Vincent smelled smoke and opened his eyes. A sun-bleached poster hung in tatters from the brick-and-mortar building in front of him. Whatever it used to advertise was now obscured in graffiti. Gang signs and street art decorated the entire wall. The poster had hints of a magician with a top hat. His act was hidden behind blue and orange spray paint. Occasionally, a car would zip on by. He recognized this wall...he had passed it many times on the bus ride home when they still lived in Chicago. He heard glass shattering followed by somebody screaming.

No...

He began to walk briskly, putting distance between himself and the wailing. Several people poked their heads out of the apartment window while others closed their sashes. He reached an intersection and crossed it without looking. A taxi cab passed through his ghost but he didn't feel a thing. He was immaterial, insubstantial.

Stop this...

“I told you...I am doing nothing. I see only glimpses. This is your world?”

Stop it. Give me another memory.

He passed by a basketball court with shadowy figures. A boombox played while a game carried on. The ball tapped out a rhythm, stopped, a basket shook, and the beat resumed. Soles scraped against asphalt as people shouted. As Vincent kept walking, reality began to fade and details began to repeat themselves. Like the previous memory, the sidewalk became the only solid thing left in existence. Reality became less substantial the more he approached its boundaries. But from one step to another, he found himself standing in front of the graffiti wall again.

No!

“Why are you running?”

Stop fucking with me! I don’t want to relive this!

“This is not my doing. I told you...this is the meddler's work. I am…grateful. I am curious…I want to see your world.”

Vincent ran across the street and stood in front of an incoming truck. It phased right on through him. Then he chose a random alleyway and fled down it, passing through a hoodlum who was leaning over his crackhead whore, talking her up. He sent ghostly afterimages of trash scattering across the pavement. Chicago faded for a second time, its substance becoming less tangible the more he tried to flee it.

But he found himself in front of the graffiti wall again. This time, he ran across the street to the convenience store and stayed next to its AC unit so the fan would block out the noise. He did not want to hear the screaming. He knew what was going to happen, he remembered enough...and he did not want to revisit this. Blood on the pavement...shattered glass...smoke. He was yelling, struggling to break free...something was shrieking, yowling. He stayed there and waited...nothing happened. This dream didn’t send him back.

“Ten mounts are mine,” the entity whispered, “I begin as a sickness that works its way into their blood. I could kill them before I begin my work...but as long as I have lived...I have always enjoyed keeping them alive.”

Stop this...

“I will start by twisting the gut...”

I said stop this!

“Seven of the beasts have just fallen to the ground and have lost control of their bowels. The other three have leapt into the air, thinking something has bitten them from beneath. They are now bounding, doing a dance because they are desperately trying to escape.”

I want out of here.

“All of them are now emptying the contents of their stomachs. And you have not yet dispelled me...interesting. The meddler's lore must have its own limitations.”

The air popped and Vincent found himself standing in front of the graffiti sign yet again. Screaming, he punched the wall as hard as he could, his fist bounced off of it as though it were made of rubber. He heard the glass shatter, and he plugged his ears.

“The meddler must want you to give witness to your past.” the entity crooned.

I don't want to.

“So be it...your delay benefits me.”

Vincent knew the entity was right, the vision wouldn’t let him go until he let his past play out. He did not want to relive this, he did not want to remember. He had plenty of fucked up memories, trauma that he'd rather leave in the fog of amnesia. But he was trapped. What could he do? Keep running off and restarting this loop for an eternity? No...this was why he came. He needed to remember who he was before Falius took him and absorbed his identity. This is why the soldiers had died. He had to go through with it. So, he walked to the right of the graffiti wall until he found a set of steps leading into a sketchy-looking alley. He heard yelling. He stopped at an intersection, placed his hand on the wall, took a breath and turned the corner.

“–told you this was going to happen if you dissed my little brother again.”

Vincent saw a younger version of himself being restrained by two older boys. His nose was leaking profuse amounts of blood, and he was crying. The one who'd bloodied his nose stood in front of him, holding a hissing kitten by the scruff.

