I grin happily, watching the magical scene of horror and flesh for a while more. Finally, I hop down - like a super, duper cute BUNNY RABBIT - from rock to rock. With a few rocks cascading after my quick footsteps, I make my way through the blaring glares of the neon rainbow signs that plaster every building. It's not just the classic red that characterizes the red light district. I grin, looking up at every sight with stars in my eyes, my head turning around to take in everything with interest.
Why? I mean, I've lived here for the past for the 17 years! This should all be old-hat! Well, the boisterous entertainment district is made anew with all of the fascinating sounds brought in Plushie Predator Ears and under the watch Crystal Frosted Lenses, the hidden world encoded in Magic is laid bare to me. The pleasures of being amongst the monstrous.
I can see it ~all~!
It cannot hide from me.
Messages which should trigger into view when given the right code are as clear as day. Magical Buildings use wild effects to hide amidst the more mundane structures shift in position. One floating telephone box, far bigger on the inside, passes through an unknowing bystander's head, while a complex of black market malls plummets into the ground like a subway train through an empty tunnel the moment I notice it. A Curses Mage plies their craft, paintbrush made of their red hair and sacrificial knife in hand. Green magic infuses their bodies and materials, shining like a beacon as the lenses in the crystalized tendrils on my eyes reveal their hidden placement. They are having a rather busy day, a line of customers existing in space that does not exist. They must be an incredibly powerful mage on top of their already evident power. Miasma slowly generated by the various creatures going about their day tell me of poisoned shivs; of prostitutes suffocating for a Hamilton; of a serial killer who thinks my head would be absolutely perfect hung by my tongue pinned to a wall. A Warrior runs the serial killer straight through the head with a Strength-charged spear.
Never change, sweet Indiana, never change!
... not that it ever could!
The crowd is huge and rowdy, absolutely choking the streets with warm bodies all looking for other warm bodies to stay with. Given the amount of groping and pinching going on, and the fact that it is physically impossible to avoid all of the people “accidentally” bumping into me, I thank the tailors-
A boiling-hot hand grips my shoulder fiercely. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! What the FUCK!!! "Will you play with the Stars soon?" asks a gentlemanly voice. The words break in my ear like cracking knuckles and broken finger bones. The fingers wiggle on my shoulder. "Bye-bye~" he warbles, tiny mustaches tickling my ears. I tremble like a baby tree, stiffened and fragile to the wind's tender graces.
-for the protective equipment. Praise be! LOL! My Metallic Golem Hand mock clasps with the air in a half-finished prayer.
I would have committed mass genocide by accident, if it had not been for the tailors to built the defenses, and really soon compared to most who just unlocked their System! That is an badge of uniqueness that I do NOT want to pin to my dress!
Memory of genocide wiped by Mind Control of the Self (1). Set in a perpetual loop until you make yourself pay attention to it. The Goddess Diarrhea wishes to convey her message to the Magic System "The bacteria notice no signs of inflammation in the body they are invading. Infectious window closing. Increase agent dormancy and prepare for the departure of suffering on an unlucky bystander. New front of war postponed." Mind-influence outside of System influence noted.
Thankfully, I have not committed any massacre just yet.
Now murder? Of course I have committed the crime of taking others' lives. Who hasn’t?
Besides Betsie. And most Magical Guardians. And Healers. And the rich ones in the enclaves within the neighborhood... Ok. Maybe a lot of people have managed to avoid killing a single person.
I purse my lips my foolishness in comparing myself to those perfect souls in my internal dialogue. It is no pleasure to find out, through my self-inquiry, that I come up wanting. Internally, I hug myself in discomfort.
But otherwise! Ignoring the people with such clean hands, it’s a guarantee in the neighborhood that you’ll cause at least one slaughter all on your own. That is... A corner of my mouth pulls down... That is if you don’t die first like precious Betsie did. Doesn’t matter whether you are a quote-unquote civilian build or a full-on combat class. The former just leads to more creative, circuitous ways of death.
