Buzzard sighed with relief as he keyed in a code. “Finally. Back in my sanctuary.”

The door slid open to reveal the lab.

“Oh, shit!”

A dozen Podexian guards were staring at them. They were huddled on the floor with a big pile of rations between them. A few empty bottles of booze rolled around.

They’d ransacked the place—all manner of scientific equipment had been toppled and tossed. Shattered glass was scattered everywhere

Gwil plucked the laser gun out of Buzzard’s hands as the doctor drew it from the back of his shirt.

Buzzard lifted his goggles onto his forehead and scurried forward as both Gwil and Dwillard tried to hold him back by the tail of his lab coat.

“You rancid, fucking ingrate heathen shitbitches! I’ll melt your flesh with acid and make you drink the juice!”

Uproar broke out among the guards as they all jumped to their feet, taking up their spears.

One guard stepped forward with his arms out to block his companions.

“Easy now, doc,” the man said. “It’s all gone tits up.”

“Buzzard’s a traitor!” another guard said. “That’s that Hallowed prisoner with him.”

“Is that Dwillard? Fuck you, Dwillard!”

The guard who’d taken the lead said, “Dwillard, weren’t you down in the mines? What’s going on? What happened with the BearTrap-JawMaster 5000?”

Dwillard sputtered.

“Those guys are all dead,” Gwil said.

“WHAAAT!” yelled the chorus.

“Are the prisoners alive?”

“That was damn near all our forces!”

The man who’d said that. His tongue.

“Hey!” Gwil said, stepping toward the guards, which caused them to raise their weapons. Gwil stopped and pointed at the frogman. “Why’d you get such a long tongue?”

The man grinned, let his tongue unroll to the floor, and made it do a wiggly dance. “It’s all about surface area,” the man said with a ‘bleh’ in his voice.

Gwil laughed. “When I saw that earlier, it made me get my hand cut off.”

“It tends to have that effect,” the man said as he slurped the tongue back into his mouth.

Buzzard shoved past Gwil. “My initial outrage has subsided. As punishment for your crimes, you all have become my direct subordinates. Congratulations on your promotions.”

Dwillard gave the group two thumbs up and a big smile.

“Weapons down, please,” Buzzard said. “We all have work to do.”

Laughter broke out among the guards, and they sat back down and returned to their makeshift feast.

“Sorry, doc, but we ain’t doin’ shit. Jackson locked us up in the prison. Trapped us and left us to die.”

“Oh gosh,” Dwillard murmured.

“We’re enjoying a brief retirement before we die,” a burly woman said to cheers and clinking beer bottles.

“Why’ve you got that slave with you, doc?”

Buzzard cleared his throat. “Well, you see, after I learned that Jackson betrayed his own men, I decided I couldn’t stand it anymore. I changed sides.”

That brought about some approving muttering, during which Dwillard made to speak and had his toe stomped on by Buzzard.

“Now, when you say that Jackson locked us in, what exactly do you mean by ‘locked’?” Buzzard said, adjusting his goggles. “Why can’t you just go to the control room and open the damned door?”

“Open the door he says.” The guards laughed.

“The smartest man in Podexia, folks,” the woman said, drawing more cheers.

“You long-armed fuck,” a man barked as he got to their feet. “I’ve been in charge of opening and closing that door for five years. No shit, we tried that already. There’s an override or something.”

“Least we’re ridin’ it out with booze and smoked jerky!”

Gwil laughed.

“Override?” Buzzard said. “The system does not have an override. Do you even know what that means?”

“Check for yourself then, doc,” the doorman said.

After muttering to himself for a bit, Buzzard snapped his fingers. “Jackson, that devious, paranoid bastard. He must have installed it without my knowledge. A failsafe.”

“Ha!” Gwil said. “You called him stupid earlier, and he tricked you.”

“He did not trick me,” Buzzard said. “My escape tunnel preemptively countered his counter years before he even developed it.”

Frenzy took the guards. “What’s this about an escape tunnel?”

“Hey nice,” Gwil said. “We can all team up. We’re on our way to fight Jackson.”

“Piss off, slave,” one guard said.

“Shh!” Buzzard hissed as he continued muttering to himself. “Mmkay, yes, this is ideal. I needed pack-mules, anyway. All of you are welcome to accompany myself and my assistant and this Hallowed slave into my secret tunnel, through which we can escape beyond the wall.”

A few of the guards closed in around Buzzard. “How about we just cut your head off and use your tunnel ourselves?”

One man reached for Buzzard and Gwil punched him in the sternum. He went flying back, crashing into a shelf whereupon he was buried beneath scientific paraphernalia.

“Don’t be stupid,” Gwil said. “We all wanna get out. They think we’re all dirt. Don’t step on each other.”

“That’s right,” Buzzard hissed. “This man will kill you all if you don’t obey. He’s more dangerous than Jackson.”

