30 played with his Remark. Oh, how he hated it.

His Remark was a compass in both form and function. He redefined true north with reckless abandon. the largest arrow going round and round like a clock on fast forward.

His Remark made labyrinths of his own creation. “Borgesian landscapes,” his associate had called them. He had no idea what this meant, but the name was evocative.

Was a part of being Borgesian the creator’s inability to get lost themselves, no matter how much they desired it? The associate had shrugged at that question, and told him that he was thinking too hard.

His Remark had led him here. And if he were to ever leave (escape felt appropriate) it would have to be his Remark that showed him the way.

In one of a dozen honeycombed monitors, a friend of his associate had just killed some poor girl. No, scratch that, the friend had just killed two. He afforded himself a smile, he hated everyone involved in this fight. And now Hailien had walked in, and now he wouldn’t have to worry about his associate’s friend leaving alive.

But they were fighting in the reactor room. And that could be trouble. Oh, how obvious it was now, aggravatingly so. He rubbed his thinning hair, tapped incessantly on his Remark. He had no choice in what happened, but he certainly had the freedom to worry.

He flipped his Remark upside down. No more cardinal directions judging his inaction.

He had wanted a maze, but his mind was a straight line. The impact of every choice obvious and unavoidable.

And the point to which they were heading- the point to which they were moving to-

The farthest screen from him crackled to life. In the boxy frame was a smiling man 30 knew all too well. It was his associate.

“Montanna,” 30 said, choosing his words carefully, “how goes the culling?”

“Very good. The action itself has all the subtlety of a John Millius film, but I’m like a Claire Denis protagonist. Simply watching, letting the experience of it all wash over me. I don’t think I’ll be needed here going forward.”

He was wearing that strange purple blindfold again. What it represented was as unclear as the names he dropped incessantly.

Resigned to not understanding anything Montanna said, 30 simply gave a half nod. “Shit’s bad here.”

“I know.” Montanna said, his smile growing wider. “That's why I called.”

He gulped, and placed a nervous hand onto his Remark, rotating the largest top out of sight of the camera above him. “It’s not that the plan isn’t going well.”

Montanna stared and said nothing.

“Okay, there is one problem.”

“Name it.”

“Collateral damage.” 30 said, “I’ve come to really like this place. I have no issue with killing two birds with one stone. But the Constants, somehow, are showing a level of power you promised me they didn’t have. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, they tell me they have no real power, yet their ADM levels are off the charts.”

“And what’s the issue?”

He moved Montanna’s screen so he could see what was happening.

In one screen, a giant placebo corpse was fighting an aberration and a very angry looking teen girl, while the metal disc they fought on slowly grinded downward, losing its fight with the walls in a protracted feud of orange sparks.

In the other, Hailien had run through two with her Remark.

“Looks good,” Montanna said.

30 ignored this, “And I don’t want to think about what happens if Hailien or one of your friends found the eye.”

“Oh yeah,” Montanna had a smirk on. He licked his lips. A disgusting action on its own, made worse by the muddy graininess of the screen.

“That would wake her up, wouldn’t it?”

“It would reveal the true body.” 30 said plainly, there were only a few who knew what the Helot truly was. His hands were shaking, he kept them clasped below his desk, out of Monty’s view.

“Have you been taking care of her?”

30 hated even thinking about it. Of course his Remark had led him to what lurked in the eye of the Helot. He would never forget that sight.

The room adorned with chains, the woman floating above him, imprisoned.

A sliver of flesh, still breathing.

Ever since then, he had used his Remarks trick to make it impossible for her to be found.

He had learned enough from the dreams to surmise what would happen if she opened her eyes. He could not allow it.

He’d never call himself a humanitarian. Grand, he never wanted anyone to even think it. But he could not let her wake up. No one could let her wake up. It was like how forsaking a duel was a universal wrong, or how Death and her dance was a universal good. One of those innate rules of the world that he had fallen into.

It was a burden he didn’t sign up for. If he had known what this thing really was…

But any other option would have led to his death. This was the best he could hope for, a guaranteed free pass to skip this dreadful civil war. All he had to do was keep a prisoner asleep. His dreams told him she had slept for a hundred years, what was a few more days?

