Metaworld Chronicles

Chapter 542 - The Fresh Priestess of Pacific Heights

A minor thought was all it took for Gwen to manifest a meticulous Mage Hand, a spell that once nausated her on a cold rooftop in Forrestville. With her Message Device in reach, a jolt of codified mana unlocked the device’s secure bands, allowing the flexible Mithril to unwind, then envelope her wrist with its fine-woven Milanese loop.

DING—! DING—!

Arcane blooms blossomed behind her ears.

“Regent, we had a situation in Oakland. Master Tao is safe. We’re returning to Washington 2006 right now.”

Gwen’s brows, previously unencumbered, grew suddenly heavy. “You’re… Marjin, correct? Glad to hear you’re all safe. Was this a malicious event? Is Tao being targeted?”

“Negative, Mistress. There was no indication that master Tao was the cause of the upset. One of the performance members turned violent. From what we have recorded for your perusal, it appears to be an Undead infestation.”

Gwen paused for thought.

Another Undead event, within a day of one another?

But then again… Gwen pursed her lips. In her experience, staggared Undead incidents were perfectly reasonable. As with anywhere where the Undead infestation took root, events sprouted like summer mushrooms after a monsoon, doubly so in the cramped, festering spaces of an urban city.

“Anyone bitten? Any injuries?”

“We are without casualty, thank you, Mistress. But there’s a complication.” The voice was filled with gratitude. “From what we’ve observed, the infection vector was likely food-based. I saw the infected consume an unworldly amount of sushi before his transformation. Unless Master Tao was bitten or infected prior, there is a high probability this is the cause.”

“Sushi…” Gwen felt her mind send out inquisitive feelers into the recesses of her memories. “Hmm…” Why does all of this feel so familiar?

“Mistress, I believe Master Tao had ingested a small volume of the sushi as well.”

Her psychic feelers grew abruptly rigid. “Really? Shit. When can you return?”

“ETA ten minutes, Mistress.” The Shadow Mage’s voice grew strained. “We’re flying low to avoid attention from air traffic control, but we shall arrive shortly.”

Before the call even ended, Gwen disrobed with a flourish, almost peeling the silken gown from her drenched shoulders. There weren't a lot of things that made her perspire, but the possibility of Tao being infected by some Undead Phage was absolutely one of them. If something as ridiculous as Undeath happened to Tao, how would she face Babuyla? How could she have the face to speak to Mina and the Wangs?

By the time she re-emerged from the office in a Parisian halter-neck sweater, however, her heart had calmed.

Her creatures, be they Dwarves, Rats, Centaurs or even Kobolds, were effectively immune to transmissible Necromancy like the Necrophage. Tao may lack a Creature Core, but he had spent years imbibing blessed Maotai and had enjoyed both Sen-sen’s Essence and her Mead on many occasions.

If anything, her cousin should be resistant to anything other than a direct injection of Negative energy from a middle-tier Necromancer hell-bent on converting him to the Cult of Juche.

Closing her eyes, she felt through her Empathetic Life Link the approach of the Shadow Mages. A small part of her wondered if she should likewise bless Tao, but the notion of Soul Tapping her loved ones was still a bridge too far.

She willed open the folded doors to the Edwardian balcony with another Mage Hand. A burst of smoke enveloped the landing, then the trio was in her spacious living room, with Tao looking cheeky and flushed, and the Mages half-slumped from mental exhaustion.

“Well done, get some rest,” Gwen flicked her fingers, sending two hovering droplets of Golden Mead their way. “Tao, with me.”

The trio obeyed. With gratitude, her Shadow Mages retreated downstairs to their rooms to meditate and absorb the blessed elixir.

“Tao, come and sit,” Gwen guided her cousin to the dining table, then stood behind him with both hands fastened on his shoulders. “How was the club?”

“Dawg. DAWG!” Tao was still in another world. “It was amazing. I was fire, you smell me? I sang that song, you know? The one you told me about. The place was popping, ya know? POPPING! Until Gusta lost his head…”

“That sounds terrible,” Gwen tried her best to focus. Under her fingers, her cousin squirmed like a live eel. She had to be very careful, “Tao, this will sting.”