“No, I won’t,” Gwil said.

“Fightin’ the sheriff? That’s the same as dyin’ and we’d rather die here with our booze and our jerky!”

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“Booze and jerky!” came an answering cheer.

“Slothful troglodytes!” Buzzard said.

“You guys don’t have to fight Jackson,” Gwil said.

“They most certainly do,” Buzzard said.

“Nah,” Gwil said. He moved toward the guards, who backed up while waving their spears at him. “When we get out, you guys can run for it if you want. I don’t care. Just don’t wait here to die for no reason.”

An animated discussion broke out among the guards.

“What?” Buzzard said, turning on Gwil with his long arms waving over his head. “You didn’t give me that choice!”

Gwil shrugged. “You’re worse than them.”

The guard who had been speaking for the group the most said, “Alright. We’re coming with you, but we ain’t fighting.”

“Cool,” Gwil said.

Buzzard tugged at Gwil’s elbow. “At least make them carry my stuff.”

“Alright yeah, you gotta help carry his stuff,” Gwil said. “Ooh, doc, do you have any more laser guns?”

“Do you have any idea how rare and expensive atomic precursors are? I’m not made of money! But I do have some other toys, of course.”

Buzzard began issuing erratic instructions in a demented manner. Gwil and the guards started packing up the things he deemed most important. He acted as if he were being forced to choose between his children.

As they finished up, Buzzard pulled Gwil aside. “Do you understand the ramifications of the door being locked? There is no way out. In order for your enslaved cohorts to escape, you will have to open the door from the outside. You will have to get past the sheriff.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to do anyway,” Gwil said.

***

Standing at the gate of this so-called Sty, Leira could hear the prisoners inside. Hushed and wheezing.

She jumped out of the litter and looked up at Brock. “Time for you to show some mettle. Bust it down.”

Cort climbed down to stand beside her. The gate was a flimsy thing, designed not for defense, but to corral the weary and weakened. Brock could blast it off its hinges with a single blow.

Still, Leira was surprised to see the Talus drawing his fist back.

“Stop! Who goes there?” blared an amplified voice from within.

Brock froze. Cort and Leira looked at each other like two startled rodents.

Boots scrabbling against stone. Grunts and hushed whispers. And the cacophonous buzzing of poisoned lungs. The sound sent a chill down Leira’s spine.

“Shit,” Cort mouthed.

She glimpsed a pair of feet beneath the gate. “Two escaped slaves and a Talus,” the voice called.

“Turn back if you value their lives, you filthy animals. We have our spears against their throats. We’ll butcher them all if you so much as touch that gate.”

The lotus petals stirred. “Don’t worry,” Leira whispered. She waved Brock back and then crept toward the gate.

Cort grabbed her wrist. “Are you insane? You might not care about them, but I do.”

“No one will die,” she sang softly. The petals grew so that they draped over her face like a mask.

The stone walls, the air itself—everything turned gossamer as its substance drained. The World before their eyes, as thin as cobwebs.

Cort’s hand fell away from her wrist.

Leira cracked her knuckles. “It’s been a while,” she breathed, shuddering. Pure bliss radiated through her body. Overwhelming intensity, to the point of pain. It hurt, knowing that such a feeling exists but cannot last.

Plumes of crimson mist tumbled from her eye, piling up like clouds on the ground before flowing under the gate.

The Sty fell quiet. The ragged breathing slowed to shallow dribbles. Brock fell over, landing with a crash that should’ve been deafening but was rendered as a dull thump. Even a conjured mind existed under the purview of Megrim.

Leira stumbled to the gate. She felt so heavy. She did not want to move, to risk disturbing this bleeding euphoria. The flower’s growth blocked her mortal eye, but she did not need to see that mundane composition, for she scried the World to its very heart.

She let herself fall. Her knees landed hard on the slick stone ground. Limp, she flopped forward onto her stomach, her cheek pressing against the wet grit.

She saw them all. Skeletons. Ghouls. Men and women. Wreathed in the Megrim flower’s essence. Every eye was trained upon her, blank and witless, like infants. Enthralled. As small as insects.

The crimson essence flooded the cavern, rising like a tide.

Her vision went deeper. Beneath the veil. The heap of prisoners, a misshapen mass. The Kaia stained their bodies with blinding radiance. An affront. Something invasive.

Two castes. The prisoners and the guards. The exploited and the perpetrators. The guards were dark blotches against the light of the Kaia-afflicted.

“Sweet dreams, fuckers,” Leira rasped.

The spores climbed the legs of the Podexian guards, like ants swarming a piece of food. Crimson smothered their bodies. And then red decayed into mottled black. Weak and worthless hands grasped at masked faces.

The spores fell away, evaporating like rainwater.

