“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME!?” Mr. Squeam bawled.

Norman squinted. “What?”

“I THOUGHT THIS WORLD WAS ABANDONED!” sobbed Mr. Squeam. “I thought they … HE was gone! Why didn’t you tell me!?”

Blinking in surprise, Norman’s lips parted as he, for the first time, was briefly taken aback. “I didn’t know you knew. Didn’t think you’d care …”

“HOW WOULD YOU KNOW!?” Mr. Squeam spat. “I’VE-! … I’ve done terrible things …”

Norman sighed. “If you knew they were terrible, why’d you do them?”

Mr. Squeam avoided his gaze, fists clenched ‘til the knuckles whitened. “I didn’t think it mattered anymore …”

Norman placed a hand on the landlord’s shoulder. His tone softened.

“Hey, it’s not too late-”

ShLuNk!

"̶̗̣̾̀͊̎̀͘͠Yes it is!"̸̣̼͎̣̲͖͛͌͜ John Crow chirped.

Norman acted almost instantly. For Mr. Squeam, it felt like slow motion. He didn’t have to look. He already knew the keychain was in deep. Norman’s aerosol yanked it out, filling the wound with biomass, but Mr. Squeam could sense it.

That keychain had sucked out something important.

His vision blurred as the world tilted. Dimly aware as he crashed to the ground, he saw Norman whirl to face John Crow. The towering nyctal was already upon the boy. With a sweeping blow between a slash and slap, John Crow sent him flying towards the the wall that Amy had torn through. The flesh parted to allow Norman’s exit. Tendrils of aerosol shot out from his armour, anchoring him between the hole.

John Crow surged forth with ravenous speed. In a blink, he was before Norman. His leg shot out. A thundercracking kick.

Norman’s tendrils snapped and out he flew, into the night. The hole sealed behind him.

Mr. Squeam briefly blacked out. A flickering excuse for consciousness returned and he saw John Crow was standing over him stock-still, watching, grinning. The towering nyctal even giggled. At this stage, Mr. Squeam understood John Crow well enough.

He was there to watch him die.

It fascinated John Crow to no end, how a person could be there one second, gone forever the next. What a strange, funny world he lived in, where lives could be taken as easily as anything.

He checked his sensors. He’d made good distance from Amy and her scattered units. The building knew where to go, with minimal input. Amy had eased off. She seemed to sense that Norman was out there, caught in the brainfly storm. John Crow had a little time for this. Norman would be dying at the moment. Too bad he couldn’t witness it as well. Mr. Squeam’s demise would have to do for now.

John Crow’s dreadlocks descended to taste those oh so delicious final thoughts. With the A.M.E.’s power, he could perceive such a thing like never before.

On the way to Mr. Squeam’s skull, one of his tentacles slid through something.

I͓̽c͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽r͓̽e͓̽v͓̽u͓̽l͓̽s͓̽i͓̽o͓̽n͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽p͓̽i͓̽k͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽r͓̽o͓̽u͓̽g͓̽h͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽g͓̽u͓̽t͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽H͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽c͓̽h͓̽o͓̽k͓̽e͓̽d͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽c͓̽o͓̽u͓̽g͓̽h͓̽e͓̽d͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽l͓̽m͓̽o͓̽s͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽r͓̽e͓̽w͓̽ ͓̽u͓̽p͓̽.͓̽

͓̽W͓̽H͓̽A͓̽T͓̽ ͓̽W͓̽A͓̽S͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽H͓̽A͓̽T͓̽!͓̽?͓̽

͓̽A͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽i͓̽n͓̽d͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽A͓̽n͓̽ ͓̽u͓̽n͓̽s͓̽p͓̽e͓̽a͓̽k͓̽a͓̽b͓̽l͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽i͓̽n͓̽d͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽A͓̽n͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽t͓̽t͓̽e͓̽m͓̽p͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽e͓̽s͓̽c͓̽r͓̽i͓̽b͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽f͓̽e͓̽l͓̽l͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽h͓̽o͓̽r͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽r͓̽r͓̽e͓̽d͓̽e͓̽e͓̽m͓̽a͓̽b͓̽l͓̽y͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽A͓̽l͓̽i͓̽e͓̽n͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽I͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽a͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽u͓̽n͓̽l͓̽i͓̽k͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽n͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽i͓̽n͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽e͓̽’͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽e͓̽v͓̽e͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽o͓̽u͓̽c͓̽h͓̽e͓̽d͓̽.͓̽

