They have yet to cut me down. How dare they leave me to be eaten by the creature?

I grit my teeth.

I snarl happily at them and one-handedly pluck my guitar aggressively at them. I move closer to them, so as to snap and laugh at their ankles.

Clink, clink. Their armor has the feel of porcelain. It’s awful-tasting! Which... is to be expected.

They tilt their heads as if confused. Why are you confused, dumbasses? I am right here! Pull a Queen of Hearts on me!

I roll onto my back onto one of their feet and grin wider, more menacingly than previously, my hair fanning out across the floor and exposing my lace-covered throat.

Nothing! They are doing nothing! It’s enough to make a girl scream!

Am I that weak that they are going to just leave me to be eaten?

I widen my eyes and pout at them while I blast a blistering metal solo.

The guards look at each other and shrug, at least, I think they do. It’s hard to tell where a beetle head is looking.

I bark a laugh at them. Hey! Look at me, you buggarts.

Stab me. Slice me. Gut me.

I’m ready.

I’m available.

I’m hot.

A shadow covers me. I continue strumming my guitar, completely unbothered and supremely joyous at my imminent demise, splayed out on the ground like a mockery of one of my stars that I worship.

Beetle head to the right looks at the towering eldritch abomination and then down at me. They lift a hand up above me.

Are they going to squish me? I mean, they are going to have to bend down. It will be kind of awkward using their hands.

They then make a... shooing motion?

Do they want me to leave?

The darkness caused by the ambulatory chandelier leaves.

Wait...

So they doooo want to kill me themselves.

They are really giving me mixed messages.

I mean... sheesh.

They turn towards the doors that are more works of art than actual entrances, and beetle head to the left holds a bugle to their... mouthparts. The mandibles and other parts that I do not have the names for clasp around the mouthpiece. Instead of sound, the thick Miasma occluding the surroundings thrums. Beetle head to the right crouches down and I cock my head this time.

Strangling? Classy.

They place their hand on my head and... muss my hair up!

Why?! Again!

First Alexa, and now them?!

I snap at their fingers with a massive grin, holding my hands around my hair protectively.

A little voice niggles at me that maybe it is best not to antagonize them, that they seem to be avoiding hurting me like one would a pet. The voice is saying “you don’t want to be put down like a sick dog.”

Screw that! I am committed to the role of an Anathema until I die or... yeah, no, probably until I die. And getting payback for ruining my hair is totally part of that. Sure, it may have already been mussed up from running for my life, but it is the principle of the thing that matters! Anathema can have many characteristics, like unnatural sadistic-ness or obsession with stock-market numbers (The amount of rifts that form in the stock market is frankly ridiculous).

Vanity is going to be one of mine, in addition to being happy in perpetuity.

Their shoulders shake suspiciously. Are they... laughing?

My eyes darken with angry amusement.

The one crouching down – who I am now naming Dung Beetle out of sheer spite – deftly avoids my defensive hands with inhuman agility to muss up my hair one more time before standing up to chuckle silently again.

At that moment is when two more soldiers with beetle heads, they nod seriously at each other and switch places. Their mouthparts clatter at me and Dung Beetle makes a motion as if to say, “follow us”.

Dung Beetle then slumps down, then awkwardly and more vigorously tries to make me follow them, because I am very obstinately not following them.

The other member of the duo, the soldier to the left, who I am now calling Beetlejuice, perks up in inspiration. The beetle head soldier forms a freakin’ brush with the Miasma out of thin air. If you look closely at it, it looks like a repurposed sword that has been shrunk down and bristles have been added. How did Beetlejuice even make that leap of logic?

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Well, whatever. He's right. I want that brush, particularly as part of my role as an Anathema. I roll up onto my arms and legs, crawling after Beetlejuice, giggling quietly to myself at the very obvious exasperation of Dung Beetle.

I look at Dung Beetle and make a snort-huff before following after Beetlejuice, who walks very smugly. You can tell from the over-exaggerated leg movements and upper body tilted in Dung Beetle’s direction.

My chosen form of movement is excruciating. My hands and feet splay out to my sides, but I have to move at a reasonable pace and avoid movement that is too jerky. My shoulders are grinding against my collarbone, and the muscles I am using are not meant to be used like this. Not to mention, I finally am noticing what the solidified Miasma, from that maid Anathema, entering my body has been doing to me. The old cuts I have on my arms are all inflamed, swelling red welts with purple mottling. If anything, it seems like I am going to die of infection unless they have veterinarians here...

I bark a laugh out loud.

Yeah... here? That would be funny. Going with the theme this Rift has shown, I’m just imagining a royal physician sticking meter-long hydra-like leeches on my body wondering why it isn’t healing me.

