but subdued.

It is a strange night, after a long career in which strange has become rather commonplace. Presented with a number of peculiar paths in which he might follow, but with yet no clear scent of his true prey, Fain pauses. In that pause his prey presents itself, and the night gets even stranger.

<< ALERT: RISING DIMENSIONAL ENERGIES PRESENT >>

It is but a voice, yet before it whispers to him, a purple haze appears in his optical input. It flows from a small section of rigging to his left. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough to signify dimensional influence.

"Welcome to my domain, hunter of men," the voice is a harsh whisper, the sound of a strangled man across a wind swept plain, "I must apologize for keeping you so long, but as you can no doubt see I am quite busy this cycle.”

Fain’s own voice crackles, but not from disuse. Instead it is the crackle of static, an audiovox unit simulating a man’s voice, but through thick interference. “And who might you be?”

There is a choking chuckle, “why, your quarry of course, I trust you are enjoying the sights here in my domain during your hunt?”

Once more Fain’s artificial and static congested voice emits without emotion, “perhaps we might both enjoy it, if you would come out of your hole and face me.”

The strangled whisper laughs fully this time, “you are impatient, machine man, but this promise I make to you, we shall meet soon enough. It is the will of my patron lord of Fate that our paths cross, but our outcome shall wait until the deliverance of my package is safely assured.”

Fain’s growl is emitted, crackling with static and annoyance.

“Until then machine man, I do hope you continue to enjoy the show, watch closely for the best has yet to come to pass.”

The whispered voice fades, as does the visual readout of the dimensional energy and Fain returns to his previous pause. His prey, so close, has faded once more and he is faced again with choosing a suitable course of action. Also, pause must be given, or in this case increased, to contemplate the ease in which his prey was able to find him. If he was anything less that the perfect construct he is, he might even be unnerved.

* * *

If she had thought it was a strength that had come to her, committing her to finally leave the abusive asshole, she was wrong or else it had already run dry. Her voice had long ago quit, screamed raw and all hope of escape had also drained out of her. Even the uncaring numbness had drained away, leaving nothing left within Layna but a worn helpless outrage.

The grotesque creature that carries her smells of blood and shit, the pelt over which she is slung is matted in the same and smears thickly across her as the thing moves animal like through dark alleys. She has no escape, the monsters that have slaughtered all whom she had known and cared for have captured her. The only thing she doesn’t understand is why they continue to torment her instead of just ending it finally. It grunts, snuffs in the dark and moves on.

When it finally stops, the jolt startles Layna from the mindless revery and she finds them slipping down below the conduits, into darkness. A breathing darkness, wet and heavy with the sensation of living movement. New heights of maddening terror mount the pitiful girl as the darkness caresses her captor and then runs a massive tongue, wet with slime across her body, tasting her. When the Gorethawl adds her to the pits’ drove of offerings, she is frozen in a wide eyed state, beyond terror.

It is there, beyond the fear, that she remains. Driven far from harsh knowing and into the safety of catatonia. Nothing cracks the walls of her new haven, not the pits or the daemons or the victims around her. When the screams begin in earnest, as the mountain of living flesh feasts and grows fatter and fatter, Layna stands unflinching in line without reaction. The sight of Van pulled by pulsating tubers past her, reaching lively for her and attempting to speak her name through the invading tendril slipping into his mouth, does nothing to shake her mind awake. Not even when he is pulled apart before her. Her eyes remain open, but they are unseeing.

When it comes, finally, to her turn, she neither accepts nor rejects the torment. Hungry shoots of the expanding flesh, ever increasing darker shades of crimson as it gorges itself, slip around her almost lovingly. They slither across her skin, through her clothing and leave a slick of thick slime in their wake. With care they take her eyes and fill her sockets, enter her ears, consume the soft flesh of her nasal passage and part her slack lips to fill her mouth. More slither further down her body, jerking it forcefully within their grasp as they make their way into her deepest recesses. During it all she remains unknowing.

Beyond their reach, beyond the broken edges of her frayed mind, in a dark box of nothing, Layna sits. She feels nothing, sees nothing, hears nothing, tastes nothing, smells nothing... is nothing. Around her body the revels of the Gorethawl and their Godling daemon are spent. The feast is finished. She remains, the last victim and kept still living. With hushed reverence the Gorethawl look upon her in expectation. She is unaware of it all.

It is only after the first stirrings of accelerated life begin within her that the walls of her catatonic haven are shattered. The thing inside her, born of her and the invading flesh, starts to grow and she can feel it. Awareness, an overwhelming wave of pain, torment and understanding, washes over her and she awakens in what might be the thrashing of protest or seizures of dementia. The tendrils remain bound to her, holding her secure and the watching and waiting Gorethawl erupt into elation.