“HELP!” Vinny tried to cry out, but they covered his mouth. He turned his head and bit their fingers. Swearing, one of them pulled a knife and held it to his throat. He froze and a fresh new stream of tears flowed down his cheeks. He mumbled something.

“Man...I can't hear you bro. Yo, let him talk. If he screams, we'll shut him up.”

“No...no...don't...please don't...” Vinny said between gasping sobs.

“Don't...pweeze! I’ll tell my mommy!” one of his attackers crooned.

“Man, you did a number on my little brother,” the leader, Rory, said, “you know he had to see some dentist after that shit you pulled on the playground? You's a sucker-punching little bitch. Jordan won't never eat right no more because of that.”

“He...he started...” Vinny sputtered. The kitten in Rory's hand spat and tried to bite him.

“Oh shit! This little bastard's feisty!”

“He started it!” Vinny repeated.

“Man, he didn’t start shit! You’s a fucking liar.”

“Let Oscar go...”

“Who the fuck's Oscar?” Rory demanded, “this?” He held out the kitten, who was still growling and spitting at him, “You named a feral tomcat? Maaaaaannnn...you fucking tripping. You know how many fleas they have? You probably gottem all over you. Shit man...you probably just passed them to Jay and Kev.”

“Did you give me fleas?” Kevin asked, jerking the tip of the knife to Vinny's throat while Jay bust out laughing, “Huh? Is that true, do I have fucking fleas now?!” Vinny stood on his toes, trying to lean back from the blade.

“He doesn't have fleas!!!”

“Man...my head's itching now!” Meanwhile, Rory held up the kitten to inspect it.

“Bro...it has fleas. I just saw one!” he said, “shit man...it's a pest! Fuck! First you mess with my little brother, fuck him up, now you give me fleas? The fuck is the matter with you, ya lunatic?”

Oscar kept slapping the air and spitting. Tiny little growls rumbled his throat as he tried to spin around and bite the hand that held him. The sunlight illuminated the pink flesh inside his flea-bitten ears. Rory considered the kitten, a curl twisting his lips.

“Naw man...it's actually kind of cute. I think I'm gonna keep it. That's fair isn't it?”

“Man you're not keeping no cat,” Jay said.

“Naw man, it's mine now. That's payment for fucking up my brother. You taking care of him? What’s his favorite food?” Rory sounded genuine.

“What?” Vinny said.

“What?” Rory repeated, “What??? Man, I said I’m keeping this cat. The fuck’s wrong with your ears, bro? I see why you like him, he’s cute. Like, what does he eat? Fish? Trash?”

“Cat food...” Vinny said.

“Cat food, huh? Can’t go wrong with that. But I don’t like his name man. He don’t look like no Oscar.”

“Ain’t no way you’re keeping a fucking cat.” Kevin said.

“Yeah man, the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Why don’t you fuckers shut up and help me name it? What about Zippo? I think he looks like a Zippo.”

“Zippo?” Kevin repeated.

“Yeah, Zippo! That sounds good to me! How about you, my little flea-ridden buddy?” Rory held the kitten up. “How about you, Freakman? Zippo a good name?”

Vinny, crying, nodded. “Please don't hurt him...”

“Nah man...I'm gonna take good care of him. Gonna start by getting rid of these fleas.”

Vincent's phantom closed his eyes and felt fresh tears running down his cheeks because he knew what was coming next. The past played out before him like a fever dream. This was Rory’s revenge for Jordan, his younger brother. This was days after Vincent had been expelled, days after he struck Jordan with a piece of rebar. Vinny thought Rory was going to let him off easy if he let Rory rename the kitten Zippo...but that delusion was shattered when Rory produced a small can of Zippo lighter fluid and began to drench Oscar in it.

“What are you doing?!” Vinny screamed.

“Getting rid of the fleas!” Rory said, the vapor from the lighter fluid distorting the air. He put the lighter fluid back in his pocket and produced a lighter. “Man...gotta burn all the fleas out.” He got the lighter closer and pulled it away. Closer, and pulled it away. “Oh? Oh? Oh no! Oh?”

“Dude, hurry the fuck up!” Kevin said, “I can’t hold him!

