Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Drip… Drip… Drip.

The steady patter of rain echoed through the abandoned warehouse, each drop lulling me deeper into the haze of exhaustion. A faint light struggled through the cracks in the concrete, barely cutting through the darkness. My gaze drifted to the empty vial lying on the filthy floor before me, a smear of pink liquid bleeding into the grime.

I wanted to move. I wanted to do something—anything—but the weight of helplessness pressed down on me like a vice. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t even know who I was. All I knew was that I had woken up alone in this freezing, miserable place, my body aching, my stomach hollow, and my mind filled with fear.

A droplet splattered against my cheek, snapping me from my trance. I inhaled sharply and forced myself to sit up, my limbs stiff from the cold. I shivered violently, my breath coming out in uneven puffs. For a moment, I thought I might be naked—the cold seeped so deeply into my bones that I could barely feel my own skin. Panic surged through me as I frantically ran my hands over my body, searching for any sign of who I was. My fingers met fabric, and I exhaled in relief. I was wearing a baggy, maroon cardigan, dirty pants, and boots stained with something I didn’t want to think about. Blinking against the dim light, I scanned my surroundings more closely. Rows of old shipping crates and rusted equipment stood out the most to me, dust coating everything in sight.

Digging into my pants, I felt something thick and crumpled. Cash. A decent wad of it. My heart pounded with equal parts relief and confusion. Then, just as quickly as that relief came, it was replaced with something colder—something more dangerous. A weight. Pressed against the back of my jeans.

Metal.

I swallowed hard, my fingers moving slowly, cautiously. I reached behind me and pulled it free, my breath hitching as the dim light caught on its sleek, deadly frame.

A gun.

A revolver, to be exact.

And I had no idea why it was there.

The grip was rough, aged by time and use. With a flick of my wrist, the cylinder popped open, revealing four rounds nestled inside—.357 Magnum. The knowledge came instinctively, like a buried memory surfacing for just a second before slipping away again.

I blinked, staring at the weapon in my hands, a storm of questions pounding in my skull. How did I know how to check the ammo? Why was I carrying a gun?

I let out a slow breath, forcing down the unease curling in my gut. At least my brain wasn’t completely fried. Small victories, I guess. Carefully, I set the revolver down on the cold concrete floor, my movements slow and deliberate—like I was afraid it might suddenly go off on its own. Then, turning my attention to the cash I’d found earlier, I thumbed through the bills.

$234

So, apparently, that was my net worth. Not great, but better than nothing. I sighed, a flicker of relief washing over me. At least I wouldn’t have to mug anyone… yet.

But none of this—the gun, the money, the godforsaken warehouse—answered the real question: What the hell happened to me?

Was I drugged?
Knocked out?
Kidnapped?

No, that last one didn’t make sense. No one in their right mind gives a hostage a loaded weapon. Whatever went down, I’d have to figure it out eventually. But that would have to wait. Because right now, there was a much bigger problem.

I was hungry as fuck.

—————————————————————————

Hunger gnawed at my stomach like a living thing, bad enough that I finally forced myself to step outside the warehouse. The rain had dwindled to a weak drizzle, but the cold still clung to me. Wrapping my arms around myself for warmth, I stepped onto the cracked, uneven sidewalk.

I needed to find a convenience store or something—anything that sold food. But the deeper I went, the worse the neighborhood looked. This whole block screamed "you’re about to get stabbed", and my gut was screaming right back, urging me to turn around and wait until morning. But I’d already made it this far, and stubbornness kept my feet moving forward.

I kept thinking on what was next after I found something to eat. Do I go to the authorities? Maybe they could tell me who I was. Or maybe they’d just throw me in a cell. I had a loaded gun on me and no good explanation for it. I could just dump it, but what if I was already in the system? What if they had my fingerprints, my face, my name tied to something I couldn’t remember? The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I had no memory of committing a crime. But did that matter? If I had done something—if I had hurt someone—should I be willing to pay for it, even if I didn’t remember?

I knew morally what the right answer was but …it was all so unfair.

Just as I was beginning to wonder if this city was completely deserted, I turned a corner and stopped dead in my tracks.

A group of guys stood in the street ahead, clustered under the flickering glow of a busted streetlight. Red and green colors stood out on their jackets and armbands. Gangers.

I squinted my eyes at them, was this an Asian gang? They all looked Asian. Shit.

A sudden realization hit me like a slap. I didn’t even know my own ethnicity. Heart pounding, I pulled up my sleeves up and held my arm under the dim streetlight. Light brown. Mexican? Latino? Something else? Hell if I knew.

But I did know one thing. I wasn't betting my life on the hope that these guys would be cool with me walking through their territory. I took a slow step back, trying to play it casual.

Then, out of nowhere, my skull exploded in pain.

I gasped, staggering before barely managing to catch myself against the rough brick wall of a building. My vision swimming, a sharp, unbearable migraine tore through my brain, like someone had driven a spike straight into my skull. My breath hitched as something wet dripped down my upper lip. And then words burned into my mind.

________________________________________

"Fear, you must understand, is more than a mere obstacle. Fear is a TEACHER. The first one you ever had."

You have mastered the art of crafting and utilizing the infamous Fear Toxin, a chemical agent designed to induce overwhelming terror in those exposed to it. Your knowledge of fear-based chemistry grants you the ability to synthesize various strains of the toxin, each tailored to exploit the deepest phobias of your victims.

I barely had time to process what the fuck I just read before it hit me.

Formulas.

Chemical equations, ingredient lists, synthesis processes—they were appearing in my head, unbidden, like they'd been there all along just waiting to be unlocked.

I knew how to make this toxin.

I knew exactly how to weaponize fear.

I must have been standing around like a complete pendejo, because the gangers had noticed me. They were shouting now.

I didn’t understand the words, but I didn’t have to. Their tone—sharp, aggressive, hostile—said enough.

I was still shaking, my head spinning from the knowledge dump, my body barely holding itself together. I didn’t want trouble. But I had a gun. I could defend myself if I had to.

Except… there were six of them.

And I had four bullets.

That wasn’t even accounting for aim, nerves, or dumb luck screwing me over.

Killing someone? That wasn’t a line I was ready to cross. Not yet.

So, I did the next best thing.

I ran.

——————————————————————————

I really was a pendejo.

Why the hell did I think running was a good idea when I was practically starving? My lungs burned, my legs felt like dead weight, and I was slowing down way too fast.

The bastards chasing me weren’t even trying that hard. Laughing. Jeering. Like this was all just a fun little game.

I wasn’t going to outrun them. I wasn’t built for this—not now, not in this state.

So, I did the only thing I could think of. I ducked into an alleyway —not to escape, but to narrow down my aim. If this was it, if I had to fight, then I was going to put the odds in my favor

Desperate, angry tears burned down my face. I didn’t want this. I just wanted something to eat.

A strange, whining noise built in my ears, growing sharper with every step. My vision swam as I hit a dead end. Shit. I stumbled, tripping over a pile of garbage, my body barely responding. The noise grew louder, and then—

Weightlessness.

A blinding flash of green exploded around me. I barely had time to react before the ground vanished beneath my feet.

And then—impact.

I hit the floor hard, my breath ripping from my lungs as I landed face-first. Cold stone. The air was different—thicker, heavier, wrong. I groaned, rolling onto my back, fingers pressing against my lip. Busted. Bleeding.

I exhaled sharply, trying to get my bearings. And then it hit me.

There was a ceiling.

What?

I had just been outside. Hadn’t I?

My heart pounded as I scrambled upright, my gaze darting around.

The air was thick—stale and heavy with the lingering scent of something sharp and chemical. Every breath I took carried a bitter, almost metallic aftertaste that made my throat tighten. The place was wrong, and my body knew it before my mind could catch up.

I took another step inside, my boots scuffing against the cold concrete floor. The room was dim, lit only by a few flickering fluorescent bulbs that buzzed like dying insects overhead. Rusted metal shelves lined the walls, crowded with glass vials, chemical canisters, and old medical equipment, all coated in a fine layer of dust and neglect.

In the center of the room stood a long steel table, cluttered with notebooks, syringes, and small glass containers filled with substances I couldn’t even begin to name. Some were a sickly yellow-green, others a deep oily black that seemed to shift under the light. A few of the vials were cracked open, their contents long dried into brittle residue, staining the tabletop like venom.

Masks hung from the walls.

Not the kind people wore for fun or safety—these were twisted, nightmarish things. Leather, burlap, gas masks with cracked lenses and stitched-together grins. Some had elongated features, almost like a snout or a beak, while others had hollow eye sockets that felt like they were watching me.

A chalkboard stood in the far corner, covered in scribbled equations and jagged writing. A half-erased anatomical diagram of a human brain was sketched beside it, notes frantically scrawled in the margins.
I swallowed hard.

The air suddenly felt thicker, like it was pressing down on me. I hadn’t noticed it at first, but there was a smell—something underneath the chemical sting. Rot.

I turned, and my stomach dropped.

A rat, or at least what used to be one, lay curled up in the corner. Its fur was patchy, its mouth frozen open in a silent, agonized scream. Dried foam crusted its lips. The body was twisted, its limbs curled unnaturally tight. Like it had died in fear.

I took a shaky step back, my breath coming faster. Did I just spawn in some serial killer’s hideout?

The masks on the walls weren’t just creepy—they were wrong. Twisted. More than some messed-up Halloween fetish. And the equipment? I could tell just by looking that it wasn’t for show.

I blinked a couple times as I looked again at the equipment, really looked. There were labels—some faded, some peeling, but I could read enough to know what I was looking at. Chloroform. Ethanol. Acetone. Things most people wouldn’t recognize.

But I did.

A low hum filled my skull, a strange pressure building behind my eyes. It was like flipping a switch—one I didn’t even know was there.

This… I know how to use this.

My body moved before my mind could catch up, drawn toward the refrigerator in the corner. Cold air rushed out as I pulled it open, and my breath hitched.

Samples.

Glass containers filled with preserved compounds, organic extracts, crushed flower petals. I scanned the labels, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Nightshade. Aconitum. Datura.

Each one a toxic gift from nature, its properties just waiting to be unlocked.

I swallowed hard and turned back to the worktable, my mind already piecing things together. My hands moved on instinct, reaching for a vial of ethyl acetate—a solvent, perfect for breaking down compounds. Hydrogen cyanide—a small dose, just enough to induce panic, not death.

I flicked on a small burner, the blue flame reflecting off my shaking fingers.

Ratios. Infusion methods. Evaporation rates.

It wasn’t just knowledge—it was ingrained in me. Every step, every calculation played out like muscle memory. I could see the process, unfolding in my mind as if I had done it before.

I hesitated.

I shouldn’t do this.

This wasn’t just chemistry—this was a weapon. A chemical horror show designed to make people hallucinate their worst fears. I knew the variations—some left victims shaken but functional, others could send them into needing lifelong therapy, cardiac arrest, or a coma.

I exhaled slowly.

No. I can control this.

I understood the formula enough to tweak it, to make it less severe. Just enough to incapacitate, not destroy. Something to defend myself if it came down to it.

My gaze flicked to the wall, landing on a gas mask hanging among the grotesque collection. Leather-bound. Worn, but functional. My fingers traced the filters before I pulled it down and pressed it over my face, tightening the straps.

I wasn’t just mixing chemicals.

I was making fear.

—————————————————————————-

After a couple of hours of synthesizing the toxin, my thoughts finally started to settle into something coherent. I had been running on instinct, letting my hands do the work while my brain struggled to catch up.

Too much had happened. Way too much. But I think I was starting to piece things together.

1. I have amnesia. No memories, no name, no past—just a void where my identity should be.
2. I might be a criminal. If I was in any database, walking into a police station could end badly.
3. I somehow know how to create a chemical weapon. A fear-based toxin, to be exact. I shouldn’t know this. But I do.
4. I can teleport? Or something close to it. The knowledge didn’t just appear in my head—I was pulled here, to a lab stocked with exactly what I needed to act on it. That’s not a coincidence.

I exhaled slowly, my fingers drumming against the worktable. No way in hell this was random.

I wake up with knowledge I shouldn’t have, then immediately find myself in a fully stocked lab with everything I need to use it? Either I had done this before, or someone—something—was pulling the strings.

And the part that was scaring me the most?

Whoever was the one who set this place up.

I was beyond fucking lucky that the psycho who previously owned this lab wasn’t currently using it and standing over my shoulder right now. Maybe they got arrested. Maybe they're dead. I hoped for the latter.

Clearly, whoever owned all this stuff didn’t have good intentions. Made me feel better about taking their shit.

Whatever. Overthinking wouldn’t help me right now.

At least I wasn’t starving anymore. Found a couple of cans of beans in a dusty cupboard. Not exactly gourmet, but I wasn't about to complain.

The lab itself was even colder than the warehouse I woke up in, so when I spotted a brown trench coat draped over a chair, I threw it on without hesitation. The thing was worn, a little oversized, but warm, and that was good enough for me.

I had taken a break to piss in what had to be the nastiest bathroom I had ever seen, but something had stopped me in my tracks.

The mirror.

My first real look at myself.

Tall—maybe 6’1. Unkempt, shoulder-length black hair. Well-defined features, but in desperate need of a shave. My eyes, brown and heavy with exhaustion, made it look like I hadn’t slept in weeks.

I frowned, rubbing my jaw. Yeah, my guess was right. Mexican or Hispanic.

I glanced down at my arms, my build. Not skinny, but not bulky either. Lean. Some muscle. I looked like I could hold my own in a fight.

Too bad I had no idea how to fight.

I walked back to the worktable, my eyes flicking over the freshly synthesized toxins. The hard part was done. Now came the next problem. How to use it without killing myself in the process.

Dispersion was key. Gassing myself like an idiot wasn’t an option.

Some variants of fear toxin worked through skin contact, but that was a hard no. I’d end up dosing myself before anyone else. That left two safer methods: respiratory or injection.

I scanned the room. Empty canisters sat stacked in boxes, meant for dispersing the toxin like a gas grenade—effective, but not exactly subtle. A more compact option would be something like a spray can, fast and easy for self-defense.

But then my gaze landed on something far worse.

The glove.

It sat on the table like a discarded nightmare—a crude fusion of medical equipment and improvised gadgetry. The material was rugged, worn, and sinister looking, reinforced with metal plating along the knuckles. But the real horror came from the syringe-like protrusions, sharp and ready, each one connected to a hidden reservoir within the glove.

A direct injection system for fear toxin.

I swallowed, my stomach twisting.

I did not like this thing.

Gas and spray were one thing—impersonal, distant. But this? This was hands-on. This was intimate.

This was designed for close encounters, for making people feel every ounce of their own terror.

Despite my reservations about the "recovering heroin addict’s worst nightmare" of a glove, I couldn’t afford to be picky. Not with the way my luck was going.

I had been holding onto some hope that this was just a one-off thing—some abandoned lab, some sicko’s pet project—but deep down, I was already factoring in my own abilities.

The teleportation. The instant knowledge. The setup that felt too perfect to be random.

And if that was real, then…
Did heroes actually exist?

I wasn’t talking about some firefighter pulling a baby from a burning building—I meant like superheroes. The kind that could punch through walls, shoot lasers from their eyes, control minds with a glance.

Like—

Like…

“FUCK!”
The word tore from my throat, my voice coming out hoarse, raw, like it hadn’t been used in days.

Fuck this memory loss.
Fuck this whole situation.
And fuck how goddamn thirsty I was.

I let out a slow breath, forcing down my frustration. No use spiraling now. I rolled my shoulders and turned back to the workbench, my sneer fading into focus.

Time to finish the job.

I worked carefully, transferring the synthesized toxins into their dispersal devices—the gas grenades, the spray canisters, even the damn glove. It was tedious, slow, and delicate, but eventually, it was done.

Everything—the toxins, the dispersal systems, the gas masks—went into a large crate. My next move? No clue. But at least now I was prepared.

I bent down to lift the crate, my arms wrapping around the weight—

And then it happened again.

The same buzzing pressure built behind my ears. That same whining noise from before, rising in intensity.

I froze, gripping the crate tighter as if that would anchor me.

Could I control this?

I tried. Focused everything on staying put. But it was already out of my hands—

A flash of green swallowed me whole.

——————————————————————————

I staggered, my eyes snapping open to blinding sunlight.

A parking lot.

I turned, breathing hard, the sunrise casting long shadows across cracked pavement. The place had the same depressing aura as the streets I’d seen earlier, but it was cleaner, better maintained.

My pulse still pounded in my ears.

Was I teleporting indiscriminately?

Or was something—someone—pulling me along?

The last thing I needed was to get caught lugging around a crate full of chemical weapons in broad daylight. My hand instinctively reached for the mask strapped to my face, hesitating just before pulling it off.

Maybe… maybe it was better to keep it on.

I didn’t know my own name, but if my past self had left behind any kind of life worth salvaging, the last thing I wanted was to screw it over by getting arrested with nerve agents. If anyone asked, this was a cosplay. Or better yet—since it was freezing out—a Halloween costume.

Yeah. Genius.

Then, of course, reality had to slap me upside the head.

"HEY! What do you think you’re doing in Empire turf, fucker!?"

I turned slowly, peering through the lenses of the mask toward the voice.

Eight of them. All white. All bald. Button-down collars, jeans, work boots.

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

Another gang? Two in one day?

"Johnny, hold up," one of them muttered, eyeing me warily. "This freak’s wearing a mask. Could be a new cape."

Johnny, because of course, the leader’s name was Johnny, snorted. "Don’t be a pussy Andy. There’s eight of us, and he’s probably got a weak power. Look at him, motherfucker looks like a Merchant and is dressed like a goddamn scarecrow. Plus, think about what Hookwolf or, hell, Kaiser will give us if we bag a cape."

The names didn’t ring any bells, but I had a strong feeling I did not want to meet them.

I watched the group closely. More than half of them looked convinced, their grips tightening around their weapons—baseball bats, crowbars, pipes. The others hesitated, but I could see them teetering on the edge.

I needed to de-escalate.

A gunshot? Nah. These guys were already stupid enough to pick a fight with a masked guy hauling a crate in a parking lot. A warning shot wouldn’t faze them.

No—they needed something worse than a gun to scare them off.

A really bad idea started forming in my head.

They were closing in now, boxing me in. My newfound knowledge whispered at the edges of my thoughts, feeding me details.

People looking scared exhibit certain physical cues—subtle signs that embolden aggressors.

I hated it. But I mimicked them.

Legs shaking. Arms frozen. Body stiff, like a trapped rabbit.

I saw the shift in their posture, the boost in confidence as they sped up, thinking they had me.

They got within fifteen feet before I palmed a canister, exhaled slowly—

And pulled the pin.

————————————————————————-

I underestimated how effective the toxin would be.

The second the orange gas hissed from the canister, it was already too late.

It spread fast—way too fast for them to back away, too fast for me to second-guess myself.

The gang members barely had time to react before it hit them. Their eyes widened in shock—then came the coughing, the gas burning through their lungs like acid.

Then, the screaming started.

It was horrifying to watch up close.

Three of them collapsed instantly, curling into the pavement like they were trying to disappear into the ground. Their screams—visceral, raw, animalistic—made my skin crawl.

Two more froze in place, locked in some unseen terror, their bodies paralyzed, their faces twisted in absolute horror.

The next two? They turned on each other.

Baseball bats, crowbars—they swung wildly, bludgeoning each other like they were fighting for their lives. God knows what they were seeing.

But the last one—Andy? He was the worst.

He wasn't just screaming. He was bawling, clutching his head, tearing out his own hair as if he could rip whatever horror he was seeing straight from his skull.

Then he froze—and things got so much worse.

His body twitched violently before black feathers erupted from his skin. His fingernails split apart, giving way to talons. His jaw snapped, stretched, contorted, his lips pulling back as his face morphed into a beak.

His body wasn’t human anymore.

He was growing, his spine twisting unnaturally, his bones shifting beneath his skin with sickening cracks. Something was taking over, something his own mind was forcing him to become.

Then, with a final, gut-wrenching tear, wings burst through his back.

He let out a shriek, his now avian-like body flailing toward me with unnatural, jerking movements.

I barely had time to react.

"Holy fuck."

Chapter Text

Stumbling onto my ass saved my life. 

His talons grazed the top of my head as he barreled over me, feathers slicing past my vision. I twisted just in time to see him slam through the window of a nearby building, glass shattering as his monstrous form vanished inside.

Screams followed.

I scrambled to my feet, chest heaving. Everything was falling apart.

Even though it was still early morning, the noise had drawn people out of their homes. I could see them gathering, staring, some filming with their phones, others running.

Fantastic. Witnesses.

There was no doubt in my mind—cops were already on the way. And I wouldn’t make it out on foot. Not after a chemical attack.

My eyes snapped back to the bastard who started this mess. He was curled up, whimpering, a dark stain spreading down his pants.

I went over to him, and he flinched, trying to shrink away as I patted down his pockets. I found a wallet, a switchblade, and—

Car keys. Jackpot.

I let him go and clicked the fob, hearing the chirp of a vehicle across the lot. A red pickup truck, flying a flag I didn’t recognize.

Perfect.

I took two steps toward it—then froze.

The crate.

I turned, sprinted back to the crate full of toxin canisters, yanked it up against my chest, and ran. My adrenaline was a roaring fire in my veins. Time blurred.

And just as I reached the truck, I saw him again.

The bird-man.

He burst from the broken building, his twisted wings beating the air, taking him higher and higher. He wasn’t even looking at me. Maybe the gas was still messing with his perception. Maybe he didn’t even remember what started this.

Maybe I got lucky.

I hurled the crate into the truck bed and dove into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut. The engine coughed to life as sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.

I didn’t have time to question how I knew how to drive—instinct took over. I threw the truck into reverse, then peeled out of the parking lot.

And just as I cleared the edge of the lot, I glanced up into the rearview mirror—

Someone else was in the sky.

Flying.

A woman—blonde, wearing white, a cape fluttering behind her, and a golden tiara that caught the rising sun just right.

I had no idea who she was.

But I was pretty damn sure I didn’t want her to know who I was, either.

I slammed my foot down on the gas just as she collided mid-air with the bird-man, sending both of them higher up toward the sky. The streets weren’t packed yet—too early—which was the only thing working in my favor. I rounded a corner, leaving the downtown area behind, the chaos shrinking in my rearview.

One last look.

I saw her dive-bombing him, slamming him through a rooftop like a superhero out of a comic.

I pulled the mask off to get a clearer view of the road and reached into my coat pocket for the ID I’d lifted.

John A. Miller.
104 Hockfield Avenue. Brockton Bay, MA 01945.

The name meant nothing to me. I didn’t recognize the address. But at least I finally knew which city I was in. That was something.

I pulled over once I had some distance between me and the scene of the chemical nightmare I’d just unleashed. My hands shook slightly as I unfolded the map, trying to get a sense of where I was—and maybe where I could disappear for a while.

My mind kept circling back.

What the hell happened back there?

That guy—Andy—had to be enhanced like me, right? Probably hiding in a gang, blending in until someone like me came along and flipped the switch. If that fight got caught on camera...and it definitely was…I just blew up his life.

I might’ve made an enemy for life. What were the odds I’d run into him today? This whole situation was getting more absurd by the minute.

I started driving again, cutting the blaring rock music as a headache built behind my eyes. I followed the map until, fifteen minutes later, I pulled up to a modest-looking suburban house.

The garage was open. I coasted in, killed the engine, and pulled the roller door down. My nerves were fried, my thoughts moving in uneven bursts. I grabbed a spray can out of habit, just in case, and slowly opened the door leading into the house.

The smell hit me first—old wood and metal polish. A sterile kind of clean.

The living room was almost too tidy. The furniture utilitarian, a scratched coffee table, an old box tv, a worn leather couch that’s clearly seen better days

The walls were beige but empty. No family photos, no kids’ drawings. Just that same flag from the truck, now framed above the front door. I was relieved, I didn't want to know what I would have to do if there was a wife or children in here.

A large wooden cabinet in the hallway was locked but had a small glass display. Inside, I could make out guns. I took out the key fob and began to test different keys till I found one that finally opened the cabinet. There were two shotguns and three pistols. Ammo boxes were shelved next to em. I also spotted a cleaning kit. I made a mental note to myself to return later when I cleared the house.

The whole house felt the same—empty, controlled, like someone who valued function over comfort. The kitchen was small, but everything was labeled, arranged. Knives on a magnetic rack, each one razor sharp and evenly spaced.

I moved through the hallway, floorboards creaking like they were trying to rat me out. One door was locked. Another led to a bathroom. I skipped the mirror.

The back bedroom was behind the locked door. Once I got it open, the difference was immediate.