“Er… what are you… OH THAT TICKLES— ARRRRGH— OUCH—! CUZ! WOCAO! CUZ WHA—BLUURRRGH—”

Tao knelt over the table, knees weak and arms like spaghetti, and hurled out everything he had consumed in the afternoon.

What she had performed on Tao was a form of sympathetic resonance, in the style of Empathetic Life-Link, without the soul reaping. For a brief second, her mana had penetrated into Tao’s conduits and felt the hint of infection kept at bay by the residual blessings of her Golden Mead. With another jolt, this time empowered with a smidgen of Ariel’s Kirin Lightning, she brute-forced the infection from her cousin’s conduits.

The procedure was not unfamiliar to her, though it was only practised and performed on Lulan during their stints against the Undead tide. As a dispenser of close-quarter ultraviolence, it was almost impossible for Lulan to avoid cuts and scraps, and the occasional ingestation of Undead offal. In the aftermath of prolonged battles, Gwen had exercised her Essence Sympathy to ensure that her precious Marshal did not suffer from the long-term effects of exposure to Negative Energy.

Tao’s conduits were nothing like Lulans.

Where her Marshal’s mana channels were akin to Dwarven mining tunnels, Tao’s were argumentative hutongs in the old districts of Shanghai, built for complexity rather than velocity and volume.

Tao hurled for a minute straight, his gastronoical juices overflowing onto what could be a historically significant carpet. Afterward, he sat dazed at the table, thanking her for the personal purge.

Satisfied, Gwen called for housekeeping.

Her maids and aides, all attached to the property, entered with Prestigitation devices in tow, their faces without judgment or expression.

While her cousin groaned, Gwen’s Mage Hand picked up half-digested pieces of rice, on which were formerly Californian rolls. She fished out rogue blocks of sashimi as well, her nose wrinkling at the accelerated rot.

Without the need for incantations, her eyes glowed golden with both Essence and Divination, turning her world dim as her senses plucked apart the strands of coalescing Negative Mana contained therein.

The scent of the mana.

The disgusting, gut-churning impression it made on her was familiar indeed.

The Phage? The Regent’s manicured brows reformed into a deeply unhappy valley. Her fingers caressed her Message Devices, quickly tapping the illusory interface until it called for Lorenzo. “Dom? Yeah, it's me. Listen. Tao just came back to Pacific Heights with a mild Negative Energy infection. I’ve taken care of it, but I don’t think this outbreak is a minor problem… at least, not anymore…”

Mission Rock.

SFPD Headquarters.

Sgt Mckenzi of the South San Francisco Police Department felt like a man trapped on Seal Rock, watching the incoming tide envelope the sandbank to the headland.

“This is Bullshit, Crockett, and you know it.” He decided, against the advice of his worried fellow officers, to take another swing at their red-faced Captain. “Let the Tenderloin eat itself? Is that the SFPD’s motto now?”

“McKenzi, don’t make me repeat myself,” his Captain, a gruff Irishman with a shocking head of silver and a voice that could pave asphalt, growled back with the tenacity of a bulldog. “You’ve got your orders. Pull your unit out of the Loin and head to Nob Hill to reinforce the quarantine there. Keep everything and everyone OUT. The Mayor’s Office has made it clear that the Tier 1 Districts are to be preserved at all costs.”

“I had the Tenderloin under control!

” Mckenzi felt like he was casting Charm at a brick wall. “I just needed another day, six squads, and you off my ass.” “Shut up about the Tenderloin!” Chief Crockett stared daggers. Behind him, on the back wall, projected as an ethereal mirage, was a model of downtown San Francisco, upon which a dozen regions appeared as pink and violet bruises. “You see these incidents popping up in Presidio? Pacific? Marina? Nob? Potrero? THOSE matter.”

McKenzi’s face turned the colour of cured pork liver. “With all due respect, Captain— those gated communities have their own private security. They have Magisters on speed dial. Remember the Presidio Murders last year? We’re not even allowed inside their bullshit gated gardens. NOW they want us there? And we’re just there to… cordon the place? Prevents others from entering? Does that make sense?”