“Stopmmmff!” Vinny screamed into Kevin's palm. But in a fit of adrenaline, he broke free from his captors and launched himself at Rory. But he had been too late. Rory already set Oscar on fire and dropped the flaming kitten into the nearby dumpster, which immediately filled with shrieking.

Vincent's phantom slumped down on the wall as his younger self tried to climb into the dumpster to save Oscar, only for the thugs to grab him, pull him off, throw him to the ground and pummel him. The entity snickered as Vincent covered his ears. He didn’t want to hear Oscar screeching...a sound that had been burnt into his mind for years. Frantic skittering echoed off the dumpster walls as the creature inside scrambled, plowing through broken glass and tearing through garbage bags. Eventually, the yowling became softer until it died out completely.

This all went down right outside of Deonte's apartment complex. He had heard the commotion, looked out his window, saw what was happening and was now rushing down the stairs. Vincent heard his footsteps. When he ran out the door, he saw Deonte’s dreadlocks flying as he leapt down the entire flight of steps. When he appeared around the corner, the three teenagers tried to flee but Deonte caught Rory, grabbing him by the scruff.

“Where the fuck you think you're going, huh?” he said between clenched teeth, “just where the fuck do you think you're going?”

“Bro, let go of me!” Rory tried to struggle.

“Naw naw naw naw...you aren't going nowhere. I wanna see what you just threw in there.”

“I didn't throw anyth–”

“–I wanna see what YOU just threw into there...” He pulled Rory over next to him and forced his head into the dumpster.

“What is that?!?” Deonte pointed, “what the fuck is that?!?”

“I said let go of–”

“–Motherfucker, I just asked you a question! What the fuck did you throw into the dumpster?”

Vincent's phantom got up and he walked around the corner to watch. By now, Vinny, who had been screaming, was now beginning to disassociate, so he only remembered the shouting, not what was actually being said. He stared with a vacant look in his eyes. Vincent had not remembered how livid and disgusted Deonte had looked, how the whites of his eyes only underscored the man's rage.

“I'm waiting for an answer motherfucker!” Deonte's voice cracked.

Rory just stood there shifting on his feet and looking defiant, but the cowardice was showing under his eyes. Deonte looked up and down, sizing him, then gave Rory a push.

“Man...you best back the fuck off!” Rory stammered.

“Or what?! What are you gonna do? Huh?” Deonte pushed him again. “Go on, tell me! I could use a good laugh! What're you gonna do? You think you're tough, setting cats on fire...beating up little kids?! Go ahead! Tell me! What is a degenerate, pathetic, evil motherfucker like you going to do to me?!”

Rory tried to make a break for it, but Deonte grabbed his arm and threw him to the ground. “Don't you try to fucking run! You're just making it worse for yourself!”

“Somebody help!” Rory shouted. Several people opened their windows. “Help! I'm being attacked!”

“Deonte, what's all that noise I keep hearing?!” one of them hollered.

Deonte began to remove his belt. “I'm about to give this punk the ass-kicking he deserves!” he hollered back, “y'all can either stop me, come out and help me stomp him, or sit back and watch.”

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“Nah...you go on ahead!” Vincent heard the sashes closing.

“See that?” Deonte said, “you're not getting any help, not today! It's just you. Your friends ran away, you know why? You're all cowards! Now you've been roughing it up around here, harassing all the good folk thinking this is your kingdom. Now, you crossed the line. You just pissed me the fuck off. So now I'm gonna do what everybody here's been wanting to do but don't have the guts to do it.”

Rory tried to get up, but Deonte shoved him back and sent him stumbling into the back wall. Then he wrapped the belt once around his wrist, raised it and went to town. Rory tried to raise his hands to defend himself and he tried to find a way to escape, but Deonte kept shoving him back and lashing his wrists.

“Ok stop!” Rory tried to sound tough, but his voice began to crack. “Stop motherfucker! I'll kill you!”

Deonte aimed low and started to warm up on Rory's legs. The teen tried to fight back, but every time he tried to attack, Deonte just shoved him back down. Eventually, the pain broke him and he had no choice but to cower under the constant lashing.

“Deonte stop!!! I'm sorry!! Stop!!!” He tried and failed to keep the quiver out of his voice.