͓̽Y͓̽e͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽r͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽a͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽n͓̽o͓̽t͓̽h͓̽i͓̽n͓̽g͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽e͓̽e͓̽n͓̽.͓̽

͓̽H͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽p͓̽r͓̽e͓̽a͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽r͓̽e͓̽a͓̽d͓̽l͓̽o͓̽c͓̽k͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽e͓̽n͓̽t͓̽a͓̽c͓̽l͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽r͓̽o͓̽u͓̽g͓̽h͓̽o͓̽u͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽r͓̽o͓̽o͓̽m͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽e͓̽r͓̽e͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽f͓̽t͓̽e͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽l͓̽l͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽o͓̽s͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽e͓̽n͓̽s͓̽i͓̽t͓̽i͓̽v͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽p͓̽a͓̽r͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽o͓̽f͓̽ ͓̽D͓̽r͓̽e͓̽a͓̽d͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽O͓̽n͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽i͓̽g͓̽n͓̽a͓̽t͓̽u͓̽r͓̽e͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽r͓̽e͓̽e͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽E͓̽l͓̽e͓̽v͓̽e͓̽n͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽D͓̽o͓̽z͓̽e͓̽n͓̽s͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽H͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽r͓̽e͓̽a͓̽d͓̽l͓̽o͓̽c͓̽k͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽r͓̽a͓̽c͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽i͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽f͓̽o͓̽r͓̽m͓̽s͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽L͓̽i͓̽k͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽h͓̽o͓̽c͓̽k͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽D͓̽r͓̽e͓̽a͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽r͓̽e͓̽c͓̽o͓̽i͓̽l͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽t͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽e͓̽n͓̽t͓̽a͓̽c͓̽l͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽e͓̽f͓̽o͓̽r͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽c͓̽o͓̽u͓̽l͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽i͓̽n͓̽k͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽a͓̽m͓̽e͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽c͓̽l͓̽u͓̽n͓̽g͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽k͓̽u͓̽l͓̽l͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽’͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽p͓̽h͓̽a͓̽s͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽n͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽f͓̽o͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽r͓̽e͓̽f͓̽u͓̽g͓̽e͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽f͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽c͓̽o͓̽u͓̽l͓̽d͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽J͓̽o͓̽h͓̽n͓̽ ͓̽C͓̽r͓̽o͓̽w͓̽ ͓̽f͓̽e͓̽l͓̽l͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽k͓̽n͓̽e͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽n͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽r͓̽e͓̽t͓̽c͓̽h͓̽e͓̽d͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽D͓̽e͓̽e͓̽p͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽n͓̽s͓̽t͓̽i͓̽n͓̽c͓̽t͓̽u͓̽a͓̽l͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽e͓̽r͓̽r͓̽o͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽w͓̽i͓̽s͓̽t͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽g͓̽u͓̽t͓̽s͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽H͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽f͓̽e͓̽a͓̽r͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽n͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽n͓̽y͓̽c͓̽t͓̽a͓̽l͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽u͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽o͓̽s͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽i͓̽n͓̽g͓̽s͓̽?͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽C͓̽a͓̽l͓̽l͓̽i͓̽n͓̽g͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽m͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽d͓̽e͓̽o͓̽u͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽o͓̽u͓̽l͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽e͓̽r͓̽c͓̽y͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽C͓̽a͓̽l͓̽l͓̽i͓̽n͓̽g͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽f͓̽e͓̽a͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽o͓̽u͓̽l͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽o͓̽c͓̽k͓̽e͓̽r͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽o͓̽f͓̽ ͓̽c͓̽o͓̽n͓̽c͓̽e͓̽p͓̽t͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽e͓̽e͓̽p͓̽e͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽a͓̽n͓̽ ͓̽e͓̽a͓̽r͓̽t͓̽h͓̽l͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽e͓̽r͓̽r͓̽o͓̽r͓̽s͓̽.͓̽

