“Don’t do that!” Piotr laughed. “Please, I know I’m laughing, but dear God, don’t do that.”

“You’re the one who named his Civ after a line in an obscure American horror film from the 1980s. Maybe when we move into our new house, I’ll have spooky wailing play in the night or move chairs around or whatever.”

“You know if you keep saying that, when the house we move into is actually haunted, I’m not going to believe you. And you’d never want to scare Nat anyways. You’re too good of a mother.”

Natasha didn’t say anything for a moment. “Four kids is going to be hard. For Cyrille. I mean we can barely manage one, and Cyrille needs to deal with all that and losing La—”

“We can’t think about that. We have to do what’s best for Nat. Cyrille’s a smart guy. He can take care of his family.”

“It’ll be nice, making an honest living. I guess that’s why we’re leaving, huh?” The sound of a doorbell ringing echoed through Cyrille’s unit. “Oh. Cyrille’s . . . here. I’ll talk to you later, okay sweetie.”

“Wait, what? Don’t go. Hold on—”

She’d hung up.

Piotr lived in a cabin outside of Neonight City but not far into the dark and cramped caverns. Just sitting on a plateau of shale from which he could see the city and get to it with ease. But also somewhere where if he had needed to dispose of a dead body, he would have no neighbours to complain or investigate. This, however, could backfire in working both ways; if he himself was the dead body that needed to be disposed of, nobody would ever find him. Piotr’s cabin was a large wooden chalet, purposefully built to seem like the rustic, outdoorsy buildings of his homeland on Earth.

Now, he could see from about five hundred feet away, just at the bottom of the large stone hill it was situated on, that everything looked well inside. The large glass windows showed nothing inside the home, and it was calmly quiet even as Piotr opened the door after closing the distance. To his left was a cosy reading nook surrounding an indoor fireplace, but nobody was sitting in the chairs. To his right was a large kitchen, but nobody was cooking. “Hello?” Piotr called out, his voice reverberating along the cabin’s rich wooden interior. Has Cyrille already left? “Natasha? Where are—”

Piotr could see a figure walking down the long wooden staircase at the end of the first floor, about fifty feet away.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Natasha was a smaller woman and was only about half the size of Piotr himself. But she had a lot of presence and a lot of confidence. She radiated light and warmth, her golden skin shining in every light source she stood in. She carried a constant smile as though she was always laughing to herself at a joke she had already told or was about to.

“Was” and “had” being the most important words in her description.

“Natasha . . . what . . . what happened, darling?” Piotr asked as he slowly stepped backwards, his eyes trained on the pale, shrivelled, blood-soaked woman who was descending the stairs wearing Piotr’s wife’s clothes and face. But it wasn’t her.

“I didn’t mean to do it, honey. I lost control,” Natasha whispered hoarsely, the sound coming from behind Piotr’s head, making him jump slightly as his wife’s voice circled around him. Only it was sadder, more melancholic. As though she was begging for something but was too tired to put in much emotion. Her face was sullen, her skin now grey and blotchy, hanging slightly off her face as though it had been pulled off and hastily reattached.

“No. No-no-no-no-no. No. No. Please tell me you’re joking. Please, Natasha. Please tell me this isn’t it. Please, please. Please just tell me you’re joking—that you’re wearing makeup. That Nat is okay. Please baby, please!” Piotr had begun to scream by the end.

“I’ve eaten so much, but I’m still so hungry.”

User: Natasha Ivanov

Civ: Talk to the Wind

Civ: 2100s Schizoid Man

The user of this Civ becomes violent, angry, and even somewhat cannibalistic, with the benefit that their Civ becomes far stronger. The Civ’s user can be somewhat controlled by the individual who gave them the Civ, but overall, they are far more dangerous to everybody.

Piotr didn’t know if Natasha was still listening to him. He was pleading and begging, but there was no sound reaching his own ears—only a swirling breeze slowly surrounding him. The cuffs of his pants were flapping up and down as he tried to get through to his wife, but she was only standing there, limp.

Then, Natasha spoke harshly directly into Piotr’s ear from across the room. “Stop flapping your gums, you idiot. Nobody’s going to hear you.”

This got him to quiet down for a moment. She had never spoken to him like that, and seeing that kind of behaviour from her made him think that maybe a polite discussion would be impossible.

“You want to know what’s happening? You want to know if I’m joking? Well, let me tell you, Piotr Ivanov,” She hissed as a breeze travelled all across the wooden floor, and Natasha’s blood-soaked figure began to slowly glide across the windy ground toward him. Piotr prepared to step back—to run away—but didn’t. He couldn’t . . . not now. “You’re a failure, Piotr. You’ve destroyed this family. I think I’m starting to see how bad it really was. I wanted to do things legitimately—to make a life for us here. And you couldn’t resist the thought of running around playing gangster with your buddies.”

Piotr tried to say that that wasn’t true—that everything he did he did for her. And for his child. But again, no sound was escaping his mouth. Holy shit she’s . . . it’s just like Lana . . . no, no, no, no. NO! Piotr screamed inside his head as Natasha began to hover around him, circling him about one centimetre off the floor. She had never done something like that before. Piotr hadn’t known she was capable of it. What else was she capable of? I have to do something. I have to talk her down somehow. But how am I supposed to do that when I can’t speak? Do I have to . . . just . . . fight her? No, no. I can’t do that—not until I know how bad this really is.