Where the rest of the house was sterile, this room was lived in—and messy. Clothes scattered across the floor. A twin bed. Posters of faded rock bands and war propaganda. A bottle of lotion and tissues on the nightstand. A couple of heavy dumbbells at the foot of the bed.

The closet was packed with bland, forgettable clothes.

All in all, a very spartan existence.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My shoulders dropped, some of the tension leaving me. I was in the clear. For now.

I couldn’t stay here long. But I could at least grab a shower and maybe a nap.

Before either, I made a trip back to the gun cabinet. The shotguns stood out—two different models. One of them smaller and mean-looking, a Mossberg 500 “Shorty”, according to the small manual beside it. The other was a double-barrel, old but solid.

The Glock I recognized immediately. The other two pistols? Not so much. One had a boxy frame, a red “9” embedded into the grip. The sleeker one looked like something from an antique collection. I didn’t dwell on it. I’d figure them out later.

One by one, I carried the guns, ammo, manuals, and cleaning kit to the truck.

Once that was done, I peeled off the trench coat, pulled off the hoodie, kicked off the boots and pants, and headed to the shower like it was the promised land.

The second the hot water hit my skin, I could’ve wept with joy.

Finally, A shower.

I scrubbed myself clean with whatever body wash was available. When I finished, I dried off with a towel and stared at the bed.

Poor bastard. I’d dosed his friends, wrecked his brain, jacked his ride, stole his weapons, used his shower—and now I was about to sleep in his bed.

Maybe next time he’ll think twice about trying to jump some random guy in a mask.

I stripped the bed cover, lowered myself onto the mattress, and exhaled deeply.

I was so tired.

But after 10 minutes of staring at the ceiling, nothing was happening.

I couldn’t fall asleep.

There had to have been security cameras that caught what had happened earlier.  Or someone filming the whole thing on their phone. Cops could already be combing the streets. They could be on their way right now, and I’m not even factoring in the superhero scene. There was the flying woman who was going to town on the bird man, she prolly already had him custody. What other superheroes did this city have? Did it have a large supervillain population too? 

I need to get more information. I couldn’t fly blind like I already was forever. Just as I started debating how I’d even find reliable info without sticking my head out and getting arrested, it hit me.

The pain.

The same pain from before—skull-splitting, mind-melting agony.

I was starting to panic, the buildup was not stopping, and the first time felt like being stabbed in the cranium. Blood was practically flowing from my nasal cavity when the pain finally alleviated. And then I saw the words. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The gods forged the world with fire. I only ask to borrow a spark.”

With Potion Crafting mastery, you can now create a vast array of potions, from common cures to transformative elixirs that bolster strength, grant immunity to poison, or allow the drinker to see in total darkness. Every formula, reagent interaction, magical infusion method, and brewing step found in the Forgotten Realms is now known to you.

I was gasping for air as the pressure finally dropped. I stumbled out of bed, barely able to stay upright, and staggered to the bathroom. My knees buckled more than once. I turned the sink on and gulped cold water, splashing it on my face to wash away the blood.

If this was how every upgrade was going to work, I’m gonna start telling my power to go fuck itself.

And seriously—Phase Spider venom? Merfolk Tears? This wasn’t rare, it was impossible to obtain. None of that shit existed on Earth.

Besides some know-how on alchemy that can possibly be applied, realistically, without access to those ingredients, most of this knowledge was useless.

Unless…

I looked up at my reflection. Bloodshot eyes. Clammy skin. Exhausted.

I could use a potion of vitality right about now.

The only thing I could think of was my innate ability to teleport. It brought me once to a mad man’s lair for supplies and ingredients for the fear toxin. Maybe I didn’t just travel across the city.

Maybe I’d crossed into another world.

That was…really strong. Not to mention if it can reach into this fantasy land. I couldn’t remember anything that I could relatively compare it to, but something like that should be on a league of its own. 

A plan of action was already forming in my head.

If I could learn to control the teleportation, I could gather the resources I needed. There were a lot of potions that could improve lives. Some practically gave fantastical abilities, enhanced healing—hell, maybe I could help people.

Heroes would pay for this kind of help.

I could explain everything, maybe even make amends. If my power kept unlocking skills like this... I could become invaluable.

I got dressed quickly, throwing on my clothes from earlier, and moved to the garage. Despite me running on fumes, it was time to pack up. Time to move.

Maybe—just maybe—there was hope for me after all.

And then the universe decided to remind me exactly where I was.

A loudspeaker squealed to life outside.

“Unknown parahuman, come outside slowly with your hands up. Brockton Bay PD, the PRT, and Protectorate heroes have the place surrounded. Any attempt to flee or resist will be met with appropriate force.”

The voice was cold. Robotic. Official. Like a judgment already passed.

My stomach sank.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

I opened the truck door and slid into the driver’s seat, heart hammering in my chest.

I was just about to leave too.

I leaned back, exhaling hard—and let out a bitter laugh.

“...I should’ve just stayed in the damn warehouse.”

I clenched the steering wheel, eyes darting to the windows. No way out. No angles. No one to help. Just whoever the hell the PRT was, cops, and whatever heroes they brought out to bag me.

God Dammit. Why the fuck couldn’t I just teleport away from this?

I teleported earlier when I was being backed against a corner. Was it a self-defense mechanism? Was it fear-triggered? A panic reflex? Only moving me when it thought my life was in danger? Does this situation not qualify? Why the hell wasn’t it happening now? I was hyperventilating, sweating, thinking myself into the hole, and nothing. Not a flicker of that buzzing sensation.

"You have one minute to comply, or we will be forced to breach the house."

Great. Fantastic. Just peachy.

I looked around the garage in a frenzy, grasping at anything—anything—that might help. My eyes landed on the crate laying in the back of the truck. More specifically, the canisters inside it. My panic was beginning to calm down, I was instead being filled with dread.

I really didn’t want to do this.

I’d already had front row seats on what the toxin could do. I made it weaker than what I could’ve created, and it still mentally broke people. I didn’t even know what it would do to me, and that was kind of the problem—I didn’t know myself at all.

But if fear triggered my power… maybe this was the push I needed.

No guarantees. Just desperation.

I reached into the crate and pulled out the spray can.

My hands were trembling. My breath short. I stared at the can like it might talk me out of it. Nothing did.

“C’mon,” I muttered, slapping my face harshly, trying to psych myself up. Wasted seconds. The clock was ticking.

With one last surge of half-courage, half-stupidity—I sprayed myself.

It smelled like oranges.

And then everything fell apart.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air thickened, turning into something more like syrup than oxygen. Colors bled, warped, twisted. Sound distorted, muffled like I’d been submerged underwater.

And then—
Silence.

I stood in a gray room, sterile, clinical, ringed with mirrors—each one showing something different.

In one, I saw myself as a child, alone in an empty house.

Another: me in street clothes, smiling, arm around a girl I didn’t recognize.

A third: me dead, lying in trash, arm outstretched toward someone blurred and out of frame.

But the last mirror?

Blank.

Just black glass. No reflection. No, me.

I stared. The longer I looked, the more wrong it felt.

Then—movement.

Something inhuman stirred in the dark behind the glass. A shape, vague and flickering. Not me. But maybe… what I could become.

Breathing. Ragged.
Footsteps. Slow. Heavy.
A creak of leather. A rattle of metal.

And then it stepped out.

Me. But not.

Wrapped in tattered burlap, a trench coat hanging from twisted shoulders. A noose around its neck, dragging behind it like a leash. Rusted syringes dangled from its belt, clinking softly.

Its face was hidden behind a stitched mask, the brown fabric stretched tight, its eyes glowing a dull, sickly amber.

A Scarecrow. But it was me—my stance, my build, my breath.

“You don’t even know who you are,” it rasped, voice dry and brittle like decaying paper.

“No past. No purpose. Just a ghost in borrowed flesh.”

I turned to run. But the room looped—infinite, recursive. No exit. No escape.

The figure followed. Always behind me.
Sometimes walking.
Sometimes already waiting ahead.

“What if you never find out?”
“What if you were meant to be this?”
“Maybe you didn’t forget your past… maybe you’re hiding from it.”

It whispered in my ear, too close, breath like sawdust.

“You don’t know who you are.”
“But I do…Caesar.”

The Scarecrow raised its head. On it now sat a crown made of shattered mirrors—each shard showing a different version of me.

Screaming.
Burning.
Killing.
Begging.

“You think the worst already happened,” it said.
“Because you forgot.”

It leaned closer. I saw my reflection in its mask’s glassy black eye.

And there was nothing there.

No memory.
No face.
No self.

“You are the discarded. You are alone. And there’s no waking up from that.”

Then—silence.

Total. Empty. Absolute.

No sound. No light. No feeling.

Just me. Floating in a void. Weightless. Forgotten.

My mouth opened. I tried to scream.

But all that came out.

Was laughter.

From behind the mask.

My mask.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I finally came to, the first thing I noticed was the burning itch around my throat.

I touched my neck with shaking fingers. Scratches. Deep ones.

Like I’d tried to strangle myself.

My pulse spiked. The memories—what I saw, what I heard in that mirror room—flickered at the edge of my mind, just out of reach but too heavy to forget.

I blinked blearily, forcing my eyes open. The truck’s interior greeted me, the steering wheel pressing lightly into my chest.

I looked around my surroundings with tired eyes when they began to widen with a slowly dawning realization.

I was still in the truck.

But I was on a beach now.

Gray sand stretched out in a soft crescent, scattered with pale driftwood like the bones of forgotten trees. The tide whispered, drawing lazy patterns in the shore, each pull of water leaving behind foamy lace, delicate and shimmering in the fractured morning light. The soft, rhythmic hush of waves lapping at the sand—slow and gentle, like the heartbeat of something sleeping.

The sky overhead was a bleeding bruise of purples and golds, as if the dawn had torn its way into existence.

And for a second—just one—I forgot how messed up everything was.

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I stepped out of the truck slowly, scared that it might all disappear suddenly. 

What if I was still hallucinating? The toxin feeding me hope before yanking it away while laughing. I knew it was possible. 

I knelt into the pale sand, scooped it into my hands like it could anchor me, ground me in the moment. The texture, the weight, the coolness of it—all real.

I stayed like that for what felt like forever, just watching the tides roll in and out.

For the first time since waking up in that warehouse... I felt safe. Truly, stupidly, completely safe.

If this was real, I wanted to remember it.

I wanted to hold onto it. I needed to.

But the peace doesn’t last. Not for people like me.

Two figures approached from down the beach.

That sense of calm? Gone.

I shot to my feet, all instinct now. I lunged back into the truck, pulled the Glock out but stopped right before I holstered it. I ejected the magazine. Empty. Shit. I forgot to load the guns I stole. Cursing under my breath, I tossed it aside and reached for the revolver that’s been with me since the start. Loaded with four rounds. Heavy. Familiar.

My eyes flicked to a spray can near the bottom of the crate. I hesitated. Then, reluctantly, slipped it into my coat pocket.

Just in case.

I turned back toward the figures warily approaching, squinting through the haze of salt and morning mist.

What the…were these actual demons?

They sure as shit weren’t human.

They walked like it, sure, but everything else screamed otherworldly.

Horns jutted from their skulls—his curved outward like antlers, hers curling back like a ram’s. Their ears were long and pointed, like something out of a fantasy novel.

Their eyes…

Red. Glowing. Sclera black as ink.

Both had tails, alive with subtle motion, twitching and swaying as if they were tasting the air. Their skin was a deep crimson, not painted, no makeup, natural.

And their faces?

Uncanny. Beautiful. Alien.

High cheekbones, too sharp to be normal. Eyes too wide, too deep. Expressions cautious.

They wore leather jerkins, worn and practical. The female had a bow slung across her back, the male’s hand rested casually—but purposefully—on the haft of an axe.

I tightened my grip on the revolver. 

If they were faster than me, I was done for. If there were more around the corner, it was practically over before anything started. 

Would they even understand my language?

Fuck it, this was happening. I might as well rip the band-aid off.

“Hey!” I called, voice hoarse and cracking from disuse. “Are you planning on robbing me or killing me?”

They both paused and turned their heads to look at each other, their posture saying they were non-aggressive. 

“Uh…no? We were told by a scout that someone appeared in a strange crimson carriage near the water bank, so we came to investigate.” The male called back to me. Stopping a dozen feet away from me with his companion.

My eyes widened at them understanding me and speaking my language.

They also claimed they were just checking things out, and despite their demonic features, I didn’t feel like I was being lied to.

Things might finally be going my way.

“I’m…I know it’s rude of me to ask but can you tell me what you are? I’ve never seen anything like you both.” I tell them honestly, my form slightly uncoiling but still on guard.

The woman with the horns like a ram tilted her head at me, “You’ve never seen a tiefling before?”, she said with some disbelief, her voice almost musical.

“Sorry but no. I’m not really from around here, or anywhere here to be accurate.” I said with some nervous humor as I gestured my hands towards myself and the truck.

A look of understanding reached both their eyes. “You’re a Planeswalker?” She said in a soft voice with wonder.

My eyebrow raised at the question. “Maybe we call it something different back where I’m from but if you don’t mind clarifying please?”

She nods at me, “It’s what most races call beings that can travel between different planes of existence.”

That was pretty much what I interpreted as their version of dimensional travel.

Also, races?

Shit…this really was like a fantasy novel.

“Then yeah. I guess I am one. And I’m a long way from home.” 

They traded glances again. The guy looked like someone who’d just been told to babysit a live grenade.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said cautiously, “what brings you here?”

Well, I wasn’t going to tell him that I was trying to avoid prison for unleashing a chemical weapon in broad daylight. Self-defense or not. Half the truth will do.

“I’m an alchemist in search of resources. I came here to find new ingredients to create new potions.” That was basically all true.  

These…’tieflings’ didn’t seem that bad despite their appearance. They might be willing to lend a hand.

“Since I am a stranger to your plane, I hope you don’t mind me picking your brain for information regarding this place and if you might know of a place to rest. I haven’t really slept since…well a while. In return, I can create some potions for you and your friend’s hospitality.” I say with a crooked smile that I hope didn’t look that desperate. 

This was the longest conversation I’ve had so far in recent memory. The last thing I want is for it to turn into like my first two encounters with people.

They both looked at each other again, the female tiefling didn’t look like she liked the look of her companion’s stern face. 

“That’s not really our decision to…”

“Can you excuse us for one sec hun? I just need to talk to my friend here real quick.” The female says quickly as she drags the male a couple feet away from me to have a ’private’ discussion.

I watched them, trying not to snort at how loud they were ‘whispering.’

“We can’t bring him back to the grove Nym. The druids are barely tolerating us as it is. Plus, he’s a Planeswalker. He could be a danger to us all.” the male tiefling hissed with his arms crossed.

“Would you stop being so craven Damays. Look at him! He’s so young and he’s barely standing on his two feet. He’s as dangerous as a lemur. He needs our help. And besides, what if he’s telling the truth about being a potion brewer. You know we could use all the help we can get once our people leave the grove.” the female called Nym says with frustration.

“We have the old woman for potions” Damays tries to counter with.

“That old bitch overcharges us for her potions, and you know it.” Nym says with vehemence.

That seemed to shut her friend up as he shut his eyes, hunches his shoulders, and gives out a long, drawn-out sigh. 

Nym turned towards me with a victorious smile. Her canines were sharp. 

Still, it was another beautiful sight.

“We’d be happy to have you join our little camp!”

Relief crashed into me like a wave. My chest loosened, and my face began to break out into a smile too.

“I…Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.” I say honestly with my lips shaking

She nodded, that warmth still in her expression. “We’re happy to help! Come! We got a nice bedroll with your name on it mister? she asks curiously.

I freeze, the memories from the toxin flash between my eyes. It was truly a horrible experience…but I knew my name now.

“Caesar…You can call me Caesar.” I say with pride.

Her smile widens, “I’m Nymessa and that big grouch over there is Damays.” she says with a happy tone as she points a sharp nailed thumb towards her partner who was still brooding.

“Pleasure,” I muttered, nodding toward him.

“Just follow us on the trail, the groves not too far away.” She says as she turns and gestures for me to follow.

I glanced back at the truck. It still had plenty of fuel, and it would be a waste to leave it behind.

“How about we get there faster!?” I called out to them as I hopped into the driver's seat.

They turned to look at me, confused as to what I meant before their eyes grew comically large as the engine roared to life and the ‘crimson carriage’ began to roll forward.

I smirked.

Planeswalker coming through.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The road ahead wasn’t made for trucks—twisting roots, uneven slopes, dips that felt more like traps—but the old beast still handled it like a pro. Earth engineering, meet fantasy terrain.

Nymessa seemed to love it. She was standing in the truck bed, gripping the roof and calling out directions like a kid on a carnival ride. Wind tangled her dark hair as she laughed between calls, completely at ease.

Damays on the other hand had wedged himself in the passenger seat. Both hands locked onto the grab handle like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. His expression made it clear: trucks weren’t his thing.

They were opposites in the moment—one riding a thrill, the other clinging to stability.

We rounded a bend past a tall hill and—there it was.

A massive wooden gate fortified and medieval in style. Battlements topped it, and I saw several tiefling sentries above.

I heard one of the male tiefling’s call out to us. This one’s skin was yellowish.

“Nymessa?! What in the Nine Hells is that carriage ?! And where’s Damays?!” 

Nymessa cupped her hands and shouted back with glee, “It’s called a  tru-uk , Kanon! Damays is inside—hey! Damays! Wave at him!”

Damays let out a groan and reluctantly lifted one hand off the handle to give a miserable wave.

There was a tense pause. I thought they might not open the gate.

But then it started to rise, creaking on thick chains.

The path beyond was clear.

I put my foot on the gas and rolled us forward into whatever came next.

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Unfortunately, I didn’t get to meet many people right away. The second I parked the truck deeper into the grove and moved my gear to the back seat—away from curious children—I blacked out. The last thing I remember is shoving the crate with my gear away from reach. No way was I letting a kid mess around with fear toxin or a live firearm.

That would've turned the place into a literal nightmare.

That was the last thing I remembered doing before closing my eyes and waking up in a threadbare bedroll, the scent of herbs and something like broth in the air. I ate what I could stomach and got my bearings. I hadn’t met the druids yet, but some of the other refugees had stopped by. Their reactions were mixed—some curious, others cautious. 

I didn’t take it personally. After learning more about their situation, I understood completely. Apparently, their city was dragged into hell as part of a demonic plot. 

Yeah, that’s the type of shit that happens here apparently. It was insane to even try and wrap my head around.

I’d also gotten a crash course on tieflings. They didn’t always look the way they did. Somewhere back in their bloodlines, one of their ancestors fooled around with a devil. They weren’t born evil, but they were ostracized a lot based on their looks.

Which is why these tieflings were blamed for what happened to the city.

Honestly wouldn’t blame them if they were a lil morally compromised after that.

But I had my own reasons for being here.

This wasn’t just a getaway—it was an opportunity.

I’d seen herbs and ingredients during the drive over that matched things I now knew could be used for powerful potions. I made a promise to Nymessa that I’d help their camp in exchange for shelter, and I intended to make good on it. 

So, I was prepping. Loading the Mossberg with shaky but determined hands while a blacksmith—Dammon, big guy, kind of a walking anvil—was poking around under the hood of the truck. 

Nym had warned me about a goblin war party in the area. Alone, they weren’t terrifying. Swarmed? That was another story. Even though I had probably had never used a shotgun before, I was confident it wouldn’t be difficult to use if needed. If there were too many or if I needed to reload, I’d use my fear gas to cover my retreat. Even though I had some qualms about killing sentient beings, I was done with holding back for their sake. This dimension, although beautiful, was more dangerous than the one I had left behind. There was literal magic being thrown around out here. I couldn’t afford to play by half-measures, not with my life on the line.

“This machine is beyond amazing,” Dammon said, eyes wide as he poked at the hydraulics like a kid with a new toy. The only thing I could compare it to is an Infernal War siege engine, but this? This is practical. And you said there were more of these ‘trucks’ back in your plane?” 

“Yeah, in my time, having a car is practically the most common way of getting around.” I said, slamming a shell into place with more confidence than I felt. 

There was a pause as Dammon looked like he wanted to ask something while I finished loading my shotgun. After a moment, he finally asked.

“If I were to offer a trade…would you be willing to part with the truck?” He asked, not really sounding confident through his question. He probably thought it was out of the question.

It really wasn’t, I had already admitted that there were plenty of vehicles back home. The only reason I was hesitating was because I didn’t know when my dimensional power might kick in again. If it pulled me without warning, the truck would go with me—along with all my gear. It had become more than just transport. It was storage, shelter, and survival backup all in one. 

“I’m not against it,” I said truthfully. “But I’d need something remarkable. This isn’t just a ride—it’s my storage, my shelter, and half my contingency plans in one.”

His eyes lit up. “I can’t help with the transportation,” he admitted, “but storage? I’ve got just the thing.” He said as he rushed off to his hut, looking for something. He must’ve found it because I heard the clatter of what seemed to be a lot of metal being dumped onto the cave floor. Then he came back out, carrying something that looked… disappointingly mundane.

A brown leather satchel. Scuffed. Worn. Definitely not impressive at first glance.

“This,” he said proudly, “is a Bag of Holding. Enchanted with extra-dimensional space. It can store up to five hundred pounds—without increasing the weight.”

My brain stalled. 

A magic item. 

A real magic item!

Even if it wasn’t the backup I needed for transportation, it was exactly what I needed for everything else. With this? I could teleport across planes, collect rare ingredients, stash them safely, and still travel light. It was basically a portable vault strapped to my shoulder. 

Dammon was still giving me his sales pitch when I put a hand up to stop him from talking. His face dropped for a second, like he thought he’d gone too far or killed the deal.

I pulled the truck keys from my pocket and tossed them his way.

“Deal.”

He fumbled the catch—barely—but held the keys like they were holy relics. His eyes widened, then narrowed with a kind of quiet awe that morphed into the look of a man who knew his life just changed. 

“Thank you, Caesar,” he said. “Me and a few friends from Baldur’s Gate… we’ll figure out this machine in no time. You’ve probably changed my life.”

He handed me the bag, grateful.

I stared at it for a beat, still processing what I’d just traded away—and what I’d just gained. I hadn’t considered what the truck might be worth in this world. If Dammon and his friends could reverse-engineer it? That wasn’t just valuable—that was history-making. An economy-shifter.

I could’ve asked for more. Could’ve squeezed him for weapons, enchanted tools, a favor from someone in Baldur’s Gate. I could’ve bled him dry.

But I didn’t.

Because the gratitude in his voice wasn’t fake. And maybe a part of me didn’t want to become that version of myself I’d seen in my nightmare.

So, I just smiled crookedly and held out my hand.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Dammon.”

He didn’t hesitate to shake it. His grip was firm, steady. Respectful.

After that, it was time to transfer my stuff. I opened the crate, one last time, and began moving everything into the bag of holding—ammo, tools, toxin canisters, weapons. They vanished into the dark rift inside the bag like they'd been swallowed by a void.

I reached in for my mask, fingers brushing cool leather. I hesitated. Then pulled it free, staring at it.

I still wasn’t over what I’d seen during my fear-induced hallucination. I didn’t know if I would be.

But running from it wouldn’t help.

I slipped the mask into my coat pocket. Just in case.

I didn’t ask for backup. The refugees had enough to deal with—I wasn’t about to burden them. I told myself I’d only be gone for an hour or two. Just a quick foraging trip. No escort needed. I could handle myself.

When I reached the grove’s gate, the tiefling sentries didn’t ask questions. Just raised it, slow and steady, letting the outside world open before me. 

I took a deep breath, shotgun in hand, and stepped into the wilds.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This wasn’t so bad.

The forest surrounding the grove felt old —not just aged, but alive with memory. The kind of place that remembered every step taken, every word whispered beneath its branches. Light filtered through the dense canopy above, casting golden latticework across the mossy ground. Birds chirped in high tones above, unseen critters rustled through the underbrush, but all of it was wrapped in a calm, watchful silence.

Thick, gnarled trees stood like ancient sentinels, wrapped in vines and flowering creepers. Wild herbs thrived in sunlit pockets—thyme, garlic, silverbloom, bloodroot. But the real prize was the mushrooms.

Rogue's Morsel. The name came to me like so many things do now—unbidden, embedded in my head like I’ve always known it. A key ingredient in healing potions. I scooped handfuls into my bag of holding. Enough to keep my promise to Nymessa and still have leftovers when—if—I returned to Brockton Bay. I would have to find  a place somewhere in the city where I can grow the mushrooms so that I wouldn’t be spending my time constantly looking for mushrooms when I can just cultivate them myself. 

The path curved and led me to a stone bridge—cracked and worn, spanning a narrow ravine. Below, a sluggish creek wound its way between jagged rocks, water dark and slow. I stepped onto the bridge—

And froze.