͓̽T͓̽h͓̽o͓̽u͓̽g͓̽h͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽e͓̽n͓̽t͓̽a͓̽c͓̽l͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽i͓̽t͓̽h͓̽d͓̽r͓̽e͓̽w͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽i͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽o͓̽u͓̽t͓̽l͓̽i͓̽n͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽r͓̽e͓̽m͓̽a͓̽i͓̽n͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽u͓̽r͓̽n͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽n͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽i͓̽n͓̽d͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽H͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽k͓̽n͓̽e͓̽w͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽h͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽e͓̽r͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽r͓̽e͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽e͓̽c͓̽a͓̽u͓̽s͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽l͓̽e͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽m͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽e͓̽r͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽r͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽f͓̽o͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽a͓̽m͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽r͓̽e͓̽a͓̽s͓̽o͓̽n͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽a͓̽s͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽n͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽o͓̽r͓̽e͓̽:͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽a͓̽t͓̽c͓̽h͓̽ ͓̽M͓̽r͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽S͓̽q͓̽u͓̽e͓̽a͓̽m͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽i͓̽e͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽l͓̽a͓̽u͓̽g͓̽h͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽a͓̽r͓̽v͓̽e͓̽s͓̽t͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽H͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽q͓̽u͓̽e͓̽e͓̽z͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽e͓̽y͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽h͓̽u͓̽t͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽u͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽c͓̽o͓̽u͓̽l͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽t͓̽i͓̽l͓̽l͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽e͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽m͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽n͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽o͓̽s͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽m͓̽a͓̽g͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽e͓̽a͓̽r͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽n͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽i͓̽n͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽i͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽o͓̽m͓̽e͓̽t͓̽h͓̽i͓̽n͓̽g͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽t͓̽r͓̽a͓̽n͓̽g͓̽e͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽i͓̽d͓̽n͓̽’͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽o͓̽v͓̽e͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽a͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽n͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽i͓̽s͓̽c͓̽e͓̽r͓̽n͓̽i͓̽b͓̽l͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽f͓̽a͓̽c͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽p͓̽e͓̽a͓̽k͓̽ ͓̽o͓̽f͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽n͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽y͓̽e͓̽t͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽u͓̽r͓̽n͓̽e͓̽d͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽l͓̽o͓̽o͓̽k͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽m͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽g͓̽r͓̽i͓̽n͓̽n͓̽e͓̽d͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽i͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽e͓̽e͓̽t͓̽h͓̽ ͓̽l͓̽i͓̽k͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽n͓̽e͓̽e͓̽d͓̽l͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽g͓̽a͓̽i͓̽n͓̽s͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽r͓̽a͓̽i͓̽n͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽i͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽n͓̽t͓̽e͓̽n͓̽t͓̽i͓̽o͓̽n͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽s͓̽l͓̽i͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽r͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽r͓̽o͓̽u͓̽n͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽l͓̽l͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽e͓̽n͓̽t͓̽a͓̽l͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽e͓̽f͓̽e͓̽n͓̽s͓̽e͓̽s͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽p͓̽r͓̽e͓̽s͓̽s͓̽i͓̽n͓̽g͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽n͓̽t͓̽o͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽i͓̽n͓̽d͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽ ͓̽O͓̽n͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽a͓̽y͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽o͓̽u͓̽l͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽c͓̽o͓̽m͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽f͓̽o͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽m͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽a͓̽t͓̽c͓̽h͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽m͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽i͓̽e͓̽.͓̽

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͓̽H͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽o͓̽u͓̽l͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽i͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽a͓̽r͓̽v͓̽e͓̽s͓̽t͓̽.͓̽