“The fuck? You crying already? I was being soft on you, I haven't even begun yet!”

Then Deonte unleashed his full wrath, filling the alley with the crack of his belt, veins bulging, dreads flying as he flailed Rory's legs. The wannabe thug tried to hold it in, but tears were streaming down his face. He tried to crawl away, but Deonte had him cornered. Every time he tried to get back up, Deonte would plant a foot on him and shove him back down. Eventually, Rory just started bellowing. and pleaded for the lashings to stop. Deonte kept swinging for about another minute before his arm got tired, only then did he bring it to an end.

“Get up!” Deonte ordered. Rory pulled his knees to chest and began to rock back and forth. Deonte got down to his level and looked him in the eyes. “I'm not the kind of guy who likes to repeat himself.” Trembling, Rory placed his hands against the wall and tried to stand, but his chapped legs were wobbly. Deonte grabbed his shirt, pressed him up against the brick and got right up in his face.

“Why the fuck you crying?” he demanded.

Rory could not speak, all he could utter were a few pathetic noises.

“That was not a rhetorical question,” Deonte said, “why the fuck you crying? What's the matter with you? Huh? What's the matter with you?”

“It...it hurts.”

“Oh? It hurts, huh? Thought you was supposed to be a tough guy.” Deonte brought his face so close, Rory was forced to turn his head and look away. “What's the matter with you? Come on, answer my question! Answer my goddamn question! What the fuck's the matter with you? What’s the matter with you?”

Deonte, fighting to restrain himself, kept repeating the same question over and over, spitting it into Rory's ear.

“I don't know...” Rory whimpered.

“You don't know?” Deonte hissed, “you don't know? Well, you must be a trifling motherfucker to go around picking on kids. And after seeing what you did to that defenseless animal...boy, every muscle in my body is itching with the desire to punch your fucking teeth in and kick you down the street. You feel this?” He scrunched Rory's collar. “You feel my hands trembling?!”

Rory, who was gasping and hyperventilating, nodded.

“That's the hand of God holding my arms back, keeping me from knocking you the fuck out and stomping you.”

Rory kept nodding.

“Look at me. Hey, I said look at me! No, don't look at the ground, I said look at me!” Deonte waited until Rory met his eyes. “Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to let you go and you're going to get the fuck out of here. I don't want you to ever see the inside of a jail cell. But if you ever smash in my backyard again, that's where you're going...and that's assuming the hospital releases you after I'm done fucking you up. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes,” Rory squeaked.

“I don't know what beef you have with VC, but I'm showing you a gratuitous amount of mercy that you don't fucking deserve. Someday, you are going to pay for what you did. Turn your life around. The law isn't going to care how gangster you are, motherfucker. You all die the same, you all bleed the same. That's what's gonna happen if you go down this path: you're going to end up in jail, stabbed, or shot. And if I ever see you or your friends hanging around here again, I promise I will give you all an ass-kicking so profound, even your ancestors will feel it.”

He practically threw Rory, who stumbled down the alley and limped off whimpering. Deonte had to pace back and forth to get his temper under control. He clenched his arms and his muscles bulged, stretching the tattoos.

“Jesus Christ...” he muttered before going to kneel in front of Vinny. “Hey...Cordell.” He waved his hand in front of Vinny's face. It took a few seconds to get his attention. “Come on man, let's get you fixed up, then you can tell me what happened.”

“Oscar...we need to get him to a vet.” Vinny reached a hand toward the dumpster. Deonte had a moment of confusion, then he turned away and clenched his teeth, a mixture of emotions passed over his face. It was strange that Vincent, now close to how old Deonte was back then, could recognize the impossible answers playing across the man's face.

“Oscar's going to be fine,” he lied, “there was some water at the bottom of the dumpster. It put the fire out. I was up there.” He pointed to his window. “I saw it happen. But when I got down here, I saw him run out the hole in the back. You know where it's rusted through? I saw Oscar escape through that hole. He said 'screw it, I'm out, bro.' So don't worry about’im. He'll be back. If not, I'll look for him later, he's probably just scared. Right now, we need to get you out of here and patch you up.”

