Musical Isle paced back and forth across his hidden shelter. The accursed Guardians were continuing their plans, plans that would see all the world disrupted and destroyed. Their success could not be allowed. He must defeat them. He must. He must.

Musical sensed his thoughts starting to circle and pulled away from them. It was clear he could not succeed, not with them united in their wickedness against him. He would try and pry them apart again. He would. He would.

But he needs to grow stronger, to become better. He has no shortage of power, but he needs more. He needs more. He needs more.

And as Musical paces across the crumbling concrete, he studies the artifacts he has collected, property won by strength and struggle and ancient ancestry. He knows this with certainty, even if he does not know exactly how he knows. He does not question it. He doesn't.

Amongst the scattering of artifacts are many useless things, and one invaluable. He knew exactly how to work it, how to wield it. With the Creation Engine, he would triumph over the accursed Guardians.

He would make monsters, to drain the energy of humans and the magic of Guardians. It would not harm them permanently. He is not evil. He is not. But he must triumph, and he knows the only way he can do so is if he becomes stronger. And the only way he can become stronger is through the Creation Engine. It is the only way. The only way.

The power of the Creation Engine flows around him, into the item he selected for it. A simple needle. And from that needle grew a creature.

Out he sent it, giving directions, and they navigated across the roofs of the city, cloaked by illusion and misdirection. He didn’t know where the directions came from, just that he knew where to go. He knew exactly where to go.

Into a park the creature drops down, disguised as a woman selling sewing needles, her eyes glinting metal. Those who pass by are pricked, and they find themselves slumbering. There’s a pack of girls, chasing each other about. “Ella! Ella! You’re it!”

The needle creature passed by them close. Musical sighed as he felt energy flow into him, strengthening his magic, teasing at his memories. Dormant functions in his mind begin to awaken, suppressed programs began to reactivate. He understood who he was, how he was made, what his purpose was. He looked up to the sky.

And from one of the fallen girls he heard a cry of rage.

His head snapped down, his eyes tore themselves wide open. There before him stood a Guardian, pointing a massive feather at his creature. “What did you to do?” she demands.

“Creature! Needler! Destroy her!” Musical commands, the name pouring from his lips.

And just as she transformed, from whatever her baseline form is into a thing of magic and might cloaked in a feathered tutu, so too does the creature. Its skin fades away, revealing bones of cylindrical metal, coming to ends at razor sharp points. It’s face is thread wrapped around and through the eye of a needle, and each finger is tipped with a claw.

“Needler! Needler!” it cries, lunging for the Guardian.

And she simply skips away. “You monster! For the harm you have done, I, Swan Victorious, will end you!”

She brandished her feather at it. The fight began. The tip of the feather swept down with the inevitably of a falling axe and clanged against one of Needler’s metal arms. The side bit deep and Swan Victorious used it as leverage to hurl herself into the air, releasing her grip on the feather and dismissing it from the world.

Needler gestured and summoned dozens of darts, each one trailing a thread. They moved swiftly enough to punch through steel, the threads were thin enough to slice into stone. The Guardian dodged the needles, but the threads wrapped around her, tangling against her skin, and Needler grabbed the ends of each thread, slamming the trapped Guardian against the ground.

“Now Needler! Show her your might! Destroy her!”

But Musical’s command is premature as wings of black and white erupt from back, from her arms, from each other, slicing through the bonds restraining her as she rises to her feet. “I won’t let you hurt anyone else!” she roars.

And Musical does as his instincts command him. In a twist of energy, he vanishes, returning to his domain.

He has left behind a park full of sleeping people who will soon awaken, frightened and confused, and a Guardian enraged and terrified. He has escaped with a bounty of energy. He does not know why he needs it. He does not know where he comes from. He knows what he must do. And that is enough. It has to be. It has to be.

He collapses onto the floor, unconscious, fresh instructions entering his mind as he lies on the unyielding concrete.

Entities beautiful and alien, speaking to him from distant cities and proud towers, see what he has done, and they make their judgements.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Hours later, Guardian Musical Isle awakens, shivering and alone, hurting in ways he cannot describe.

His mission shall continue.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alexander Sheffield sat back in his chair (an antique leather armchair that once sat in the White House) and considered the reports on the screen (custom-made using the latest technology) in front of him. Information scrolled across it - feeds from local and national news channels and reports from his subordinates, with the occasional dash of social media. Typically, it contained nothing of great interest, merely greedy powerbrokers scrambling for his favor and jealous fools seeking to destroy him, but today it was full of what most would consider a grand hoax. An armada of monsters ripping holes in space and assaulting a near-backwater in upper New York.

