If ever there was a time for a breather, it was here and now, and I was fortunate enough that the others were more than willing to oblige me. Brand had told me it would take a couple minutes to “prepare the specimen”, as he put it. The autopsy room already had microscopes and empty slides on hand in the adjacent Pathology lab behind the glass wall at the far end of the room. I wouldn’t have called it luck, but it was certainly convenient. Of course, given the horror we’d just witnessed, it hardly counted for anything at all. At best, it meant that it wouldn’t be long before we began an anatomical dissection of the twisted child, in the hopes of better understanding NFP-20s effects on human physiology in Type Two cases.

Brand and Dr. Horosha got to work making the preparation without delay. From the sounds of things, Horosha certainly knew his way around a lab. I wanted to help clean up the mess the fetus had caused, but Dr. Skorbinka was adamant about doing it by himself. It wasn’t a logical request, but I acquiesced without protest. It is generally ill advised to try to reason with a man who has just stared death in the face. Besides, I had my own matters to attend to.

I was out in the changing room. Gasses and fluids rattled through the chrome-plated pipes overhead as they traveled out into hallways beyond. I sat on the floor—mask and visor off—having washed up and changed my PPE as soon as Drs. Nowston and Horosha had gotten to work. The air in the changing room wasn’t “fresh” by any stretch of the imagination, but I needed it all the same.

And I wasn’t the only one.

“Andalon, please, calm down,” I pled. I spoke softly, not wanting my words to echo.

I wished I could have held her, or sat beside her, to provide a consoling touch, but I couldn’t. My hands just phased through her.

Checking my console, I noted it had been close to half an hour now since I’d stepped out of the autopsy room. The particular hour—shortly past noon—made me wonder what Pel was doing. Ordinarily, she’d have been attending mass right now—Unction was given at noon, after all—but, thanks to the pandemic, most churches had shifted to holding services remotely, over videophone, for the sake of public safety. Of course, Socialife was abuzz with news of reactionary churches and congregations which refused to “bend the knee”, as they put it.

I had a sinking feeling that people like that were going to be the death of us all.

It was hard to look at the girl weeping on the floor in front of me without my thoughts turning to my own family. I desperately wanted to call them, but I couldn’t do that in good conscience, not with a crying kid on my hands. This just wasn’t something I could ignore.

“Everyone leaves me,” Andalon moaned, “everyone! And I can’t make it better!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “I promise you.”

Andalon had been sobbing uncontrollably upon the fetus’ death, but thankfully, she was slowly beginning to calm down. Still, we weren’t out of the woods yet.

“But the lil’ guy, Mr. Genneth…” she shook her head. Her sky-blue eyes twinkled. “He was a little wyrmeh, and now,” she sniffled and stuttered, “and now…”

“Andalon, you said it yourself: he was broken.”

“Yeah, but—”

“—No,” I said, firmly, “no buts. This is the darkness at work, right? That’s what we need to stop!”

Though I was aware of Andalon’s dedication to saving people from the fungal darkness that dragged its victims off to Hell, I hadn’t appreciated the depths of Andalon’s attachment to her wyrms until I’d seen her wails and heart-rending lamentation in the aftermath of the misbegotten fetus’ death. It was like she’d lost a treasured family member.

“No,” Andalon shook her head, “it wasn’t the darkness.” She sniffled.

“Oh? Then what was it? What went wrong?”

Andalon’s lips curled in dismay, but she kept herself from bawling outright. “He was too little. Too weak. Ileene was too sick,” she said. She shook her head. “It’s been so long, I forgotted.”

I sat up straight, feeling like someone had stuck a pole in my back. “Wait, you remembered something?”

Andalon nodded hesitantly, rubbing her face on her wrist. “It took so long to figure out how to make the wyrmehs right,” she said. “It was horrible at the start. So, so…” she shuddered, “horrible.” She shook her head. “They were so broken and sad, and no matter what I tried, I couldn’t make them better. And if they were broken… they—they just… they went away. They didn’t survive.” She looked me in the eyes. “It hurts so much, Mr. Genneth. I hate it when they don’t survive. Andalon hates when things go away. It’s so, so sad, and I… I feel… I…” She wept. “Why does it hurt, Mr. Genneth? Why does Andalon feel so sad?”

I’d been asking myself the same questions for the better part of my life. Taking a deep breath, I tried to put it in a way she could understand.

In a way that wouldn’t hurt her any more than she already had been.

I sighed. “The reason you’re upset is because you lost someone precious to you. That hurts. I know you don’t want to feel that way, but, remember, that hurt is proof that you cared about the wyrms, even the little guy that you never got to meet.”

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

Andalon smiled through her tears. “Wyrmehs are precious to Andalon.” She nodded, first hesitantly, and then more vigorously. “Precious.”

Seeing her smile made me sigh in relief. The more I could turn her mood around, the easier it would be to get answers to my latest batch of questions.

I was probably going to have nightmares about Ileene’s mutant fetus for the rest of my life—to say nothing of the ghosts that accompanied it—but, what scared me even more was the thought that Merritt and the other transformees were going to end up looking like that, or worse.

But that was just the tip of the iceberg.

“Was I right?” I asked. “Were those ghosts—had they been housed in Ileene’s child?”

Andalon nodded. “Yeah.”

“What happened to them?”

Andalon shook her head. “They were broke-broke. They were broke-broke ‘cause the lil’ guy was broke-broke. Savin’ someone is so hard.” She shook her head. “If even the littlest bad thing happens, they’re lost forever.”

“So… does this mean I can see other transformees’ ghosts now?”

“Uh-uh.” Andalon shook her head again.

