Weathering the torment, Otis was unable to tell what was happening to him. The flat was still the same. He wasn’t on fire, there wasn’t some mysterious attacker assaulting his hand, and it wasn’t likely he’d been poisoned. If he had been poisoned it was unlikely any such poison would have such a grievance with his left hand.

Clenching his eyes, this incessant pain had no rhyme or reason. The simple fact that there was no logical reason for this to be happening made the experience all the worse. It felt like time had been stretched as he continued to writhe on the floor, red and sweating.

Occasionally, Otis was able to catch glimpses of something moving across his palm. Blurred by his own tears it looked as if something was bubbling across the surface, as though his skin was molten. Only able to peer these slight glimpses, the assailing pain felt evermore mysterious and unjustified.

After what felt like hours, the pain began to dull, but Otis was too tired to move. Bearing the pain had been excruciating. He was exhausted. T-shirt soaked through, sweat coated his body and slickened his hair. Curiosity to inspect the offending palm gave way to the desperate need to sleep. Without moving another inch the land of nod basked him the black of sleep.

***

Offended by the harsh light of day and the perpetual noise of life, Otis awoke, blearily. His head was pounding, his skin ached, and he stank. Crystalised sweat stained his figure, as though he was some kind of ultra-running eccentric. He stumbled over to the kitchen sink. His thirst for answers was real but a very physical thirst needed to be sated first. It felt like he’d been through hell, the kind of gladiatorial combat you’d expect in a video game… not from trying to walk upstairs. It was a deep sense of exhaustion that left him gasping for breath, not that his tumble down the stairs had helped.

Looking over his hands, Otis confirmed that "righty" was a clear favourite today. Having been subject to an ethereal attack of the hand, his mood was made worse when his inspection showed that there wasn’t even the slightest blemish to his skin. There appeared to be nothing wrong. The hand should have been an ashen stump for what it had put him through but it was fine.

…

A groaning shudder growled from nowhere, as though an earthquake was shifting the foundations of his dilapidated student housing. Crossing the room to peer outside, no one seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. Through the blinds’ parted slats, Otis could still see the intermingled busy and sloth-like ongoings of everyday life. The homeless few gathered across by McDonald’s; the corner shop owner was shouting at another bunch of teens trying to buy vapes; other students were on their way to the uni; a van driver jerking his hand back and forth at a vague irritant, probably with a litany of accompanying curses. It was ominously normal.

Staring through the window, there was nothing amiss, nothing out of place…

Suddenly, the murky window pane exploded. Flecks of the previously intact window burst apart, grime and brickwork carnage following suit, decorating the living room. Through the cavernous wreckage, a hulking juggernaut of mangled steel crashed into his home. As though a dimensional rift had torn reality asunder, runic swirls blinked into and out of existence. Sparks back-lit the metal titan as he staggered through the ruins of the front wall. The haggard statue of twisted metal shunted past Otis, knocking him back. Bruised bloomed across Otis’ side almost immediately but he was too shocked to notice. Too scared to care.

Winded and without time to process what was happening, Otis reeled back, but with nowhere to go, he shrunk back against the kitchen counter. Without a moment to breathe Otis was forced to recoil yet further as a bronzed fist of the hulking figure slammed into nearest the kitchen cabinet, obliterating it instantly.

Adorned with shifting metal plates the intruding figure looked like some gladiatorial-inspired ‘Iron Man’. Like a tank in mechanised human form, the figure rotated towards him. Hissing pistons and grinding metal screamed as it locked onto Otis and pursued.

Bearing down upon him, the air suddenly splintered, with a whoosh, as a golden spear-light materialised from outside, piercing the outstretched forearm of the invader.

“Fucking, fuck, f-, fuck, oh fuck!”