I would still have nightmares of one such method if it was not for the aid of the Stars. The entire Lava in a Bottle speakeasy’s worth of burnies that week had been turned into a forge...
While they were all still alive. Their hearts still pumped and their brains could still think, though whether they could still sense anything outside of their pain was an unanswerable question on anyone and everyone in the plaza that day.
Behind the thick bricks of the impromptu forge, rough-textured and glass-grain rocks absorbed light. Their black surfaces, at least the ones still peeking through the feet pinned to the ground with half-molten nails, reflected the canopy of humans. A fleshy mirror of the strangler fig of fused life, torn and taught skin spreading out like a forest mummified in blackened charcoal, oozing the sap of liquified flesh in between the cracks.
Legs interlocked and grafted, fused into an altar of gasping, wide-open faces. Cheek-to-cheek, both the face-kind and the butt-kind, they moaned and pulled away, tearing each other apart as they tried to separate from their twisted, Siamese twin selves.
An unending stream of Magma, the drug, sprinkled over them lightly from a spigot cruelly placed far above them. They all stood at attention, screaming, jaws dropped, like a crowd of old-timey train whistles all opening their metal mouths in sharp whistles. Tongues, wired with lava slobber, stick out to catch each precious drop...
A song plays in my head in chilling reminiscence of the memories of a sweltering plaza.
🎶"If all the snowflakes
Were candy bars and milkshakes
Oh, what a snow that would be
Standing outside with my mouth open wide
Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah"🎵
In the memory, my old pops pointed his thumb at it, and said that someday, I'd be one of those pieces of trash receiving my just dues for the Sin of Gluttony. A flare of obsessed worship literally flared in his eyes. The blue associated with Virgin Mary illuminated his gruff, bearded face. The picture-perfect image of a masculine, God-fearing man, like all should be.
According to him, he is the pinnacle of how to worship God.
Their molten body heat made it so the forge actually worked and the gang appropriated it for “safety reasons.”
I don't think I deserve to be in the forge.
I think I deserve to be in the forge.
If it was not for hearing an eyewitness account from the gang I had been in, I would have kept thinking it was the remnants of a Tormented Zone’s aftermath. In reality, it was just some Builder, likely a Forge-Master, with an incredibly innovative and twisted imagination. Which, funnily enough, then created a small Tormented Zone in that spot! The ideas behind it were so freakin' extreme to such an unhealthy degree, that it triggered the low levels of Miasma. Though it fizzled out soon after, because there was not enough Miasma in the area to sustain it, in spite of the suffering the Builder created.
I duck an incoming gloved paw coming to muss up my hair.
And then a hand.
And then another.
I speed up, my movements blurring together.
Duck, duck, dodge, block, duck, block, dodge. My sapphire-blue hair swishes from side to side under the illusion of brown. My gauntlet fend the crush of the crowd, judicially delivering gut-checks and blows to any other sensitive spots. At times, I need to lean back to deliver a kick or two to compensate for my missing arm.
I glare behind myself, unable to use the eyes on my arms to glare covertly, as all of them are hiding under the protection of the metal equipment.
From all the way up in the stratosphere came numerous hands of various shapes and sizes, all incoming like divebombing jets... HAHA! I am not that small. Still though...
The lull ends with a breeze in my hair; from easily sliding right to left, dodging and weaving with perfect fluidity. My Dexterity is superior to these serious attempts to molest me.
While dodging the fleet of hands of people absolutely obsessed with trying to mess up my hair, I watch the performances that fill the streets. I don't need to give them genuine focus. The gap between me, a being of Miasma, versus beings of normal flesh, is vast.
“A swing and ooooohhh. A whiff!” I commentate like a baseball announcer as a grumbling man fails to punch me to fulfil his domination fantasies. "BYYYYYYE" I shout, as I stroll away diagonally to the ground like a cartoon, grinning and waving my hand cheekily.
