Larry, Tira, and Ibrahim nodded, and I walked off to sit in a chair against a wall on the other side of the room, near where Greg was coiled. I made sure not to sit on my tail, even though I probably deserved the pain.

You can come out now, Andalon. I’m done hurting myself. For now.

The little spirit girl plopped down on the floor in front of me and gazed up at me with tears in her eyes. She rested her hand on my knee, even though it phased through—though only a little.

“You hurt so much,” she said. “I feel it. It…” she shuddered. “I don’t like being sad. And I feel sad when you feel sad, and I don’t want you to feel sad. I like it when you smile, Mr. Genneth. I can see them, the smiles you remember. They’re good. They’re happy.” She glanced downward, “I’d like to be happy like that, but…” her voice trailed off, drifting into melancholy.

Oh, God…

As if my heartache didn’t suck enough already. Even my emotions were contagious.

I patted the empty seat beside me. “—Come here,” I mumbled.

Though initially hesitant, Andalon eventually clambered onto the chair and sat beside me. A couple seconds later, she went a step further: she leaned into me for support, both physical and emotional. About a quarter of her body phased into me. Her head, shoulder, and arm bobbed against me, buoyant.

“Andalon is sad,” she said, glumly. She shook her head against my coat. “Andalon shoulda done better.” She looked up at me from the depths of her melancholy. “S-Sorry.”

What?

Sitting up straight, Andalon rocked her head forward and back, pursing her lips and kicking her legs.

“I shoulda figured out how to make the wyrmeh not breathe the green stuffs that makes people sick.”

Oh God…

At that point, I couldn’t take it anymore. I lowered my head, made the Bond-sign, and, closing my eyes, I prayed.

“Holy Angel,” I said, softly, “please, forgive me.” I bit my lip. “For I am a sinner.”

If Ibrahim’s words had broken my heart, well, Andalon’s apology went and broke it all over again. For once, she’d followed my instructions to the letter, waiting in the not-here-place, even as my pain had bled into her and become her own. Even now, I could make out nebulous hints of green spores shining beneath the hallway’s dim lights.

Spores.

They spread the fungus. They spread the Green Death.

“It’s just like you said before,” I reminded her, “it’s the fungus fighting back against you. Maybe that’s its way of getting revenge for your meddling.”

Andalon shook her hands fretfully and then shuddered. “But it’s so bad, Mr. Genneth. If the wyrmeh make everybody sick, they won’t be able to save them. I won’t be able to help anybody—not even me!—if everyone goes away before I can do anything to help them! And… and now… because I’m sad, you’re sad” she whimpered, “and it’s making things hard for you.”

“It’s not your fault, Andalon.”

It was only after the words had left my lips that I realized the irony of my hypocrisy.

“No! No!”

To my surprise, Andalon shook her head vehemently.

She balled her hands into fists. “Don’t say that! It’s not true!” She started to cry. “Andalon hates those words! It’s my fault! I shoulda done better for you, Mr. Genneth, because…” her lips trembled, “because you’re Mr. Genneth! You—you—”

Turning to face me, Andalon leaned forward and cried into me, and I embraced her. Just like before, it was like hugging a block of ice. But despite the cold, it warmed my heart.

At least I wasn’t so much of a failure that I couldn’t console this one, sad little girl.

Eventually, she let go. She was still sniffling—her pale face puffy with leftover tears—but she’d definitely calmed down.

“Mr. Genneth, how do you make the bad feelings go away? What does Andalon need to do?”

I smiled softly and sighed. Seeing another person’s pain had a way of making you forget your own, if only for a short while.

“Well… I find it works best to find something constructive to do.”

“Kun-struc-tiv?” she asked, haltingly sounding out the syllables.

I nodded. “It means you try your best to make things better, even if you can’t make them the exact kind of better you wanted them to be.”

“And that will make the bad feels and the stress go away?”

“No,” I said. I didn’t want to lie to her. “But, at least it might give you something to smile about. And those smiles are precious. They help keep you moving forward.”

“I…” she paused. “I’ll try.” She nodded earnestly. “Andalon wants to smile.”

“So,” a melodious voice said, intruding on our moment, “I’m just gonna say that was really touching.”

It was Greg. He stared at me with his golden eye, only occasionally blinking.

“I have no clue who you were talking with,” he said. “One of your ghosts, maybe? Well, whatever it was, it was touching. I’d give you a gold star, if I had one, but I don’t, so I can’t. ”

“I…” I didn’t know how to respond. “Uh…”

“Dude,” Greg said, cocking his distended, half-snout head to the side, “we all talk to our ghosts. No one’s got any idea why we’re talking to dead people.” He nodded. “My best guess is that it’s just a snake-thing. ”

“Wyrm thing,” I corrected him.