Neither the golden light nor Otis’ unintelligible screams did anything to stop the machine’s assault. Without pause it spun one-hundred and eighty degrees, ignoring the spear still embedded within him, and slammed a vicious backhand towards Otis, decimating the rest of the kitchen. The outstretched fist narrowly missed the bewildered student but Otis wasn’t fast enough to dodge the deranged automaton's next lurch forward. Cold steel enveloped his arm, wrenching him towards the metal man. Crushed in its rough grasp, the sliding mechanisms dug in. If the lacerating clasp of the fist hadn’t drawn blood it felt like it should have. Otis cried out in pain but the adrenaline kept him focused. Tugging at his arm, in vain, there was no way to extricate himself. Clenching his eyes so tight that tears threatened to escape him, the boy begged for there to be some salvation as he was slowly yanked toward his assailant.

Otis refused to suffer this kind of abuse without a fight, he’d already wasted so much time on this degree and he could certainly say goodbye to his deposit, with the damage to the window. He didn’t deserve this kind of abuse. It just wasn’t fair. Lashing out with all his frustration, Otis barely felt his skin sheer or his knuckles crack as he struck out at the mechanised man.

Brought ever closer, the carefully curated jaw jaggedly shunted open, fighting against its own damaged components. Continuing to rage against unbeatable odds, Otis kept pounding against the arm of the horrific creation before him. It wasn’t until a flame burst forth that his attention was pulled back from his pointless assault, the bronzed surface of the arm was without the slightest of new dents or even a single fresh scratch. The howling terror of a blooming flame froze his heart.

Claiming its final win, the wrought iron grasp clenched down. The bones within Otis’ forearm, already flexed, splintered instantaneously. A tortured scream was ripped from him, against the agony, just as the flame jettisoned from the gaping maw. Immediately, Otis’ skin began to bubble against scorched the air next to him. With no other escape, Otis braced his feet against the metallic torso of his executioner. Arching himself away from the flame only stretched skin and shattered bone held him up.

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Correcting itself, the unflinching creation, obsessed with his annihilation, sought to complete its task. All too close to the searing flame, there was nothing else to do but pray that burnt nerves perished quickly.

THUNK, THUNK, THUNK

Three more golden spear-light lengths sank through the thick shell of the flame-throwing skull… before it began to move again.

Dazzled by the scene, several more screeching attacks slammed into the automaton. Blinded by the assault, Otis wasn’t sure of his fate or that of his attacker. Blistered, scorched, and mangled he wasn’t sure of much.

Blinking rapidly, Otis tried to dispel the assault on his senses. Gradually shadows and shifting currents began to re-emerge. All he could hear were dull thuds and occasional hoarse screams and bellowed shouts. Eventually blinding light gave way to particulate-laden imagery, which eventually gave way to show him the desolate remains of his home. Coated in dust and metal shavings, it could have been a house from Roman times Pompeii instead of Liverpool.

Worse yet, the adrenaline that had kept him going so far was beginning to fade. Pain swelled forth in its place. Hauling himself from the loosened grip of the robot, Otis stumbled to his feet. He tried to stand firm and ready for anything that may yet come for him, but on the last dregs of adrenaline he was shaking. Unsteady on his feet as he might be, Otis tried to spy his saviour or captor. He’d been saved, but by who or what he was unsure. The owners of spears of golden light may well have their own nefarious plans and appeared to have the weaponry to back it up. The spears didn’t belong to any kind of arsenal Otis had ever even heard of.

Looking towards what remained of the window, a fog of dust-filtered light shrouded the figures coming towards him. They were more traditionally humanoid than the automaton but their silhouettes seemed warped somehow. Whoever they were, whatever they were, had enacted a cull outside of his home.

Stepping over the boundary of shattered glass and brick, the first figure emerged. Injured, the figure had a bloodied shoulder, matted with rapidly coagulating blood. Albeit lithe, his saviour was far from the Hollywood image of a warrior woman. Bloodied, matted, and worn, brutality was etched into every sinuous fibre of her physique. The woman appeared astonishingly young for her war-torn appearance. Spattered in her own blood and, presumably, that of others, her skin was youthful in a way that botox couldn’t replicate. Her eyes might have been bloodshot but they were bright and hopeful. Thick, angry, scars scored from the ridge of her nose down to the edge of her jaw. On the same left-hand side of her body a severed forearm, the amputated appendage now replaced by a sword arm. Inscribed with runes the arm had various components that weren’t as cohesive as the interweaving plated armour of the automaton but was clearly leagues ahead of any prosthetics Otis had ever heard of. In her other hand, she held a dented shield, pierced through with various pieces of shrapnel. Several shards had pierced more than the shield. Blood fell, oozing, from behind her bronzed defence.