The heat simmered, as did the Sergeant’s mind.

Between the fire and the ire, a sudden clarity rose to the fore.

“Crockett…” As a veteran and an Earthen Transmuter, McKenzi was head and shoulders taller than his Evoker Captain. “Tell me you’re not serious. They’re making us stand outside and hold our dicks while they Purge their shit. We’re needed elsewhere. We swore an oath, Frank.”

His Captain seemed momentarily moved by his accusation, but the man’s face quickly matched McKenzi’s ire. When he spoke again, he was no longer addressing McKenzi, but the whole crew of officers who had been recalled to headquarters. “Watch your mouth, Sergeant. You know how the SFPD was founded. You know how we’re funded. You think the state pads our pensions? You think we got the best damn health insurance in the US because of Squibs paying taxes? Go and do your job, Mac. Here and now is why we, the SFPD, truly exist. You’re not Paladins. The SFPD isn’t a fancy Ordo. That oath of ours… It’s just guidelines.”

McKenzi tried and failed to stop his own mouth. The reaction was entirely reflexive, like a body gasping for air even though he willed himself to hold his breath. “We’re responsible to the people. They have family… our men have family in those places we’re abandoning.”

“The SFPD isn’t abandoning anything.” The mana escaping from Captain’s body was evidence of his increasingly short fuse. “Mack, stop wasting your time. Go assist with the Purge of our priority communities. The sooner they’re done, the sooner you can go back to the Loin. Work with me, Mack. And that goes for all of you. The SFPD can’t afford outbreaks in millionaire row, not even near it. If any of you still want your jobs, meaning security for your families, then GO. Remember—Gold in Peace, Iron in War. We’re not philthrapists, not then, not now.”

McKenzi deflated at the city’s historical motto. “Is that it? Life is cheap in the Loin?”

His Captain shook his head. “Life is cheap, Mack. Ours included. Do what’s best for yourself, and you’ll do what’s best for your families. Only then can we look after others. You have your assignments, gentlemen. Move your asses lest I move them out of here, permanently."

McKenzi fought down the kettle scream in his throat.

He hated everything that blipped and pulsed on that city map, but he couldn’t hate his Captain, not seriously anyway.

He and Crockett were in the 201st Airborne together, survivors of three consecutive tours from Grantenochtitlan to Mexicali. They were younger then, equal parts naivety and patriotism. They had seen things in Baja California that made the Tenderloin quarantine seem like a summer stroll through Golden Gate Park.

The walk down to the yard seemed like a fevered dream.

Neither he nor his Captain were strangers to moral compromise, for when they had returned in a parade with the Star Spangled Banner flooding their ears, they had to tell themselves little white lies.

That their actions were necessary.

That they were the nation’s bulwark.

That people genuinely thanked them for their sacrifice.

These little lies were important because they were the foundation of truer lies, that their friends died to keep the homeland safe, as opposed to bottomline of Exxon-Chevron. These foundations of faith were important, for without them, men like him would be utterly lost.

“Sergeant?” The voice of Wong interrupted McKenzie's thoughts. When McKenzi once more became fully lucid, he was already in the Squad Car with his junior, driving toward Pacific Heights.

Pacific Heights… McKenzi’s chest performed a sudden and unexpected jolt.

Washington 2006, Pacific Heights…

On the radio and on every Lumen-caster, he had heard the siren’s alluring promise. “The Shalkar Trade Consortium will construct the city’s very first multi-tier, multi-use Geo-front in the Tenderloin.”

The Tenderloin.

THE TENDERLOIN.

With a sudden burst of celerity, McKenzi searched his pockets until he found the strange card that had been given to him the twilight prior. It was an impossible thing, a living leaf with an embossed logo of a tree within a Tower, and a string of numbers that translated to a foreign Divi-code for a Message receiver.

Explicably, the Sergeant knew exactly what he needed to do.