Alexander, however, was no small-minded simpleton. The evidence before his eyes was coming from too many sources, from too many skeptical, intelligent sources, not just the frothing, moronic masses that dominated the world. It was not fake. It could not be fake. But Alexander had not gotten as far as he had by making assumption. He picked up his phone (specially-designed to be unhackable, only unlockable by his DNA, and with a battery life measured in days) and made a call.

“Mr. Sheffield! What can I do for you?” a voice full of panic greeted him.

“Mayor Higgins. I am seeing...unbelievable reports. Some are saying its an alien invasion. What do you say?”

“Well...Mr. Sheffield sir, it’s certainly an unusual event. I wouldn’t say aliens though...”

“You have no reason to be nervous, Mayor. Events like this are nothing more than an opportunity. After everything is settled, announce some celebrations for your populace, reform the police so they can handle such things, bring these so-called Guardians into line...you will have my full support, as always. I trust you to do what is best for the city, just like I trusted your predecessor.”

Alexander could practically hear the man nodding over the phone. They exchanged a few pleasantries, meaningless words about the ramifications of the invasion on the broader economy and then he dismissed the mayor. And made a note to consider increasing his investment in the man’s opponent. Higgin’s spinelessness was useful, but it was also intensely aggravating.

Now he needed to do some work. There would be a board meeting within a week, and he would need a plan to take advantage of the coming economic chaos. He scrawled down a few ideas - mass purchases of damaged property, getting government contracts for new bases and weapons, and of course taking advantage of the inevitable flood of change in the stock market, and then he scanned the slip of paper and sent it off to assistants (the scanner read the paper, turned his handwriting into plain text, printed a copy on the other end, then destroyed all the evidence it came from him). They would doubtless have many of their own ideas to add to his, and with the boost to his company would come new opportunities.

Eventually. It would doubtless take time for those to appear, but for a man of his character and intelligence, success was inevitable.

Alexander decided he had done enough for the day and strode out of the office. He dismissed his secretary when she asked if he needed anything and made his way into the heart of the manion.

Sheffield manor had been in the family since they had come over from England. It had been left to rot for generations, then restored by his grandfather as a way of getting away from urban decay and social upheaval. Every Sheffield since him had expanded upon and improved the ancient building, turning it into a place of incredible splendor, luxury, and taste.

Alexander made his way to his favorite part of the house, the first addition he had made. He stepped down a narrow spiral staircase (the steps were covered by imported French carpet, the walls mahogany panel polished daily and lined with gold), ignoring the security measures, which automatically concealed themselves in his presence (security cameras, motion detectors, pressure sensors, and more, monitored 24/7 by separate human and AI networks), and stood in front of a massive vault door.

Unlike the other security features, there was no concealing this one. It was a massive slab of steel, thicker than some people, kept closed by an array of electronic and mechanical systems. It scanned his palmprint, read his DNA, accepted the code he entered, and the vault slid inside smoothly.

The space inside was larger than some of the homes his companies rented out, but he only needed one room today. Another secure door opened for him. Inside was his prized collection.

He picked up the first piece, a voodoo doll he had purchased on vacation in Hawaii as a child, and smiled honestly for the first time that day. Clutching the doll, he walked up and down the rows of occult items - ancient tools of ritual purchase from dig sites and mysterious books acquired from shady auctions. Most, he expected, were nothing but junk.

Alexander believed in the impossible, but he was self-aware enough to know it would be hard to find. But surely, amongst this vast expanse he had so much time and money on, there would be something for someone as important and powerful as him. Surely he would find something verify his beliefs, something valuable.

That had always been the case in the past. By skill and hard work he had ascended in power and influence. Enemies had been crushed, dissent had been quashed, a better world built for all on the back of his genius. The few as brilliant as he had been allies or rivals, and they competed in every arena conceivable. But he had always known he had been more than even the greatest of his peers, and now he was sure he would find a chance to prove it.

As he walked the rows of his collection, he found a shard of black material that he did not remember purchasing. It sat between two ancient artifacts. Without hesitation, he reached out, picked it up, and examined it.

Whatever it was, it was cool to the touch and smooth, almost like plastic. He held it up to the light and pondered it. It reminded him of the images he had seen, of the ruptures in the world. He pressed a finger against it and winced as the jagged edges drew blood.

Like a story read from a book, an image appeared in his head, of his last visit, of finding the object and picking it up and drawing blood once more, mere days before this invasion.

A careful study of the artifact showed that it was humming imperceptibly. Were he a lesser man, he would suspect this was all in his head. But Alexander knew better.

At last, he found what he had been looking for all his life.

A pity he could not truly tell anyone about it. There was no one else who would understand.