͓̽M͓̽r͓̽.͓̽ ͓̽S͓̽q͓̽u͓̽e͓̽a͓̽m͓̽ ͓̽m͓̽u͓̽m͓̽b͓̽l͓̽e͓̽d͓̽ ͓̽u͓̽n͓̽d͓̽e͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽h͓̽i͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽b͓̽r͓̽e͓̽a͓̽t͓̽h͓̽.͓̽

͓̽T͓̽h͓̽e͓̽ ͓̽e͓̽n͓̽t͓̽i͓̽t͓̽i͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽d͓̽e͓̽p͓̽a͓̽r͓̽t͓̽e͓̽d͓̽,͓̽ ͓̽a͓̽s͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽o͓̽u͓̽g͓̽h͓̽ ͓̽t͓̽h͓̽e͓̽y͓̽ ͓̽n͓̽e͓̽v͓̽e͓̽r͓̽ ͓̽w͓̽e͓̽r͓̽e͓̽.͓̽ They just … moved in a direction that shouldn’t exist, and then they were gone.

… John Crow wasn’t sure how he knew that.

He massaged his brow. What was the world coming to? Couldn’t he take a life in peace anymore?

“Mr. … Crow …” muttered Mr. Squeam, smiling soberly.

John Crow frowned down at him. Maybe Mr. Squeam was growing delirious. He seemed to look up and beyond John Crow, borderline ignoring him, though he continued to speak.

“… You cannot take … what you cannot own … Mr. Crow,” grinned Mr. Squeam.

Dread screeched louder than ever. John Crow froze. Norman’s triple signature was in Mr. Squeam’s head!

John Crow stomped fast, hard and frantic, as one would squish a centipede. It was overkill, he knew, but whatever it took to stop whatever this was, he would implement it liberally. Staring down at the silenced landlord, he smoothed back Dread’s locks, soothing himself and the A.M.E.