Greg craned his neck back. “With a Y?”

“Yeah,” I said, flatly.

“Sweeeet.” The sound came out of him like a bassoon note.

The IT guy—well, half-wyrm—shook his head and then stuck out his arms, bearing his palms.

“If it helps,” he said, “try to imagine stuffing them into a fridge.”

“What?” I blinked confusedly.

“The ghosts. Just fridge ‘em. That’ll quiet ‘em down real fast. Just make sure you close the door behind them.”

“Th-thanks?” I said. “I guess?”

I noticed the tip of Greg’s tail twitched every couple of seconds. Actually, he fidgeted around quite a bit. Sometimes he slid his coils against one another, like he was adjusting his seat. It was definitely unnerving, though as unnerving as that was, the inner glow from that golden of his was far worse, especially with how it was fixed on me.

“Also,” Greg added, “the ghosts tend to appear a helluva lot more readily when you’re thinking about them—consciously or not. In my experience, Just thinking about someone similar to one of your ghosts might be enough to trigger a visitation. So, yeah, it helps to keep your mind from wandering too much.”

So, great, I’m doomed.

“Anywho…” Greg said, with a fermata on the oo, “if you don’t mind me prying all prysomely, while you were monologuing at Doodle-guy, I heard something about having trouble with your implant chip?”

Sighing, I shook my head. “Of course you heard that.”

“IT guys hear lots of stuff.” He uncoiled himself slightly, enough to extend his head, neck, and torso toward me. “So… what happened to the old one?”

“Weren’t you eavesdropping?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. I’ve set my body to notify me if it hears certain keywords. Otherwise, I focus my attention on my work.”

Andalon rocked side to side excitedly. “Andalon likes Mr. Greggy.”

Of course she did.

I sighed.

“Keywords?” I asked.

“Yes. I’ve set up an algorithm—basically, a more handsome version of myself—to run my body while I’m working. You mentioned your chip, that triggered an attention protocol, and then you went and talked about it being damaged or otherwise malfunctioning in some way.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“I don’t follow, but, go on,” I said.

“Malfunctioning technology disturbs the Wa. As an IT-guy, it is my duty to repair the Wa. Such is the way of things.” He pressed his claw-hands together and bowed his head.

The Wa was a Munine cultural concept best translated as “harmony”—social harmony, in particular. If we viewed society as being like a river, then the Wa would be the river’s flow—its momentum. Just as the river was bound to flow where it would flow, society was bound to preserve and advance the Wa. The Wa was disturbed when individuals (or other nefarious forces) bent the Wa toward fulfillment of their personal desires.

In modern Mu, the emphasis on preserving the Wa meant that your family, friends, and coworkers had a responsibility to bend you back in line when you disturbed the Wa. This was typically accomplished via discreet social maneuvering: off-hand suggestions, unsigned notes, getting denied the promotion to office manager, etc. These were modern innovations, however. Historically, the penalty for disturbing the Wa was death.

I nodded. “I can imagine tech problems would disturb the Wa.”

“You have no idea.” Greg rolled his golden eye. “Ordinarily, if your equipment is busted, I’d tell you to go through purchasing, but that would be problematic for you, what with the wyrm-transformation and all.” He twisted his head to the side. “Also, I’m pretty sure everyone in purchasing is dead by now.”

Now he was starting to worry me.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “You seem…—”

“—Unhinged?” he suggested. “Nah,” he flicked his claws dismissively. “I just stopped giving a fuck.” He waved his claws. “All of the fucks are gone, and it is great. I’ve really been letting myself loose. Now,” he made a wriggling pyramid with his claws, “where’s that faulty chip of yours? Daddy wants to take a look.”

I had Andalon’s full attention as I carefully rummaged through my coat-pocket with my left hand. Once I found the chip, I pinched it between two fingers, as gently as I could, and then dropped it onto my outstretched palm.

I jerked back as a blue and gold pataphysical tendril curled around my chip and floated it over to Greg.

Andalon watched in wonder as the microchip gyrated in place.

“What were you hoping to do with this?” Greg asked.

“Nothing new,” I said. “All I want is to keep using it like I always have. It’s got all of my permissions and access codes, the keys to my car…”

“Uh-huh.” Greg nodded. “And this matters because…?”

I closed my eyes and exhaled. “Because I’m going to go crazy if I can’t do my job anymore. It’s… it’s all I have left.”

“If that’s the case, you’re gonna want to do something about the whole spore breath thing.”