Their messiah grows rapidly.

* * *

The packs have disappeared, their massive hunt now over. The mystical inferno draws near to the edge of the sublevel, the same area the packs have disappeared within. The time limit placed upon him by his benefactors has passed and, although there is of yet no sign of authority’s arrival, they will no doubt be shortly making an appearance. Still there is no sign or scent of his prey. Fain is endlessly patient, however, and nothing has yet occurred that does anything other than add factors into a calculation with which to work around or through. His hunt progresses.

<< SHUNT PROCESS COMPLETE... APPARITION MIRAGE MODULE NOW AVAILABLE... RECONFIGURING EXOPLATING >>

He notes then, with interest, that the burning man has come to a halt and wonders momentarily at the coincidental timing. With the final clicks of his configuration completing he adjusts his perch and turns his favorite new toy back on, dismissing the strange thought.

<< MIRAGE SEQUENCE INITIATING... ALIGNING ADAPTION PROJECTORS... FIELD STABLE... SEQUENCE SUCCESSFUL... APPARITION MIRAGE MODULE ONLINE >>

Fain’s created body warps as the energy field forms across his shell, fitting perfectly to every angle like a mold. Then it snaps wildly out of place and is gone, leaving nothing but an empty space behind. The rigging where he, until a moment ago, had been sitting shifts suddenly then, as if from the motions of something heavy moving off away from its support.

Fain, wrapped in the secure cloak of the apparition mirage module, moves toward the blue inferno to watch the show and await the arrival of his target.

* * *

The Stranger, when he arrives, begins to burn the pits out from within. Sweeping waves scorch away all in their path, a tsunami of righteous blue flame. Within the chamber of deliverance the Gorethawl remain unmoving despite the thunderous explosions drawing nearer and nearer. Before them the birthing has begun.

Layna feels it all, the shredding of her flesh from within and without, opening her up like a cocoon to lift away the abomination of her own blood. She feels, rather than hears, the thunderous roar of delight rising up around her as the murderous fiends give welcome. She is ignored, having served her purpose, and is left an empty husk still somehow clinging to the last shreds of her life. It is not by her will that she remains and her dying wish is only for an end. Too much suffering for her to endure and the even worse is the now emptied feeling. She would have liked to have been a true mother.

Held aloft in tendrils to behold, the baby boy is the bright pink of new born, still covered in the placental caul of its birthing. The bloody flesh slips away and the boys solid black eyes look out over the gathering. They are large and unblinking as he watches in stoic silence.

An explosion rocks the chamber and rivers of flame unleash upon them all in blue fury. The baby boy blinks finally, just the once, and the fiery waves crash over them, but touch noone. Even as the Stranger steps into the chamber itself and his full power bears down upon the daemonic monsters, his power is held at bay, untouching and powerless. The roar of flames is answered by the defying howls of triumph from the gathered Gorethawl.

Another explosion quakes the chamber as pitch back flames erupt from beneath the baby boy. From the shadowy fires a figure rises up, raged wrapped hands reaching for the baby boy. It takes them all long moments, too long, to grasp the unwelcome intrusion and as they puzzle it out the baby boy gurgles in curious welcome as he plucked from the tendrils by the Ragedyman. They sink back down into the fiery black gate and fade away as the Gorethawl just begin their desperate rush to stay the trespasser, but they are far too late.

Layna smiles, with what is left of her face, as she is given at long last her reprieve. The blue flames gently wash over her and are welcomed for their release. Not so for the Gorethawl and their Godling. All are cleansed, nothing is left, not even the Stranger.

* * *

This time the explosion is expected and optic inputs are adequately shielded as the geyser of flames rocket outward across the sublevel and up into its ceiling. Fain, standing upon the rooftop of a not too distant building crouches reflexively as entire blocks are ripped asunder and fragments shred through the surrounding neighborhoods. The destruction is awesome, it will surely take months to repair if not more considering the possible damage to the systems embedded within the sector and level separating walls.

As it settles, there is no longer any sign of the freakish dimensional entities or the strange mystical inferno being. All that is left is the carnage, ruin and emptiness of a sublevel stripped clean of life. But not all life, his quarry remains, hidden, but present. Of this Fain is sure and of course Fain himself remains, an uncomprehending witness of the events. With the contract still incomplete, and the fireworks over, Fain simply waits upon the rooftop amid the smoldering rubble. After a time he senses movement within the conduits below, at long last the LAW has arrived to be no doubt overwhelmed by the scope and mystery of it all. Too late, too typical.