"Girl, why're you playing so hard to get? Just take my freakin' money! I really deserve coming down from a really long week. Bitch, why are you being mean when I just want to spend some ruff 'n' tumble with the hottest girl on the block," pleads the man, an otherwise average, northern accent infused intensely with a whiny buzz of desperation.
Like gnarled, grasping branches of a tree growing under the Pentagram of the Demonic Dimension, his trembling fingers close the distance, looming over my face. The foolish civilian never invested in Meshes allowing him to handle the Magic of the Prostitutes, and suffers withdrawal as a result. The flavor of Miasma he produces likely collected with others like his, coalescing at some unknown concentration point to make that Torment and the flesh-ridden anti-Magic zone that overtook the apartment area.
"No. Leave me alone. I have business to do," I say curtly. My patience has long burned away, much like the wicks of my candles for the Stars. I wish to get to my brother and my girlfriend.
"Come here, you ungrateful whore," he grits out. My rage flares, the Charisma making him run away.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
UGHHH!
Admittedly, I care nothing for the area. I just want to go to sleep in my bed.
I am wholly fine with the practice itself, it’s just-
“Hey boy! I’ll pay you for being the innocent kid virgin,” catcalls a man from a sidewalk.
-the femboy lovers that bug me.
Unfortunately, as you can tell with all the others trying to muss up my hair, there seem to be an endless amount trying to pester me.
Looking like a princess femboy does not dissuade anyone from wishing to fuck, not least because of the sexualization of smol-ness. I look like I am from the terrifying genre of shota. Although, at least it is this, and not screaming in terror, or worse, in ectasy. Some will even jerk off looking through the windows if they see something particularly exotic and hot/Charismatic.
I throw up a middle finger to him, before grinning at him, putting my carnivorous smile on full display. Just because I do not have a maw of teeth like in my true form does not mean my vulpine grin cannot easily rival even the carnivorous werewolves.
He wrinkles his nose at my unnatural spread of teeth. “Eh. Not my type.”
That’s right, buddy. I’m more likely to literally eat you. Go find someone else to bug.
Though internally, I wipe my brow in relief. He could have just found that menacing grin titillating.
My illusion covers my perfected and improved body, far decreasing the impact of my fleshy attractiveness on everyone else. Though, on a spiritual level, they can't help but bend to the star in their midst. They crane their heads to me like clouds of dust bending to the gravity of a black hole, eyes glued to me. Thousands of pairs of eyes roam my parts, assessing me piece-by-piece, hungrily drinking me in with deep, hazed eyes.
I preen uncontrollably. The ghost of the ghosts haunts me. The weight of the world bows my head as the passionate love Enterion made to me still lays on my shoulder like a grimacing demon of sleep paralysis. I sashay and play to their fancies, cold prickles trailing up my soul in a hallucination of Masua's dominating grip.
I want to pull myself from this chain of pain. It has been agony upon agony without relief.
Where is the escape?
Where is the kindness of silence to pull myself back together?
Where...
The world dims, hiding the plenty; covering up the cornucopia of indulgence. The lust of all the people blurs under my panic and terror. Hands, so many hands, hands laying upon hands laying upon hands angrily grasping above my head. They all want me. Hands hang over me like a grove of limbs and fingers. Fleshy white, pale, dark, brown, black, red, yellow, green, pink HANDS want ME. They are going to die.
"I don't want them to die. Please, I beg of you, Eyes Above the Actors." My eyes roll back into my head.
Trait of Puppeteer activated, active perceptive field added to vision on top of the effects of a boost to base Charisma and the capacity to influence ever larger numbers of people with each push and pull.
A thick golden string becoming visible in the darkness of my panic.