“Yeah,” I groaned, “I know.”

Greg curled toward me. “Well… why not do what Duncan III did in the Darkpox of ’43: get yourself one of those big biohazard suits.”

277th Lassedite.

“Angel take me,” I muttered softly, “that might actually work.” But then I tilted my head back and groaned. “But where would I get one?”

Turning his forepart, Greg pointed down a nearby hallway. “There was a dead guy back there. Probably died there sometime yesterday; he was here before us.”

“Was?” I asked. “What happened to him?”

Greg turned his snout back to face me. “I ate him. Very tasty. Would—“

My eyes went wide. “—You did what!?”

The IT-guy-wyrm shrugged. “He was dead. I was hungry—and everyone else was too skittish to try eating him.” Greg pouted at me. “Don’t judge me. I know what it’s like to live from paycheck to paycheck. Only asshats waste good food. I do have one regret, though: that I didn’t have a lemon wedge. He’d have gone great with lemon.” He blinked. “Ooh, or freshly sliced ginger root. Very piquant.”

I blanched.

“Anyhow,” Greg continued, “the guy had been wearing one of those hazmat suits when he kicked the bucket. I carefully peeled it and his clothes off him before I ate him.”

Andalon and I both stared.

“What?” Greg quipped, “I don’t like wasting perfectly good supplies.”

I gulped.

“So,” he flicked his claws at me, “about your chip.”

My chip was still floating in place in between the two of us, his weave undulating like a psychedelic snowflake.

“I think I can finagle a work-around for you,” he said, “but… it’ll cost you.”

“H-How much?” I asked.

I had a bad feeling about this.

Greg laughed—a staccato sound. It reminded me of someone playing a double bass with the wood of the bow.

“Bruh,” Greg said, “the world is ending. What use does money have?” He laughed again “Wait, let me guess: next, you’re gonna tell me you’ve got some gold you want to sell me?”

“Well, what do you want?” I asked.

Greg raised a single claw. “First, I need you to answer a question for me.”

“Yes?” I asked.

“Name some video games you’ve played in the last five years; preferably played and beaten—ideally with a completion rate at or above 85%, if applicable.”

“How is that relevant?” I asked.

Greg narrowed his eyes. “Do you want your chip situation resolved or not?”

Now it was my turn to narrow my eyes. “Are… are you going to judge me?”

Greg flicked his claws dismissively. “Nah, you seem plenty miserable as-is.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Just tell me already,” Greg demanded.

“Fine.” I sighed. I recited the games from memory. “Vaults of Moránn; Vaults of Moránn II - Lichsphere; Catamander Brave - Knights Beyond Night; The Crystal Bells IV - Blightrise; Time Sea III; Super Gerbil World—”

“—SGW is amazing,” Greg said. He nodded approvingly. “Great, you’ll be perfect."

“What are jer-bills?” Andalon asked.

“Perfect? Perfect for what?”

“I need to know you have good tastes,” he said, “which you clearly do.”

“I’ll tell you later,” I said, glancing at Andalon. I then turned back to Greg and shook my head. “I still don’t understand.”

“Oh, you will.” Greg shifted his coils. “Alright, I’m going to fix your chip problem now, but… you have to agree to volunteer to help test out the project I’ve been working on—and don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.” He nodded. “Once I’m done with your chip, you’re gonna grab my claw and I’m gonna grab your claw—and you’re going to sit there calmly, and you gotta to promise not to scream or run.”

“Okay, but I have a question.”

“Sure,” he said. “Shoot.”

“Why me?”

“Until a couple of days ago,” Greg grumbled, “my job was to keep the IT systems operating smoothly. That’s what they paid me for, but they had me doing so much more. Any time anything went wrong—the plumbing, some issue with the billings department, guiding Director Hobwell through traffic during rush hour—any time something happened, everyone expected me to hop to it and fix it for them like I was some kind of two-bit handyman, and they showed about as much gratitude toward me as an unwiped ass.” He paused. “On the other claw, you don’t seem like a dick, and you’re aware of modern trends in RPGs—an ideal combination. So,” he added, “do we have a deal?”

“I—I guess.”

Greg smiled, which was pretty creepy, given that nearly all of his teeth were gone. Without another word, the IT-wyrm turned his head toward the reception desk. Andalon and I marveled as psychokinetic threads flowed out from him and infiltrated one of the consoles on top of the desk. The pataphysics disassembled it like a hundred working elves (they’d graduated from doing shoemakers’ work). Screws unscrewed themselves and floated up into the air, held aloft by the blue and gold.

Suisei’s claim that my “plexus” terminology was “silly” had dispirited me much more than I could have expected.