With the apartment cleaned, her cousin put to bed, and the eye-wateringly priced rug replaced, the Regent of Shalkar sat opposite Sir Dominic Lorenzo of METRO and Count Edward Hawthorne of London Imperial, recounting her suspicions.

“This is very serious.” Lorenzo was the more passionate of the two, for Hawthorne’s opinion firmly rested on allowing the Americans free rein to exercise their hard-won freedom. “But that doesn’t change anything. We have a treaty with the US that strictly forbids paramilitary intervention. We can speak to the Mayoral office. We could even ask the Duke to contact Washington—though I dare say DC would scoff at the East Coast’s woes instead of sending aid. After all, it sounds bad, but nothing is… out of control.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Dominic is right. The city shall turn, unmoved by it all, Regent,” Hawthorne was handsome in his evening jacket, having been woken by the servants to attend to her questions. He materialised a cigar, saw her wrinkle her nose, then wistfully magicked the thing away. “Come tomorrow, the stock markets will open, the hotdog vendors will sell their inedible offerings, and ten thousand-thousand coffee shops milling conflict-beans from Baja California will quench the addiction of sleepy office workers. Who are we to intervene?”

“So we just sit here and watch the districts burn?” Gwen pointed to the window, below which the city’s discerning multi-millionaires could see parts of their home undergoing Purges. “Drink our tea from dinky cups, with our pinkies raised?”

“We could go downstairs to the Dwarven Pub. I am told that’s the very first thing to be fabricated the moment your crew finishes their onboarding.” Hawthorne’s smile was beginning to grate on her nerves. “We’ll all enjoy a pint until it all blows over, eh?”

Gwen stared daggers at her perfectly reasonable companions with their logic-driven rationales. Another Regent might have taken her advisors' advice, but she was the Regent of Shalkar.

Had she actually listened to her “people”, her people would have died.

No Rat-kin, no Deepholme. No Shalkar.

“Lorenzo, say I wandered into the Tenderloin by accident… again… what would be the legal ramifications? I do have a reputation for directions, after all. And there’s no explicit curfew.”

Her Media Manager’s face twitched. “Then we would have to overtime the sods from Elling-Gibson Dunn. What are you intending to do?”

Gwen thought a little of the faces she had met in the last few days.

Tony Adakai, the hotdog vendor at Union sleeping under his cart.

The flirty barista who ran the corner shop cafe.

All the Mages and NoMs she had observed on their daily routines.

Even the implied menace that was Roberto and Noah.

Oh, and the well-meaning cop who had vividly imagined that she was orchestrating “The Running Man”.

What made them any less deserving of a chance at normalcy than forlorn Rat-kin wandering a waterless desert, hounded by the same Phage?

DING—!

A Message spell bloomed beside her ear.

The Glyph-hue indicated it wasn’t from an official channel but from a private call.

As there were no spam calls in this world, Gwen apologised to her companions, then answered it.

“Umm… Lord Regent?” Her Divination Glyph projected its Message in baritone, in an accent that was made for dinner-time television. “This is Sergeant McKenzi of the SSFPD. Do you have a moment to talk? You’re my only hope…”

The Sergeant was not a man trained in competitive debating and so took his time debriefing the Regent on the subsequent events in the Tenderloin after her departure.

According to the voice of a man fighting his outrage, with the Police presence removed, undiscovered infected would be left to wander where they pleased, meaning the very first victims would be the insensible potion fiends littering Turk and Eddy. Given time, these newly infected would return to whatever places around Union they usually rested during the day, possibly even workplaces and family homes.

When the inevitable happens, McKenzi explained, there would be thousands of victims.

While the officer offered his woes, the Regent and company sat around her contemplative self, listening to the request of a good man at his wit’s end.

What amazed Gwen was that the SFPD had decided to pull the containment line northward, so that rather than boxing the Tenderloin, it formed a line south of places like Nob Hill, literally four blocks from the Loin. The act was so irrational that Lorenzo had to pull up a map of the city’s real estate and land tax contributions, with lines that explicitly formed around the SFPD’s chosen priorities.