“Nice, you’re not dead,” she grimaced, “come with us and we can keep you safe.”

In pain but satisfied that she had done all they could, she turned and staggered back, from whence she’d come. Dumbfounded, Otis stumbled after her armoured leather-clad back. Dutifully trailing after her, he considered being more cautious, but it felt rude not to. As the pain of his burns, bruises, and shattered bones began to flourish, Otis made his way forward. He paused for a second to grab his keys, for no particular reason given the hole in the wall but stopped when he realised in his earlier efforts he had all but pulverised his own hand. With both arms far from functional, Otis sighed and stepped through the large hole in his living room. He wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight if they turned on him now.

As the dust continued to settle, more figures became clearer. Looking around, there were maybe twenty. Each one wore the scars of many fights before this one and looked none too happy to be here. Most of them seemed to be equipped with some kind of sword or mace, but others had none. It wasn’t the kind of arsenal he had expected to find. Other than my reluctant saviour only two others stood out. One, a boy likely only a teenager, whose hands glowed with a golden, green-speckled aura, and a severe-looking woman, whose eyes appeared to be moving so fast that it looked like she had eight different blurred pupils. Clearly, they served ancillary roles and had been protected by the discontented rank and file of these mysterious people. The boy was clearly a healer but the astounding use of what looked to be magic was incredible. Under his guidance, torn flesh crawled back together at a pace visible to the eye.

Taking in more of his surroundings, Otis felt like he’d been transported to a different realm and, in essence, he had. Bodies were strewn over the ground; some mechanical creations, others distinctly severed and scorched pieces of human, others something entirely alien to him. One amorphous, tentacled, behemoth lay dormant at the side. The creature was entirely Lovecraftian. Comprised of intermingled tentacles, only the huge section of mashed visceral tissue focused his attention. Even now, as it lay spilt over the ground, with several familiar golden spear lights pulsating in other torn areas of its peculiar anatomy it was difficult to focus on the creature. Otis could only imagine the carnage it could have wrought and how difficult it must have been to subdue. Everywhere he looked supernatural creatures and creations boggled his mind one after another.

All these details and yet the strangest of which wasn’t to do with the aftermath of the otherworldly fight at all. Outside the bounds of carnage, Liverpool went on as it always did. No one fled the scene, there was no screaming, no crying. Nothing had changed. Otis could still see the homeless, the busy-bodies, the students and they didn’t seem to notice a thing. Whipping his head left to right and right to left, he watched it happen. Walking toward the strewn bodies, people would hit an invisible wall and suddenly be on the other side of it all. One moment they were about to step onto a pustule-covered tentacle of the behemoth and the next they were walking past the corner shop.

“It’s a field of compressed space,” the woman with the amputated arm stated, “notice how the edges blur? These buildings were always next to each other but now they’re some seventy metres apart. We’re just taking up a fraction of that space in the outside world, a little sliver. Now get over here, before anything else has a go at burning, crushing, or eating you.”

Accepting that none of those possibilities sounded much fun, Otis staggered over.

“You can call me Tiera,” she stated.

Slack-jawed Otis tried to ignore the thrumming pain he was experiencing, before remembering his manners.

“Otis, my name’s Otis.”

“There’s a lot to say really and very little time so just know that nothing’s the same, everything’s to do with some kind of magic, and it’s not as much fun as your movies make it out to be.”

Tiera was clearly not someone who minced her words, but Otis wasn’t in a state to absorb much more than that.

Having reached into the folds of her armour Tiera took out a small black bead. Unlike anything he’d seen before the small stone had golden flecks delicately laced into the depths of the gem. Within the dilute colouring of the zone of compressed space, the small bead looked stood out prominently within her palm. It was mesmerising for a brief moment, before it was crushed beneath her thumb and reality began to churn.