The console’s plastic outer casing followed behind them. The weave seemed like a living thing. Darting forward, it tore off a small piece of metal from the console’s exposed circuitry, and then floated the piece over to my chip which had been levitating in place the whole time.

Andalon tugged at my arm while we watched.

“Mr. Genneth,” she muttered, “if you told the others about Andalon, maybe I’ll be able to figure things out supah-fast.”

I don’t know how they’ll react, Andalon. Would they even believe me? I mean, what proof do I have?

“Uh… you can tell them the stuffs Andalon has told you,” she said.

It doesn’t work like that, Andalon.

“But I wanna talk to them!” She pouted. “I’ve got lotsa questions to ask!”

Greg must have noticed my divided attention, because he let out a click of what I hoped was his tongue. “Lookie here,” he said. “This is the cool part.”

Through the quasi-translucent pataphysical light-filaments of light, I could see the little piece trembling in place. Its edges started to blur. It took a second for me to realize that they weren’t blurring. No: they were quivering. They were vibrating, flexing back and forth in a thousand miniature motions.

The metal glowed. First red-hot, then white, then it dripped and then oozed and then finally flowed free as it melted into liquid. The weave squeezed the white-hot fluid into a perfect sphere.

“Unbutton the cufflink on the sleeve of your favored arm,” Greg said, “then take off your coat and lay it out on the floor.”

I did that, and as soon as I had—bearing my filthy, sweat stained undershirt to all who looked—Greg’s sphere of soldering metal descended onto the in-fold of the cufflink on the right-hand sleeve. Greg’s powers flattened the sphere into a thin, viscous strip, which then pressed onto the fabric. With a flick of claw, my chip hovered over to the strip and settled comfortably on top of it right before a final psychokinesis strand reached out and pleated my cufflink back over itself. The molten metal started to burn the fabric, wafting up plumes of smoke, but a mat of glistening blue and gold flattened my coat-sleeve like a hydraulic press, and—in an instant—the metal ceased to glow. The feeling of its heat gave way to a burst of sudden cold. The smoke stopped.

“There,” Greg said. “Done.”

Andalon applauded.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“Friction,” Greg answered. “I’ve got lots of hobbies, one of which is metalworking. So… I know a thing or two about soldering. There’s a tit-for-tat relationship between heat and malleability. The hotter a chunk of metal is, the more malleable it gets, and vice-versa.”

See, Andalon? I’m not the only person here who likes to geek out over his hobbies and interests.

“Wha?”

It didn’t matter that she didn’t understand. I felt better for having said it—though not by much.

Greg continued his explanation: “Metals are composed of really small grains of crystal. In traditional swordsmithing techniques, the metal gets layered in such a way that those crystal grains end up forming beautiful rippling patterns in response to the changing temperature differential. What matters here, though, is that those tiny grains scrape against one another whenever you bend a piece of metal.” He rubbed his claws together. “That creates a lot of friction, and friction creates heat—that’s why metal gets so damn hot when you bend it. So,” Greg twirled a claw, “if I make a whole bunch of itty-bitty bends in the metal, I can make it hot enough for it to melt.”

“Andalon does not know what that means,” she nodded, “but it sounds supah cool!”

It was something I could try out later, preferably somewhere that I couldn’t end up burning to the ground.

“Was it hard to figure out?” I asked.

“Eh,” Greg waved his hand dismissively, “it’s no big deal. You’ll figure it out soon enough, or someone else—maybe Suisei—will be able to explain it better than I ever could.”

Once again, he uncoiled slightly, this time to reach down and pick up my coat, which he tossed at me.

I fumbled, but I managed to catch it.

“Go on, put it on,” he said. “It’s safe.”

I did so, hesitantly. And Greg was right, it wasn’t hot at all.

“There,” he said, “I soldered the chip to your sleeve. Just scan the cufflink, and everything should work like normal.”

“I… I can’t believe it,” I said. I looked him in the eye. “Thank you for this.”

“No problem. Now…” Greg curled around me, “as for our arrangement…”

“Yeah?”

“Stick out your hand,” he said. “The more mutated one.”

And I did, though not without some trepidation. Immediately, Greg lurched forward and clasped my claw-hand with his own, and squeezed. My hand tingled as innumerable worm-like filaments wriggled out from where my flesh touched his, and vice-versa. Our threads poked holes in one another. Our wyrm flesh swelled like an oak gall around the point of contact.

I tried to jerk my hand free, but we were linked—our flesh knotted together.

I screamed.

“I told you not to scr—”

—But Greg’s polyphonic voice was cut off as everything faded to black.