I furrowed my brow. “But—”

“—Wyrmehs share stuff with other wyrmehs by singing,” she said, looking up at the fluorescent lights buzzing softly on the ceiling. “Ghosts. Dreams. Thinks. But they don’t sing until they’re really wyrmeh.” She looked down dejectedly. “The lil’ guy couldn’t sing yet.”

“Then…?”

She looked up at me, though she kept looking away, as if she felt guilty.

“Andalon is sorry. Andalon made stress for Mr. Genneth.” She crossed her hands in her lap.

“What?”

She pointed at my eyes, and then at her own. “You saw what Andalon sees. I can see all the ghosts in all the wyrmehs.”

Hmm…

“Is that why my hyperphantasia didn’t affect them?”

She stared at me blankly—confused.

I sighed. “Is that why the stuff I made didn’t stop the ghosts?”

Andalon tilted her head to the side, and then nodded. “Yeah. You can only do stuff to the ghosts in you, or to ghosts that other wyrmehs are sharin’ through their singing.”

That made sense. It almost reminded me of online server-based multiplayer games. You couldn’t interact with a player who wasn’t on the same server as you.

But then, something clicked in my head and dragged my spirits into the ground.

I clenched my fist and muttered under my breath. “Son of a sailor.”

Andalon trembled. “Wha?”

“I’ve been so caught up dealing with my own ghosts that I didn’t stop to think about the other transformees! Merritt, Kurt, Letty, and all the rest… they’re going to have ghosts of their own, aren’t they?”

Andalon nodded repeatedly.

I was not looking forward to dealing with that.

Suddenly, my work console pinged in my PPE gown pocket. I pulled it out and tapped the screen awake.

There was a text message from Brand, short and bleak:

GET IN HERE NOW1!!

Scrambling to my feet, I slapped my PPE on and rushed into the autopsy room. I didn’t even bother to put on the special spider-like headpiece or the motorized rebreather mask—not that it would have helped much.

I found myself in the strangest Burugi standoff I’d ever seen.

Brand stood near the glass wall leading to the miniature pathology lab adjacent to the autopsy room where Dr. Horosha was hard at work, his mote-veil still active. Brand had his console in his hand, but his eyes were glued to Dr. Skorbinka, who stood in the middle of the room with one hand on his PPE visor and another on his rebreather mask.

“What’s going on!?” I yelled.

“Please, Genneth,” Brand begged, “talk to him!”

“I will do it!” Mistelann said. His hands trembled.

Brand reached out with his free hand. “No, don’t!”

I darted around several examination tables, to get ahead of the mycologist and look him face to face.

“I need cigarette!” Mistelann shouted. “Now!”

“Oh God…” I muttered.

Dr. Skorbinka wanted to take off his PPE helmet.

Andalon phased into the room through the wall out in front of me. “Mr. Genneth?” She was concerned.

Go to the not-here-place Andalon, please. It’s an emergency.

Andalon nodded and vanished.

“Howle Genneth, I…” Dr. Skorbinka’s lips quivered. “I need cigarette. I need it now.”

Tears pooled in his eyes.

By the Angel… the man was scared out of his mind.

He smiled manically. “I have some in breast-pocket.” He chuckled, though it sounded more like weeping than laughter. “I take off helmet and have smoke. Is simple. So simple!” He gasped, panting erratically.

“You’d be breathing in contaminated air, Mistelann,” Brand said. “You’d be letting this madness enter your body through the fucking front door! C’mon man, snap out of it!”

If only Brand’s words had reached him. Mistelann blinked spastically. His foot was a jackhammer, ramming his shoe sole against the wet, darkness-slicked tile floor. The obvious solution hadn’t done squat: he flat out refused to leave, clean up and change, have his smoke, and then come back.

From the way Dr. Horosha kept glancing at us, it was clear he was well aware of what was going on. I just hoped whatever he was doing there was at least as important as a colleague trying to commit suicide.

“Dr. Skorbinka,” I said, only to shake my head, “Mistelann,” I pled, waving my arms, “why are you doing this? If you need a smoke, just step outside like any other guy would.”

The mycologist’s head shook like a broken lawn sprinkler. “No no no no. I need to be here, Howle Genneth. I have responsibility, yes.” His breathing raced. “Cannot shirk responsibilities!” He grimaced as he said the word.

It didn’t surprise me that Mistelann was an obsessive type. So was Brand, as was I, in my own way. Birds of feather, and all that. Obsessions were like spiked walls mounted on conveyor belts: they pushed you forward and took no prisoners. Too much pressure? Too many walls?

Cracks were bound to form.

“But is so hot here, Dr. Howle,” he said. “Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.” His trembling hands vacillated to and from his protective headgear.

I wanted to tell him everything would be alright, but that would be a lie.

“What is point of helmet, Howle Genneth?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “I was drenched in darkness.” And then he shrieked. “Drenched!”

“Gen,” Brand said, locking eyes with me, “if I tackle him—”

“—No,” I snapped, “don’t!” I stuck out my hands, pleading like I was praying. “If ever there was a place to get into a scuffle, this isn’t it.”

Dr. Skorbinka stammered. “The… the fetus…” He stared a thousand mile gaze. “The fetus…”

“You’re not the only one who’s scared, Dr. Skorbinka,” I said. Slowly, I stepped toward him.

Mistelann whimpered, shaking his head. “No need to stop me. I am already infected. How can it not be? Everyone is dying. Everyone is changing. Horrors horrors horrors.” He smiled in agony. “But look: no more worries. No more cleaning and changing and scrubbing and fretting. Just being. Take off helmet, have good smoke. Good, last smoke.”