My head cranes up to the Sun, the golden string leads up to the colorful creature gazing on the scene with endless humor, enjoying me with its endless lenses. All of the views find ceaseless hilarity in its one of its favorite actors. I can't help but be happy that my plight makes the hive of the Stars, the Reverie of Age, so happy. I draw emotional strength from them, taking a deep breath within the HUGS of the truly Eldritch beings.
Perk Star-Touched-in-the-Head activated. A 50% boost to communication with stars and a 25% boost to stars-based magic.
Perk Avaricious Friend Maker activated. Boosts friend making.
This is FUN.
The Lady of Death & Taxes
She stiffened up.
A giggle fills the air. Her own. Then cackled. Before collapsing to the ground in fits of joyous laughter.
Death magic curved around her like the scythe of a reaper, a blade growing in tandem with the fury in her eyes. Thunderous cracks came from the demolishment of the building in her incontrollable seizures. It took an entire microsecond for her to recover and protect herself from the influence of the Eldritch patrons.
This monster not only spawned from Miasma, but has Eldritch beings watching over it? How disgusting. It only confirmed her bias to non-humans. This foul creature deserves to die. Such a waste of money to have her not only watch it, but let it continue existence when it would be better for the superior existence, humankind, to eliminate it. That way she could proactively those she loved and let them grow without fear of these unnatural beings.
She wheezes in exhaustion. The brief glimpse of the celestial beings briefly touching the head of the monster had left her with a splitting migraine. If it was not for her strength of Will, a rapture of happiness just from being a bystander to the vile HUG those Eldritch creatures gave the monster would have overtaken her.
A casual brush of her hands made her suit/armor spotless, while her mirror-like eyes narrow. She was disappointed in herself. She should always remember to take non-humans seriously. Who knows what they can have up their sleeve at any time?
The sooner she can push the creature to go through its checklist, the sooner she can halt its trickery and stop it from making her waste money.
_____________________
The Stars respond to my begging.
'We will prevent a massacre at your hands!' they laugh into my head.
There were plenty of performances the customers of the district could have chosen, with all kinds of skills being employed to entice others. Five women were using Strength-based avatars to make 4-meter anime girls with equally huge proportions who danced to the beat of quite lurid lyrics, while a crowd lusted over them for a buck each. Another act of the district comprises of a tall individual in tall high heels and a top hat used Will to conduct hundreds of neon hoses of red, yellow, and orange light in a risqué cage around an entire ensemble of naked performers, their decency just barely covered by the thick laser beams. Dexterity is used to reshape some prostitutes into the customers' dream fuckable toy.
Yet, as if I had my own personal gravity, a few depart from the crowd. They are irresistibly pulled from encircling the display to trail after me. The Happy Bard stood behind me proudly, strumming its lyre for all to feel thrum through their veins. Blood rushes everywhere, the beginning of pleasure turned twisted by my Broken Mirror perspective of the world. Miasma grows and collects around me, intoxicating me worse than any of the drunkards and junkies of these streets spattered with vibrant, lustful patterns.
All of these people desiring me... it is so much. So much muchness piling and mounding in a right mess. The happiness runs through my veins like liquid amber, bubbling joy at their admiration.
I find peace in the promise of the Stars.
A random brick in the corner of my eyes opens glowing yellow eyes. Clay cubes assemble into a cute toy, tilting its head.
"Vein of nonexistence to play now? We don't feeling like fueling the mockery of Señor Screaming Fingers on ourselves today. We want the tragic Monotone actor today! HmmmHMMMHmmmHMMMMMmMMHmmHmmHmmHmmmmmHmmHmmHmmHmmmmHmm..." come the voice, each pitch the color of playful friendship.
My Charisma and my perk Star-Touched-in-the-Head is drawing the celestial FRIENDS' attentions without even a basic ritual chant.
Oh.
.
No.
My focus on the world turns inwardly desperately. I need to use this stress test to repress my Charisma now! It is not a good time at all for a shard of the Stars to make its way into our reality. My Charisma is making me incredibly entertaining to them and they want to see me in a more personal manner. Maybe not the best time to give me a call, my best FRIENDS.