Despite the blindfold, Montanna was watching the fights from the screens behind 30. “I think she’ll be able to handle them.” He said, after a long moment.

30 had not gotten that expression, but he didn’t feel like arguing the point, especially when it caused Montanna some discomfort. His smile had disappeared. The bastard was frowning, he was actually frowning! A first time for everything, 30 figured.

Montanna looked around, as if trying to find something off screen. “She’s not to leave alive. Remember to bring me Adam. I may be arriving sooner than planned.”

“What about the others?” But Montanna had already disconnected, there was only darkness in front of him.

30 stared for far too long, as if some image would be conjured from the blackness that would tell him what to do. Finally, he turned away from the monitors, put his head in his hands, and cried.

.

.

.

They were falling at a rapid rate. How far down was the next floor?

Adam was speared into the ground as she kept a firm grip, her calloused hands exploring angles of him she didn’t know existed. The platform was wobbling like crazy, all the other placebos had fallen off long ago.

The giant corpse, the Swordsman, was unbothered by the constant movement, and walked across the floor as if it was stable.

She heard the voice of Clive, whispering from someplace far too near “That's right. Stay right there. It was always gonna end with you on the floor, Devon, ready to die.” There was a blur behind him, moving rapidly from side to side, almost mocking the Swordsman's slow and steady stride. He raised his sword, the spike from the floors center. “Don’t move, eh?”

At that moment three things happened.

The first thing: Devon did move. She had Adam launch himself at the hands, the swordsman fumbled with his sword. The inertia of the act threw Devon to the wall.

The second thing: Tremble (who else?) was the blur, and she pounced on the Swordsman, screaming and shooting spikes everywhere as she clawed and clawed, showing the corpse a concerning amount of anger.

The third thing: The disc finally stabilizing, announced by a chorus of sparks as its wobbling sides slowed then stopped. After one final shake, it became like an elevator. Still descending, but at a slower more manageable rate.

Devon fell to the ground, and was surprised to find there was less space to fall than she expected. She moved away from the sparking edges, and put a hand up.

The giant Swordsman was being bothered by Tremble, good. His weapon, the spike, had been dropped, great. And Adam was back in her hand, feeling more at home than ever.

“I have a plan.” She said, running forward.

”No… no you don’t.” Clive countered. He was in her mind too, but Adam quickly overpowered him, till the feelings and patterns that were the Constants felt like distant memories.

“If this backfires, we’ll be at a considerable disadvantage.”

“If we don’t do this,” Devon said, now halfway across the disc, full sprint, “We’re fucked.”

She had come to the spike, rolling in a circle. The Swordsman was too distracted by Tremble, but a few stray strings decided to hassle her. They were dealt with quickly. She stopped at the spike’s tip and wrapped her hands around a part about 10 inches wide. With a grunt she squatted low, feet shoulders width apart and toes turned outward.

”How much power do you need?” Adam asked. Devon’s heart was beating, the spike was massive, bigger than her, almost comparable to Hailien.

“All of it, supercharge my organs, overclock my heart, I’m gonna knock him into next week.”

The effect was instantaneous.

She felt like she had gone through another six months of training in six seconds. Her body felt strong, all of her muscles were bursting at the seams, barely constrained by the limits of her skin. Slowly, she brought the spike up until it was level with her pounding chest. With a grunt, careful not to fall, she rotated her torso and bought the giant weapon back.

She breathed deep, gripped the spike tightly, and jumped.

The Swordsman threw Tremble off. His stump tilted upward. “Oh, how the fuck are you-“

Suspended in the air, 12 feet above the slowly sinking ground, Devon swung the metal top like a bat, and her body moved with it. It connected beautifully, straight to the neck.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The Swordsman went reeling, his neck hanging back at an odd angle. He took a few drunken steps back involuntarily. Devon was back on the ground, the adrenaline and Adam combined meant she was still holding the spike, even if the weight was destroying her arms. It felt like her bones were breaking from the strain, Grand, she could hear the cracks, her whole body was falling apart.