The purpose, it seemed, was to prevent miscreants and the infected from entering the boxed communities of the city’s upper-middle and elite classes. There was even a cordon outside Pacific Heights, her present residence.

“Could you speak to someone? The Mayor, for example…” McKenzi’s voice sounded exhausted. Gwen knew the man had been up for two days. As an insomniac herself, she deeply suspected that the only reason he had the energy to fight the good fight was because of her Golden Mead.

“Well, gents? What do you think?” she asked her present advisors. “I am of the mind to go and pay the Tenderloin a visit. Call it a late-night inspection of my future Dyar Morkk site.”

“I am against it.” Edwin Harthorn held up both hands. “Your actions will help a few, but deeply complicate our priorities here in San Fran and beyond. If you are charged with interference in the security operations of the Union—and you will be—infrastructural assets we wish to acquire may be subject to unwelcome oversight.”

The Count of Ainsbury paused, played with an invisible cigar, then looked her in the eye. “Even if Master Magnusson remains our ally, the US Congress is literally hand-picked by members of the Union. A Regent who disregards the local laws can be seen as dangerous. As business people, we don’t need that kind of reputation.”

The Count was correct, though Gwen highly doubted her stakeholders would dare to refuse her credit swaps, regardless of her reputation.

“I respectfully disagree. I think we can spin it,” Lorenzo said, more empathetic than the Count. “We got InterRepublic, we got the New York Daily. Imagine. The Regent’s Loin. Who can resist a headliner like that?”

“Really, Lorenzo?” Gwen rolled her eyes. “Are we the Herald Sun? Should I show some shoulder for Page Three?”

“Are you the Editor or me?” Lorenzo looked suddenly inspired. “No. no. It’s doable. I’ll need some good Lumen-pics. Maybe your silhouette while the Tenderloin burns behind you. If Ariel could find a small, attractive NoM child to rescue from a Ghoul, that would be even better. Trust me, if you intend to flout both state and federal law, you need public opinion on your side.”

Every now and then, Gwen was reminded that Lorenzo’s moral map was skewed by his extensive work with the British Foreign Intelligence Service, and that his impeccable reputation as a prize-winning journalist was a part of House Ravenport’s support. It was a little alarming that, having successfully developed the Isle of Dogs for almost half a decade, she was starting to believe in the very hype she had curated.

Thankfully, she had a better idea.

A woman who spent almost every evening alone with her cats had a lot of time for television.

She had seen Twin Peaks.

She had cursed the final season of Castle.

And she had binged both Bones and The Mentalist.

“Sergeant, let me ask you a question. Despite my diplomatic role, I am still a civilian. I do not hold an active military rank in the Commonwealth. My title as Regent is Her Governorship, Gwen Song of the Special Administrative Region of Shalkar. I answer to the House of Lords, a legislative body, not the Military brass.”

“Uh…” Unfortunately, the Sergeant did not speak French.

“What I am saying,” Gwen winked at her two confused companions. “Is that I’ll head over, and at the first sign of trouble, you will deputise me.”

“Ha!?” Hawthorne slapped his knee. “Posse Comitatus?”

“Will that work?” Lorenzo was incredulous. “Can a common copper deputise a Tower Master?”

“Absolutely,” the Count was beside himself. “Posse Comitatus. You still have that here in the colonies, Sergeant?”

“Yes…?” McKenzi’s voice was not nearly as confident as their mirth. “Yes. I can deputise civilians as needed. Usually, they run before I can formalise it…”

“Well, these colours don’t run,” Gwen hijacked an old American adage. “Let us waste no time, Sergeant. I’ll be over in a jiffy. Stay on the line while I stumple upon a crime in progress.”

“I’ll get my gear,” Lorenzo left his seat for his room. “See you on the roof in five minutes.”

Hawthorne raised his hand. “I’ll summon the eggheads from Elling-Gibson Dunn. We’ll draft up legal contingencies while you’re out. I’ll let the Duke know as well, in case we need the Factions to step in.”

“Very well then, gents. Have an uneventful evening.” Gwen checked her civilian garb and deemed it proper enough to infer that she was out for a stroll and in no way had anticipated combat. “I’ll be… going for a walkabout to investigate the possibility of American xiaoye…”

The Tenderloin.