The air had changed.

The fresh scent of pine and wild mint gave way to something fouler— smoke, mildew, rot. Ahead, an abandoned village slumped against the forest like a corpse left unburied. The sign was broken, its name long erased. Charred homes leaned inward like they were whispering secrets. Moss dripped from collapsed roofs. Nature had begun to reclaim everything.

The birds were gone. Even the insects buzzed in hesitant tones.

Then—laughter.

High-pitched. Unnatural. From within the ruins.

I tightened my grip on the Mossberg.

Goblins.

I didn’t know how many but I knew without a doubt that they were in that village.

My gut was telling me to double-back, to retreat, to come back with help. But did I want to risk the lives of others? I was the one with hardly anything to lose. I was the one with modern weapons. 

No, I won’t waste their time and endanger the refugees' lives. I could handle this. I had to. I couldn’t be reliant on people to accomplish everything. It would hurt me in the long run.

My mind made up, I edged forward, staying low. I could make out movement on the rooftops—green-skinned figures crouched in the shadows. Two archers. One with a staff.

Shit. What if that one can cast magic?

That goblin was my priority. Above all else. I didn’t know how strong magic can be out here but I didn’t want to find out first hand either. I pulled my mask out and put it on, just in case I needed to cover my retreat without gassing myself.

I pulled out my Glock and took aim. 

I lined up the shot. There was no way I was gonna land it. My hands were trembling too much. This was gonna be my first firefight in…well, ever.. I was too nervous, my aim too shaky. I cursed to myself as I slowly walked closer, trying to calm my anxiety. I was beginning to have second thoughts. Could I really kill this thing? I tried to harden my resolve. Nymessa warned me that they would show no mercy to me. In the end, my choice was only made when the little midget turned my way and let out a shriek at the sight of me.

I fired. The shots rang like a storm for how loud it was.

Six shots. I missed all but one. I know because I saw the small goblin clutch his throat with stubby, green fingers. Spurts of blood flowing between his hands. He stayed upright for a second, coughing blood, before falling off the roof. The sound of his body hitting the ground was wet and final.

There was a brief moment of silence before all hell broke loose. The two on the roof screamed and notched arrows. Two more popped out from behind buildings suddenly, charging, wicked blades glinting.

Despite how short they were, they were alarmingly fast. I could see them better with how close they were getting. Their bodies were wiry and hunched, and covered in warpaint, mouth filled with too many jagged teeth. Their armor stitched from scavenged scraps, reinforced with bones, feathers. Their bulbous eyes were wide with hatred and violence.

I holstered my pistol and raised the Shorty, quickly hip-firing a shell towards the closet one charging at me with a nasty looking blade. The recoil made me step back, the boom deafening, but at this range, I didn’t miss. 

The shell caught the goblin full in the face.

The goblin's momentum folded backwards as its body ragdolled unnaturally, its small body almost sent flying. 

There was no scream, no flail—just a sudden, horrible stillness. Where its face had once been was now a ruined hollow, an empty crater rimmed with shattered bone and torn sinew. Bits of its flesh flapped like ruined leather around what little was left of its skull.

The smell hit me next—iron, gunpowder, and something sour, like copper soaked in swamp water.

The other goblin next to him fell silent, hesitating.

And then he let out a shrill scream. He was clearly terrified, but he ran at me anyways.

I pumped the shotgun, fired again, and caught him in the chest. As it flew backwards, I felt something sharp graze my shoulder. I spun, saw the archer above me drawing another shot. I moved fast, ducking through the streets, trying to find cover. I got behind an old collapsed stone wall. The shotgun wouldn’t cut it at range. I stuffed it into the bag and reached in blind. My hand wrapped around cold steel—the double-barrel. I pulled it free and peeked. The archer was moving closer, trying to line up a cleaner shot. I didn’t let him.

I fired. One shot, both barrels.

The kickback from the double-barrel barely registered to me, my mind too focused on watching it fall from its vantage point.

Then burning.

Hot, caustic pain flared across my leg. I looked down—acid or something, was already eating through my jeans and skin. I nearly curled on to myself. But adrenaline kept me upright.

I had a snarl on my face as I turned to the little bastard who shot acid at me. This one had flanked me. He was wearing a hood with a staff. Of course there was a second caster. It didn’t matter to me, I pulled out my Glock with one hand and emptied it in silent rage into the mage before he could let another spell loose. Once he dropped, I dropped to my knees, panting, clutching the burn. I needed to brew a healing potion— now —but then I heard it.

Lumbering footsteps, like falling trees

Guttural laughter. Wet and thick like something breathing through rotting lungs.

Then they emerged from a ruined old house in the corner.

Three figures, towering and vile, each one monstrous in its own right—easily ten feet tall, bodies bloated with muscle and filth, their skin greenish-yellow, a leathery patchwork of scabs, boils, and scars. They reek of blood, sweat, and days-old meat..

One wore a dead cow like a cloak. Another dragged a club the size of a tree trunk.

But it was the third that spoke. And when he did, his voice was articulate. Amused.

“Well, lookie here, lads. Looks like dinner just rolled into town.”

I didn’t hesitate, I pulled two toxin canisters and pulled the pins. I didn’t want to risk if they’re biology made em more resistant to the gas. The toxin enveloped me and the giant monsters quickly. I heard the coughs through the gas turn into roars as I began to limp with my guns as fast as I could back to the bridge. My leg was burning, but I kept moving.  I made it a quarter over the bridge before I could feel the ground shaking. I turned just in time to see the talking brute almost on  me.

I couldn’t outrun him.

It wrapped its large meaty hands around my waist and squeezed. Hard. I dropped the double-barrel. My ribs were cracking. It was so painful, I almost threw up through my mask. 

“Well that wasn’t very gentlemanly of you to do to my blokes, now was it?” It said with a snarled grin, its breath reeking of rotten flesh. 

I was fading, breath wheezing, vision blurring. I reached into my bag.

“It's too bad for you that I am the enlightened one. I knew better than to breathe in that funny little smokeshow back there. “

I found it.

“Now since you were so rude, I shall treat you in the same respect.” it said in a mocking, disapproving voice before it began to widen its jaws. 

I yelled in rage and fear as I pulled out the glove from my bag and jammed all five needles into its fucking eye, injecting all the toxin from it’s reservoir. 

The ‘enlightened one’ immediately began to shriek like a pig as it threw me like a broken toy over the side of the bridge. 

I fell forever. Or it felt like it.

Then pain.

A flash of jagged rocks. My back shattered on impact. The world blurred. My breath caught in my throat and refused to come back.

I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t even feel the creek rushing around me.

Burns. Broken bones. Blood filling my chest.

This was it, wasn’t it.

I was going to die in this creek.

Alone. 

All my potential with my power gone.

I’d never find out who I really was.

I’d never know what I could've become. 

I thought of the beach. That morning sky—purple and gold bleeding into the tide. It was so beautiful. I wanted to see it again. Just once.

My eyes were beginning to glaze over when I heard something step into the shallow creek. 

Slow. Graceful.

At first, I thought she was another tiefling. But she wasn’t.

She was…Other.

Her skin was slate-gray, smooth and perfect. Her sclera is pitch black and her pupils burn with an unnatural red hue that pierce like a predator’s gaze—measuring, dissecting. Four horns spiral from the crown of her head, elegant, graceful—adorned with a gilded crown of intricate filigree. Her hair is a vibrant, unholy red, cascading in a smooth sheet down her back and shoulders. Her robe is a midnight blue, the fabric tight and flawless, patterned with intricate designs. A gold and ruby pendant hangs from her throat, resting just above a plunging neckline. Wings, sinewy and bat-like, flickered behind her in the brisk air.

She looked divine.

And terrifying.

Her lips curve faintly—not in a smile, but something far more unsettling, a look of quiet amusement and pity.

“Oh you poor little Scarecrow,” she said softly in a soothing voice as she kneels into the water next to me, brushing a clawed hand over my mask. “So broken. So very, very alone.”

She pulled the mask from my face. Looked at my face like it was something she'd been hunting for.

Then leaned in, close enough for me to feel her breath on my cheek.

“Do you want to be unbroken, Caesar?” she whispered. “Do you wish to never be alone again?” she whispered gently to me like a mother I couldn’t remember.

A tear rips through my eye before I slowly nod.

Her expression slowly shifted into a smile. Beautiful. Horrible.

But I didn’t care.

I didn’t care what she was.
What the price might be.

I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.

She pulled out a long parchment, scanned it, then took my hand and dragged my blood across it like ink.

Her hands pressed to my chest. She began to chant—

And the second I heard the words, I wanted them to stop.

The sound twisted the air. Warped it. My ears bled. My skin felt like it was peeling.

My vision blurred. I started to black out—

Then the chanting cut off.

She gasped. Surprised. Angry.

She yanked another scroll from her robes. Smeared more blood across it. Pressed harder this time, hands digging into my ribs.

Her voice was faster now. Unsteady.

Panicked.

This time, it worked.

I felt my lungs crack open like old wood, drawing in a ragged, shuddering breath. The fire in my leg dulled. The sensation of cold water returned—sharp and real.

The pain didn’t vanish. But I was alive again.

And the last thing I saw before my eyes closed was her face—relieved, glowing.

Watching me like I was hers.

Chapter Text

This blows.

Victoria Dallon crossed her arms and slouched back in her chair, expression caught somewhere between a pout and a glare as her eyes flicked between the other capes in the room, settling on her family seated nearby in the Rig’s briefing room. She sat sandwiched between her cousin Crystal and her sister Amy, and all three of them looked about as thrilled to be here as she felt.

It was Friday night. She and Dean had actual plans—like, cute outfit, possible dinner-and-a-movie kind of plans—and instead, she was here, stuck in a late-night debrief. The lights were too bright, the coffee smelled like it had been sitting for a week, and the mood in the room was heavy enough to drown in.

All because some brand-new Tinker decided to throw a wrench into downtown.

She glanced to her left where her mom sat, already giving her the classic “sit up straight or else” look. With a sigh, Victoria adjusted her posture, trying not to roll her eyes. She couldn’t help it. The whole situation felt like the universe had it out for her specifically.

Under normal circumstances, new Tinkers weren’t exactly panic worthy. Sure, they were unpredictable, sure, they were dangerous—but there was a pattern. They showed up, started poking around for weird components or buying out exotic metals, and someone clocked them. Then they either joined the Protectorate, got scooped up by a gang, or went rogue and inevitably got stomped out by NEPEA-5. This new one though fit the niche for something a little…a lot more volatile.

He hit the panic button.

Hard.

"Was it really that bad?" Victoria asked under her breath, glancing sideways at Amy.

Amy looked exhausted. Her robes still had stains from her shift at the hospital, and her eyes were shut, but her posture was tight—tense in that way that meant something was gnawing at her.

“It was ugly,” Amy muttered. “Whatever that gas was, it was targeting the amygdala directly. I’ve only seen neurological responses like that in patients with extreme trauma—full-blown panic, terror, fight-or-flight maxed out. Whatever this guy made, it’s designed to weaponize fear.”

Victoria’s stomach turned. There was a word everyone had been dancing around, the one nobody wanted to say out loud too early.

Bio-Tinker.

Some of the most notorious incidents in recent parahuman history had come from Bio-Tinkers. Nilbog. Bonesaw. Lab Rat. She didn’t need the PowerPoint slides to remember the body counts. You say "Bio-Tinker" and people listen.

“It’s not confirmed yet,” Crystal said softly, her voice hopeful but wary. “The analysts are still reviewing the footage.”

Amy cracked an eye open to give Crystal a withering stare. No words. Just a flat, tired really?

Crystal deflated with a sigh, her shoulders slumping. “...Just saying.”

Victoria resisted the urge to facepalm. Perfect. Just what she needed to round out the disaster that had been her day.

First, she had to ditch her morning fit—a perfect casual-cute combo that took actual planning—because a freaking bird-man decided to go berserk downtown. Then, after helping wrangle that nightmare fuel, she barely had time to shower before getting told to cancel any plans to attend this briefing.

Now here she was. Friday night. Surrounded by tired heroes and worse news.

And the worst part? She knew how this was going to go.

They’d talk about protocol. Issue stern warnings. And then deliver the real blow:

“Do not engage.”
“Let the adults handle it.”

Like hell.

She'd already engaged. That bird-man sure as hell wasn’t flying away with a smile on his beak. She’d bodied that overgrown pigeon like it owed her money.

And if she’d spotted the Tinker before he ghosted? She’d have floored him too. Dropped him at the Protectorate’s front door with a bow on top.

Instead, he slipped away, and she was stuck watching adults circle the problem like it didn’t just kick their front door in.

Some Friday night.

She was mid-daydream about planting her fist into the Tinker’s probably-pasty face when Director Piggot entered, looking like she’d chewed glass for breakfast and skipped sleep for a week. She gave the room a nod and gestured toward the front.

“Armsmaster. If you would.”

Armsmaster was already at the podium—of course he was—and began without preamble.

“At 0647 EST, February 7th, there were multiple 911 calls reporting a chemical attack downtown, near Empire territory. Initial assessments classified the event as a possible Shaker with an environmental effect. PRT response units were deployed, along with Dauntless and Velocity. After canvasing the scene, analyzing CCTV footage, and cross-referencing eyewitness accounts, we have determined the attack was initiated by a repurposed tear gas canister modified with Tinker-tech.”

He clicked the remote. A grainy image appeared—plumes of orange gas, people screaming, running.

“…the substance contained a chemical mixture that included derivatives of Solanum, Aconitum napellus, and Datura metel. Inhalation led to rapid-onset psychological breakdowns, intense fear responses, and—in one confirmed case—a parahuman trigger.”

The room fell silent.

Victoria’s breath caught. Trigger event.
Someone had gotten their powers from this.

“The new parahuman displayed a Changer-type transformation. Avian in appearance, with notable physical alterations including talons, wings, and enhanced musculature. Based on direct combat engagement with Glory Girl, as well as preliminary medical assessments, we’ve confirmed Mover and Striker capabilities, with indicators suggesting a low-level Brute secondary."

He tapped the remote, and a still image of the transformed individual flashed onto the screen.

"Current classification stands at Changer 2, Mover 3, Striker 2, Brute 1. Subject is in custody, currently sedated, and under medical observation.

Victoria blinked, her head finally connecting the dots. Wait—that was the guy that triggered? That bird-thing was that brand new? Victoria’s thoughts spiraled back—talons raking across her arm, the inhuman screech, the sheer weight of him when they collided. She’d assumed he was a mid-tier villain from out of town. Another gang cape. Not someone who got powers mid-fight.

She instinctively rubbed her ribs, remembering the impact. The claws. The weight.

Yeah. Brute tracks.

“No ID on the perpetrator?” someone asked.

Armsmaster nodded and gestured towards the screen. “Regarding the perpetrator: CCTV captured a green flash in a nearby parking lot where the suspect—now confirmed to be a Tinker—appeared with a crate of unknown contents. He was approached by Empire 88 members. Upon confrontation, he deployed the gas from a canister. Observed footage shows him studying the results before retreating. He assaulted and robbed one John A. Miller and fled in his vehicle with the crate loaded in the back.”

Victoria’s gut sank further. Bird man was a Nazi too? Great, just perfect. Another Empire cape, served up on a silver platter. Just what Brockton Bay needed—more Nazis with powers.

Another slide clicked into place.

Victoria’s eyes narrowed.

There he was.

Brown trench coat. Combat boots. A burlap mask with a stitched-on grin and two empty voids for eyes.

It was creepy in the worst possible way.

“Fingerprints from the canister led to an identification. The individual was identified as—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait a minute!” Velocity cut in, loud and incredulous, throwing his hands up like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What about the unwritten rules?”

Victoria glanced at Armsmaster, just in time to see him turn toward Director Piggot, whose glare could’ve melted titanium. She didn’t even blink. “Due to the severity of the situation, we are disregarding the anonymity protocols. Identification will aid in his swift apprehension.”

The mood in the room shifted—just slightly, just enough to be felt. Unease prickled at the edges. Violating the unwritten rules was never done lightly. But if this guy was a Bio-Tinker, all bets were off.

“As I was saying,” Armsmaster resumed. “The individual is Caesar J. Jimenez. Seventeen. Former Winslow High student. Expelled for selling narcotics on campus. Pending court action before disappearing a month ago.”

“Prior history includes multiple failed foster placements. No stable guardianship. Both biological parents deceased in a parahuman-related incident during early childhood.”

The next image appeared beside the first.

His unmasked photo.

Unmasked. Lean. Dark hair, messy and just long enough to fall into his eyes. Defined jaw. Tired, sharp gaze.

Her stomach flipped.

No. Absolutely not.

Of course the creep had to be hot. The tragic, probably-deranged villain kind of hot. The kind that made horrible decisions look good in leather.

Ugh.

Focus. He’s dangerous. A bad scarecrow guy. Not a real person. Just the bastard who ruined my—

“Using traffic footage, we traced him to Miller’s home. We established a full perimeter. Brockton Bay PD, PRT response teams, and Protectorate assets were deployed.”

He listed the team without missing a beat. “Dauntless, Velocity, Triumph, Assault, Battery, and I formed the breach team. Miss Militia provided overwatch, positioned northeast of the target location, armed with an L115A3 sniper platform. Standard containment formation.”

Another click. Thermal imaging appeared on-screen—blotches of red inside the house, one signature trailing from the living room toward the garage.

“I initiated contact via megaphone. Standard negotiation protocol. Instructed the suspect to surrender himself. There was no response.”

Pause. Another click.

“We breached the residence. It was empty.”

A few murmurs broke out among the Wards. Armsmaster continued without acknowledging them.

“The garage was open. Truck missing. John Miller’s, according to neighbors. Footage confirmed the vehicle had returned to the property an hour prior. Following inventory of the residence, several firearms were reported missing.”

A hand went up—Aegis.

Armsmaster nodded toward him.

“So… we were too late?” Carlos asked, lowering his hand. “He slipped the perimeter?”

“No,” Armsmaster replied, tone firm. “We were on time. We had a confirmed thermal signature inside the house. It was moving—until it reached the garage and abruptly disappeared.”

He looked around the room.

“Our current working theory is that Caesar is working in tandem with a Mover-class parahuman capable of remote extraction.

He advanced to the final slide—images of scorched chemical residue and a partially disassembled gas canister.

“This would explain how he acquired the ingredients for the attack. The substances used in the incident are highly controlled, difficult to synthesize, and are not available within local supply chains.

Vicky heard a low murmur run through the room again. The implications were clear.

“This individual demonstrated the ability to deploy a potent fear-inducing chemical weapon in broad daylight, evade pursuit, and escape a fully secured perimeter. Given these variables, we are classifying Caesar Jimenez as a Tinker 5 with a possible specialization in chemicals. He is to be considered highly unpredictable and extremely dangerous.”

He paused just long enough for the weight of that to settle, then turned back to the room.

“Questions?”

Mom raised her hand, voice cool and professional. “Has he been assigned a designation?”

Piggot answered, her voice sharp. “The Tinker will be referred to as Scarecrow. The new parahuman is designated Corvid.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow and leaned sideways. “Scarecrow wasn’t already taken?”

Crystal whispered back, “Pretty sure the original one disappeared years ago.”

Before Victoria could respond, Vista beat her to the next question. “What about the Mover? The one who teleported him?”

Armsmaster’s tone didn’t change. “Unknown. No visual confirmation. Due to demonstrated range, we’re designating them Mover 6, temporary codename: Extract.”

Off to the side, Assault gave a low whistle. “Scarecrow, and Extract. That’s a hell of a duo if they’re in cahoots.” Battery elbowed him hard, glaring.

“Thank you, Armsmaster,” Piggot said, stepping forward. The Director got up to podium and addressed us all with a cold stare.

“I won’t waste time explaining the obvious. A Tinker of this suspected category poses a critical risk not just to the Protectorate, but to every civilian in Brockton Bay. He must be apprehended before another incident occurs. Yes?”

Kid Win had his hand halfway raised. “Sorry, but—wasn’t Scarecrow… technically defending himself? The footage shows Empire 88 members attacking him. If he’s really a chemical Tinker, maybe the gas was the only tool he had that wasn’t lethal.”

Silence.

Victoria could practically feel the shift in the room. A few Wards looked thoughtful, while others disapproved of any defense of the suspected Bio-Tinker.

Piggot didn’t blink. Her lips drew into a line so tight it could’ve sliced paper. “That,” she said slowly, “is the only reason I haven’t issued a kill order.”

The silence after that hit harder.

Victoria sat up straighter. Kill orders were rare. Especially for teenage parahumans. Especially ones not confirmed villains.

“But,” Piggot went on, voice as sharp as her glare, “releasing a fear-based chemical agent in a populated public zone, regardless of motive, is not acceptable. It resulted in widespread trauma and the triggering of an Empire affiliate. Corvid is currently sedated and is pending to undergo psychological evaluation. Due to his age and prior record, we are initiating Protectorate recruitment protocols.”

The room practically exploded.

Voices from every corner—Wards, New Wave, even a few senior capes—fired back at once. Accusations, outrage, arguments. Victoria winced. The noise was a headache.

Piggot didn’t flinch.

She slammed her palm against the podium. CRACK.

“Enough.”

The room fell into uneasy silence, the last echoes of anger fizzling out.

“You don’t have to like it,” Piggot said, low and lethal. “I don’t like it. But this isn’t about comfort. It’s about resources. It’s about manpower. Our enemies are many. Our reach is stretched thin. And we do not have the luxury of wasting useful assets.”

Shadow Stalker, of course, didn’t let it go.

“So we give a Nazi a badge,” she said loudly, arms crossed, “and hope he doesn’t sell us out the second the Empire offers him a better deal?”

Piggot’s gaze snapped to her. Her voice dropped an octave, colder than winter steel. “He will be under heavy surveillance. If recruitment proceeds, I’ll push for immediate transfer. Away from Brockton Bay. Away from any group he could compromise. But until then, he remains under our jurisdiction, and we will use every tool at our disposal.”

There was more grumbling—muttered protests, exchanged looks—but the yelling stopped.

Piggot adjusted her tie with a stiff tug. “Moving on.”

“With the recent… leaks from within the PRT, we are operating under the assumption that Empire 88 will soon learn both Corvid’s identity and Scarecrow’s involvement. Corvid will be moved to a secure facility under heavy guard. The Empire may attempt a breakout. As for Scarecrow…”

She let the silence settle for a beat.

“…Once word gets out that his chemical weapon triggered a parahuman, he will become a target. Trigger farms are not a myth. They’re real. The Fallen use them. Yangban. Several villainous outfits overseas. We are not going to let Brockton Bay’s gangs get any ideas.”

Trigger farms. That kind of thing always felt like horror story material—until someone reminded you it was happening in some corner of the world, right now.

“Scarecrow must be apprehended. Alive, if possible,” Piggot said, stone-faced. “For his safety. For the publics. For stability. We do not need more uncontrolled triggers falling into the hands of criminal organizations.”

She clicked the remote. The projector switched to a slide showing a hazmat training outline and a blown-up image of a gas canister with annotations.

“Effective immediately,” Piggot continued, “all Wards and Protectorate members will undergo updated CBRN training. Chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear. No Ward is authorized to engage Scarecrow under any circumstance. If he is seen, you will report it. You will wait. You will not engage.”

The groan that rippled through the room was instant, universal, and oh-so-predictable.

Called it.

Victoria didn’t even bother hiding her eye roll. She’d felt that one coming from a mile away.

Piggot raised her hand like she was physically restraining herself from throwing the remote. “Any Ward who disobeys this directive will wish their punishment is just Console duty.”

Victoria saw Clockblocker slowly slide down in his seat like he was trying to become one with the chair. She noticed that Armsmaster had tapped his earpiece.

Finally—like she was pulling a molar—Piggot turned to the New Wave section of the room.

Her expression didn’t shift, but her voice dipped into something colder than the rest of the briefing. “Any assistance from New Wave… would be appreciated.”

Aunt Sarah, calm and professional as always, offered a simple, “New Wave will assist as needed.”

Director Piggot huffed before continuing, “Furthermore, we will-“

“Director.”

Armsmaster’s voice cut in. Calm. Certain.

Piggot turned on him. “What?”

Unfazed. “The police have Scarecrow in custody. He turned himself in.”

The silence that followed was nuclear.

And the look on Piggot’s face?

Yeah, Victoria had to fight not to smile.

Chapter Text

The bed was too soft.

Too warm.

It felt like I was sinking into myself—like if I stopped thinking, I might disappear altogether.

Since waking up in that ruined warehouse, I hadn’t truly relaxed. Even in the Grove, where the air smelled like wet bark and something close to peace, I never really let myself rest. Maybe because I was still wary about them turning me away. Or worse.