”Now's the time to let go, Devon” Adam appeared in front of her, blocking the view of the wounded Swordsman, holding onto the wall and clutching its chest.

She shook her head, no, she had to finish it. Her will pushed through the pain. Any broken bones or permanent injuries could be addressed afterwards. She wasn’t a coward, she had to prove that. She had to fucking prove that.

Kill the coward in your head.

A blunt hit to her abdomen. The Swordsman had removed his hand in a desperate attempt to grab her. Poor choice, Clive wasn’t good at this.

Kill the coward in your body.

She kneecapped him, and he fell down accordingly. Clive hadn’t realized how fragile this body was. No, it wasn’t that, it was just that… meat is soft. It’s easy to tenderize.

Kill the coward in your spirit.

”Devon, your body-“

“Shut it” A quick kick to the knees. Who said she was tired? She had never felt better. Her blood was roaring, her veins were razors that cut through any doubt. She should only live like this, forever. The spike didn’t feel like weight, it felt like an extension.

She slammed the spike down on the Swordsman’s neck. It deflated like a condiment filled balloon. The blood was weird and goopy. Guess blood goes bad, Devon thought. She landed and threw the spike away. It barreled through the wall.

“I’m sorry Devon, but I have to detach.”

Suddenly, the pain was all there was.

She had just experienced ten minutes worth of exhaustion, pushing her body to the limits. Vital moments of pain that should have served as warning signs had been dulled. Not anymore.

The eternity of pleasure was now an eternity of agony.

It fucking sucked shit.

…

The screams of the city was a warm blanket for Morgan Lemure. When he got scared, when he grew confused, he could always count on that sound. It was white noise that made it clear that he mattered, that he was important. For those screams were for him, the man who views himself (but who we do not truly know or think of as) Morgan Lemure. They were fighting for him.

But recently the screams had become dim.

After such an exciting time, filled with fights and fire, a chaos that was cleansing, even Death herself paying a visit, things were dying down.

And yet the man still had the fear of the other, the terrifying feeling that the man with the permanent sneer was around, his evil still biting into dozens (no, perhaps hundreds) of the wretches in Gutworth.

And then one day, when he turned his ear to the city

”It… it’s stopped.”

41, usually so good at pampering him and attending to his needs, was busying himself with some screen.

”41… the fights are still on… the honor of being in my… personal liege.”

”They are.” He flipped the screen off, it descended into the floor. “The problem is, no one’s around anymore.” He turned to Lemure, his expression oddly serious.

Metal supports stuck out like the ribs of a decaying corpse.

Above them, a host of float rats took off from their perch on the half finished roof.

Yes, the bad ones were gone, that awful harlot nurse, that strangely dense dame, but in their stead were hundreds of people devoted to him, desperate to be part of his legacy, they couldn’t have all died.

“Where… where did they go?”

”Some went to Luminescia, others went to the Helot.” He was moving around the room like a fussy busybody, a sight quite like that nurse.

He was collecting things in a mad dash, putting items that were his and items that were Morgan’s in a large bag.

“Others simply hitched a ride on boats, so buoyed by national fervoer they sought further violence on foreign soil. But as whole, when you ask people to fight to the death for a warlord who himself,” he pointed at Morgan “iIs dying, most simply reject the proposition.”

He didn’t know what to say. His harness shook as he breathed in and out, feeling a rage he could not physically impress. “What… where are you going then? Are you getting me-“

”How perceptive, it’s aware like postmodernism” The man turned to him, wearing that damned blindfold. “I’m done with being lost in the funhouse. It was fun, and I accomplished- well, not everything, but most of what I wanted. But, you see, Death can’t dance with her favorites.”

He peered out the window, unnecessary as there was a giant hole in the wall just a few feet to his left. “It’s chaos, my friend, but not the fun kind. It’s like a college party that’s still going at 3 AM, campus security is gonna show up any minute now. Among other factions.”

Morgan shifted his weight, suddenly intrigued. ”Campus security, what is “campus security”? Are they another Killing Game? What do you mean by a party?”