The guards collapsed. Their bodies were ruined—stiff, withered, skeletal. Their flesh had become something like a mix of treebark and tar.

So much—everything—was ripped away from her. Bile dripped from Leira’s parted lips. Flowers fell from the branches of a great tree, fleeing the vengeful divinity of Mother.

Our monster, as savage as all the others.

“Mother, can you hear me? Don’t let Anesidyra take me again. Please.”

Leira sputtered, spitting the crust of dust from her lips. She grimaced as she sat up, then brushed her hands off and stood.

She went to Cort, nudged him with her foot. His eyes sprang open. He ignored her hand and jumped to his feet.

“What happened?”

“I told you I would take care of everything,” Leira said.

“But– Is? The guards?” he said, gasping.

Leira gestured toward the gate as excited muttering bubbled up on the other side.

“Brock,” Leira said. The Talus rolled himself up right. Ansoir’s unconscious flopped to the other side of the litter. “Go ahead, bust that shit down.”

“Wait!” Cort said. “How?”

Inside the Sty, they were hooting and hollering, stomping around.

Cort smiled at the same time he palmed his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut and said, “I saw…”

“The World’s a big place,” Leira said. “You’ll hurt yourself if you think about it too much.”

She turned her back on Cort and started plucking off the overgrown petals. Even as they fell, they withered into dust.

With one mighty blow, Brock demolished the gate. The prisoners had backed away from the rotten, desiccated corpses, leaving them isolated and exposed in empty pockets.

Leira knew those men were not dead. However, they would never wake. She would never relinquish them. There existed other hells besides the Nine. Mother possessed one of her own.

“Incredible,” Cort breathed.

“See? Don’t be so difficult next time,” Leira said.

Cort scoffed. “Excuse me for not considering that you…” Words failed him, so he waved his hand in the direction of the Sty.

“Nice one, Brock. Thanks,” Leira said.

They crossed the threshold as the prisoners ran toward them, toward the open gate. Leira smiled. How nice it must’ve been to receive something you’d never dared hope for.

Her jaw clenched up. She didn’t know how many she’d killed with Buzzard’s laser gun. A lot. So, what’s a few more? These slaves would get their lives back—her debt was paid.

Well. At least I didn’t need to conduct a Full Blooming.

***

Isca and her comrades had reached the front door of the prison. They’d met no opposition. They’d not even heard any fighting. The Podexian forces were waiting for them outside, then.

She faced away from the door—it was not for her. She would not pass through.

Instead, she looked down the tunnel, praying for Gwil and Cort to appear out of the gloom with the other shift in tow.

Isca stood in the middle of the pack. These were her people. For the past two years, her life intertwined with these fragile souls. So many faces come and gone, all the same.

She hoped with everything she had that fate would not force her to kill them all. But she could not neglect her duty for the sake of a few mortal lives.

Not anymore. She’d already waited too long. And now, something was happening. A convergence, blooming out of this wretched place.

Not one death. Not one death. Gwil’s promise had shaken her to her core. And not only because she was going to break it herself. That hardly counted.

How could he say such a thing? And with such pleasant assuredness. It was insanity. And in uttering those words, he had forced hope upon her.

Someone like that was not supposed to exist.

A woman appeared beside her, calling her name. It was Limmy. Isca blinked at her. Limmy was fiery when she first arrived. She’d broken like all the others, but a spark had been kindled.

“What’d you say? What is it?”

“The door, Isca. We can’t open it. The keycard is there and everything. But the system is completely shut down.”

“Was the power cut?”

“No. Other things are working. It’s just the door won’t– Isca, I think we’re trapped.”

Isca stopped herself from grimacing, kept her voice steady. “Don’t worry, Limmy. It’s just a door. We’ll find a way through. But keep it quiet, eh?”

Well, here’s your chance, Gwil. Show me what you are. Show me that I haven’t fallen victim to delusion.

Isca looked at her hands, at the scripture inked across her palms. Her body cramped up. Her face shook at the tension in her neck. Damn this rotten fucking world!

She went down on one knee, clawing at the stone with her soft fingers.

The World turns upon the doctrine of the Legion. Evil dictations, human and vile.

Fate has been enslaved—it is written on my flesh. Wasted stars, the heavens bleed—it is written on my flesh. The Hells are overflowing—it is written on my flesh. The Mindless One has been ensnared—it is written on my flesh.

I must return home.

A cold hand—so feeble that it felt boneless—rested upon her shoulder. She looked up at a weary face.

Old man Diom. He’d spent twenty years in these mines, twice as long as anyone else had ever lasted. It’d been a long time since Isca heard him speak. Months.

“Be strong, Isca,” Diom croaked. “We need you. We all drink of your will. A storm has come. I saw him… and remembered the rain upon my face.” His grip on her shoulder tightened. “I must feel it again.”

Isca stood.