My thoughts drifted, weightless. When had I gotten here? Where was here? The last thing I remembered was…was…

I shot upright, every nerve on high alert. My breath caught. My chest rose and fell too fast. I was half-dressed—pants only—and even those looked untouched. Like they hadn’t been half-dissolved by acid, like they weren’t soaked in blood and dirt hours ago. I ran a hand down my spine.

I remembered the break. The sound of it. My back snapping against stone like dry twigs underfoot. Pain so sharp it felt unreal. Then... nothing.

But now?

Now I could feel.

I wasn’t paralyzed.

Panic flared, chased by something colder. I remembered her.

The winged woman.

I turned sharply, eyes scanning the room for her—but stopped short.

The heat hit first. A smoldering warmth that clung to my skin like sweat in a fever. Not painful—just… present . The room was too large, too ornate. The bed beneath me was massive, wrapped in velvet the color of spilt wine, its frame inscribed with golden runes I couldn’t read. Everything shimmered, but nothing felt alive.

Then there was the fire.

A demon’s maw carved into the stone wall held violet flames that flickered and danced without heat. They cast shifting shadows, deep and long, and I couldn’t tell if the whispering came from the flames or from somewhere inside my skull.

My eyes were drawn toward the balcony—an open archway that beckoned like a wound in the world.

I climbed off the bed and stepped forward, barefoot on cold stone.

And what I saw beyond the threshold stole the breath from my lungs.

No sun. No moon. No stars.

Only a sky choked with ember-laced storm clouds, burning and rolling across the horizon like a slow apocalypse. Lightning forked through them, silent and white-hot. Below, the world stretched like a graveyard for titans—cracked obsidian, twisted metal, rivers that glowed like veins of magma. It pulsed with punishment.

It looked like Hell.
Felt like Hell.
Maybe it was.

I didn’t know the rules here. I didn’t even know the rules of the last world. And somehow, I was myself in-between both.

My hand subconsciously wandered to the silver cross around my neck

“Dios Mio” I whispered.

Behind me, a sound. Not footsteps.

A purr.

I spun around fast, heart in my throat.

She was there.

Wings folded like silk behind her. That smirk—sharp enough to wound, and confident in a way that said she’d already won. 

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” she asked, as if she hadn’t just caught me between awe and full-blown panic.

I swallowed. My back hit the cold iron of the balcony rail. The air behind me raged and burned.

“Breathtaking would be understating it,” I said, voice tight.

I wasn’t gonna tell her that she was too, I wanted to know where the fuck I was before I complimented someone.

“I don’t think I caught your name, miss?” I forced out with a shaky smile, hands gripping the railing until my knuckles went white. I had a horrible feeling that I knew what she was considering what the fuck I just saw.

She smiled wider—knowing, amused.

“What a polite young man. I chose well.” Her voice oozed power, wings flaring with theatrical flair. “You may call me Mizora. Your new patron.”

Patron? My brain tripped over itself trying to connect dots that didn’t fit.

“Patron?” I echoed, eyebrows drawn.

She laughed softly, but there was steel behind it. I didn’t think it was possible for her smile to get even more sinister, but I was quickly proven wrong. 

“You made a deal, Caesar. You signed a contract—in your own blood.”

She snapped her fingers.

A burst of flame erupted midair. From it unfurled a long piece of parchment, unrolling on its own like it was alive. The material shimmered—edges like razors, surface like wet skin. Blood-red ink formed symbols that danced and twisted between languages I didn’t know but felt.

My pulse thundered in my ears.

The heat pressed in. The fire. The room. Her. Everything screamed the same truth. Everything I was desperately trying to ignore.

I just didn’t want to believe it.

I looked at her, eyes wide. My voice cracked. “You’re the Devil.”

Her laugh was musical. “A devil,” she corrected, casually grabbing my hand and guiding me by the hand like a caretaker. “Not the Devil. Though I’m flattered you thought so.” 

She led me to a table of polished volcanic glass. The contract settled neatly onto it. She slipped on a pair of tiny reading glasses—absurdly dainty—and scanned the text.

Then she cleared her throat.

“Now. Let’s get started, shall we? In the year 1492 of Dale Reckoning, you—Caesar Jaques Jimenez—willingly signed an infernal contract. Your desires: the restoration of your health and the promise of companionship. In exchange... something of equal value.”

She gave a strained shark-like smile.

“Normally, that would be your soul. But due to... complications, your life will have to suffice.”

Everything stopped. The whispering. The ringing in my ears. My brain locked onto one phrase.

Complications.

“My soul is still mine?” I said, the first flicker of hope rising in my chest like a breath after drowning.

Her eyes narrowed. The smile didn’t disappear—it compressed .

“It would seem your soul cannot be freely given,” she said, tone sharp with curiosity. “Fascinating. That only happens when the client’s soul is already bound.”

She studied my face like she was waiting for something to click.

“Well?” she asked. “Care to explain?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Nothing. I felt like a fish drowning in the air.

There’s no fucking way my souls already been sold before, right? No way my past self was that stupid?! What the fuck was I thinking?!

Her expression twisted into delighted malice. “Interesting. You don’t remember.” 

“You can tell?” I muttered.

She stepped in close, her voice a whisper. “We are linked now, Caesar. Soul or no soul—I can peek inside whenever I like. And oh…what a catch I’ve made.”

She lifted my chin with one clawed finger, dragging it gently across my cheek. Her eyes gleamed.

“Why me?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

Her smile dimmed—not gone, just pulled back into something sharper. Clinical. Calculated. 

“I was going to use you to spread my influence across your home plane,” she said, her voice calm, like she was explaining the weather. “You're a Planeswalker. Rare. Valuable. I wasn’t the only one watching you when you landed in Faerûn. But I got to you first. And now—” she grinned again “—now I know you’re receiving...insights from beyond. You represent far more than just influence.”

She suddenly turned back to the contract like I was paperwork she was tired of filing.

“Now,” she said, her voice professional and edged like a knife, “let’s go over the terms.”

Her tone was mechanical and exact. “Clause One: The client will obey all directives issued by their patron. Failure to comply will result in punishment. Clause Two: Client shall not act in defiance of infernal interest. Clause Three…”

It went on.

And on.

Two straight hours of infernal legalese, spoken like scripture through teeth sharp enough to tear steel. I sat in silence the whole time, wondering who the hell I must have pissed off for my life to turn out like this…

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When she finally finished, there wasn’t even a copy for me. No document to tuck away. No version to review. Just her voice echoing in my head, and the knowledge that she wouldn’t repeat a single word unless it was to bitch at me for breaking one.

All in all, it really wasn’t all that bad. 

…Alright it was pretty bad. 

I was basically a slave in every way that mattered, just without the chains. But I wasn’t completely powerless. I could still act on my own goals—move toward what I wanted, so long as I played along when Mizora came calling.

Disobeying, though? Failing? I didn’t want to imagine what punishment looked like in the eyes of a devil.

I must’ve had some expression on my face, because I felt a pointed toe press against my shoulder. 

I turned my head up, and there she was.

Mizora sat perched on the edge of the volcanic glass table like it was her throne, like this whole goddamn infernal manor was just an extension of her body. Her legs crossed just enough to keep the image suggestive without slipping into full indecency. The dress she wore was barely holding itself together—thin, silky fabric clinging to curves like it was scared to fall off. The slit on her thigh rode high, and when she uncrossed her legs, it parted with a languid grace that felt intentional.

My breath caught.

Her foot lingered against me for a second longer, talon-like toes curling lightly into my shoulder before sliding back. Her smile shifted again—less predator, more temptation. Serpent, not shark.

“You don’t have to look so dour, pet,” she purred. “Having me as a patron won’t be all misery. There’s give and take in these kinds of pacts, after all.”

She uncrossed her legs slowly, luxuriously, the slit of her dress parting just enough to make my breath hitch. The fabric clung to her like smoke, the only thing preserving the barest illusion of modesty.

My face burned.

My eyes flicked up, then away, and then—traitorously—back again. 

She noticed. Of course she fucking noticed. 

“I did promise you companionship, didn’t I?” she said, voice like silk on skin. Her foot moved again—trailing down my chest, lower now, until it pressed gently against my thigh.

I froze.

Absolutely, completely froze.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I didn’t even know what past me might’ve done with a situation like this. All I knew was that current-me felt like a high schooler who got dropped into a weird demon-themed adult film without warning and absolutely no prep.

She tilted her head at me, smirking wider, like she could read every thought tripping over itself in my skull.

“You serve me well,” she murmured, trailing her foot a fraction lower—pressing lightly against the bulge in my pants, the one I was trying very hard not to acknowledge. “And I’ll give you everything. Power. Fortune. Worship. Or perhaps... pleasure .”

I tensed, breath caught in my throat. She didn’t press hard—just enough to remind me she was in control. That she could take anything I wanted and dangle it like bait.

Then, just as fast as it had all started, she dropped her foot and stood up—leaving me aching, flushed, and completely scrambled.

“Of course,” she added breezily, turning away with a flick of her tail, “you’ll need to be prepared if you’re to represent me properly. Can’t have one of my champions stumbling around with no magic to speak of.”

She glanced back at me over her shoulder, horns silhouetted against the violet firelight, that damned smirk still tugging at her lips.

“Come along. It’s time to teach you some spells.”

And just like that, she walked off into the depths of the infernal manor, hips swaying, tail curling lazily behind her.

I sat there for a second, still reeling, still trying to catch my breath—and honestly, still hard —as my brain scrambled to make sense of what had just happened.

Then the words finally caught up.

“…Spells?” I repeated dumbly, before scrambling to my feet and hurrying after her.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The place Mizora led me to wasn’t meant for mortals.

It looked like some unholy fusion between a cathedral built to worship sin and a torture chamber sculpted by an artist with a hard-on for agony. Towering obsidian pillars rose to a vaulted ceiling shrouded in endless shadow, their surfaces veined with infernal runes that pulsed like living arteries—slow, rhythmic, like a heartbeat too massive to belong to anything sane. Braziers lined the walls, but the flames they held weren’t fire. They burned cold, flickering with colorless light, illuminating nothing and making everything feel colder.

In the center of the chamber stood a raised platform—polished ruby glass ringed in black iron and wrapped in binding sigils. A summoning circle was carved deep into its surface, still warm, like something terrible had recently been dragged screaming into it. The air above it shimmered faintly, like heatwaves rising from a corpse.

I don’t know how long I stayed in Avernus. Time doesn’t work right there. It stretches and compresses and warps until it stops mattering. Days felt like hours. Hours felt like weeks. The only constants were the weight of the heat, the ever-present stench of brimstone, and Mizora’s voice ringing through my skull as she tutored me like a wicked schoolmistress.

She didn’t waste time sugarcoating anything. I was in Hell. I had made a pact, blood-signed and sealed. She had the rights to my service, and I had the responsibility to not fuck it up.

Spellcraft came first. The basics. She drilled the theory into me—verbal, somatic, material components. The rhythm of words that bent reality, the shape of gestures that directed intent. She whispered the true names of dead gods, made me recite the primal syllables used by the first casters who’d ever twisted the weave. Between sessions, she taught me about the Nine Hells: the hierarchy, the infernal contracts, the Blood War. Always, always the Blood War. A cosmic meat grinder between devils and demons, endless and ravenous.

Honestly, without any context, most of it went over my head. No surprise there. I didn’t grow up in Faerûn. I didn’t even remember my own life back on Earth, and now I was expected to recognize the difference between a Balor and a Pit fiend?

So, I focused on the part I could try to understand: spells.

My first cantrip was Prestidigitation. Mizora called it the “Babies first spell for mages.” I didn’t get it at first, but it grew on me. Being able to clean myself, flavor stale food, create light or sparks—it was the magical equivalent of a multi-tool. I decided to keep it.

Then came Eldritch Blast —the bread and butter of warlocks across the planes apparently. Simple, efficient, and better damage than most ranged spells at my level. I liked the force behind it. It made me feel like I had teeth.

My actual spells were a little more situational, but I didn’t complain. I was barely more than a normal guy not too long ago, and now I was manipulating reality. I picked Comprehend Languages —because if I was going to be walking between worlds, I needed to know what the hell people were saying. Seemed obvious.

Hellish Rebuke —that one was a bastard. 

She flicked her wrist and conjured a small flame in midair, letting it hover over her palm. “Focus,” she instructed. “Magic is intent given form. Power without will is just noise.” She moved with casual grace, hips swaying as she circled the summoning circle, her heels clicking against the stone floor. “Speak the incantation. Feel it in your chest. Imagine the result like it’s already happened. Then release.”

I tried. Several times. Eldritch Blast was straightforward enough—point and shoot. I could do that. But when I tried to conjure  Hellish Rebuke, nothing happened. No flame. No heat. Just frustration. I grit my teeth and try again.

Nothing.

Behind me, she sighed with the kind of dramatic disappointment only a devil could master. “You’re not afraid enough,” she said, walking toward me slowly. “The spell is reactive. It feeds on pain. Fear. Rage. The way you trembled beneath me earlier? That was good. Real. Right now, you’re too focused on being correct.”

She stepped close, too close, her fingers trailing up my arm. “You need to be hurt, Caesar. Just a little. Just enough to feel it.” Before I could respond, her clawed hand raked across my back. Not hard enough to draw blood—but the sting was sharp, fast, and searing. My breath hitched.

The magic answered.

Flames erupted from my body in a burst, searing outward towards Mizora in a wave of red and gold. The edges of my vision pulsed. Heat radiated from my skin. I hadn’t said the incantation. I hadn’t needed to.

Mizora hummed in approval while she bathed in infernal fire, stepping back into the cold shadows with a delighted smile. “There it is. Isn’t pain a wonderful teacher?” Her wings flexed as she watched me breathe through the aftershock. “Now you’re starting to look like a warlock.”

I let out a small smile at that. I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My throat felt raw. My body ached. But under all of that—beneath the exhaustion and the sting—there was a new feeling rising in my chest.

I think it was pride.

Mizora watched me with a smug little smirk, her eyes glowing as faint red runes began to light up in a circle around me—like veins beneath stone, pulsing hotter and brighter with every second. I looked around, confused. The heat rising off the sigils kissed my legs. Something ancient stirred in the air.

Then she was in front of me.

Her clawed hands took my face with sudden gentleness, fingers sharp against my cheeks. She smiled wider, indulgent and delighted, like a proud mother about to ruin her child’s life. “You asked for a second little thing, remember?” Her voice was sweet and venomous. “It’s time I fulfilled it.”

She pressed her lips to my sweaty forehead.

The kiss burned.

It wasn’t heat—it was branding. The sigils flared around me and then surged upward, slamming through me like lightning through a lightning rod. It wasn’t pain exactly, but it wasn’t far off. I felt something open inside me—like a door I hadn’t realized was locked, now kicked off its hinges.

And through it poured something vile.

I staggered, dizzy, as new senses bled into my mind. I felt ambition pour from Mizora like perfume—thick and overwhelming. I felt hunger. Lust. A cold, calculating greed so dense it made my stomach twist. I didn’t know what I was experiencing until it clicked—like the moment I’d gained a new insight before. The same pressure behind the eyes, it whispered the truth in my skull.

“They don’t stay because they care. They stay because you pay. And isn’t that so much easier?”

This cursed gift from a fiend allows you to detect individuals who are emotionally or morally weak enough to consider selling their time, loyalty, or body. To you, companionship is now a commodity, and you can smell the transaction lingering behind every smile.

It was commodified loneliness.

My stomach turned. I stepped back, visibly shaken, but she just smiled—warm, patient, mocking. “You asked for companionship,” she said. “So I gave you the tools to find it. It’s not my fault if the world is transactional.”

She must’ve been detecting my thoughts because she scoffed and patted my cheek like a naive child. 

“It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” She whispered softly, her hands dragging across from neck before letting go.

“I didn’t—” I choked, but my voice failed me. She was already stepping back into the dark.

“You’ve spent enough time down here. You’re not ready, not really—but you’ll learn. Out there, experience teaches harder than I ever could.” Her voice softened again. “Go with my blessing.”

The runes around me erupted in light. The kiss on my forehead throbbed, and a pressure built in my chest like a cork about to blow. My breath caught as the light consumed me. Mizora raised a hand and gave me a flippant little wave, mouthing a word I didn’t need to hear to understand:

Adios.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I blinked.

When my vision cleared, I was standing boots-deep in cold creek water.

The same one. Same forest. Same bridge looming above, casting a shadow across the stream. It was late in the night from what I could tell. Crickets chirped, wind rustled through the trees, and the distant hoot of an owl reminded me I was finally back in a world that breathed.

But nothing felt the same.

I stood there for a long minute, just existing. Taking in the feel of wet stone beneath my feet, the night air in my lungs, the weight of the infernal brand still simmering on my skin.

And then I remembered what I’d gained.

The joy of learning magic—the childlike awe of conjuring flame, of making light dance, of being more than human—was gone. Sullied. Mizora had twisted my wish with the precision of a scalpel. I’d asked not to be alone.

So, she gave me a way to buy company.

I got a bastardized version of companionship. From what I could understand, I would be able to exploit people’s greed or desperation. That none of the connections I make in the future would be real knowing what I shouldn’t know. My breath was beginning to grow hoarse. I knew that I was lonely, that the fear toxin picked at the sore spot. But to have a real-life devil twist my wish? 

My jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. My fists curled. Of course a devil would twist it. It was how all the old cautionary tales went. You ask for what your heart aches for, and the devil hands you what they interpret what you want. 

But this wasn’t the end of my story.

I swore, right then, it wouldn’t end her way.

I would use this cursed sense only when I had to—but I would never let it define how I saw people. I would find real connections. Real companionship. I would break this contract one day. There had to have been others that have broken free from their patrons. And my soul wasn’t hers.

I just had to find a way.

I shook off the horrible feelings and let out a deep breath before I started to scale the rocky hill. As I climbed, I thought about my time in Avernus. How terrified I was, how that fear turned to boredom real fast with all the rules and stipulations bullshit with my contract. How boredom turned to excitement with learning magic. That was until she gave me that sense. Until then, I was almost fine with my arrangement. A life of servitude for my body restored was fair no? Then I was reminded what kind of fucked up monster I was working for.  

Mizora practically ran circles around my emotions like a goddamn Olympic sprinter. 

I was truly fooled there. I was so socially starved that I treated her like a mentor figure and lowered my guard in record time. I was just so damn desperate for someone to talk to…and I had gotten my hopes up.

I hated myself for it.

I seethed till I finally reached the top, my hands were raw, my clothes torn and muddy. I was really fucking annoyed till I remembered I didn’t have to deal with shit anymore. I growled under my breath and raised my hand, murmuring the incantation. Prestidigitation. My skin tingled as the grime vanished and my clothes reappeared crisp and clean like I’d never touched the dirt.

I let out a breath of satisfaction—until I looked ahead.

There, splayed across the bridge, was the monster that had broken me.

It wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing. Its corpse lay in a mangled ruin—stomach and intestines exposed, its neck and face a mangled mash of gashes. Its green flesh was bloated and torn, scattered across the blood-slick stone. Vultures were already feasting, their beaks buried deep in soft tissue. Insects swarmed in clusters over black-red gore.

Its skull was ripped open from the outside. One eye socket was empty, the flesh around it blackened and slick with the remnants of a now-burst eyeball—the entry point of the fear toxin. A bent metal needle-glove, the one I had jammed, still clung to the ragged orbital bone. Horrid blood sprayed in wild arcs as if it had spun in circles, swiping at phantoms only it could see.

The toxin made it rip itself apart. 

The cold logical part of me wanted to examine it’s remains closely, find out from its corpse why it had reacted the way that it did. Was it from the injection point being too close to the brain? Were these things more susceptible to the toxin?

The emotional aspect of me wanted to kick its face in for a good minute. If these things had never shown up, I would’ve been completely fine. The goblins would’ve stayed dead, and I could’ve made it on my way. I wouldn’t have needed to make a contract with a god forsaken devil, I wouldn’t have had to spend who knows how long in Avernus, and I wouldn’t have an insidious sixth sense for corruption.

In the end, I settled for just spitting on its corpse. I saw the double barrel that I had dropped still on the bridge. I reached down and inspected it. Some scuffs on the metal and some dents on the stock, but nothing life-threatening. Good enough. I popped open the breech, slid two fresh shells in with a satisfying click, then stashed it back in my bag. No way in hell I was gonna get caught with an empty shotgun. I couldn’t afford to out here.

With that done, I pushed forward.

I ignored the corpses of the goblins and pushed into the center of the village. I didn’t see any of the other monsters like the one on the bridge. I saw signs of a fight, dents in the frames of the old houses, old blood littering the ground, but no bodies. They must have been wailing fists onto each other, before their minds eventually recovered. I kept my guard on high alert. I knew better now than to underestimate those ugly bastards. I looked around the broken village with my nose curled in disgust. Even though I was trying to ignore the goblin corpses, it was hard too considering there were almost dozens upon dozens of flies and hundreds of ants swarming onto their putrid bodies. The air practically hummed with their endless feasting. 

The thought of pushing further into this graveyard of a town made me want to drop my exploration and head back to the grove. I had enough ingredients to create some healing potions alongside some other useful ones to repay the tiefling’s kindness for sheltering me.

I was already beginning to turn back when I noticed off to the right of me, a battered sign of an apothecary that swung lazily in the moonlight. The paint was peeling, the letters nearly worn away by time, but the symbol was still visible. A faded mortar and pestle surrounded by curling vines.

I took a long look and decided to take the risk, reloading the rest of my guns before I forgot. I walked into the old building and casted Prestidigitation again, this time for some light.

Inside the apothecary, the conjured light that slips through shattered windows slants across a space in ruin: toppled shelves, broken jars scattered across the floor, their contents congealed into blackened, sticky stains. Bundles of desiccated herbs still hang limply from the ceiling beams, spinning slightly on invisible drafts—an eerie reminder that this place once thrived with life and careful craft.

The counters are splintered, deep gouges raked into the wood as if from desperate hands or clawed beasts. Old, brittle pages from ledger books flutter across the floor like wounded birds, their ink faded, the recipes for tinctures and poultices lost to decay.

There were some cabinets lined with rows of old books and empty glass containers. I was tempted to dump them all into my bag, but the space wasn’t infinite. I wanted to check out the rest of the building first before I started looting like that. There were also some sealed potions on the shelves behind the counter. I took a real close look at them and was able to identify them on sight alone. Two common healing potions, three antidotes, and one potion of animal speaking. Instantly dumped them in my bag. I was about to move behind the counter to grab some of the hanging herbs when my boots stepped on something loose. I looked down to see a cellar door.

I paused looking at it. There was a nagging feeling of danger down there. I listened to my gut and pulled out the Shorty.

I popped open the cellar. Darkness yawned below me, thick and heavy, swallowing the conjured light almost instantly.

I flicked my hand again, creating a second light and tossing it down into the abyss. It hovered, illuminating rough stone stairs and the faint hint of something… deeper.

Nothing moved.

Nothing yet.

So I began to climb down.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hooooly shit.

This cellar was practically a gold mine.

The ladder groaned and creaked beneath my weight as I lowered myself down, every rung threatening to snap and dump me on my ass. The stale breath of the long-forgotten wafting up to meet me. A curling draft carries the faint scent of moldering herbs, spoiled fruit, and something sharper—chemical and metallic, like old blood left to dry in the cracks of stone.

All around the room are the remains of a once-thriving alchemical workspace — a chaotic graveyard of knowledge and ambition. Sturdy worktables, scarred and blackened by countless experiments, are cluttered with shattered glassware: broken beakers, cracked alembics, and stained mortar and pestles. Tangles of copper tubing, bent and tarnished green, twist through makeshift distillation rigs that sag under their own weight.

Shelves line the damp walls, many bowed under the weight of their burden or collapsed entirely. Dusty jars sit in precarious piles — some still sealed, others knocked open to spill their contents across the floor. I glimpsed brittle sprigs of blackened herbs, resinous globs of unknown origins, and cloudy vials filled with liquids that pulse faintly with unnatural hues.

I saw crates in the corner with what I could only assume to have ingredients or more alchemical equipment. 

Everything I needed.

I could make the potions to repay the tiefling’s for their kindness—and have more than enough left over for myself. I didn’t waste a second. Excitement prickled along my skin like static, gnawing away the last scraps of exhaustion clinging to me. I rolled up my sleeves, pulled the scarecrow mask out of my bag—if anything did blow up in my face, I wasn’t eating glass today—and shoved everything else out of my mind.