”Don’t trouble yourself old timer, It’s all just bullshit from my hometown. I’m from a very different context.” He smiled, “By the by, my name is Montanna.”

The name meant nothing to him.

41 stood patiently, seeming to wait for a reaction he did not get. With a shrug, he turned and made to leave.

”Please 41…” He motioned to the cabinet, with its drugs. The black ones held the stuff that killed him, the white ones held the stuff that killed the Wyrm, he needed a shot. “Don’t leave me in this state.”

Remembering his place, 41 nodded and opened the cabinet. His hand was over the white vials, but he did not touch them.

“You know, I’m basically broke.”

”As… as the head of my new guard, nothing will be out of reach for you. If you stay here, anything in the city can and will be yours. Please.” There was bile in his throat.

41 took the white vials quickly. What luck, his words had gotten through. He walked over to Lemure, smiled, and then proceeded to take out his already bursting bag, and add the vials to its bulk.

“You know, Wyrm suppressants are pretty rare, they pay a pretty penny for them “ He turned, taking in the gnarled view. “The pennies here are ugly. I don’t know where you make them or where you get them, but they always have imperfections and stink of soiled water.” He took one out of its vial. Instead of using a top, as one was supposed to, he unscrewed the cap and downed it in one gulp, “tastes bad.”

No. This… this wasn’t what a 41 was supposed to do.

“You know, I’m not like you. Don’t have Wyrms up to my eyes, though I have plenty of problems, but the taste… I really like the taste.” He smiled, and his teeth were stained with darkness. “Be seeing you.”

“No… you can’t leave me, you can’t-“ The carriage shook as Lemure tried to get out of it. It was a stubborn thing, but it had grown rusted over the years through time and lack of care. The carriage’s harness snapped, and he came down with it, his tired body snapping and then burning up into a ball at 41s feet. Lemure shivered slightly, he had expended all his energy, he should have questioned it when 41 demanded he get back in it. He was a fetus, and above him stood his world.

“Anyway, be seeing you,” the blindfolded man said.

This was no 41, this was a traitor, like all the others. He yelled as much as his vocal chords could handle, but it was so weak even his eardrums could barely pick it up.

The man waved back as he left, and shut the door behind it. It broke from its hinges and landed with a thud. Everything was falling apart.

How appropriate.

Lemure curled his fingers, clawing useless nails into the well worn leather straps. They said it was the other way around, victory from the jaws of defeat, no. Defeat was a Wyrm. It lurked out of sight, watching you grow fat on your successes, less alert thanks to hubris. When victory seemed as simple as a walk up the stairs, it would be there, jaws ready, at the last rotted step.

He pounded the floor. It did nothing but bring him pain. He did it again, same result.

“I will let you kill me, if you drink of my blood.”

That was what the Wyrm had said.

He repeated those words, in the same reverent tone he had repeated them so many times past. The Wyrm would have killed him, and it seemed a small price for the fame and success that followed.

But then his eyes began to itch.

He went to doctors, benefactors, soothe sayers. Their diagnosis were either useless or pandering. None of them could explain to him why his eyes were turning black.

But on the suggestion of a man he would kill a week later, he read up on Wyrms, just in case the blood had caused it. Lemure didn’t know anything about Wyrms. Why would he ever need to? He didn’t expect much to come of it, but wanted to prove to the man that it was a preposterous idea and make him feel dumb for even suggesting it.

And then he found a book. “In Gehenna, There is Death: A Guide to the New Ailments”

On Page 172, Paragraph 3: “A Wyrm’s reproductive cycle is as terrifying as it is slow. Its blood cells double as gametes, reproductive cells that can become embryos if they’re exposed to a fertilization agent. Disturbingly, the body of most living beings serve as that fertilization agent. Anyone who consumes a Death Wyrms blood will unknowingly become an incubator. The earliest signs are usually an itching behind one's eye-“

He found a second book, “These Things Can Think: The Recovered Notes of Expedition Team Achiah”