The funny thing is that if I was an Anathema, something like that would actually be a successful mechanic for healing, despite the illogic of it.

In contrast to the eerie galaxy I have left, the truly massive crystal floors of these arched halls that I am currently crawling along seem aflame with golden and red light.

Standing out even amongst even this gorgeous scenery, a truly ugly, grinning Sun, that firmly lies in the uncanny valley, travels across the area around us, leering creepily at me.

Ugh...

Normally, I can appreciate even perverts liking my body, but... I would rather to go back to the golden monstrosity wanting to eat me then have this staring at me...

I break away from following after the soldiers and crawl quickly to a spot where the Sun settles down for a second to gaze delightedly at my ass.

Oh, this bastard is asking for it. I bash him with my guitar...

...and he moans in appreciation...

EW! Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!!

So gross!

How does this perverted Sun even tie into the theme of the Tormented zone? It’s just gross and out of place!

Wretched thing...

I turn around and skitter back to the soldiers, feeling the physical press of the Sun's awful stare on my back.

The soldiers look... aghast? Their mouthparts move wildly and they gesticulate towards me with big sweeping motions above their heads. I quirk my head at them quizzically, grinning in confusion.

An expression of utter terror starts to dawn on the beetles.

Did I do something wrong?...

The gaze of that perverted drawing of a Sun disappears.

The revolting sensation of the gaze is replaced with the rather novel sensation of the world itself bowing, groveling at the feet of the upcoming presence.

The crystalline floor itself moves to feed the presence a few fingers on the vine.

The presence, no, he, sighs royally.

The mere sigh knocks the breath out of my lungs as the sheer disappointment of this new plaything messing with his fancy little spell shoves my mind around.

The soldiers promptly fall to their knees and with loud excruciating noises and white blood spurting onto the floor... break their backs to bow low enough. I nearly puke. Are Beetlejuice and Dung Beetle alive?

This reminds me of those... alluring murals.

The walls themselves mutter in his ears what is going on in his domain in terrible, ear-rending whispers. Blood drips down my ears.

A band plays in the distance, instruments that I have never heard before heralding his arrival. I can feel my ears actually distort and grow fur at the insanity of the music. I actually do enjoy the music. I think it is an acquired taste though. As in, you need to acquire the features you need to be able to listen to the music safely.

I refuse to end my act though in the face of whatever Anathema this is, continuing to grin, though I stick my tongue out in the direction of the band.

The Anathema jauntily striding in, my soul quivers in submission at the 🎵”...merry old soul...”🎶 before me. He is ancient and delighted.

And feels entitled to my body.

He towers ten meters... or ten kilometers, it is impossible to tell in this mind-breaking land... above my crouching self, leering at me, curious what creature walked into his domain that would be so not...

SUBMISSIVE.

Oh fuck. I was wrong.

My assumption was so wrong.

He exemplifies control, power, to the point that his existence forces the environment to adapt to him. He is dripping with riches, err, no, he is bare of anything: a slave to his people, massive iron manacles made for colossi like him with chains ripping through the crystal ground with the ease of ripping paper.

Broken souls of my friends squirm and grovel in submission beneath the soles of his solid lead boots, err, no, his airy cloud-covered ballet shoes. For a brief moment, I see Wilbur’s face. I see Louie’s face. Ina’s face. Rosalee, Elias, Mohamed, Simon, Katherine, Maryléne, so many.

A mockery of the old British crown is fused askew to his grey awful head. Its rich red fabric fuzzes with red mold; the thousands of diamonds and other jewels replaced with an equal amount of weeping, sparkling eyes; and instead of gold, there is only bone tarnished with greed distilled.

His mouth is far too oversized for his bald, eyeless, and pallor-less head, massive molars stretching his face akin to the living chandelier I just escaped.

Even the world is Tormented by his mere existence.

He is not simply a spawn of the rift, not an Anathema...

He is The King, a Torment, an embodiment of an ideal that someone’s broken self inadvertently sculpted out of the Miasma.

I have no idea how to respond. I think that Sun was his eyes or something. And I smashed it.

My mind halts for a moment. If I can’t think, I die.

I feel like I cannot breathe in next to this terrifyingly superior existence. Am I merely a bug beneath The King’s boots?

So, since I am in doubt...

I grin wider.

I will do what is in character for this role of an Anathema.

When in doubt, double down. That’s how it goes, right?

A niggling voice in the background of my head screams at the sheer stupidity of what I am about to do.

But I DO think I understand how things work here now. You simply have to choose the best role to interact with the Anathema, the insane role. The one that no other would do. Your personality needs to match the theme of the Tormented zone.

So, what do I do?

I roll onto my back and viciously laugh at his face, pointing at his ugly mug.

Oh.

So.

Mockingly.