I rolled up the loose hoodie sleeve on my left arm. Tattooed on it were the letters “PELE”— The same as I saw inscribed on the silver ring that I severed, among other places.

I brought the tattoo close to my eyes for just a moment, just a millisecond — but now PELE was taking up my entire vision. The letters were strobing black and white like I’ve experienced so many times before. Choronzon’s unholy power of psychic confusion was being burned directly into my eyes, just from witnessing a single word. The closest I could describe the sensation is “pins and needles”, when your leg falls asleep. I’m pretty sure it actually is a similar thing, but magnified to universal levels. It was impossibly painful, like taking turns between having my body ripped apart and sewn back together a thousand times a second. If I was a fraction less tough than I am, I would have totally lost it and clawed my own face off in agony like I was from eldritch mythos. But I wasn’t doing this for fun; I had an emergency, and this was how to deal with it.

I grasped around nothingness with my right hand. I wasn’t feeling air. I wasn’t even feeling a vacuum, like space. It was literal, actual nothing. It felt like my hand was solar systems away, entirely disconnected from me. I flicked my fingers back and forth, not knowing how to orient them to get what I wanted. I’m pretty good with my hands in three dimensions, but zero dimensions proves to be a bit more confusing. I’m not sure how many minutes or months or years later it was, but my fingertip grazed a sharp surface. With as much force as I could muster (before I lost it into nothingness), I wrapped my fingers around it and pulled it out.

Out of what? Beats me. But now I was back in reality.

My vision was still residually strobing, but not enough to stop me. I glanced around to make sure I was still intact. My right arm, hoodie sleeve and all, was dripping with a silvery, sparkling liquid—like had just reached my whole arm up into the embryonic fluid of physics itself. And before you start to think that’s kind of cool, I need to let you know it smells almost exactly like rotting eggs. But that wasn’t important now.

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The important thing is what is in my right hand. Both heavy and light, sharp and dull, black and white. Yeah, that’s right. It’s motherfucking sword time.

As soon as my nervous system could cooperate with me, I threw a flying knee attack right onto the Bunny, sideswiping her off of Biologist and onto the floor. Within seconds, the tip of the Zebrasword plunged into Murderbunny’s chest, spraying a small stream of blood into the air. Instant death, no other way to describe it.

I wanted to say something cool, like “get on my fucking level!” or “that’s what you get for hurting my friend!” or something, but decided I should probably check on Biologist. There’s no telling what kind of wound she might have—

Oh, she’s fine.

She’s just standing up, looking at me as casually as ever.

“...I thought you would at least have a broken wrist or something.”

She shook her head.

“I’m not a human. Can’t really hurt me like that.”

For the next few moments we looked at each other a bit awkwardly. Then at the dead Murderbunny on the ground a bit awkwardly. And then at each other a bit blank. And then down at Murderbunny a bit confused. And then back at each other a bit concerned. And then back down at Murderbunny a bit panicked. And then back at each other a bit sweaty. And then back down at Murderbunny a bit frenzied. And then back at each other in a full-blown meltdown.

I fucked up.

I FUCKED UP.

The Murderbunny chasing us was wearing a blood-stained wedding gown. No mistake about it.

The Bunny on the ground was not. Not at all.

What was she wearing?

Ripped up jeans and an old camo jacket.

Just like always.