“You...you beat up Rory...” Vinny said. There were hints of awe in his voice. Instead of looking flattered, Deonte stood up, removed his durag and ran his fingers through his hair, sighing.

“Yeah, I did,” he said, “and I wish you didn't have to see that, not that he didn’t deserve it. I also said some words I don't ever want to hear you repeating. But yeah, I beat him up. There are times when violence is justified and that was one of them.” Deonte paced back and forth. “Look, I don't want you...going around looking for fights, not even with assholes like that. But if you see somebody being victimized and you're the only one that can do anything about it, then you are fully justified to start throwing fists.”

“Like Oscar...”

Deonte swallowed. “Yeah...like Oscar. You got your butt whooped, but at least you fought back to defend him. That takes courage. Hold onto that anger VC. I can't tell you how many people grow up to become fuck...freaking cowards, they become too afraid to do the right thing.”

There were subtexts to Deonte's words, meanings that Vincent's younger self could not possibly pick up on. But Vincent's phantom stood next to the man he once considered to be like an older brother. He could see pain and disappointment. Unspoken turmoils were guiding Deonte's words. There was a hidden history in his inflections, a past Vincent never got to ask him about. Maybe even something that happened earlier that day.

“They don't even become angry when evil is staring them right in the face,” Deonte said, “they just make excuses. They just turn their heads like it's none of their business, then they walk on out.” He placed his hands on Vinny's shoulder. “Don't...ever let yourself get like that. You see a situation and you can do something about it? Then do something about it. Or else you'll hate the man you become. It'll just get easier to run than it is to fight, then you'll spend your life wishing you'd been a fighter instead of a runner. Never be ashamed of standing up to evil, even if you get hurt for it.”

Vinny just stared at him.

“Do you understand?” Deonte asked. He hesitated, then shook his head. “Well...when you get older you will. Point is, you did the right thing. Come on, let's get you fixed up. I gotta call your folks and tell them what happened. Probably gonna call the police too...not sure yet.”

“I-I can walk.” Deonte was helping him up, but Vinny wouldn't let him. They both passed through the real Vincent's phantom.

“Now weren't you supposed to be with one of your sisters whenever you come around here?” Deonte asked as his voice drifted off into the distance, “you know you're never supposed to be here by yourself, it's a rough neighborhood...”

Vincent wanted to follow them. Instead, he leaned his back against the wall and sat down, shaking. He picked up a broken bottle and threw it, the phantom image shattered into a hundred pieces. He spent the next few minutes gasping as brown smoke rose from the dumpster, carrying with it a carious odor. Orange flames peaked over the edge and licked at the lid, causing it to warp and melt. Somebody noticed the fire and yelled, then several dark figures raced down the alleyway, passing right through him. The specters took off their shirts and tried to beat it down.

As Chicago began to fade, more specters raced down the street, carrying fire extinguishers. The alley slowly expanded, stretching until it spanned hundreds of yards. The dumpster transformed, sprouting limbs from its top and growing until it became a hulking shadow of twisted forms. The specters grew more numerous and acquired wings and tails. They held spears, blades, and crossbows in their hands. Vincent could hear The La'ark shouting. As the last remnant of Earth disappeared, he stared up into the storm that lingered above Crefield.

“He was going to teach me how to fight,” he said, “but he never got the chance. Dad got a new job and we moved out. But that damn cat...it fucked me up. I used to see a headless cat follow me wherever I went.”

The storm in this realm did not look as it had. Here, there were no signs of the gyrating cloud. In its place was a large vertical cut in reality itself, an aperture behind which shapes thrashed. An outward flowing corona limned its boundaries. Something about the rift seemed both distant and close at the same time, as if he could simply reach out and touch it.

“They are still alive. Though I broke them...wove them together...the mounts are still alive. When one thrashes from the pain, it increases the torment of the others...which in return repays the misery.”

Vincent tucked his head into his hands as the entity crooned over its work, seemingly oblivious to his words. He felt Akhil's flying weapon pass through him, its commands flashed briefly. He heard tired soldiers yelling and The La'ark continuing to bark her orders. Oscar was burning.