<< ALERT: RISING DIMENSIONAL ENERGIES PRESENT >>

A rising haze of purple slips into his visual input, amplifying with a sudden alarming rate until Fain shields the visual input and steps away from the middle of the platform. Dark flames erupt from the middle of the rooftop, reaching up and licking at the air until the rag wrapped form of his prey rises up through the gateway with a small bundle in his arms. The shrouded face, hidden behind a veil of thick shadow, looks upon Fain and though his visuals cannot pierce the shroud, he knows with certainty that the bizarre man’s eyes are not fooled by the apparition mirage module.

“Did you enjoy the show?,” the Ragedyman’s voice, though now coming directly from the man himself, still sounds as a choking whisper struggling to make its way across a far windy plain. Waiting for an answer, he takes a step towards Fain, the bundle in his arms wrapped in the same dark stained rags as the Ragedyman himself.

Fain’s reply is the click and snap of reconfiguration as the blade slides to the ready. One bandaged hand lifts up towards Fain and waggles a grotesquely pale and bloated finger at him.

“Tsk, tsk, had we not an agreement mechanical man? My package must first be delivered, yes?” To emphasize his package, the Ragedyman lifts up the small bundle, which moves slightly from within.

Caring not for some bundle, Fain aims true to collect on his contract and be done with the crazy sublevel, but his blade razors through nothing but air before embedding deeply into the tiles of the rooftop. The voice that speaks to him from behind causes the cyborg to start in actual fright for the first time in his long mechanized existence. Memories of the flesh surface unbidden to overwhelm his circuitry and instead of wrenching the blade free the borg falls to the tiles with knees trembling.

“That’s right, you never could keep any kind of agreement could you boy?” The now clear voice is gruff with age, but undulled by it, speaking instead with a steely will. “Well speak up Corl, don’t sit there lazing off, we’ve work to do and I wont stand for your dillydallying!”

At the sound of his name Fain struggles to lift his head and turn it towards the Ragedyman. Gears grind forcefully to do so as his efficient systems attempt to unravel his own conflicting wills. The wrappings about the Ragedyman’s face unravel and fall away, as does the thick shadows to revel the one face he never thought to see again.

<< PRIORITY ALERT: SYSTEM STABILITY COMPROMISED... APPARITION MIRAGE MODULE SHUTTING DOWN... DATADUMP NETWORK CONNECTIONS DISABLED... COMMENCING AUTOSHUNT... >>

The message scrolls by, unseen, as Fain looks upon his father and despairs. The small, moving bundle is placed gently down in a small nook at the edge of the rooftop and Corl senior turns back to his son and shakes his head in disappointment.

“Your dead,” the emitted synthvoice crackles faintly as it whispers, but the Ragedyman hears it and nods.

“Aye, thanks to you, ya no good little shit, I thought at long last ya might have become a man, but here I find ya once more hiding, this time behind a tin can of pathetic toys.”

“I killed you, your dead,” the synthvoice mutters on, without hearing the old man, slowly gaining volume in response to the growing outrage or disbelief, “YOUR DEAD, I KILLED YOU!”

Fain rushes at the man then, blade leading. The Ragedyman’s arms lift up as his son lunges at him, as if to welcome the cyborg into a hugging embrace. A thin rivulet of crimson falls from his outstretched hands, then the darkness erupts from within his rags, thick chains of it shooting out to meet the rush of the killer machine. Fain’s blade dances, slashing away at the razored chains and scattering links of darkness across the rooftop. They melt away into wisps of shadowy smoke and are gone.

Blade out wide, warding off the last of the chains, Fain’s other hand reaches out and snares his father’s neck in a vicelike grip. The Ragedyman’s body arches with the voltage, but completes in his last jolting action, to slice deeply through his chest with one of his obsidian razor rings. Blood soaks deeply into his rags, smoking slightly as the body begins to fry in Fain’s grip, but still flows from the deep wound. Against gravity blood spreads out through the air between them, twisting with grimly attained energy until a sigil forms between them in the air.

Fain’s murderous rage abates only after his entire forearm has solidified into grey stone. Confusion slips in to push anger away and Fain pulls violently back away from his father and the flowing bloody sigil between them, but already he is caught in the accursed transformation. The crazed fury overwhelms him once more and the cyborg thrashes against his doom.

Helpless, caught in the growing grey of stone that consumes him, Fain finally hears the once more choked voice of his father, calling his name. With the apparition mirage module long since shut down, the fully revealed cyborg settles down and looks at the hated man. His faceplate disengages and lifts up, revealing a heavily augmented face, but a face nonetheless and one that bears a faint resemblance of the elder held firmly in his once metallic hand.