The first brew was simple. Comforting, almost. I snagged a chipped mortar, dropped in a handful of dried rogue’s morsel , and ground it into dust under the pestle. The brittle herb crumbled easy under pressure, releasing a sharp, peppery scent. I added careful drops of wispwater —pale blue, almost translucent—and watched it swirl hypnotically. In a soot-stained alembic, I stirred in sylvanroot sap, thick and amber, bleeding slow like a wounded tree, and a generous pinch of feverweed to punch up the potency.

I scavenged what passed for a burner—a cobbled-together mess of copper tubing and cracked ceramic—and teased a thin, stubborn flame out of the ruined coil. It hissed angrily but held.

Measure. Mix. Stir. Boil. Distill.

The rhythm pulled me under. I barely noticed time bleeding away, swallowed by the work. The world beyond the cellar didn’t exist.

When I finally blinked and looked up, an hour had passed, and twenty-five healing potions—ranging from regular commons to gleaming pints of superior brew—sat cooling in rows of salvaged phials. Each one gleamed like captured light. My fingertips tingled just looking at them.

But I didn’t stop.

I couldn’t stop.

Something inside me wouldn’t let me.

A hunger gnawed at the edges of my mind—something stitched there. Power. Knowledge. More.

I cracked open another ancient jar. A cloud of powdered salamander ash exploded into my face, burning my nostrils. It still carried a faint, malicious heat even after gods-knew-how-long. Perfect.

I scooped a mound into a battered crucible, added a shot of volatile spirit drawn from a cracked vial, then crushed cinderwort between my palms until my skin stung and blistered. When I poured it into the flame, the brew roared—spitting molten flecks like an angry beast. I stirred until it settled into a viscous, orange-red sludge that buzzed in its vial like a living thing. One sip, and I'd be spitting fire like a goddamn dragon.

Still not enough.

I found a shattered glass dome housing skyblossom petals — weightless flowers that had fossilized mid-bloom. They disintegrated at the touch, but I caught the dust in a small dish and folded it gently into a vial of drift oil. I added three drops of feather essence, drawn from a preserved vial etched with an elven sigil I didn’t bother deciphering. The instant the third drop hit, the entire mixture floated an inch off the table. No heat. No bubbles. Just quiet, impossible suspension. It hovered in my hand as I corked it, the glass warm and unsettlingly light. If I concentrated, I could feel it tugging upward. It didn’t want to be held. It wanted the sky. Flight would be handy. 

Not nearly enough.

Another discovery: giant’s ivy — a thick vine that had wound itself around a cracked ceiling beam, strangling it like a python. I ripped down the freshest leaves, steeped them in myconid broth —thick, gray, stinking of mushrooms and rot—and laced it with verdant bloom spores that drifted like pollen motes in the dark. The resulting liquid was a gleaming emerald, so vibrant it almost hurt to look at. Drink it, and I'd grow bigger, stronger—maybe monstrous.

Almost there.

I peeled apart a handful of ghostleaf —rare, precious, pale as snowdrift silk. Even half-withered, it pulsed faintly under my touch. I ground it into a slick, opalescent paste, mixing it carefully with thick, sticky veilroot extract . Over the flame, I folded in crushed moonshade petals —petals that smelled faintly of frost and twilight.

The potion turned clear as mountain spring water. But when I moved the vial, it vanished from sight, swallowed whole by the surrounding light.

A potion of invisibility.

One sip—and I could disappear like a ghost on the wind.

By the time I finally sat back, my hands were shaking. My vision swam, edges blurry, everything too bright and too sharp all at once.

The shelves and tables groaned under the weight of my work. Healing potions. Fire breath. Giant form. Flight. Invisibility.

A pocketful of promises.

And I still wasn’t satisfied.

“One more” I whispered to myself. I was barely standing on my two feet from how long I’ve worked down here.

I grabbed the emberberries — tiny, shriveled fruits that still pulsed with faint heat when held too long. I crushed them with the flat of a switchblade and scraped them into a boiling flask. The juice was thick and syrupy, blood-red. I added earthroot resin, drawn from a jar sealed with wax and teeth marks, and stirred it with a carved bone rod until the liquid bubbled like a beating heart.

Next came the hard part: troll bile. It had to be fresh, but I made do. A thick glob of it went in last — it clashed with everything in the mixture, and for a moment I thought I’d ruined it. The whole thing curdled, hissed… then snapped clear. A sudden shimmer, and the bubbling went still.

When I lifted the flask from the burner, the brew had transformed.

Deep crimson, rich like old blood, swirled with veins of gold that moved lazily through it—slow, serpentine streaks like molten lightning coiled under skin. It shimmered in the dim light of the cellar, thick and viscous, and gave off a scent like freshly-sliced citrus mixed with wet iron. Sharp. Surgical. Not pleasant. Not meant to be pleasant. This was a potion designed to cauterize the soul.

One swallow, and it would burn the rot out of your blood, flush fatigue from your marrow, and stitch your strength back together from the inside out. It wouldn’t coddle you. It would purge you.

I grabbed a battered iron ladle from the counter, dipped it in, and brought it to my lips. The liquid looked like liquefied rubies.

The moment it hit my tongue, I flinched and nearly spat it back out. My throat spasmed. My eyes watered. It tasted like someone had boiled down a lightning strike and bottled it. Bitter, metallic, with an aftertaste that made my molars ache.

No chance in hell I’d get used to it.

But the second it hit my gut, it ignited.

There was a snap inside me—like a circuit connecting—and suddenly, I was alive again. The ache in my back from hours of hunching over the bench? Gone. The raw burn in my shoulders, the itch behind my eyes, the deep fatigue curling in my spine? Evaporated. My breath steadied. My thoughts sharpened.

I felt good.

Hell, I felt better than good.

I leaned back against the wall, breathing slow, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Proud of my work, I finally sat back to rest.

Brewed more in one night than I bet most alchemical apprentices ever got to study in an entire year.

I wasn’t just surviving anymore.

I was thriving.

There were other potions on my list that I wanted to tackle. Gaseous and Aqueous form, etherealness, giant size, and the one I didn’t even consider due to how fantastical it seemed. 

The one above all. A potion that would let me wear the power of dragons like a second skin. Dragons Majesty.

The catch? It needed pieces of a dragon. Real pieces. Scales, blood, heartstone. No way around it.

I had no idea how I was going to get my hands on any of that—but I'd find a way.

I had to.

Potions like climbing and slipperiness didn’t catch my attention. Philter of love was basically just a date rape potion so screw that. And the less said about the Lichnee potion, the better.

My next project had me excited. I was going to try and incorporate exotic ingredients into the fear toxin formula. Since the usual ingredients were just common toxic plants from back home, the formula should be stronger since this world's ingredients were significantly more potent.

I was already coming up with new applications that the toxin can be utilized for. I would make any anti-toxins just in case I get dosed or else. Make some strains that take effect through skin contact. A more lethal version of the toxin would need to be synthesized as well. Something that can put down or stun any of the fantastical monsters in this world. Maybe a sort of adrenaline-fear based drug to enhance speed and induce hysterical strength? 

The possibilities kept coming.

I was already moving toward the stacked crates, searching for any ingredients left or exotic to use, when something caught my eye.

Tucked behind the crates, half-hidden in the gloom: a lever.

I froze.

All the giddy adrenaline drained right out of me. My paranoia, dulled by hours of brewing, roared back awake. A lever. Here. In an abandoned alchemist's cellar. Just waiting.

My gut twisted. This was sitting here this whole time and I didn’t notice? And what the fuck did it activate?

Still—curiosity was a bitch, and her claws were in my brain.

I tightened my grip on the Shorty, snapped a healing potion to my belt just in case, and—before my survival instincts could scream louder— yanked the lever down.

Too late to second-guess.

The lever groaned and creaked like a dying thing. Somewhere behind me, I heard grinding stone.

I spun around, shotgun raised—

—and stared.

One of the crumbling bookcases was moving .

Sliding aside like a secret door straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon.

A hidden passageway yawning open, cold air breathing out of the black.

I just stood there for a second, jaw slack.

Then I shook my head slowly and muttered under my breath, voice dry and rough:

"Fucking fantasy world. Fucking cartoon bullshit."

And then, of course—I walked straight in.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a cave system connected to the cellar. As if it wasn’t big enough on its own. The air in the cave was wet , clinging to my skin like a second layer. The ground sloped downward, the tunnel winding in slow, uneven spirals that felt almost deliberate . The walls were uneven, claw-marked in some places, slick with fungal growth in others. Strange, pale mushrooms sprouted from cracks in the stone, pulsing softly with bioluminescence. Further in, the ceiling opened up into a broader cavern. Pools of stagnant water shimmered between stalagmites, their surfaces broken by slow drips echoing from above. There was light flowing through several cracks of the cave that let me see forward. It must’ve been early morning or the afternoon. 

The first thing that really caught my attention were the caskets that were strewn around the cave floor. I counted eight of them. 

There was a workbench—half-collapsed and damp with age. A rusted pickaxe leaned against the stone, and atop the bench was an open journal filled with script I couldn’t read. I thought about casting Comprehend Languages right then and there—but held off. Priorities. 

I had my Shorty in both hands when I tried to kick one of the casket lids. 

That's when the fucking lid popped off flying and real moving skeleton wrapped in crumbling armor and reeking death, shot up with unnatural speed—its bow already raised in skeletal hands before I even registered it was moving.

I staggered back, almost slipping on damp rock, but muscle memory took over.

First shot— boom —blew its right arm clean off, sending its humerus and everything attached flying across the cavern in a spray of rust and bone. I pumped the slide, lined up, and fired again.

Second shattered his femur in pieces, making it crash onto the rock floor with clatter of old metal and cracked bone—but it wasn’t down for the count. It started crawling —dragging itself toward the other caskets with desperate, twitchy movements.

My courage finally found, I moved forward and placed my boot on its spine and pumped one last time as I aimed at its cranium.

The shot echoed in the cavern. Bone shards flew—some slashed through my sleeve, one even nicked my jaw. I barely felt it. I was too wired.  I stood there, panting, heart slamming in my ribs. Not injured. Just rattled with fighting an animated skeleton. There was something wrong about how it moved—too fast, too focused. Like it was protecting something. Or trying to trigger something else.

I reloaded the Shorty with shaking hands for more surprises. I didn’t have an infinite amount of shells but I was curious to see if all of them were the same. 

Casket two didn’t spring to life. Just another skeleton, still and slumped in on itself. I poked at it with the barrel of the shotgun but nothing happened. I reached and pulled out the skull and chucked it into the small ravine nearby. If it wanted to suddenly get up, it was gonna have a hard time now. There was a small brown pouch in the casket. I reached and heard what sounded like coins clinking. I dumped its contents on my hand and my eyes grew wide. 

Seven small coins of gold were on the palm of my hand. Each one stamped with the profile of someone I didn’t recognize, half-worn by age. The flip side bore the mark of a flame. I picked one of them and bit into it. 

It felt real enough. Heavy. Solid. I suddenly remembered where the coins had been resting and began to spit out the taste aggressively.

I pocketed the gold and went down the line. The next few caskets were more of the same—skeletons in varying states of decay, some holding rusted swords or bows, some buried with broken trinkets. One had another journal—same illegible script. Noted it. Still no magic surprises.

Opening the last one was where things got interesting. No skeleton this time. Just a skull sitting alone in the corner, like it had been placed deliberately. Beside it: a worn shovel, a rusted knife, a chunk of oddly smooth rock, an old rolled piece of parchment with red string and a small glass flask with a viscous orange liquid sloshing inside. An alchemist’s fire from what I could recognize. Alchemist fires weren’t anything really special. They were basically just molotovs. Still useful. I dropped it in the bag while looking over the parchment. It looked like one of those fantasy scrolls described in fiction. Now this I definitely needed to understand. Mizora had mentioned in passing something about scrolls while teaching me. That anyone can basically use them. Another treasure in the bag.

There were some stairs that led upwards with barrels and boxes in the corner of the cave. A stylized large mirror embedded in the wall was among the clutter. I checked it out first, curious why a mirror would be here in a cave. 

I didn’t see my reflection.

Instead, the glass rippled like a disturbed pond—and a face emerged. Floating. Blue. Gaunt and featureless.

“ Spea-k your name, ” it said in a hollow, wispy voice—syllables dragging out like an echo.

I froze. Was this a trap? This whole set-up was already suspicious as fuck. I wanted to lie to it immediately but what if it could tell if I was lying. Some built in magic lie detector. Let's try honesty.

“Uh…Caesar Jimenez.” I said finally, cautious, the words sticking a little in my throat.

A pause.

Then: “ I do no-t know this name. ”

Well no shit. I’d be surprised if you did.

“If you are known to my mas-ter, step forward and de-clare yourself an ally.” 

I cleared my throat. “Yup! Totally an ally. Always supported… his policies. Big fan.” I winced at how fast and nervous that came out. Smooth.

The voice didn't change tone, but it felt colder.

“Only a t-rue ally of Ilyn Toth may pass. What th-ink of the zulkir known as Szass Tam?

I had no fucking clue who the hell that was or what a zulkir was, but my best bet was either to praise him or talk shit about him. I dug a gold coin from my pocket, clutched it hard in both hands and prayed mentally. 

Heads praise.

Tails slander.

A small shift in the wind changed as I flipped the coin and watched it spin in the air before catching it and placing it on my left hand.

I peeked and saw fire.

Shit talking it was.

“Nasty individual. Always despised that person. I pray on their downfall.” I said with false conviction.

The mirror paused. The face blinked once. Then, calmly: “You are no zulkir. B-ut are you wise? T-tell me… why might one use balsam ointment? ”

I actually recognized the word balsam, it was related to a type of moss-derived compound that had sterilization properties from this world. 

“To sterilize a wound?” I said, wondering if maybe I was confusing balsam with something else.

Another pause.

Then the face gave a slow nod. “ Acceptable. ”

“F-inally…if you could see an-ything in me, what w-ould it be?”

The question hit me differently.

I stared at the floating face, at the slow swirl of blue mist around it, at the way its glow rippled across the cave floor. My thoughts spiraled.

There was so much I wanted.

I wanted my memories. I wanted to know who I was before I woke up on that warehouse floor, all alone. I wanted to know who I’d lost, what kind of person I’d been, and if he was someone worth becoming again.

I wanted to have people in my life, people I could depend on. I wanted safety. For myself. For whoever might come to matter. I wanted to use my power—not just as a weapon or a way to run—but as a shield. As a choice.

I wanted to be free from devils, free from tricks, free from chains carved in infernal contracts. I wanted to not feel like I was one wrong word away from losing everything again.

I wanted to not be afraid anymore.

I stared into the mirror, throat dry.

“I want control,” I said finally, my voice low, scraped raw at the edges. “I want to stop feeling like my mind is a glass floor about to crack.”

I stepped closer.

“I want to be whole. I want to remember. I want to know who I am—so I can stop wondering if I’m just a husk of a person wearing a borrowed name.”

The mirror pulsed.

“But more than all of that…”

I met its gaze—or whatever passed for one.

“I want the power to carve out my own fate. No devils pulling strings. No games. No masters. Just me. Choosing.”

It was by far the longest pause from the mirror until it finally spoke.

“You seek to sur-vive.You seek power.” It said with what I could tell was approval.

“Be wel-come” the face uttered finally before fading away.

The mirror’s surface shimmered, rippling like liquid mercury, before it shifted—revealing what lay ahead.

The change was immediate. The air thickened. Denser. Wrong. That same sense of wrongness I remembered from Avernus crept up my spine again like cold oil. My fingers twitched instinctively toward the Shorty.

The first thing I noticed was the giant ass skeleton hanging from the ceiling. Not human. Not even remotely. Its proportions reminded me of a prehistoric mammal from a by-gone age. A predator. Now reduced to ivory and silence.

The set up in this room was similar to the cellar but much grander in scale. It wasn’t as cramped and there definitely seemed to be much more care in its design despite the sense of it being abandoned a long time ago and the rubble scattered across the room. There was a theme to this place too. There were a lot of bones and skeletons in this place. Add into the fact of what I had seen earlier in this place and I was willing to bet everything that this was a necromancer's lair. 

I hadn’t learned anything from the school of necromancy in my time in hell, but Mizora had mentioned in passing that the people who practiced it were usually ostracized. Not really surprising to be honest.

Still though, if I thought the cellar was a gold mine, then this might as well have been finding a crate full of diamonds. With the amount of supplies I could tell that was in this room, not even mentioning the equipment that eclipsed what I had used earlier.

I moved carefully, taking inventory as I went. In one corner: a half-rotted chest next to a taxidermied grey bear whose eyes still gleamed unnervingly in the low light. Inside the chest? Five more scrolls, sealed with wax and humming faintly. Another pouch too, containing forty-seven more gold coins. Across the room stood a second chest—this one ornate, its silver edges catching the ambient light like it wanted to be seen. Inside lay a pair of bracers, silver worked into a mesh of fine arcane script. I felt the weave within them when I looked at them more closely. One of those enchanted items I bet. 

A side chamber branched off to the right, filled with half-collapsed shelves and dusty bottles. Another damn lever jutted from the wall. Pulling it made the stone wall shift downwards. I blinked. It just led to the cellar. As I turned to leave, something glinted on a shelf—an old iron key, half-buried in grime. I slipped it into my coat without hesitation.

And then I saw the gate.

Iron bars, old and rust-bitten, framed by a pair of cold, unlit braziers. The moment I approached, the braziers flared to life in a blast of flame. I froze. Waited. Nothing happened.

I moved closer.

Behind the gate sat a stone pedestal. On it—a book. Heavy. Ancient. Surrounded by thick webs. Flanked on either side by twin gargoyle statues, stone wings curled like fists.

The gate was locked.

Of course it was.

I pulled out the old key that I had found moments earlier. Slid it into the rusted lock.

Click.

Too easy.

The old rusty gate made a loud squeak that made me cringe as it opened forward. I walked in and could feel the sense of dread emanating from this room. I got closer to look at the book. It looked like it was bound in stitched-together human flesh, the cover grotesquely shaped into a screaming, agonized face. The mouth was agape, like it was caught mid-scream. The eye sockets were inset with glowing violet gems, giving me the sense it was watching. Fuck me. For all I knew, it probably was.

My mind briefly flashed about going to the movies for some reason. It was so jarring that it shook off my growing dread.

One of the things I was quickly finding out about myself was that I was one curious motherfucker. I reached down and picked up the tome. It felt like lifting a slab of warm meat. The second I took it, the slab it had rested on dropped with a heavy clunk .

I didn't wait.

Clutching the book to my chest, I launched myself backward—diving out through the gate just as the gargoyles moved .

Their mouths opened wide—and then came the fire.

Flames roared across the pedestal room in sweeping bursts, licking at the iron bars. Some fire curled through the gaps, skimming the air above me before vanishing.

I hit the floor hard. Dust filled my mouth. My heart pounded.

I groaned. Started to push myself up.

And that's when I felt it again.

Something being pressed against my frontal lobe. 

**C̴͙̗̻͉̬̤͊̈́̿O̶̼̼̯̜̘̲͖̱͓͓̤͙̽͊̐̈́̀̚͠ͅN̴̻̹̝̟͇̙̖͊̽̓̒̈́͂̿̓̿̒̾G̵̡̥͇̜̬̱͇̜̖̓̍͛̽̐̈́͛̔̿͝R̸͖̮̤͖̞̒̅̓̋̓̄̾̿̚̚͝͝ͅȦ̷̡̺̺͓͓̩̅̿̇͆͋̄̑̍̓̓͋̕͝͠͠͝Ṯ̵̞̝͔̱̲͎̟͓̞͂͌͌̈́̓̈́̋̿̀͂͠U̴͍̪̪͙̳͎̖͕̞̘̟̯̹͗̀̇̓̋̿͊̈́͐́͘͘͝͝L̶̡̘͉̘͓͗̀͗́͐̓͆̐͊̌͒̐̚͘͝A̷̞̞͓̱̘̪̪̍̈́̓͂͊̕͜͝T̴͉͉̞̮͚̮̮̠͈͛̈́̈́͂͒̽̀͂͝͝Ȉ̶̤͍̝̞̰͇̲̟̞͇̾̋̈́̾͂̅̋͜͝͠͝O̴̪̤̯̬̬̱̞̟̿̐͊̐͊͆͒́̐̕͘͝Ǹ̵̢̢͍̜̯̺͙̬̼̹̯̌̍̆̈́̆̀̏̄̄͘̕͘͜͠͝͝S̸̛͈̝̖̹̯̞̘͌͗̓͂͂̊̀͐͗͜ ̶̘̠̪̲̬̖͇̞͕͙̲̹̜͒̇͂̍̿̋̅̽͂̈́͋͊͘Ō̷̻̮͕͚͇̞̬͚̺̱̰͒̇̀͂̈́́͛̍̐͌̈́̄͘͝N̴̛͉̩̩̮̺̘̖̞͓͙͆̅̌̒̒̌̈́̑͆͘ ̸̳͉͖̟̯̍̽̏͗̔̐͂̒̈́͋̎͌͗C̴̢̢̥͎̩̩͈͍͉̤̈́̓̇̎̇̽͌̏͜͝͠L̵̞̲̰̹̪͎̺̪̬̫̿̽͒̒̏́̀͐͌͑̓̕̚͠E̶͚͔̱̳̦̖̼̘̜̹̗̠͗̈́̎̀͌̋̑̈́̆͋̋̄́͘͘͜͠͠A̶̱͍̤̘̟̝͉̻͔̩̰͒͆̅́̽̅̈́͘̚͜͝͠͝͝R̷͍̖̪̼̟̖̻͇̯͚̪̠͐̐͛͆̑̅̐͌͊͐̎̔͋̔I̴̢̛̱͙̥̖͍͉̖̰̽́́͗̏̓͗̓̋́̔͌́̔̾͝N̷̼̘͎̱̜̝̰̞̪͉̳̬̬̍̓͋̀͊̽̍̚͘̚̚̕̚͝͠G̶̢̛̹̳̘̯̳̯͎̎̎̐̈́̈́̑̅͊͆̒̐̈́́͘̕͝ͅ ̶̲̝̖̻̯̗̼͇͉̱̱̾͆̽̈́́͋̈́̌̊͋̀̓̕͝͝͠O̴̤͙̫̲̙̖̟̫̲̘̎͂͒́̿̄̅̈́͆͝͠Ú̸̖͈̠̩͔͍̜̞͕͙̮̤̹̿͐̆͗̍̍̀̐̿͒͌́͝T̸̖͎̱̰̼͖͇̖̗̲̙͖̓̆͌̓̀̓͊͗̇͘ ̵͈͕̟̻̿͂̄́̐̓̎͒̓̀̚͝͝͝Y̶͖̖̠̺̰̟͉̟̰̼͉̓̒̃̇̇̈́͛͗͆̀̄͐̎̎͊͘Ö̵̖̼̩̲̦̱̲̯͓͓́̈́̈́̄͆́́̈́͗͒̚͘͝͝U̶̺̼̤͕͇̞̮̮̩͇͍͓͛̄́̅͊̐͊͑͘͘͠ͅṘ̶̢̛̪̬̰͓̪͇̘͚̗͉͉͍̋̈́̒͊͛̓͒͊̈́͊̇́͒̈́̕ ̷̢̢̤͚̙̝̗͌̀͆̒̾̈́͊̕̚F̶̢̛̦̫͈̜͎̻̳͛̆̆̽̒́̐́̿͜͝I̶̤̯̘͓̰̻̰̞̰̺̺̞̝͙͆̍̀̓͋̎̈́̇͘R̸̙̘͇̥͙̠̟͎̠̯̩̺̒̀͗̍̇́̓̓͗̄͌̄̐͘͘̚͝S̵̰̘̱͉̤̤̘̟̳̓̎̈́̐̎͋͗̎̄͘̕͝ͅT̸̡̢̖̼̯̞̥̗̬̘͋̿̄͒̌̋̈́͊̀̽̓͛̚̚͘͝ ̶̠͚̞̬̝͙̰̯̔͂͂̍͋̋̏̀͑͘̚͠L̸̡̛̞͉̲̤̝̘̼̘̙̳̹͛̑̄̓̈́͛̔̅͑̑Ä̶̢̡̛̬̲̜̜̗́̈́̿͌͐͛͗͌̎̍̎̓͘̕̚B̸̡̛͔͈͎͓̰̤͓͎͚̗̤͉̲̈́̿́͋͂́̈́͋̓͑͐̐͋̿̍͘!̴̥̝͎̙͇̳̰̞̦̳̼̳̟̰̰̉̄͗̿͆͒̅̈́͌͆͛͌̓̏̚

D̵̢͚̞̖̲́̇̐̽͝Í̵̛̳͕̤͓͓̝̱́̊̐̀͒̎̓̐̄̐̕͘͝M̷̨̦͙̼͕̅̌́̈́̾̽͛̍̇̚̚͝͝͠Ȅ̸̲͔͈̹̙̦̄̈́̽̀͘͠͠N̴̛͈͇̖͓̏̑͂̿̾̓̍̽͒̎͝S̶̱̈́̏͐̌͌̈́I̶̢̛̛̛̳͕̦̓͌̐͘͝͝Ō̶̟͈͕̯̱̳̓̍̇̾̇̈́̎̕͠N̷̨̛̰̝̠͔̖̝̰̺̞̦̰͈̮̍̄͂͂̽͗͑̒̏͘̕̕͝A̴̞̟͇̞͍̰̘͎͎͉̘̗͐̽̓̅̿̕͝͠L̴̨̛̳̞͇̥̦̎͋̇̈́͑̑̕̚̚͘͝ ̸̗̮͐̎̆͒͂̅̒̒̑͛̚͝P̸̻̫͙̲̩͈͙̰̹͓̹͐͂̐̏̿̀̈́̽̆̽͋̋̍̋̓̿̈́Ơ̸̪̙̘͖̤̼͍̰͉͓̏̐̋͆̓̆͆̄̑̈́̒̍̚͘̕͝ͅḮ̶̛̘̪̺̼̤̘͒͂͒̾͝N̶̤̦̘͍̟̬̪̤̹̮̪̘̱̍͐̎̾́͌̾̏͒͐̓͘T̸̛͍̖͚̤̯̼̼͙̱̫̞̙̲̅̌͛̿̅̄͌̓̒̔̇͘͝ͅ ̶̢̞̫͇͉͓̞̰̫̜̜̖͎͎̹̳̅̈́̅̓̅͊̏͋̓̓͝͠S̴̯̱͈͓̞̤̱̞͎͉͕̙̤̘̺̔̈́͌́͂͂̏͑̿̌̋̑̑̕͝A̴̡͈̠͙̲̙̬͈͎̱͓̩͛͐̎̓͒̔̾̓͛̾̎̿͋͠͝͝V̸̞̪̤͕̟̳̝͙̫͚͚̼̯̈́̈́͋̓̎̏̐̒͛͗̕͠Ë̵͓͇̘̺͚̟̬̯̬͍́̇͋̐̓̐̀̄̿͑̓͌͗͆͘̕D̴̡̡̛̛̻̤̱͎͉͈̱̮̜̰̫͍̯̈́̈́̿̎͐̓͛̐̐͑̆̎͒͝!̶̛̳̪̠̫̰̩̮̳̓̏́͂͊̍͛̐̽̓͂̕̚͝͠

My planeswalking ability. It felt like something shifted within my mind. Book still in hand, I began to feel that familiar feeling again. The pressure, the whirring sound in my ears. I let out a sigh before the green light flickered me away.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the world snapped back into focus, I was standing on cold concrete. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. The stink of exhaust and stale air hit me like a wave.