Roberto Uya Ohlone was having a very bad, no good day.

Barely two evenings ago, he had marked a lovely young prey that wandered into the neighbourhood. She was the most amazing prize he had seen in living memory, so desirable that his heart ached, only to have their local do-gooder cut his jollies short.

What’s worse, when the heat

fucked off, Roberto was left facing Noah and his gang. After getting his ass kicked seven ways, he had to scramble almost two blocks through chained fences and rabid dogs before he managed to cut a tail loose. Dejected, Roberto had stumpled, tired and wounded, back to his crib, only to find that someone had hammered off the locks. This wasn’t so bad in the material sense, for Roberto’s life was carried on his person, in his Storage Ring, but still, the messed-up basement meant he had to expend mana and mental energy before he could rest.

When he suddenly woke up, it wasn’t because of a day of gainful rest. It was because the boys in blue were banging on the door upstairs, shouting something about a curfew and a quarantine.

“Fuck that shit…” Roberto had leapt into action. A hustler like him needed his potions, and potions don’t come easily in a lockdown. Mindful of his limited supply, he had taken a quick hit from a well-cut Cure Light injector and circulated the Positive Energy via his mana conduits. He wasn’t a trained Mage like Noah; Roberto was self-taught. Nonetheless, compared to a NOM, his highs were less addictive, and with the correct meditation, the side effects lasted longer.

Once his hands stopped shaking, Noah began to plan.

The last time they pulled some shit like this in the Loin, they were locked in for three weeks.

Two days after Roberto ran out of potions, he had gnawed through almost every piece of furniture he owned and was seriously considering using a whittling knife to shave off his tingling skin.

But Robert also knew the virtue of patience. If he wanted to leave the cordon, then he needed to wait for the boys in blue to leave. He needed to record their patrol times, the number of men they had…

Then… inexplicably, the police were gone.

This meant two things.

The first was that, for reasons beyond his understanding, the SSFPD abandoned their posts.

The second was that, as in the stories told by his late uncle, a National Guardsman, the military would soon arrive to rake the place from top to bottom. Lastly, if those Latter Day zealots make an appearance, all hell would break loose.

Roberto was more inclined to believe in the second possibility, for the last thing he heard on the lumen-caster was a young woman who looked a billion HDMs announcing her purchase of the Tenderloin, or something like that. His memory had been unreliable ever since Noah’s boys gave him a ringer of a concussion, but he vividly recalls thinking that the “Regent” on the Lumen-caster looked like the spitting image of the college student McKenzi dragged away.

Such a thing was impossible, of course.

The recognition, Roberto told himself, was probably a result of a bad batch of potions, and the intense regret seared into his frontal lobe.

Whatever the case, Roberto instinctively felt that his city was growing stranger by the minute, and if it weren’t for his addiction, he could have returned to Ohlonian lands and ride out this “Dyar Morkk” thing.

Unmounting his broken door, Roberto scampered into the narrow alley that served as the entry to the building's subfloors. It was early morning. The street lights were still on, punctuated by the sound of hard-headed moths thrashing their fractured carapace against the lumen globes. His offhand caressed his Storage Ring, filling him with an inexplicable need to soothe his nerves with another microdose.

Somewhere in the darkness, something large scampered across the space between the globes.

A dog? No. Too big to be a dog.

Roberto shivered.

It was spring, but the oppressive heat trap formed by the Shielding Stations made the humidity unbearable.

Step by careful step, Roberto had meandered to the alley entrance.

There, against the corner of his eye, Roberto saw movement.

There was a great migration happening, with dozens of bodies moving through Eddy and Larkin.

“What the hell…” his addled self could not resist his curiosity.

Carefully, with as much stealth as he could muster, he had edged his way behind a dumpster, then allowed enough of his head out of cover to discern the nature of the crowd.

It took Robert no more than a few seconds to realise that these were not the Tenderloin’s usual potion fiends. It was a realisation that made no sense, for he recognised dozens of them, and even knew them by name.