“It's not that simple,” Vincent whispered, “I don't know if you can hear me...but you have no right to do this to me. Even if I wake up on Earth...I won't be there. I'll exist, but I won't be truly present. This will become my preferred reality and my family will suffer because of it. I'll become a joke and it'll be your fault.”

“Who are you talking to...”

“Your meddler. I don’t know if it can hear me. But it knew that memory would break me. Maybe the others were random…maybe not. I don't know. But it knew this one would make me irrational.”

Vincent looked up just as a figure was sent flying in his direction. She tumbled before crashing against the house he was leaning against. The wind had been knocked from her lungs and she floundered. Slade tried to get up, but she was dazed. Her blade passed into his form and he could feel thousands of bands pulsing with power.

“I'm being manipulated.”

He plunged his hand into the blade and grasped the bands within. They were not commands, rather they were intense channels of energy, guided by lore. The wires of his ethereal figure began to resonate with the bands, reaching out to them. Stone and ice were flung away from his being as his ethereal form exploded with flashes of exaltation. Slade's figure, still winded, scrambled away and covered her eyes.

Alien intuitions told Vincent that the blade material was the only kind of substance that could normally conduct and contain this chaotic, virulent maelstrom of scorching light. And yet he was still able to stand up and carry the bands with him, his form attuned to the same frequency that allowed the blade's wielder to tap into the source of its hellfire. Scorching lines ran down his arms and legs and he became a walking nova, clasping a solar flare in his hand that connected him to Calimere's Light.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Vincent had no idea. His legs seemed to move of their own accord as he approached the towering stormspawn.

“Maybe it's like a lucid dream,” he whispered, “when I know I'm dreaming...I can manipulate it. But each one...it has its own rules. I just have to learn them. I can always pass through glass. I can't always pass through walls. Clocks and televisions, I can always open their screens. That's what this feels like. I know things I shouldn't know. Instinct. It doesn't make any sense, but I knew I could grab these things.” He looked down at the bands of light in his hand, “and carry them with me.”

“You're going to put the beasts out of their misery. A touching act...”

“I also know that I can hurt you,” Vincent said, looking over to the dark sphere where the entity's mist churned, “I'm a threat to you when I'm in this state. I don’t know how I know any of this.”

“Are you?” It sounded amused.

A rift formed up in the gut of the stormspawn as he approached it, and a large eye opened to look at him, reflecting the flashing corona of his silhouette. Vincent squeezed the bands he held in his hand and parabolas exploded forth from his form like solar flares. Soldiers scrambled to get out of the way as the plasma arched, carving glowing ruts in the cobblestone. A hellish shrieking filled the realm as he stepped into the stormspawn, sending chunks of flesh shooting upwards. His parabolas rotated through the monstrosity like the wings of a mixing beater cutting through cake batter, vaporizing flesh with explosive results. As the form collapsed around him and smoldering bits of flesh fell to the ground, he felt no satisfaction, only an unsated anger brewing. Damn it all...

“I'm already fucked,” he said, “it didn't give me a choice. I'm going to wake up and this is going to be with me for the rest of my life no matter what happens. I'm never going to be the same. There's going to be no more fucking normal.”

He stepped out of the smoking remnants of the stormspawn, which was already transforming into sludge. He let go of the bands, allowing them to snap back to Calimere's Light. His incandescence immediately snuffed itself out. Then he stared at the dark orb lurking above the plaza, feeling rage in his chest. If this was a scene conjured by brain trauma, would it really be better to do nothing? There was still so much he needed to remember, but he wasn't sure he wanted to. Did that make him a coward? He did not know. Right now, he just wanted to lash out and hurt something. He hated this thing.

“Entertaining...but ultimately pointless.”

The sphere rang and the rift responded. Or rather, the thrashing shapes inside it did. The rift...it was something different entirely. The same intuitions that guided Vincent to grab Calimere's Light also allowed him to sense that it...did it belong to him? No, that made no sense. He had nothing to do with the rift and yet the notion persisted: The rift was his. There was something else present, something besides the malignant presence inside. A second chime filled the air and a mass tried to push its way through, its pustular darkness struggling to escape its bonds. He raised his hand. Though the rift was hundreds of feet above, and though Vincent only extended his hand no further than an arm's length away, he grabbed it.