Cars. Cement pillars. Scrawled graffiti, faded and angry. A dusty white sign nearby read:
LEVEL B2 — CUSTOMER PARKING ONLY.

A parking garage.

Back home.

Luckily no people were around to witness me this time.

I let out a slow breath. Not relief. Frustration.

“I left the damn potions.”

My voice echoed off the stained walls.

All that work. All that sweat and focus back in the apothecary cellar—gone. Still hadn’t even returned to the grove. Still hadn’t delivered the potions I had promised to the tieflings that had taken me in. Still hadn’t paid back their kindness.

I just needed a little more time.

Then the pressure returned.

No warning. Just a spike through my temples and the shrill buzz screaming back into my ears.

“What—wait—”

Too late.

The light swallowed me again.

I blinked.

I saw the gargoyles still shooting balls of fire.

I was back.

My jaw hung slack for a moment, then curled into a crooked, disbelieving grin.

“…Oh fuck yes.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was whistling a broken tune as I climbed back up the ladder, the broken notes echoing faintly off the stone walls.

Things were looking up for me again. I had grabbed all the potions I had created and was heading back to the grove finally.

I had attempted to open the tome I had found but it wouldn’t budge. I had caved in and casted Comprehend languages to read some of the books lying around to see if there were any clues. Got it in one with the logbook on the alchemical bench. Apparently the necromancer's apprentice had disappeared with the key gem in the nearby well. I made a mental note to myself to check it out later. While the spell was still active, I took time to read the various scrolls I had picked up. I still didn’t know what language they were in but I now knew what they were for. 

Scroll of Magic Weapon was pretty cool. I wondered if it would work on firearms. Thunderwave looked like it was great crowd control. Scroll of Web shot web. False Life I didn’t quite understand. It looked like it would give temporary healing but I would need to experiment with it. Scroll of Ray of Sickness poisons people. All in all, some decent spells.

But it was the scroll I had found in the casket that I was excited and worried about. It was a scroll inscribed with the true name of a lesser demon. I knew how important true names were for fiends. Mizora had mocked the devils that had their true names discovered by mortals when she was going over some of the intricacies of hell's culture. I would need to make sure I wrote down its true name later before I used the scroll to summon it.

I climbed out of the cellar and put the trapdoor back into place.

I looked around the building to see everything was still in place from the last time I saw it.

There were some new tracks on the ground. A lot of new tracks. Like a group of people had passed by. Probably when I had spaced out in the cellar. 

Oh well. They weren’t here now so it was not my problem. 

I began my walk back to the grove. Hopefully with no interruptions.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Once again, I’m terribly sorry for almost killing you,” Kanon muttered, walking beside me with an awkward shuffle in his step. One hand rubbed at the back of his head while his tail curled tight.

“It’s fine. It was my fault for still wearing the mask. Just a misunderstanding.” I said, trying to placate him. It was closer than I was comfortable with. The arrow missed my head by mere inches when I was within eyesight of the gate. A part of me was still pretty annoyed but the logical side of me was calling me a dumbass for forgetting to take off the mask when I know they’ve never seen me wear it. Still didn’t stop the pissy part of me from quietly brooding about it.

“You’ve got good aim though,” I said eventually, forcing a grudging compliment. “Makes sense they’ve got you on watch.”

He glanced at me sheepishly. “I’m afraid you’ve already seen me at my best, then. I missed.”

“And I’m glad you did,” I chuckled.

That earned a breath of relief from him, and we walked in silence after that. It stretched out, long and weird, until Kanon finally spoke again, his voice softer this time.

“We were starting to think something happened to you. You were gone over two days. Nymessa was… not happy when she found out we let you leave alone. She was furious with us.”

Shit. I really could’ve asked for some company? Holy fuck was I a pendejo. Would that have caused that whole mess in the village to have never happened? Why hadn’t I asked for help?

Ahh, now I remember. I didn’t want them to waste their time escorting me when they had more important things on their plate. A part of me had wanted to prove myself to them too. Fucking pride.

“I’m sorry for making yall worried then. I know I just met you all recently but I should’ve told someone. Another mistake on my part. But it’s alright. I came back with more than I promised. I brewed-”

Kanon suddenly cut me off. “It’s alright! We understand. We’re just happy to see that you’re alright. Let’s just go see Zevlor before we discuss anything more.” He said while we passed other tieflings as we moved deeper into the grove’s winding, stone-hewn interior. 

Eventually we reached a large circular door carved from stone and half-covered in damp moss. It led into a chamber deeper underground. At the bottom of a slight slope stood a red-skinned tiefling in gleaming, battered armor, arms crossed, his horns framing his weathered face. Zevlor I presumed.

“This the boy Kanon?” he asked while looking me over, assessing me.

“Yes, Zevlor,” Kanon said. “I brought him straight here.”

Zevlor gave a slight nod, then gestured for Kanon to leave. He obeyed without hesitation.

That left just the two of us.

He was still looking at me like he was trying to decipher something. 

“So you’re the Planeswalking alchemist, yes?”

I raised an eyebrow at the question. “I am.”

A pause between us

“And you wish to pay back our kindness for letting you rest here with potions?

“I do.”

He stared at me when I said that before breaking into a small smile.

“Then you are a kinder human than I had given you credit for. I am Zevlor, a Hellrider of Elturel.” he said while offering me his hand.

I took it. The grip was like iron. My knuckles popped.

“Pleasure,” I wheezed as he released me.

“The same. We feared the worst when you didn’t return. Two days without word. That’s enough to bury hope out here.”

“There were… complications,” I admitted. “But opportunities too. I came back with everything I needed. Maybe more.”

“I wanted to speak with you about that,” he said, lowering his voice. “Are you certain you wish to pay us back this way? You only stayed a night. That barely warrants gratitude, let alone debt. What you’re offering—it’s valuable. We don’t want to take advantage.”

I can understand that. It really was just one night but their kindness meant everything to me.

“Look, I was in a pretty bad way when your scouts found me at that beach. That was the first time I was shown any type of care. So I’m grateful for it. And I want to show how grateful.” I said honestly, looking into his crimson pupils.

His eyes widened before he let out a sigh with a smile. “I suppose I can’t stop you, and my people do need the help. Still, we will not forget what you have done for us. You are a true friend to us Caesar. Any help you might need, we will be there.”

What he said honestly made me tear up a little but I just laughed it away before I began to pull potions out of my bag of holding. 

When it was all said and done, I had given them 15 of the superior variety of healing potions. 7 invisibility potions. And 10 of vitality. 

Zevlor took one look at the display and barked out a laugh—not a polite chuckle, but a triumphant, full-chested guffaw that echoed off the stone walls. He then proceeded to give me a bear hug that left me gasping.

When he had put me down, I smiled and caught my breath before asking a question I had been wondering about.

“Hey Zevlor.”

“Hmm?”

“Why are we doing the exchange here and not outside with the rest of the refugees?”

The shift in his face was immediate. Like a stormcloud moving over a field. His grin dropped, and he ran a hand down his face with a groan.

“It’s my fault for not telling you sooner,” he said, his voice lowering. “There’s… tension between the druids and my people. Unpleasant tension.”

He stepped back, folding his arms. “You see, when Archdruid Halsin opened the gates to us, not everyone agreed with his decision. Some of the druids believe that allowing us to seek refuge here was a mistake—that we’re invaders. Parasites. And now that Halsin is gone… those voices have gotten louder.”

“Gone?” I asked.

He nodded grimly. “Left the grove. Off investigating something. No one knows when—or if —he’ll return. And in his absence, leadership fell to Kagha.”

“She’s… zealous. Ruthless. Traditional. And very vocal about her belief that we never belonged here. If she knew someone was supplying the tieflings with this many potions?” He gestured at the table. “She’d have all the excuse she needs to push us out entirely. Maybe violently.”

Woah, there was a lot to unpack there.

“So why not leave?” I asked. “Pack up, find somewhere safer?”

He stared at me like I’d asked why they didn’t just sprout wings and fly.

“Goblins” he said flatly.

“Goblins?”

“I can see on your face that you don’t understand, but that’s fine. You are a stranger to these lands. Tell me, have you faced goblins before?”

“I killed like four of them while I was scavenging but yeah, I have.”

“Then you should thank your gods you only ran into four. They’re weak alone, but that’s not where their danger lies. It’s in their numbers. Fifty of them, minimum, roam the hills outside the grove—maybe more. They swarm. And they’re not unled.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they’re usually owned. Used. Leashed by drow or worse. I’ve seen them march into battle behind spiders the size of wagons. They fight in waves. Slaves in fear of their masters. My people aren’t warriors, Caesar. Most of them haven’t even held a sword, let alone killed with one. If we were forced out into the wilds… they would tear us apart.”

Jesus Christ, you solve one problem only to get slapped with another.

“I’m responsible for all of them,” Zevlor said, and for a moment, his voice cracked. “I’ve failed too many already. I won’t let them be slaughtered. Or enslaved.”

The silence between us was heavy. I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking.

“So what’s your plan then?” I finally asked.

He shut his eyes for a moment, like he was bracing himself. “I had a plan. I had hoped to enlist Halsin’s help with his druids on clearing the way but he is gone to the wind for now.”

“I don’t suppose you might have anything in that bag of yours to help.” he said as a joke with a tired chuckle.

I was seriously thinking it over. A stronger and modified strain of the fear toxin if used correctly can make most of them turn on each other or just straight up kill them on exposure. I would need to experiment in the lab. I looked Zevlor dead in the eye. “Don’t get your hopes up yet. But… maybe I can come up with something. I’ll let you know when I do.”

His face lit up like a sunrise. “Truly?”

“I said maybe,” I warned.

He stepped forward again, but stopped himself just short of another crushing hug. Instead, he grinned and extended a hand.

“I would appreciate that, friend. More than I can say.”

I took it, and for a second, I forgot I was dealing with people I barely knew. For a second, I didn’t feel like the idiot who signed his life away to a devil. I just felt… useful.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I walked through the camp after my conversation with Zevlor, boots kicking up little puffs of dust as I passed. Faces turned as I passed—curious, tired, grateful. A few looked surprised. A few smiled. I nodded at them, feeling awkward and out of place.

Off to the side, I spotted Dammon hunched over the truck I’d given him. He was elbow-deep in its guts, muttering to himself in fascination, as if trying to decipher some puzzle. I didn’t see Nymessa or Damays anywhere, so they must’ve been out scouting.

I was just starting to make my way toward the edge of the camp when I heard a voice, sweet and singsong.

“Yoohoo!” 

I turned to see an old woman—skinny, and rosy-cheeked—standing near a massive iron cauldron that was bubbling away on a makeshift firepit. The steam rising from it curled like fingers. She smiled with all her teeth. Not a tiefling, a human. The first one I’ve seen so far in this plane.

“Young man! You look like you haven’t eaten in a good while,” she said, all fluttering hands and cheerful fussing. Her voice carried a thick, lilted brogue—Scottish, maybe? “Come here, love. I’ll fix you something proper to hold you steady.”

I blinked, caught off-guard. “Uh. Thanks, ma’am. I—”

“Bah! None of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense,” she chirped, waving a hand. “It’s Auntie Ethel to you, lad.

She dipped a ladle into the cauldron and filled a wooden bowl with some thick, murky broth. It smelled like a mix of herbs, marrow, and something faintly sweet. I took the bowl, murmured a quiet thanks, and started sipping.

She stood there silently while I ate. She had the same small smile and her eyes barely blinked. It was actually kinda unnerving.

When I finished, I handed the bowl back with a nod. “That was... warming. Thanks.”

“Oh, of course, dearie,” she said, taking it gently. Then her voice dropped a little. “Pardon my tongue, but you’ve got the look of someone whose head isn’t quite screwed on right.”

I tilted my head at her, frowning. “Excuse me?”

“I mean you have the look of a lost pup petal. Like you’ve forgotten something very precious.”

“What?” I said flatly. 

“You know what, don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter. Because I got the cure waiting in my old cabin. I’ve dealt with all sorts of quirks, curses, and afflictions in my time. I’m sure we’ll have you good as new in no time.”

I stared at the old smiling woman deeply, my mouth a little open with her guess and her words. Could it be? Was it possible to have all of questions answered that easily?  I then remembered that I had an infernal sense. I hadn’t used it on anyone other than Mizora till now. I turned it on and was shaken by what I saw.

She was hungry. I saw a horrible want for innocents, children specifically, for their pain to litter her halls. I saw that the only way to get her help was to damn others.

I unconsciously began to walk backwards from her. Her smile turned cold and her eyes went black and sharp like butcher’s hooks.

“Oh, you little shit,” she hissed, voice low and venomous.

I had pulled the first weapon I could grab from my bag. It was my revolver. I aimed at her when she clapped her hands together—and vanished in a sickly swirl of green mist, a cackle echoing as the smoke dispersed like rot on the wind.

I lowered my weapon slowly, still scanning. Nothing. Just the empty space where she stood.

Turning back, I found a small group of tieflings staring at me with wide, alarmed eyes.

“You all saw that right?”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While Zevlor was busy calming down his people after Ethel’s vanishing act, I stepped off to the side and took a sip of a vitality potion to make sure I didn’t contract something from that old bitches broth.

This plane really was ridiculous. Never a dull moment, that's for sure.

I had used my teleport to move back to the necromancer’s lab. After all that mess, I had wanted to be alone. Zevlor had dumped a lot on me. Refugees stuck between hateful druids and goblin hordes, Halsin missing, fear of enslavement, and no clear way out unless I did something big and bloody. And then there were my own problems with the law back home. I didn't want to be branded as a supervillain but I didn’t think whatever reasons I had were gonna fly with Brockton Bay’s law enforcement. Those guys weren’t incompetent, they caught up to me scarily fast, the main reason I was so desperate to escape them in that garage. 

But none of that mattered. I had to believe I was more valuable to them as an asset. The potions I could brew can save lives and turn the tide in a fight. I had the added bonus of genuinely being an amnesiac. I can explain everything, get much needed information from them and demonstrate what I had to offer them. I had leverage.

Plus, worst comes to worst? I just planeswalk outta there.

Decision made, I began to empty out my bag of holding. I didn’t want them to confiscate the bag or everything I had worked so hard for.

Goddamn, I really did accumulate a lot of shit.

I placed the potions I was willing to give them in a small crate. Each potion, a different effect. Healing, fire breath, invisibility, vitality, growth, flight, the works.

I had almost forgotten to put my mask on. Probably didn’t matter realistically with all the fingerprints I left at Miller’s house but if they know, they know.

I slung the crate under my arm and focused. The buzz returned, pressure building in my chest and behind my eyes. Then the world rippled—

—and I was back in the same parking garage from earlier. I took the stairs up to ground level, the crate held tight, my boots echoing with each step.

Outside, it was late. Night air on my face, the boardwalk in the distance, quiet streets. Faint sounds of traffic a few blocks away. According to Miller’s map, the nearest police station was just a block east. Right on the edge of downtown.

So I walked. Simple.

People passed by, scattered and blurry in the low light. None close enough to notice the mask. None worth a second glance.

Then I saw it: B.B.P.D. painted in large letters across the aging concrete station. Cop cars parked outside.

A bell chimed. The reception area was dim, lit with flickering fluorescents and the dull glow of a vending machine humming in the corner. The place looked sad—outdated chairs, peeling posters, the vague scent of burnt coffee and old laminate.

Behind thick glass sat a receptionist, brown hair curled and tied back, face half-lit by her computer screen. She didn’t look up. Just typed.

“If it’s parahuman-related, you’ll need to wait for a PRT liaison,” she said flatly. “Otherwise, how can I help you?”

I smiled under the mask. “I’m here to turn myself in.”

The keys stopped clacking.

Her eyes flicked up fast, her pupils dilating in fear at the sight of my mask. 

“I… wha—P-put your hands where I can see them!” She yelled, stuttering in the beginning before strengthening towards the end as she pulled her service pistol out of her holster, taking aim at me despite the protective glass between us.

I held up the crate slowly. “Okay, okay. Just putting this down.”

“W-wait, STOP! DON’T MOVE A MUSCLE!” she screamed, panic bleeding into her voice, the strength in her voice from just a few seconds ago disappearing just as fast as it came.

Alright, this was getting annoying. But whatever, it was better to just do what she said.

She fumbled for her radio, never breaking eye contact, her pistol wobbling in her grip.

“D-dispatch, I got a uh..Code 88-7A here in the receptionist lobby. P-please send everyone.” she said fast.

I can hear the sounds of boots moving in the building above me. It looked like they were taking the stairs. I looked back at her, studied her face while I had the chance. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes like polished walnut. Full lips. Pretty, even with the panic. Even with the slight tremor in her hand and the beginnings of a cold sweat beading on her brow. The eye bags she was sporting made her hotter too in my opinion.

“So, how was your night?”

Her cheeks puffed out suddenly, small pieces of vomit escaping her lips before she forcefully swallowed it back down.

Real smooth Caesar.

Chapter Text

This room was…a lot.

I’m not gonna lie, if intimidation was the point. Then it was definitely working. Even before they tossed me in here, the whole process had been an orchestrated dance of confusion and control.

They had confiscated the crate from me and treated it like a bomb while I got yelled at by over a dozen officers, each one shouting conflicting orders. One officer tried to push me to the ground while another shouted not to move. The officer that was brave enough to frisk me found nothing but a switchblade on me. Once they had finally slapped handcuffs on me, they sat me down and waited while keeping aim on me. Weirdly enough, they had left on my mask.

I didn’t try to make small talk. Not with how jumpy they were. One twitch and they’d probably justify painting the walls with me.

I thought it was all a little too much. I had surrendered myself already, what more did they think could happen? And what were they waiting for?

And then I heard it—vans pulling up just outside the station, the screech of tires cutting through the low hum of fluorescent lights. 

A squad of men entered. No badges, no names—just matte-black armor that swallowed the light, full-face visored helmets, and gas masks with blinking HUDs across the lenses. They moved in formation, didn’t speak, didn’t hesitate. The second they laid eyes on me, they immediately closed in on me. They frisked me again—more thoroughly this time—and swapped my cuffs. These ones looking more unique and expensive. Sleek black composite, sharp edges that shimmered faintly when I shifted. They hummed quietly. No words. Just hands on my arms, hauling me toward one of the vans. White block letters on the side read “PRT.”

I didn’t know what that stood for.

Didn’t ask.

The ride wasn’t long. The windows in the passenger seats were blacked out so I didn’t see where we were heading till the car stopped.

There was a helipad. Sitting on it was a beast of a helicopter—matte black, angular, more like a tank with wings than anything I’d ever seen. The side read “PRT” again in bold white. They guided me onboard, sat me between two more armed men. One on either side. Each kept a firm, gloved hand on my shoulder the entire flight. Just in case I forgot I was the guest of honor I suppose.

We took off and I felt a little anxious. I’d never flown before. At least, not that I remembered. But the sensation was incredible—lift-off pulling against my gut, vibration thrumming through the metal, the wind shrieking past the open ramp. The flight though ended faster than the car ride unfortunately. The skids kissed down with a hydraulic hiss, and a wall of salt air slammed into me as the side door opened mid-spin. The landing pad was steel grating bolted to the top of a massive oil rig, surrounded by towering antennae and red warning lights. 

A trooper’s voice barked through the wind: “Move.”

So I moved.

They marched me down a grated stairwell and into the belly of the structure. The interior was a different kind of beast—clinical, humming with unseen machinery. Stark white walls lined with steel beams, endless security cameras blinking overhead, doors that hissed when they sealed behind us. No windows. No visible exits. The deeper we went, the more it felt like I was being swallowed whole.

No one was in the way while they led me. We passed through three separate security doors, each one thicker than the last. I watched as one of the guards placed his palm against a panel, and it scanned with a happy beep that sounded out of place here. And the room they were taking me was revealed.

It was basically a metal box. Floor, walls, and ceiling were smooth, gunmetal gray, reinforced plating. The corners were beveled, one reinforced chair in the center, bolted to the floor. One table, equally bolted. And across from it, another chair, empty—for now.  In the middle of the ceiling, a small black sphere hung from the ceiling—another camera, no doubt.

Once I was inside, the door closed behind me with a heavy enough clang that made me flinch, and I was alone. The silence hit hard. Not just quiet— isolated . Like the air got sucked out of the room the second that door closed.

My cuffs were still on, wrists starting to ache from the rigid grip of the restraints. I let out a long breath and walked over to the bolted chair and sat down. It’s surface cold enough to bite through the fabric of my pants.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then probably twenty before I just decided to nod off. If they were gonna make me wait, might as well get a quick nap in.

That nap was very short-lived as not even a minute in, I heard the door open again. 

I opened my eyes to see two people step through the threshold. 

A man and a woman, both dressed differently.

The man stood tall, broad-shouldered, armored head-to-toe in matte blue plate that whispered with servos and hissed with quiet hydraulics. His helmet was sleek and low-profile, the visor a single silver pane that gave nothing away—no eyes, no expression, only exposing his lower half that revealed a trimmed beard. He carried a red folder in one armored hand.

The woman wasn’t as tall, maybe a little under average height, but there was a gravity to her presence that made her seem bigger than she was. She stood with a soldier’s posture, straight-backed and alert—even wearing green military fatigues. The thing that stood out on her whole soldier get-up was the flag-patterned scarf. It was a red, white, and blue scarf that was wrapped tight around the lower half of her face like she was halfway between patriot and insurgent. Her eyes, sharp and green, watched me with a quiet intensity. Most striking, though, was the weapon she had—a rifle one second, a spear the next, then a revolver, before it just kept shifting in green light.

It was pressuring to be in the same room with these two “superheroes” but nevertheless, I tried to put up a brave front. I gave my best friendly wave from my cuffed hands.

They didn’t acknowledge it.

The man in the blue power armor took the chair opposite of me, it didn’t creak from the weight to my surprise. The woman beside him stood off to the side watching.

The man placed the folder on the table and began to speak.