“Listen well Corl, for this will be the last time.” The old man’s voice grows faint and guttural as the Ragedyman’s body hangs suspended and choking to slow death.

Fain nods in response, ignoring the creeping grey that is sliding down his torso.

“Remember do you of the promise when last my life was stolen by your hand? Your sister, she is gone, but you can honor your promise, lad. This shall be your last chance to make good on your word boy, so heed it well. I said before, our outcome will wait until the deliverance of my package is safely assured, I spoke true. As I am now gone, it is the will of my lord of Fate that you safeguard the boy until he is to be delivered. He is your responsibility now, agree upon it and you shall have your final contract.”

The words had spilled out, growing fainter and fainter as the greyness grew deeper and deeper, stilling the systems that had become his home, his perfection undone. More images of his sister, long lost to him and his careless disregard, came unbidden to unhooded eyes and tears leaked thickly around the optic wiring. He nodded finally to his father, but the old man had passed on long ago, strangled to death in fain’s grip of now stone.

Too late, the grey closing now on his neck, claiming the last of Fain. The rotating sigil, slowing as it finishes its work, grows darker as the blood dries upon the air. At last it falls away, leaving Fain inches away from release. Internal systems, long turned to stone, fail his last remnants of flesh and everything begins to dim and fade away. His last sight is the eruption of more shadow flames around him accompanied by the distant sound of stone cracking and the sudden tingling sensations of the long forgotten flesh.

He rises naked, some time later, how long he does not know. He has no internal clock settings any longer. The patchwork scarring across his entire new body is already fading as well as the multitude of mismatching shades as the scrap pieces blend into a whole. He does not understand it, how he has been restored, only that it is the will of his father’s lord of sacrifice and he accepts it. He will keep his word this time, no matter the cost.

Corl Fain, reborn to the flesh, picks up the baby boy, who silently looks back at him with unblinking orbs of pure black. He then moves towards the stairwell to search for something to wear from the abandoned loft below. Behind him, as he walks away, is the cracked and half crumbled stone statue of a mechanical monstrosity holding aloft in one massive hand the crumpled body of an old homeless man bundled in rags. The renowned contractor has completed his last assignment. He was overdue for retirement anyway.

* * *

Layna finds her final peaceful release to be a strange and maddening place full of darkness, howling winds and voices full of torment. To her it is but a curiosity, having already tasted fully of torment and lunacy during life she finds it of no bother to her now in death. Still, she wonders how it is that she would come to this foreign place.

Around her is an endless wind swept field of sacrificial bodies frozen in horror and whispering in stillness of their agony. Simultaneously she sits in the middle of a confining box of bloodstained walls. Upon the sorrowful winds and across the rune drawn walls come sporadic and unknowable visions that burn painlessly upon her mind and all is in complete darkness. Past, present and future are one and non-existent altogether in this place.

She looks down, the strange leather ring splitting away from her finger and falling away to be lost. The strange dark tattoo bulges and solidifies into the obsidian ring the Ragedyman gave her in the alleyway an eternity ago. She looks at it, noticing the razored edge to it and then observes with dawning understanding the bodies and walls around her.

Reaching down she draws the razor across her belly, slicing deep. Opening up, warm blood sluices from within and burns down over her legs. She reaches deep within the wound and draws out thick handfuls of it to slap across the walls. Finally she paints the last of the bloody seal across the wall, overlaying the one drawn before her, upon infinite layers of such pledges to service. Her blood runs dry and she falls away from the walls, but not to join the sacrificed.

When she opens her eyes once more, it is to darkness, but such has been her home for an infinity before this. She navigates it well, rising to the familiar conduits of childhood. The obsidian ring hugs her finger and hungers for an offering. She hungers too, for her son and knows that both needs shall soon be satiated. It is the will of Lord Sacrifice and her path has ever been bound to heed his call.

* * *

An Afterword: or Hey what the hell happened to Max Will Tripp?

I have left the fates of Max, Will and Tripp obscure for a reason. I envisioned early in the writing of this story that it would make an interesting module to play, with the players running characters similar to Max, Will and Tripp. Lost children eking out an existence on some decrepit sublevel four. The group would start the game with the rigging of the bomb, playing characters in place of Max, Will and Tripp, or in a smaller group some or all of the trio would be present as NPC’s. In playing this story out as a module with the children PC’s, the outcome may well change by the unforseen actions of the children. As I realized I would like this possibility to remain within the story, I let the fates of the trio remain unknown. To play this story out I have devised the following rules for children character creation:

Fledgling Ethos

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0.1.4