Page 12, Paragraph 2: “Once conscious, the tadpole form of the Wyrm will remain in their host body for over a hundred years (see our autopsy of one of the local megafauna). That said, we estimate total control over the host takes significantly less time. Perhaps only 10 to 20 years. Hosts will probably experience larger and larger gaps in their memory, as the tadpole gets stronger and more adept at taking control temporarily. The local baron tells us he bathes in Wyrm blood, whether or not this speeds up the incubation process remains to be-“

And then a third book, “A History of the Wyrm Lords”

Page 57, Paragraph 5: “And nay, they do not tell us that their mother was cthonic. They lie and say they are the men and woman we know. But they are not, they have been taken over and if they smile you see their spires. The Wyrms all take on their flesh’s identity, and only those closest to Adam can tell the difference. You can hear the poor victim, screaming through the skin.”

After that, he avoided the more populated cities. The ones with those who read esoterically and often. They would notice the signs before him. They would ask questions that he could not adequately explain. One missing scholar wouldn’t be notice, but seven?

He and his legion were reduced with time, and had to move from town to town, favoring the most reclusive and hideaway backwater whenever possible.

They were not helped by the fact that the Wyrm was growing stronger. The cloak of Wyrm skin that he had once been proud to wear was now like a prison to him. And yet he could not stand to be without it, some awful need from the Wyrm that had become his own.

By the time they had reached Gutworth, he was in control less often than he was dark. The Wyrm Suppressant, once in easy supply, dried up. He never got a clear answer from those that should have been loyal to him as to why.

One day, he woke up to faces he didn’t recognize. Six people he had no knowledge of, who told him he had made them his Constants.

This was no concept that came from him. The only Constant was him, he needed no true heirs because he was immortal. The legacy was an extension of him, his Numbers not worthy of distinct immortality.

That was the moment that he realized the army that served in his name was no longer his, but the Wyrm.

Everything after that was a blurred disappointment.

…

Days passed. No, weeks. No, months? Maybe minutes.

All he knew is that when those familiar white shoes came into his vision, there was no longer silence, there was cheering.

Cheering. Victory! Success. The enemy had been killed. They were cheering that he still lived, the Wyrm still a prisoner within himself (this he knew because he was still Lemure, and not the Wyrm that called itself Lemure).

Another pair of shoes followed. “Grand, this is fucking bad.” Said a harsh voice, like grinding stone. “I think he’s dead, for real this time.”

Not dead. Not dead. With effort he looked up from the floor.

It was her, that dame with muscles, body like tanned leather and a flat head. Besides her was the evil nurse, and behind them both was an imposing man that reminded him of himself in his youth. He was wearing the clothes of a dock worker, so a much lower class. What gave him the right to be here?

“I’m… I’m still here.” He said, every word dripped saliva.

“Yes, you are.” The nurse said. Despite his trepidation, he had every reason to hate her, her return seemed promising. Maybe she had been forced back here by the enduring public. Word had gotten out at how he was treated. “We’ve waited too long, fuck the consequences, lets kill the other for good. Johann, get the vial.” The dockworker went to retrieve them. Looking directly at Lemure, she said “This city deserves a true leader.”

It did! His hands clenched into tiny triumphant fists. The dock worker went to retrieve them. His bulk hid the contents from him, but Lemure knew with certainty they were picking the white one, the Wyrm suppressant. He knew some of it must still remain. This would be it, they would finally defeat the Wyrm. They had all realized their mistakes.

”Hold tight.” The nurse said kindly. She rubbed his head, paying special attention to his eyes, “I’m so sorry we abandoned you, we didn’t think Montanna would betray us. But it’s okay, we collected enough that you should finally be rid of him.”

He hated them for it, but he forgave them.

He tried to speak, but it came out as a slurred “thank” and nothing more. He didn’t have the energy to say the last word. The dock worker had returned with a empty syringe, far bigger than any he had been given before, and it was placed on his neck as he poured something in. Lemure closed his eyes and smiled.

The man who thought of himself as Lemure did not notice that the fluid being injected into him was black.

And then he was no more.

All that remained was the Wyrm.