“Caesar Jacques Jimenez. Born October 24th, 1993. Uvalde, Texas. Son of Gabriel Olivar and Maria Aimee Jimenez. Both Mexican nationals with U.S. residency. Migrant laborers. Relocated to Brockton Bay in 1998.”

I leaned in, brows furrowed behind my mask. Startled at how this started and where this was going.

He didn’t stop.

“Both parents killed in a parahuman incident in 2001. You were eight. Taken in by state services. Bounced between five foster homes over nine years. Behavioral notes from your case worker label you as temperamental, withdrawn, and underperforming despite high IQ testing. Incident reports include physical altercations, vandalism, and substance possession. Expelled from Winslow High School in late 2010. Pending court hearing for narcotics distribution when you went missing. Your last foster family reported you as a runaway.”

He said all of it like it was nothing. Like it was facts on a spreadsheet and not… my entire life. My throat closed up.

My parents were dead?

I blinked hard, staring at the table. Trying to feel something. Anything. But it was like hearing someone else’s story. Just noise echoing in my skull.

He didn’t wait for me to process it.

“February 7th, 0647 Eastern Standard Time,” he continued, opening the folder and taking out a page with what looked like grainy surveillance images, “the first sighting of you in a month. Witnesses place you in a parking lot off 12th and Hanover. You released a tinker grade chemical agent, classified as an airborne psychoactive compound. It resulted in a mass panic among known Empire Eighty-Eight affiliates. Reports include hallucinations, seizures, loss of bowel control, and an induced trigger event. 

I was barely paying attention at this point. Didn’t really care about the people who tried to hurt me either. My mind was still stuck on the name of my mother. Maria.

“You then proceeded to rob John A. Miller of his keys, wallet and committed grand theft auto as you headed towards his-”. He didn’t get to finish his sentence.

I raised my head to look at him in his visor when I spoke. “You can shut up now. I remember what I did two days ago perfectly.” I said coldly.

The man only reacted with a small twitch of his lips while the woman tilted her head at me curiously.

He began to speak again. “Evidently not, as this took place earlier this morning.” He said, his voice growing harder.

Ah, there was that time difference between dimensions again. Avernus felt like I spent days down there when in reality, it was only two on Faerun. Time went by faster over there compared to here.

I shrugged at him unapologetically, “A few hours ago for you, two days and some for me. Time moved differently from where I went.” I said carelessly.

The woman squinted, clearly trying to make sense of what I said. The armored man tilted his head like he was re-evaluating me.

I raised my cuffed hands slowly—deliberately. The woman’s reaction was immediate. She didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond her arms, but I saw the flicker of green as the weapon in her grasp shifted into a taser.

I ignored her.

The scarecrow mask that had clung to my face came off with a rough tug. Sweat dampened my hair, strands sticking to my brow and cheeks, the fancy cuffs grinding against my wrists. I dropped the mask onto the table with a thud. It sat there, grinning back at me with its stitched mouth and empty eyes.

I stared at both of them with my own. My heart was still racing, but the fear had burned itself out somewhere between being manhandled by armored strangers and having my entire life read to me like a book report. Now, all that was left was cold anger—tight and controlled, like a blade between my teeth.

“So, what’s the play here?” I asked, voice flat. “Read out my whole life like a grocery list? Stack every fuck-up and mistake like bricks until I’m buried in them? To what? Scare me? Nah. All you’ve done is piss me off. I leaned forward as far as the cuffs would let me. “So how about we skip the foreplay and get to the part where you tell me what the fuck you want.” I asked, now hostile.

The armored man leaned forward slightly. Just enough to signal the shift from passive interrogation to active pursuit. His voice dropped lower. Measured. Cold.

“We want answers Caesar. What was your purpose in that parking lot? Who helped you escape? Where's your accomplice?”

That last part knocked the sails out of my wind—not because I was caught, but because it made zero sense to me.

“Accomplice? What the actual fuck are you talking about?” I asked incredulously, my voice rising higher towards the end.

“The Mover,” he said. “The parahuman that extracted you from John Miller’s garage. Who are they? What gang are they affiliated with? Why were they protecting you?”

“I don’t even know what the fuck a Mover is.” I said angrily

The woman stepped forward now, her tone ironclad. “Don’t insult our intelligence. You’re looking at multiple charges of aggravated assault, chemical weapons deployment, grand theft auto, theft, and endangering the public. This is not a game, Caesar. Keep stonewalling us, and you’ll be tried as an adult under the full weight of federal cape statutes. We won’t even need a jury.”

I turned my gaze to her, rage building behind my eyes and was about to tell where she could shove the jury. But before I could open my mouth, the man lifted one armored palm out, signaling me to wait.

He stared at me for a beat.

“You don’t know what a Mover is. And you’re not lying. Explain.”

That threw me.

Even the woman looked surprised, glancing at him like he’d gone off script.

I didn’t think he would believe me, even if it was the truth. Him detailing my whole life had set me off against my original intentions here. The tension in the room shifted. Less trigger-ready, more curious.

I took a breath. Let it out slow.

“I have amnesia,” I said quietly. “I woke up in a warehouse. Alone. No memories. No name.

It was quiet for a few seconds before I continued. 

“I wanted to go to the police first, but there was a gun on me. And I was afraid of finding out if I hurt anyone…and I didn’t want to go to jail for something I didn’t remember.” I admitted quietly towards the end.

The two exchanged looks.  There must’ve been something—some micro-expression, some unspoken gesture—because her eyes widened ever so slightly. I waited till someone spoke up. 

“So what did you do?” the woman asked slowly, her eyes looking at me more softly suddenly.

I stared down at the table. My voice came out quieter.

“I went to go find food. I was so weak and hungry, and I had some money in my pocket. I left the warehouse, but I didn’t know where to go. So I just picked a direction and hoped for the best. That’s when I came across these Asian gangbangers. I was about to turn away before they saw me. And that's when it happened.” 

“What happened?” she asked.

“Pain. My head was suddenly filled with white static, my mind felt like it was being cut into with information. When I recovered, they saw me and were approaching me. So I ran. But I didn’t factor in how weak I was at the time. I was losing ground as they laughed behind me. I dived into a narrow alleyway so that I could make a stand with my back against the wall. I tripped on some trash and then a green flash swallowed me whole. I was in a building suddenly, still falling. And then I kissed the floor.” I said, emotionally drained as I recounted everything about my beginning. 

Silence reigned once again before being broken again. 

“A Mover by our definition is someone that possesses abilities that allow them to move or transport themselves or others quickly and efficiently. Examples being flight, enhanced speed, teleportation, spatial manipulation, et cera.” He said informatively.

So me. Planeswalking was a Mover ability by all definition with the teleportation, just on a grander scale.

“Then it’s me, I’m the Mover.” I said with tired eyes.

He shifted, metal-on-metal groaning with the subtle movement as he flipped through his folder again. He pulled out a crisp image—clearer than I expected—and laid it flat on the table between us. It was a photo of the gas canister I’d used. He tapped it with a gloved finger, once, firmly.

“Where did you find this?” he asked, voice low but direct. “Was it in the building you materialized in?”

Yeah,” I said flatly. “That and the scarecrow mask. Had gas filters built in. Would’ve been a bitch to synthesize the gas without a filter.” I said blankly.

They both suddenly stilled. Power armor sitting up straighter than he already was while the flag girl’s weapon started shifting again rapidly. 

“Caesar,” Flag lady said tightly, her voice low, “I thought you said you were the Mover.”

I tilted my head, confused at the sudden shift again in their body language. “I am. I teleported to some psycho’s lab filled with the necessary equipment to create the fear toxin.” 

Flag lady took a step forward. Her voice was colder now, steel-wrapped skepticism dripping from every word. “Let’s get this straight—you teleported into someone's lab who had a scarecrow obsession that is somewhere out in the city. Not only that, but that you’re also a Tinker alongside being a Mover?” 

I blinked. Tinker? Another unfamiliar word. I scoffed. I leaned back in the chair despite the cuffs cutting into my wrists. “There you go again with that lingo. Did you hear the part where I have amnesia? No? You guys keep throwing around all these labels like I’m supposed to know what they mean. Newsflash—I don’t. Shit, I don’t even know who the hell any of you are either. I’m assuming they sent the C-list heroes because the rest are too busy for lil old me, right?” I asked mockingly with a smile.

Flag lady’s eyes narrowed into slits. Her weapon stabilized into a sleek revolver. Its design looked mean.

Power Armor’s only reaction was his lips curling back in a grim line—more warning than expression.

“You’re speaking to Miss Militia,” he said with measured anger. “Second-in-command of Brockton Bays Protectorate ENE division. I will not tolerate any disrespect towards her.” He said frostily to me.

Oh. So that’s who I was dealing with.

Eh, not a bad name all in all. 

“And you are?” 

“Armsmaster” he said, like it was a rank, not a name. “Leader of the same division.”

Well shit. Apparently, I did get the A-listers.

“Well damn, I really got the boss man and woman to make time for me? I’m flattered.” 

I didn’t even get a chance to grin before “Armsmaster” slammed down his gauntlet onto the table with a heavy BANG, the metal shriek echoing through the sterile interrogation chamber. I stiffened instinctively. 

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of your situation, Caesar,” he said, voice low and sharp as a razor. “You admit to manufacturing and releasing an unregistered, psychoactive agent. We have evidence of you fleeing arrest, theft, assault. And now you’re admitting you’re a Tinker. Cooperation is the only thing keeping you out of a maximum-security facility designed to contain people with powers like yours.”

The small mention that they have ways of blocking my Planeswalking had gotten me spooked. I didn’t even think it possible to cancel something that exotic but now that I was seriously considering it, it didn’t seem impossible. Magic or some unknown power interaction with mine might actually keep me anchored in place.

I breathed in. Slow. Even. Alright, Caesar. Time to stop fucking around. That’s not what I came for.

“I have some type of link towards the toxin. Once the formula was dropped into my brain, I almost immediately later ended up in a lab filled with everything I needed to create it. The same thing happened later in Miller’s house where dozens of exotic formulas were violently dumped into my grey matter. When y’all had me cornered in the garage, I used my ability to escape. Me and the truck ended up on a beach with the ingredients nearby necessary to create the concoctions I brought to the police station.” I told them honestly.

There was a pause for a few seconds after I finished before Miss Militia looked at Armsmaster for some type of confirmation which he gave with a stiff nod.

“We’ll come back to your Mover ability,” he said at last. Meanwhile, explain these concoctions that you brought to the station. He said deliberately while pulling out more pictures, these ones being my potions. “What was your purpose in bringing them and what do they do?” he questioned.

I felt heat crawl up the back of my neck. Embarrassment. Guilt. A mix.

I let out a small breath of laughter, humorless. “Look… I never set out to hurt anyone. I wasn’t looking for a fight. But getting jumped by eight guys in a parking lot isn’t exactly something I was prepared for either. I panicked. Maybe there was another way I could’ve dealt with the situation that didn’t involve gassing them with an emotional psychedelic. But that’s not what happened. And everything I did after that? It was just me trying to survive. Scrambling. Scared out of my mind. I didn’t know who I was, where I was, or why any of this was happening. I know I made a bad first impression, and that maybe you all have already labeled me a villain. But that’s not what I want to be. So, I started making these. Not chemical weapons—tools. Potions. Stuff that could actually help people. I figured if I could demonstrate what I’m capable of, that maybe I could do some good.”

I shifted forward in my seat, cuffed hands moving slowly and deliberately as I pointed to one of the potions in the photo laid out before us. My fingertips hovered just above the image, careful not to smudge the laminated paper. “This one here,” I said, tapping gently, “grants full-body invisibility. One solid hour of cloaking, no flickers, no gaps. Everything on you—your gear, armor, whatever you’re carrying—goes invisible too.”

Their gazes stayed fixed on me, listening. I leaned in just a bit more, my voice gaining momentum, warming as pride welled up in my chest. “It’s motion-sensitive, though. That was intentional. The moment you lunge, swing, or move too fast—boom, the effect breaks. 

I grinned, couldn’t help it. “And it’s clean. Absolutely stable. No weird gene tampering shit. Just a precise, alchemical suspension. Safe for civilians, frontline operators, support teams, whatever y’all want.”

Miss Militia and Armsmaster were stone-faced, but I saw the exchange between them. A flicker of understanding. Another glance that said more than words.

Armsmaster finally spoke, tone unreadable but edged with caution. “We’ll need to run extensive testing to verify the validity of your claims. Chemical composition analysis, biochemical interaction trials. Environmental stress conditions. Psychological impact. Long-term exposure evaluations. We can’t rule out unforeseen interactions or delayed effects. No corner can be cut.”

I immediately wanted to argue. I had absolute faith that those potions would be the epitome of perfection. I knew my shit worked exactly how I described it did. But whatever. I was relatively unknown, and they weren’t going to take the word of the guy who let off a chemical weapon earlier in their morning. 

Just annoying.

I swallowed the irritation, forcing a calm exhale. “Alright, fine. Test away. You want me to keep going?” 

Miss Militia gave a small nod and gestured toward the next photo with a motion of her I pointed next to an orange vial, the liquid inside bright and thick like molten syrup. “That one? It gives you fire breath. Hour-long effect, same time frame, but you gotta pace your exhales. Short, sharp bursts burn hotter. Long exhales will drain the effect faster, and they’re harder on the lungs so I gotta work on the formula and see if it could be improved.”

“What’s the estimated temperature output?” Armsmaster cut in.

“Around 1,800°F to 2,700°F. Unfortunately, it might feel a little uncomfortable. Your eyes will water without eye protection, and the chest might ache as the heat builds.” I confessed while I thumbed my chin.

I moved on, pointing to a vial filled with a clear, almost glowing light blue fluid. “That one lets you fly. Again, hour-long duration, but speeds about the same as your normal running pace. You’re not gonna be breaking the sound barrier with it, but it’ll get you off the ground, over obstacles, through vertical terrain.”

Next one, this time of a reddish-pink vial. “This one’s a mass augmenter. Doubles your size—height, weight, muscle density. It scales up anything you’re wearing or carrying too. If you're in full armor, that armor grows with you. Same with weapons. The effects last anywhere from one to four hours, depending on the user’s metabolism and body mass index. I figured it’d be handy for heavy lifting, riot suppression, frontline intimidation tactics. You know, ‘bigger guy hits harder’ kind of deal.”

Armsmaster looked like he was about to interject with another analytical question, but I pushed forward. “Pure red is a healing potion. The darker red one is- “

“Stop.”

I stopped, annoyed about the interruption and looked up to see his armored finger pointing at the healing potion. There was something different in his tone now—not suspicion, not anger—just focused intensity.

“You said this one heals?”

“Yeah,” I said, blinking. “Just a basic healing potion. Nothing flashy. If your injuries are shallow, a single dose is usually enough. More severe wounds might need two or three. It's reactive—it accelerates cell repair, encourages clotting, reduces inflammation, promotes tissue regeneration. Especially with its stronger variants. That kind of thing.” I said matter of fact.

I couldn’t get a read on Armsmaster—his armor and the helmet made him damn near impossible to interpret—but Miss Militia was another story. She gave the game away with her eyes widening at my casual admittance. Huh.

Just how valuable was healing out here?

“If you think that’s impressive, let me tell you about this one. Saved the best for last. This one’s called Vitality. Drinking it erases all physical exhaustion and purges any toxins or poisons in your system, cures diseases. You also gain a significant regeneration boost to your body with rest. Like... months of recovery with just a few hours of sleep.”

Once again, Armsmaster is the one who speaks. “Cures any disease,” he repeated slowly. “That’s a broad claim. Would it work on degenerative illnesses? Autoimmune disorders? Cancer variants? What about neurological disorders—schizophrenia, bipolarity, dissociative breaks?”

I winced internally. Aw crap. I didn’t think about mental illnesses. Damn.

“Uh… cancer? Yeah, I’m pretty sure it works on that,” I answered, scratching at my temple with my cuffed hand. “Same with autoimmune problems. The potion targets everything physical—flushes the system, reboots organ function, kicks your cell regeneration into overdrive. Basically, it pushes the body back into a pre-disease state, like rewinding the clock. But for mental health? I’m not one hundred percent sure. The formula might help if the root cause is physiological—like, if it’s due to trauma-induced brain inflammation or toxic buildup—but schizophrenia, PTSD, that kind of stuff? I’d need to do more testing. Carefully.”

Miss Militia nodded, the weight of her gaze still on me but less sharp now. More…soft. She crossed her arms over her chest. “But you’re open to letting us test the potion? Under controlled conditions.” 

“I already said yes,” I said with a shrug. “But… you do realize I only brought six sample potions with me, right? That’s not exactly enough for real tests. You’d burn through those in a day if you were serious about it.” 

“That’s where legal parameters come into play,” Armsmaster said, sliding another document across the table. His tone was more instructional now. “Based on what we’ve reviewed so far, your situation meets several key criteria: recent trigger, amnesiac state, minimal premeditated violence. Under the current PRT guidelines, individuals in your position are granted a temporary amnesty period following their trigger event. That includes immunity from prosecution for any harm caused during the event itself—within reason.”

Trigger event. There it was again.

“I’m guessing a trigger event is the moment someone… gets powers?” I asked carefully, watching their expressions.

“Correct,” Armsmaster replied with a small nod. “Trauma-induced. Often unpredictable. It can be physical, emotional, psychological… sometimes all three. The end result is a parahuman. The Protectorate’s Wards Program exists to help young individuals like yourself adapt to their new abilities safely and constructively.”

Miss Militia added, “With oversight by, support, training, and legal protections. We’re here to guide those who are willing to cooperate.”

Wait. Was this...?

I mean I don’t blame them. Who wouldn’t want an alchemist on the payroll, but wasn’t this going too fast?

I squinted at them both. “Hold on. Is this a recruitment pitch?”

There was a beat of silence—thick, heavy. Then Armsmaster answered with the kind of calm that was almost unnerving.

“And what if it is?”

I leaned back onto the chair and raised a brow. “Then I want to know what’s in it for me.”

“Protection,” he said immediately. “If what you said earlier is true, then you’re a rare breed of Tinker. That paints a target on your back. We can shield you from threats, both legal and otherwise.  And if your amnesia is medically verified? The charges from the last twenty-four hours can be waived away.”

“You’d also have resources,” Miss Militia continued. “Equipment, lab access, raw materials. If your goal is to keep making these concoctions, we can give you a safe environment to do that in.” 

“Really? You would be able to get me the ingredients needed to create these potions? You have that kind of reach?” I said disbelievingly.

“We have a government budget,” she said with a tone that made me believe she was smirking underneath that bandanna. 

Damn, that all sounded pretty enticing If I was being honest with myself. Having a fresh start without the shit I pulled here setting me back would definitely help me out in the long run. Without a doubt, way better than my “deal” with Mizora. 

Still though, I will read whatever contract they draw up for me down to the last minute detail. I was not getting screwed twice in less than a week.

“Okay, wow. That’s… more than I expected. I didn’t realize that you all actually have dimensional access like that on standby. Alright, I wouldn’t mind reading over what y’all have to offer.” I said with a smile that quickly faded once I saw their expressions.

Miss Militia’s body went rigid, eyes wide in alarm. Armsmaster’s posture turned stiff, the servos in his armor locking up audibly. This was the most serious I’ve seen him so far.

“Caesar,” he said slowly, voice tightly coiled, “what do you mean by dimensional access?” 

I blinked. “Didn’t I tell you already? I don’t just teleport randomly—I get pulled toward places connected to the formulas I… I guess get dumped in my grey matter. That beach I ended up on? That wasn’t on Earth. I could tell you that much. There was no way.” I told them as Miss Militia looked at Armsmaster like she wanted him to call me a liar on the spot. But instead of outrage or disbelief, he just let out a sigh. 

Like a man realizing the water was already rising past his chest.

“Alright,” I said, losing patience. “What now? What’s the problem this time?” Being kept in the dark was getting really fucking irritating.

“Just do it,” Armsmaster said, not to me, but to someone unseen. His voice was low, resigned, already moving ahead of the moment.

Huh?

“Do wha—”

I never finished my sentence as a sharp hiss filled the air as white foam blasted from nozzles in the ceiling, drenching all of us in a fraction of a second. My instincts screamed at me to move, to run, to planeswalk —but the foam hardened too fast, locking my limbs in place. I was encased. Trapped. Like a bug frozen in amber.

This was getting ridiculous, and I was pretty much done with all the over the top bullsh-

“You should only lose a Poké Ball when you catch a Pokémon!”

Mastery of the quantum stasis fields and spatial folding cores within each Poké Ball, allowing you to contain entities of great mass and power in a dormant, manageable state—without harm or consciousness loss, unless desired. Tune each crafted Poké Ball to the specific frequency and biology of your target, ensuring maximum catch rate and safe storage.

I barely read the words when I felt wetness —warm liquid trailing from my eyes. Blood. Thick and hot. No pain. Not this time.

Just fatigue. Heavy and definite. My body slumped in the foam as far as it could move. My mind felt like it was being pulled down into a whirlpool.

So tired.

Everything faded, slow and syrupy, like I was sinking through black ink.

And then, nothing.

Chapter Text

“Field agents are advised to remain neutral and professional when interacting with Case 53 victims. Compassionate handling is encouraged, but do not speculate on origin.
Subjects have a right to dignity, identity, and safety — even in the absence of a past.” I murmured quietly under my breath while I turned a page in the packet to look at some of the Case 53’s they decided to take pictures of for “examples”.

I swallowed hard at what I saw. Jesus H. Christ.

Most of them didn’t even look human anymore. One of them looked like their skin had been replaced with glossy black chitin. Another was a woman whose whole body seemed to be made up of nothing but black coiling tendrils. And I thought I had it bad.

I was lying flat on a thin medical cot, a pile of papers haphazardly scattered across the blanket like leaves over my lap - reports, info packets, recent parahuman history. Ever since I woke up, it’s been a flood of information that’s been dumped on me. At least this time, the information wasn’t sending me into a coma.

Because yeah. It turns out that forcing the human brain to understand math beyond anything humanity of the present can comprehend tends to make it hemorrhage.

I was told I should’ve been out of commission for months if I ever woke up again due to the severity of the brain bleed and how late they caught it. The only reason I’m even awake right now to argue with these assholes is because they decided to test my own Vitality potion on me.

Vitality. My greatest potion yet. I brewed it and survived because of it. And now they were trying to spin it like they saved me.

In their defense—mild, barely there—they did admit their best healer couldn’t do jack shit. She could regrow limbs, fix shattered bones, purge infections. Almost everything, except brains. So basically, all but useless for me except to make sure I wasn’t carrying any viral bacteria that could mutate and start a global epidemic. I wasn’t.

Lucky me.

What really ticked me off was the fact that these bastards were patting themselves on the back for my recovery for practically doing damn near nothing except for pushing my own concoction down my throat. So when those smug asshole doctors through the intercom tried to act like they saved me? I laughed. Laughed myself tired right on this cot and told them to fuck all the way off.

They didn't save me. Pangea or whatever the hell her name was didn’t save me. The only thing that made a difference was my own work. My own science. My own fucking effort.

There was also the silent terror in the back of my mind steadily growing. Quiet, cold, unshakeable. What if the next time was too strong? What if that was it? Turned brain dead by my own power. I was trying to ignore the very real possibility that I would not even make it to the end of the week.

I looked at the room again. It was sterile and cold, lit by flat-white overhead panels that never turned off. A soft chemical scent hung in the air, like bleach. Every surface was smooth, sealed, and easy to disinfect — steel, polyglass, and matte polymer, color-coded in muted gray and off-white. The floor is slightly sloped toward a central drainage grate, ringed with some kind of thermal decontamination seal.

The cot was bolted to the floor, surrounded by articulated armatures and scanner rigs, each labeled with a serial code and warning sticker. A single IV stand sat to the left of me, there were no drawers, no cupboards — nothing unsecured. Anything needed is delivered remotely through a retractable pass-through port in the wall.

They had to have one of those devices Armsmaster had mentioned in passing surrounding the room. The ones that were designed to keep in Movers like me in. I could feel it in my skin. Like I was being weighed down—not by gravity, but by… interference and it was trying to scramble my Planeswalking, to anchor me in place.

I flashed another sharp smile towards the built-in mirror on my left side, teeth bared in a way that wasn’t exactly friendly. It was very gratifying to know now that whatever Tinker-tech or containment protocols they had to stop people like me from escaping wasn’t gonna cut it for a guy like me. Not for a Planeswalker.

I could feel that my Planeswalking was stronger after the latest insight. I could feel the pull to whisk me away to wherever the tech I learned of originated from. The urge to leave right now and out of their “care” was strong but I held it in.