"̶̳̟͓̍̌̈́͊́Ugh, how annoying,"̶͎͎͎̍ John Crow muttered as he walked away.

~~~

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!

Brainflies. Everywhere. Their din was deafening. Norman could scarcely tell up from down, but he knew he was falling, somewhat. The brainflies buffeted him this way and that, so falling was a slow, chaotic affair. Dread’s aerosol shield was like a pitch-black river, inhabited only by piranhas of the air. They tore at his aerosol: what little he’d managed to take with him. His armour disintegrated as they feasted on the mental energy cohering it. He could feel them nibbling the edges of his mind.

The great, bulbous eye of the building sped past him, impassively watching his descent. Okay. Now he knew which way was up. He had to-

Wait, what was his plan again? Oh, right, he could-

Aaand the thought was gone.

With those parasites gnawing at his thoughts, it was hard to come up with a coherent idea.

Man, this was annoying.

( ( POOM! ) )

The edges of an atmospheric blast hit him. It felt like it came from below. Suddenly, his mind cleared, and so did the air. He had fallen through the threshold of Dread and the brainflies. Something had dispersed them beneath him, creating a safe zone for him to fall through. Well, that could only mean one thing. He could already see the rosy glow coming in hot.

“Amy,” Norman grinned.

Her avatar snatched him from the air. “Gotcha, Normie!”

The eyescraper’s tentacle plowed after them. Its atmospheric disruption nearly ripped him from her grip, but it missed. Barely. More precisely, she was too swift.

Brutal G-force yanked at Norman as Amy zoomed away at blinding speed, drawn by a bungee cord attached to her main biomass. To Norman, it felt like somewhere between 7G and 8G: just enough acceleration to get him out of there, fast, without messing up his system.

Perhaps that wasn’t fast enough.

As the eyescraper rapidly receded to the backdrop, some of Amy’s many sensors caught its tentacle curling, prepped for a dim stream. She reached back to forge a shield from the pocket of aerosol she’d brought along. So far, blocking something like this had proven impractical, but- Wait, why did Norman reach back alongside her? As the shield bubble manifested, his fingers went to work as though dancing on an invisible keyboard. The bubble’s configuration grew 3x stronger.

… Did he just backseat-drive her body!?

There was no time to think about that. The dim stream raged from the distance. It seemed to slow as it reached them, thanks to their acceleration away from it.

It reached them all the same.

Burning, putrid gasses engulfed them. The turbulence was vicious, like an earthquake of the air. Thanks to their speed, it didn’t hit as hard as it could, but what good was that? Intellectually, Amy knew her bubble stood little chance. She didn’t care. She threw every ounce of willpower into holding it firm.

She gasped as a supernova of will flared beside her.

Amy glanced at Norman, his arm still extended beside hers. Sweat poured from his forehead, cast to the air by inertial drag. His teeth were gnashed. His gaze was iron. Their indomitable wills intertwined. The shield couldn’t hold, but it did, because they made it so. Amy always assumed, but seeing it was a whole different story: Norman’s mental fortitude was as strong as hers. No, stronger. More polished. She felt like a bush cutlass witnessing a royal knight’s sword.

And he was only human.

She’d asked herself many times, found answers that only begged for more. Yet again, the question burnt in her heart.

Who was Norman? A city full of mysteries and she dated the biggest of them all!

Amy’s avatar plunged into her main biomass like a fish to water. The dim stream receded around them, forced to dissipate. She made a face. Those concentrated blasts sure tasted awful.

Perching on a nice, big balcony, Amy set Norman down. Her hair tendrils sniffed him all over, looking for injuries. She smelt iron. One tendril stopped at drops of red on his lip. She shuddered, looking up at him in question. Internal injury? Was he gonna be okay? His mental aura showed no fear. It mirrored her concern, directing it back at her. Somehow, he was both more concerned yet calmer and firmer about it. Unlike her, he wasn’t shaking.

And he was only human.

Technically, she didn’t have to fear for him, but artificially manufactured empathy was tricky. She couldn’t pull it off and steady herself at the same time. Not without-

Wait, what was he doing with her hair?

He’d taken a lock and a- attached it to his head?!? Didn’t he know that she ate minds with those things?? Maybe he trusted her self-control, or perhaps her self-control didn’t matter. His eyes were closed as he focused …

…

She felt the A.M.E. respond to him. Inscrutable things passed back and forth through the tendril. Was he talking to it? This felt more interrogation than conversation. He asked, and it answered. There was no room for debate. She took a moment to digest that revelation. The A.M.E. answered to Norman?

And he was only human.

He opened his eyes. They spoke in unison.

“Are you okay? You go first.”

“Are you okay? You go first.”

Norman started gesturing her to go on, but her tentacle beat him to it.

“Physically, we’re in the same boat,” Norman assessed. “I’d say my body’s no worse off than your biomass.”

“Oh …” Amy grunted, eyes downcast. “That’s not great. Sorry.”

“Why?” he asked.

She sighed. “There’re a billion things I could have done better tonight. I could have shut this down before it escalated. Getting mind-slurped by an A.M.E. is a fate I’d wish on no one, but … I can’t help wondering how things would play out if someone better were in my shoes. Someone like … like you.”

At the side of her eye, Amy couldn’t help studying his face. He looked almost ashamed, as though it all fell on his shoulders.

She was dead on, wasn’t she?

He sighed. “You’re right. It’s on me. This isn’t your fight, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

His eyes mellowed as he lifted her chin so that their gazes met. “Amy, whatever you do, I’m here for you. I know you’re just a little lonely, as I stand right next you, lightyears away merely. I wish I should just take the wheel and sail your seas, but you’re enough for you, more than enough, more than enough for me.”

She pounced into him. Arms, tentacles and all cocooned him in a snug hug, as though she were afraid that he’d vanish if she ever let go. Her embrace ran the risk of absorbing him, if the A.M.E. got any ideas. And yet, she didn’t. Couldn’t. No more than a tsunami could dissolve a granite pebble. It didn’t matter how small the stone. The tsunami never had a chance.

He reached straight through her tentacles, as though they were nothing but cobweb, and hugged her back. It took her off guard, but she welcomed it. He wasn’t supposed to be able to move when she hugged him like this, but he did anyway.

And he was only human.