His friends and sometime-victims looked… drained.

Their bodies were so pale and sallow that he would have thought them dead men.

Despite their emaciated exterior, they were making vigorous headway toward Union.

But why? That was the question now resting on Robert’s mind. What could possibly be at Union Square?

“Ghurrrgh–?” A pair of cold, pinpoint eyes met Roberto’s.

A old customer had seen him.

Swallowing twice to lubricate his painful throat, Roberto had slithered backwards, hoping to slide into the dumpster’s shelterinh shadow, only to trip over an abandoned trash bag, sending a dozen bottles to clatter.

With a flourish, Roberto turned, his face forming a snarl.

He quickly displayed his Wand for all to see, hoping that it would discourage anyone from trying their luck.

Unfortunately for Roberto, the figure that now strode toward him was as inhuman. Unlike the other potion fiends, the strange man sported an enormous pair of swollen hands ending in claws, his back and neck were a series of mangled, brutal musculature, and he possessed a tongue that reached well past his chin.

“Oh shit… oh shit…oh shit…” Roberto backed away, doing his best to keep calm. The man’s eyes seemed to alternate between incognisance and animated hunger until their gazes kissed, and the creature veered off course toward him.

“Don’t come any closer.” His Wand again leapt to his defence, its HDM charge spluttering before lighting up once more.

The creature dropped to all fours. The muscles on its lower limbs grew taut like bunched cables. Its salmon-pink tongue tasted the air for the fear oozing from his every pore.

“God damned Nazarene, what the fuck…” Roberto readied his Shield so that with the first strike from his Magic Missile Wand, he would flee while his opponent was stunned.

The creature launched itself, and Roberto felt as though his world had grown languished. Try as he might, he could not lift his arm. The spell-trigger refused to come to his lips. He was a man trapped in viscous molasses, fighting against the tyranny of his fear-drunk body.

“SHAA—!”

Something enormous and shadowy, with a silhouette beyond mortal comprehension, caught the fiend before Roberto could scream, forcing the cry back into his strained belly.

When his eyeballs finally stopped ricocheting in their sockets, he saw the monstrous silouette throw the fiend, still struggling, half into the air before swallowing the creature whole.

Roberto’s wand fell to the floor.

What he faced now was infinitely worse than being murdered by a potion fiend on the warpath.

He had no words to describe the creature, whose mouth was the largest part of its elongated body. It was as though a dog, a mastiff of sorts, had become sixty per cent head, mounted on four spindly, spike-like limbs. Moreso, the head was alien, eyeless, obsidian smooth and semi-translucent, smothered in grey, dribbling goo, with only the smallest hint that it could split itself open like the petals of a carnivorous flower to swallow prey.

Holy fuck. Robert quaked. The Pastor on the street corner, hollering at the fiends, was right. Hell has descended onto the Material world, because everyone and their dog was hustling and pimping, and paid no heed to the teachings of th Nazarene.

This creature was an emissary of hell, and THE END the Pastor spoke of was NIGH.

Roberto’s knees were jelly.

As protestive as his mind was, his body was ripe for the rapture.

Gingerly, the demonic, faceless dog came closer.

Roberto backed away until his face was pressed against a filthy wall, smelling the dumper's juices smeared across its moss-covered surface.

He was crying, or not, he couldn’t tell between the water filling his vision, and the snot and bile bubbling from his nose and throat. His world was one of sheer vertigo; he was falling or ascending, or both.

The demon dog opened its carapace mouth.

From within, a pair of pink tongues, each armed with its own circular disk-mouth, extended forward to taste Roberto as he rapidly discharged every type of fluid his body possessed. The appendage was still soaked in the gore of its previous victim, with unthinkable things dangling from its barbed, girthy self.

An inch away, the mouth-within-the-mouths stopped.

The dog cocked its head quizzically.

“Civilian,” the tongue spoke with a friendly, female voice, as though Persephone was whispering to a mortal lover from the abyss of Hades. The experience would have been pleasant, were it not for goo and gore spluttering his ear and running down his chin. “Come with me if you want to live.”