I can't let others die!
"That's just too cruel!" I shout wildly to the skies, my voice breaking with every word.
"Oh Stars please!" I beg. The protective plates on my knees grind against the concrete.
People all around me drip blood in unison, as if they had macabrely practiced synchronizing bleeding from every orifice. A Star's glimpse sees all float unconsciously into the air, scarlet liquid trickling up into the sky off their faces. The world's colors can no longer decide what they want to be. The colors gain sentience and true basis the Stars' dreams for a brief moment of confusion, only to get their lives callously snuffed out without my FRIENDS even realizing it.
___________________________
Notifications ring like the bells of hell within my head, only to be overcome by a hissing static as the Magic System and the System of the Torments both attempt to preserve my sanity. They change the twinkling winking and the celestial tears spattering out of the screens to what I can comprehend, even if that looks a toddler mashed their keyboard on Caps Lock.
___________________________
I fix my mask and try to grip onto my Charisma. Will I succeed?! The storm of Charisma boils in me, churning as my trauma surfaces with a sense of inevitability. I can't handle the crowd. I can't handle it, I can't handle it, I can't handle it, I can't handle it...
I CAN'T HANDLE IT! STARS DAMN IT!
No.
No I CAN. Right? Please? Imagining hands to force down my Charisma doesn't work.
What? What? What do I do?
Plasma curdles.
Laughs burst like soda bubbles.
___________________________
I'm SORRY. I must starve you further of your rightful adulation. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Forgive me, best FRIENDS.
Perk Star-Touched-In-The-Head activated.
Proof of my stardom becomes engrained in runic LSLs as even amongst these wild acts, my very existence entertains.
I stand out! Just as Señor Screaming Fingers and the two Vengeful Spirits, Masua and Enterion, say I should. The people appreciate me!
I am not welcoming enough of the Stars, cruelly trying to stifle my Charisma to send them away. I am melting - I am meeeelting. Teehee - as I try to save everyone around me.
Please help me, world.
___________________________
I'm sure the Stars squirm above happily. The Sun warms me with its curiously amused embrace, the rays of light streaming brightly down as it recognizes me for a brief moment. It struggles against the kind nature of its alter ego so it can show me its pretty lies, the gorgeous beauty.
On my yellow brick road to Luke's Pizzeria, red slippers curl out of existence from the Miasma, chomping onto my feet in a perfect fit. All these Munchkins praise me. They gain immunity to my soul touch, allowed to paw my skin with abandon. The empty flesh of reality bends.
I hug myself happily, exulting in their hunger, weighing o'er me akin to starving limbs waggling over me like so many maggots. A keening scream appears as the latest whimsy of the Stars lines the road. Both of us, receiving Fingers with mustaches form an orchard for a split second, shrouding the golden blocks of the road in shadow and endless screaming.
__________________________
🎵🎶"Little wooden head go play your part
Bring a little joy to every heart
Little do you know and yet it's true
That I'm mighty proud of you
Little wooden feet and best of all
Little wooden seat in case you fall
(Oh-ho! How graceful!)
My little wooden head"🎵🎶cheerfully sings the toy of clay cubes, yellow eyes mirthfully taking in all.
_________________________
A body hangs limp in mid-air, the creature's hair and limbs held askew like a drooping mushroom cap. Blood dribbles down tender lips as Miasma retreats into their body. Eyes stare hauntedly into the distance, shining purple lamplights in the dwindling twilight.
A wild grin splits the peaceful tableau in two. The throat pulses, the blood pooling on their tongue gulped down.
The gentlemanly fingers of Señor Screaming Fingers sadly retreat, much like shy tube worms.
The being falls down.
"Oof!" they groan mirthfully.
"Victory, babeeeeeyyyyyyy!!!!" they shout contentedly/roar pridefully/cackle maniacally.
You have created the skill Eye of Charisma.