The lore that caused the rift, it continued to feel familiar. Or if not familiar, it felt like it belonged to him, that he should understand it. It felt almost like a vehicle he never knew he owned. Or perhaps a tool he had forgotten he'd purchased. His mind...or perhaps it was the form he inhabited, it was grasping for understanding, trying to make analogies where none existed. His hand clasped onto a doorway, a passage that belonged to him, a passage that the storm entity was using. The entity was an intruder, something that did not belong. But it was not alone, something else was present. He felt something reach out to touch his hand. It was benign and warm. For several heartbeats, he heard somebody crying, it was a woman's voice. Her weeping echoed from the dark cleft bisecting the sky. It was gone almost as soon as he heard it. What was that?

His thoughts were interrupted when the entity filled the realm with a thousand screaming voices, vocalizations taken from the countless specimens it had experimented on. Beneath his hand, he felt its cancer trying to break free.

“I don't have any idea how I'm doing this...don't even know what it is.” He squeezed the rift in his hand, feeling its aperture narrow. The entity shrieked. “And I don't care if you're real or not, you're a degenerate piece of shit. Whatever the Stalker did to me...he's not the one in front of me, torturing animals, killing kids.”

He thought of Micah and Theomus, of the little girl whose voice the entity stole after it murdered her. “You're a sick bastard that needs to burn in hell. If I wake up and this was all a dream...well...at least I'll have fantasized about crushing miserable sadistic fucks like you.”

The sphere spilled onto the ground, turning into hundreds of wispy tendrils that snaked toward his form in a panic. But they crashed against nothing because to them, he was insubstantial. He could not be touched. All he could hear was the screeching of innocents filling his ears and it enraged him. Oscar was screaming. Fuck this thing.

Agony flashed through his whole body. If he had not been holding onto the rift, he would have fallen to the ground. The pain only served to set his temper on fire and he squeezed with all his might, feeling the entity squirming under his fingers. The rift resisted. So he clasped both hands on it and crushed it. A thousand shrieks filled the air as he clutched onto the void.

Another spike of pain stabbed his nerves. He was forced to let go and drop to his knees. He doubled over, pleading for the horrid agony to pass. His physical body was trying to heal. He could feel it. The nerves, severed by the storm entity's attack, were trying to reconnect. While he flailed in misery, the rift began to open back up. The storm entity sent out another chime. That was its ritual. It was trying to summon another black storm. It would create more stormspawn.

No! Not yet! he thought.

Trembling, he reached up and grabbed the void again. He was screaming. This needed to end. But he couldn't do it. The storm entity fought back. It resisted. It pushed back against his efforts to close the rift. On top of that, there was a click. And another wave of pain sent Vincent to the ground, curling and kicking. His physical body was sending him signals. He could feel the cold ground against his cheeks, against his wings. But his ethereal form writhed with delirious torment.

"Help me!" he yelled into the sky, "you want me to save them, then help me!" He didn't know who he was talking to. The meddler? The woman he heard in the rift? Maybe even the Weaver itself. If this world had a god, surely it could hear his cries?

"It is unfortunate…" the storm entity crooned as it sung to the void, where its mass gathered and boiled.

Vincent's rage became like an inferno burning within. It exploded. He saw red, and only red. Yelling, he forced himself to reach up to the void one last time. His fury could not be denied. It could not be repelled. The entity's shocked screams were like music to his ears. His hands ached and his fingers felt like they were on the verge of breaking from the effort of trying to close the rift. He wanted it dead. He wanted it to die suffering. The waves of agony left him for the time being. He seized the opportunity and with all of his might, squeezed. The rift was closing. It was choking the entity, smothering it.

Then it began to give way, it began to close on its own. Vincent could feel it. He let go and watched as it narrowed to a seam, and the seam zipped itself out of existence. The storm entity's mist boiled and thrashed in the last throes of agony. Whatever lore had twisted it and had kept its shape, was now gone. It was now falling apart, becoming nothing more than harmless fog. The soldiers' specters stood looking dumbstruck while The La'ark paced on her mount.