I also knew that the information that I now had would be enough to hold me in place. The quantum stasis framework behind Poké Ball technology? It wasn’t just advanced science. It was a threat—to me. If they ever got their hands on my work, figured it out, reverse-engineered it, tuned it just right… they might actually be able to hold me. The math was complex enough that it would take a while but it was definitely within the realm of possibility. Which is why the knowledge must never fall into their hands.

I can feel through my Fiendish sense right now that the mirror was one-way transparent for the people observing me. After the shit they pulled with the foam, I was done trying to be respectful to them. I was going to use every advantage I had at my disposal.

And what leverage I found.

The desperation for knowledge on me from the other side I assumed were from the scientists and it weirded me out. But the hunger I had felt earlier from a certain individual for my talents and potential was truly disturbing. I could feel exactly what lengths they would be willing to go for my abilities, and it made me want to leave this universe just to never feel that again. Someone out there wanted me. As a tool. A manufacturer of miracles.

That knowledge sat in my gut like ice. I was a resource. Not a patient. Not a person.

And I guess I had to get used to that.

They hadn’t outright said it, but it wasn’t hard to piece together from the interrogation and the feelings I had felt from them that parahuman healing was like a needle in a haystack. Combined with the information they gave to me in the info packet about Earth Bet and I knew that the ball was in my court. I just had to play it exactly right.

The packet was a mountain of information. I learned about the cape scene. The Protectorate and the PRT. Even the Unwritten Rules which I thought were dumb as all hell. I devoured as much as I could because I finally had real information. That’s how I knew people would kill for what I could make. Or worse, enslave me in a basement somewhere and keep me churning out elixirs forever. Because that could actually happen in this world. It has happened in this world. They happily provided the statistics for new triggers, especially Tinkers.

Because that's what I was. A Tinker. Some weird Tinker-Trump-Mover hybrid by their current power classifications. That combination made me some kind of unicorn in their estimations. I didn’t know what rating they’d slap on me, but I knew it wouldn’t be low. One of the few guys I could compare myself to in terms of my Mover power was a Tinker villain called Professor Haywire, and he almost accidentally started an interdimensional war between Bet and Aleph. What a great comparison.

In terms of potions? The only one that came to mind was a Protectorate Tinker from Alaska called Cask who brewed similar concoctions except from what I read, they were far weaker and not as varied. I wasn't sure at first how I felt about comparing my work to someone else's but eventually, I just settled on feeling satisfied knowing I was already outperforming someone.

There was another thing. They wanted to label me the same as they did him. As a Tinker-Brewer.

I had read the Tinker power classification documents. I understood why Brewer but why not the other when we both technically fell under the Bio-Tinker label. With both our abilities to skillfully create concoctions that affected biology and such. They didn’t answer. Just slid another file through the wall port.

It was about a guy called Nilbog.

Reading the shit the fucker pulled made a lot of past actions towards me make a hell of a lot more sense. Which is why it was surprising to me to read that he was still alive with his own personal quarantine zone somewhere in New Jersey. The psychotic maniac really poisoned the well for people like me. Add to the fact that the motherfucker wasn’t even technically a Bio-Tinker—just a Bio-Kinetic, manipulating flesh and bone. Sculpting his madness into existence.

With how detailed the reports they had given me were, I could see why most people just lumped that shit together. Plus, the others that followed in his wake with similar powers didn’t help.

And the goblins. I still couldn’t get over the goblins.

Out of all the possible things a man like that could create, why fucking goblins? 

There was nothing special about them. From my experience in Faerûn, they were mean little bastards—cowardly, cruel, multiplying like roaches. Their only real advantage was numbers with an absolute disregard for civilized behavior. They weren’t powerful. They weren’t clever. They were pests. Why would anyone—anyone—build a twisted little kingdom out of them? I tried to rationalize—briefly—if Nilbog’s obsession had roots in something deeper. Maybe he'd just had a fantasy fixation, but I wondered if he’d somehow encountered real magic in his past. Visions. Hallucinations. Exposure to other worlds, like I had. But the files said otherwise. Earth Aleph was the only confirmed dimensional breach that had ever happened here, and that was thanks to Haywire.

Which led to another big revelation: magic didn’t exist here.

Well—technically it did, but barely. Like a muscle atrophied from lack of use. There was some big name in Chicago who claimed he was a real wizard, but the info packet just labeled it as an eccentric personality trait. Not a single organization on this planet seemed to treat magic like something real. It was fiction here. Fantasy. An afterthought.

And yet, I could feel it. The Weave—thin and starved, —but present. It clung to me like smoke. Weak and hazy at first but growing richer every minute I spent in containment. It was as if I’d brought embers from Hell itself, and just by breathing, I was coaxing flames into the air.

Christ, if they knew…

Thank God I never got into mentioning that I had a warlock pact with a literal devil. That would’ve gone over real fucking well. Either they’d think I was insane, or they’d never let me go. Better to keep that little nugget of information tucked far, far away.

And now I was facing another problem. I had admitted—stupidly—that I was gaining new formulas over time. A feature that classified me as a tentative Trump apparently. Trumps were the strongest type of Parahumans in this reality. People that can give powers or get stronger overtime. The only problem with me is that I might not ever get to utilize that potential due to the damage my power periodically does to my brain.

They were throwing everything they could at the wall to justify keeping me under “medical observation.” Other concerns they were raising were what if I got mastered, infected, that I needed supervision, yada yada yada.

It was almost impressive, the variety of angles they came up with.

I’ll admit, some of those concerns they listed were not things I had truly considered deeply until they said them out loud. Getting infected with some type of foreign virus wasn’t really an issue to me since I had the means to cure myself from practically anything, but getting brainwashed? Getting mastered as they called it? I had no means, yet, to defend myself against that.

It was pretty ironic that I was so worried about it actually happening when my life already belonged to Mizora. Which made it even more darkly ironic that I now had the capability to be a Master myself.

Because the Poké Ball technology I had learned of was more insidious each time I thought it over in my head. Not only was it capable of sending sentient, biological beings into its own miniaturized quantum-folded spatial field, but it also enforced a type of bound loyalty to the owner. I had wondered briefly if it would work on humans, but I quickly shook off that train of that thought. That was a slippery slope. One I didn’t even want to consider.

Still… I won’t pretend I wasn’t excited to build one of these poké balls. Spatial folding tech like that had hundreds of applications. I could build my own Bag of Holding, a pocket lab I could carry on my belt, a secure vault for the more volatile reagents. And there were so many fantastical creatures in Faerûn. Dangerous, beautiful creatures. And now I had the means to tame them. Maybe even build a menagerie. For protection. For deterrence.

And that was just from one reality.

What else was waiting for me in the multiverse?

My musings were cut-off when the room’s intercom crackled to life, snapping me back to the present.

“Good evening, Caesar. Have you finished reviewing the contract?” The woman’s voice was calm and clipped—probably trained to sound that way, practiced. Almost sterile, like a surgeon.

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. It was small, dry, and utterly without humor. “Yeah, I read it,” I said, staring up at the blank ceiling like it might blink. “Cover to cover. All thirty pages. Three times.”

After what happened to me in Hell—one of the Hells—you better believe I wasn’t signing anything without knowing every clause. Every comma. Every little pocket they could shove a loophole into. If Mizora taught me anything, it was that even the fine print has fine print.

Which is exactly why there was no fucking way I was signing this one.

“There are... a few issues I have with it,” I said, keeping my tone cordial, for now.

There was a pause, and when the voice returned, I heard the faint shift—just a sliver of defensiveness behind the corporate calm. “That’s the standard contract we offer all Tinkers who wish to join the Protectorate.”

And there it was. The assumption. That I wanted to join. That I should be grateful for the privilege of chaining myself to their machine. Maybe... maybe I might’ve considered it. If I didn’t know better. If I hadn't been smothered in containment foam, interrogated like I was a freak, and watched through one-way mirrors like a zoo animal. But I did know better now. I’d done the reading. I’d felt their intent through my Fiendish sense. I’d seen what they considered a fair deal.

Once you strip the PR polish and polite language, it was a glorified servitude agreement. I would basically be a slave twice over. Working with a limited budget, having to produce my own resources, and having to have all my inventions vetted by some government committee before I could even test it—assuming they let me test it at all. Oh, and let’s not forget the mandatory patrols. They wanted me in the field. Risking my neck in a costume designed by focus groups and brand managers.

Why they risked their Tinker’s lives in favor of letting them participate in the cape scene out in the field instead of working in a safe environment? I didn’t know.

So yeah, I’d rather go Rogue. Dangerous? Sure. Lonely? Definitely. But at least I wouldn’t be shackled by red tape. Besides, if I had to pick between being a free man or a government-owned potion factory, the choice was obvious. Even if the streets were crawling with gangs—and one of the largest happened to be skinhead supremacists who’d probably try to beat me on sight again for having the wrong skin tone.

“I just don’t think I’d be comfortable working for the government,” I said flatly, turning my head toward the mirror I knew they were watching me through, “especially not for free. Not when you can’t even provide the basic ingredients I need to do my work. I also don’t think I’m hero material, nor do I have any desire to hurt people. So, I guess I’ll just be a Rogue.”

Silence.

Not the good kind, either. The kind that stretches too long. That drips tension like water from a cracked ceiling.

Then the intercom kicked back on.

“I would urge you to think very carefully about your position right now, Mr. Jimenez.”

Ah. Mr. Jimenez. We were done pretending to play nice now.

The voice was still calm, still measured, but there was weight behind it this time. Threat dressed up in formalwear.

“You already have multiple charges stemming from your activities during the time you operated under the identity of ‘Scarecrow.’ That’s without including your prior offenses as a civilian.”

I let out a snort, sharp and bitter. “Guess I really didn’t have a choice with the name, huh?” I rolled my eyes and shook my head, trying not to show how tight my chest felt. “I knew that damn mask was a little too on-the-nose. Scarecrow. Real subtle.”

My voice had that bite I didn’t bother to file down. Didn’t care. I knew I was being a smartass, but it was better than sitting here and letting the shame chew through me like acid.

Because I’d read my case file. The old me—the guy who walked around Brockton Bay before all this started was not exactly someone whose parents would be proud of. The original Caesar wasn’t just a dumb kid making bad choices.

He was rotten.

By fifteen, he was already neck-deep in Brockton Bay’s underground scene. A name on gang watchlists. A low-level drug dealer. It wouldn’t have been that bad to me if it had just been something like weed, but of course it wasn’t. He was dealing coke and Oxy to goddamn high schoolers. And it didn’t stop there. The arrogance. The recklessness. The sheer selfishness of it all. I didn’t care about the sob story in that folder, I detested the old me enough that I wouldn’t spit on him if he was on fire.

Not that long ago, I had wanted to know who I was. If that person was worth becoming again. Now? I could admit to myself that I’d prefer to still be living in ignorance.

Another pause. Then she continued, colder now.

“You were granted provisional clemency based on your claim of a recent trigger event, and your amnesia has been medically verified by Panacea.

She was trying to keep it professional. I could hear her trying not to growl.

“That clemency however,” she pressed on, “only applies if the parahuman in question agrees to enter supervised care with the Protectorate or Wards. You choosing to operate outside of our oversight voids those protections.”

I narrowed my eyes, arms crossing tightly over my chest.

“So it’s conditional amnesty,” I said, dry. “Be a good little slave or get stuffed in a cell.”

“There’s also your age,” she continued, ignoring the jab. “You are a minor, Mr. Jimenez. Legally speaking, you cannot consent to or refuse Protectorate guidance without a guardian present. And more concerning than that, our scans indicate you are experiencing intermittent neural degradation. Internalized cerebral trauma consistent with your own description of power-based side effects. Letting you leave would put you at significant personal risk—and if something were to happen to you on our watch, the PRT would be held liable.”

That statement said a lot about them.

Not concern. Not empathy.

Liability.

It was funny too that they pulled the underage angle considering that Miss Militia threatened earlier with having me tried as an adult with no jury.

“And frankly speaking,” she went on without missing a beat, “we wouldn’t let a Tinker with your classification go unsupervised regardless of medical status. Not with your capabilities. Your potential as a force multiplier is too significant to ignore. If we release you, one of two things will happen: you’ll either be captured and enslaved by local criminal interests—like the Empire Eighty-Eight—or you’ll be forced to sell your services on the black market or to local villains due to the limitations imposed by NEPEA-5.”

My eyes narrowed.

I was getting tired of that word. Force. Forced to serve. Forced to sell. Forced to join. And if I didn’t, the law would make sure someone else forced me.

I read the NEPEA-5 bill. Twice. It was one of the most ridiculous things I have ever read. The bill made it illegal for unregistered parahumans—especially Tinkers—to trade, sell, or even share their technology so that it couldn’t heavily affect the economy. But Tinker tech already doesn’t last without its creator. It falls apart, degrades, becomes unstable.  It requires constant maintenance by the OG Tinker, so any fear of Tinkers having a real effect on the global market was just misguided paranoia.

No, now that I think about it deeper. More like it was intentionally targeted towards parahumans, so that they would have limited options except to join the Protectorate.

Ruthless. Ruthless and stupid.

I didn’t agree with the government forcing people with unique abilities to make a coin flip decision. I think that eight times out of ten, people are going to serve themselves.

And that’s probably the reason why they were so desperate for me. The reports didn’t list specific numbers—of course they didn’t—but I could read between the lines. The cape scene was worse than chaotic; it was desperate. The good guys? Grossly outnumbered. The villains were organized, entrenched. Some even had city-wide control. How the hell does a group of Nazis operate openly in a place like this? In an American city?

if guys like Nilbog are allowed to live? Then that said everything I needed to know about this world.

And I didn’t want to make it worse.

I had the potential to actually make a difference in people’s lives, but on my terms.

So I’ll play ball with the government stooges, just not in the way they want. Not as their pet brewer, not as their convenient little lab rat in a costume.

“Your concerns for my health are appreciated, but unnecessary,” I said dryly. “I don’t plan on being on my own out there. I’ll have some assistance for my well-being if I come across any more brain problems.” I say with confidence.

A pause. Then her voice cut in sharply, clipped with authority. “You don’t understand, Mr. Jimenez. NEPEA-5 will not allow—”

She didn’t get to finish.

“The only way to bypass NEPEA-5 is to join the Protectorate or…be Protectorate affiliated. I’ve already read that a Tinker called Dragon regularly sells to the Protectorate and the PRT that containment foam you all so loved to spray on me. I want to do the same thing for my potions. You get my product. I keep my autonomy. That way, everybody wins.” I said matter of factly.

Another round of silence before she responds again.

She was colder this time. “What makes you believe you’re in any position to negotiate?

So she was gonna go this route huh? This was gonna be hilarious.

“We have you pinned down with teleportation dampeners designed by the very Tinker you just mentioned within the walls of your containment cell,” she continued, voice like frost. “Your Mover ability is all but nullified. And I am the only person standing between you and permanent incarceration. You have no options except to join the Protectorate.” she said with finality.

“Alright.”

She paused. “Alright… what.”

“Do it,” I said. “Throw me in a cell for the rest of my life. Get it over with.” I said emotionlessly.

Silence. This time, it was longer. Heavier.

“Caesar, you have no idea what you're saying. I urge you to think more carefully about this.” She said suddenly in a wary tone. And now we’re back to Caesar.

“I do know what I’m saying. And if you’re leaving me with one choice, then I prefer not to choose at all. You either take what I’m offering or you might as well get this bullshit over with.”

I’d like to believe that even if I couldn’t Planeswalk out of here, I’d still say the same thing. Because I wasn’t bluffing. If they wanted to lock me away for giving a bunch of neo-Nazis some nightmares, they could try. But the second they opened that cell door?

I’d be gone.

Nobody could say I didn’t try to work with the heroes. Hell, I bent over backward to meet them halfway. This was their last chance.

The silence that followed was the longest yet, stretching taut like a rubber band about to snap.

Finally, her voice came back through the intercom, more cautious now. “I’ll return when you’re in a more reasonable state of mind… But perhaps we can begin drafting a revised contract. One that you might find more agreeable.”

“Nah, I’m getting kind of bored of looking for loopholes in your contracts. You’ve got one hour. That’s it. One hour to give me a real answer. Otherwise, I’m done talking.”

Nothing. No response this time. Just cold, dead static

I let out a sigh, this whole experience has been almost a waste of time. I could’ve learned all the information they gave me from a library. The only thing they actually had to offer was about my past but I honestly would’ve preferred still being in the dark about that.

I turned back the document. I just shortened my time to one hour to read all this. I skimmed through the other unique case identifiers before just setting it down and grabbing the red folder. I opened it and looked at it with raised eyebrows. This looked pretty serious.

PUBLIC RELEASE — PRT UNCLASSIFIED DOCUMENT
 TITLE: ENDANGERED EARTH BRIEFING
 ORIGIN: PRT CENTRAL STRATEGIC COMMAND — PUBLIC SAFETY OFFICE
 VERSION: V.4.2 – Cleared for Civilian Distribution
 DATE: July 12, 2010

 Document Classification:

UNCLASSIFIED
 This document is intended for public awareness and disaster readiness. Do not alter, falsify, or misrepresent its contents.

SUBJECT: Endbringers

The following summary serves to provide verified and accessible information on the beings collectively designated as "Endbringers"—parahuman-class entities responsible for catastrophic events on a global scale. The PRT and Protectorate issue this document to promote transparency, preparedness, and public resilience.

The origin of the Endbringers remains unconfirmed. On December 13th, 1992 Behemoth, or Hadhayosh as he was called, appeared for the first time to attack Marun, Iran's second largest oil field.

I stopped reading as a noise like crackling charcoal suddenly filled the air in the room. I sat upright in the cot. Was it the foam again?

As the noise grew louder, I saw from the center of the room, space shredded. A vertical slit of flame hissed open midair, red light bleeding out from the tear like a wound in reality. I could hear an alarm going off, but I was so focused on what was happening in front of me that it was just background noise to me. A familiar winged form began to manifest.

It was Mizora.

Her form glimmered with that signature hellish aura, slick and beautiful and predatory, wings tucked and eyes glowing with dark delight. Her skin shimmered under the fluorescents as if she were underwater, as if the air bent around her from sheer pressure.

“Ah! There you are!” she beamed, voice like silk dragged over razors. “I was wondering where you ended up, pet. Transporting my projection across planar boundaries took longer than I’d expected.”

I closed my eyes and groaned in defeat. So much for keeping that infernal pact a secret. Now the fucking government would know what kinda company I kept with.

I opened my eyes at the hiss of liquid being sprayed around the room. The liquid quickly began to foam once it made contact with a surface. Once again, it was flowing all around my form and holding me in place. I saw Mizora looking annoyed before the foam covered my eyes. I could still hear through the foam when someone snapped their fingers sharply.

All of sudden, the foam that had flooded the room ‘disappeared’. That wasn’t the right word. More like turned into dust that faded in nothingness.

“There. Much better,” Mizora said with a grin, walking up to me to brush imaginary dust off my shoulder. “I’d rather see your boyish frown than that awful yellow sludge.” she said with satisfaction.

I gave her a tight look, full of sarcasm and panic. “Is now really the time, Mizora?”

“Of course it is,” she replied breezily, as if there wasn’t a tactical team probably on the way right now. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. But yes, yes, I see your meaning. Let’s keep this between us, hmm?”

Her eyes glinted. “I’ll switch to Infernal. You know what to do.”

Then, without preamble, she spoke.

“𐎃 𐎸𐎠𐎺𐎠 𐎀𐎡 𐎘𐎻𐎠𐎤 𐎆𐎹 𐎩𐎢 𐎿𐎠𐎩𐎢𐎴,” she intoned, each word reverberating in the air—not in my ears, but through me. Bone-deep.

I stared at her for a second with my jaw hanging open in incomprehension before suddenly realizing.

I moved my hands in the right sequence like I practiced to cast Comprehend Languages.

“Glɒsəreeon,” I whispered.

Magic clicked into place. Her words translated, bright and sharp in my mind like lightning behind the eyes.

“I have a task for you in Faerûn .”

Well shit.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve been expecting something like this to happen ever since she’s become my patron.

I cleared my throat, even though it felt like swallowing glass. My voice came out dry, foreign, shaped by syllables I hadn’t known existed until a few minutes ago.

“What is the task?”

Mizora did a little mock clap at how I sounded in Infernal that made me glare at her.

“I need you to assist another warlock in my employ,” she said sweetly, like she was asking me to water her plants. “I’ve sent him to hunt a… troublesome figure. Dangerous. Skilled. Unrelenting. This one won’t die easy, so I’m tipping the scales. You will support him, and together you will put down the beast that dared defy my master. Do this, and you’ll be rewarded.”

Then her tone shifted, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees despite the heat radiating off her.

“Refuse? Fail?” Her grin widened. “Well. I won’t spoil the surprise” she said ominously.

I sat there, frozen on the cot. I tried to keep my expression neutral, calm. Useless. She could already see inside my head, taste my fear on her tongue like a fine wine. I hated it. I hated how much control she had. What would be the punishment for disobeying a devil? My mind was going wild with different punishments she could possibly inflict on me. My first insight about fear was telling me that it was genius of her to keep me in suspense of the consequences. It let me consider the worst and realize that no matter how bad I thought it could be? It would be way worse than anything my human mind could possibly imagine.

I don’t know why I even bothered asking my next question since I knew I was gonna follow her commands anyway. I wasn’t strong enough to even consider disobeying and I was too much of a coward of the promised pain she was willing to do to me.

“This beast you want dead. Do they deserve it?” I said quietly. I was too into my own thoughts that I didn’t care why the building and room had shook suddenly or that the lights had flickered like they were gonna go out.

Mizora leaned in slightly and looked into my eyes with a blank expression. Her burning irises felt like they were burning into the windows of my soul.

“She was in Hell for a reason, Caesar,” Mizora said flatly. “An Advocatus Diaboli. My master Zariel’s former attack dog. Believe me when I say that she deserves to be put down like the wretched mongrel that she is. Do not hesitate when you confront her or it will be the last thing you’ll ever do.” She said as serious as I’ve seen her so far.

There was no way to tell if she was telling the truth. I just had to take her word for it.

“Then I’ll do it. Where is your other Warlock currently at?” I said with a sigh.

She lit up like a Christmas tree.

“I knew you had a good head on those shoulders,” she cooed. “He’s currently at the Emerald Grove—you’ve been there before. Go to him, help him finish what should’ve happened so long ago, and don’t forget…” Her tone dropped again, saccharine layered over steel. “I’m watching. Don’t let me down.”

With that, she vanished. One final flicker. The rift sealed shut, leaving behind a scorched sigil burned into the air itself.

And then silence—until the real world came screaming back.

Red emergency lights snapped on, painting the walls in pulsing crimson. A second later, the power surged—flickering, unstable. Then came the sirens, loud and shrill from the depths of the facility. I could hear it, even from behind these polyglass walls: shouting, boots pounding the floor, screaming, gunfire. Chaos had erupted beyond the sterile walls of my cage.

My heart was hammering in my chest as I slowly stood, the cot creaking beneath me. The ground vibrated underneath my boots.

What the fuck was going on out there?

Another explosion rumbled somewhere nearby, strong enough to make dust rain from the corners of the ceiling. The emergency lights died abruptly, plunging the cell into pitch darkness. I immediately casted Prestidigitation to have a small flame emit from my right pointer finger. The light from the flame wasn’t bright enough to see the whole cell anymore, just enough to cast shaky shadows along the far walls. I mentally let my fiendish sense go and could feel multiple individuals. They wanted a lot of things. Money, power, pleasure, but right now? They wanted me. They wanted to capture me.

Fuck this place. I had overstayed my welcome.

A hiss filled the air—the sound of hydraulics and mechanisms grinding to life. I turned toward the containment door just as it began to open. My hand clenched into a fist, not from fear, but anticipation. I could already feel it—the pull of the Necromancer’s lair starting to drag me out of there. Green energy enveloping me. I made a small glance at the armed man stepping into the doorway, rifle raised, face obscured by black balaclava.

Too late buddy.

The transition was seamless.

I stood inside my newly acquired laboratory. I stood there for a few seconds, going over in my head what had just happened. Did the PRT literally just get their facility breached?

I blinked in disbelief. Holy crap they were bad. Like actual garbage.

For an organization that could track me down within a single day of triggering, they sure folded fast when the pressure hit. What happened to the aura of control? The terrifying omnipresence they’d been flaunting? I’d been in there, and I wasn’t sure how many levels of security I was under. And still—still—some random group came crashing through like it was a damn drive-thru.

If I didn’t have my Planeswalking, I would’ve been screwed from six ways to Sunday. The more I saw of Earth Bet, the more I realized just how much they needed me, more than I needed them.

I shook my head and went towards my Bag of Holding that was resting on top of an alchemical bench. I immediately went and pulled out the scroll to summon an abyssal demon. This was something I had thought about for a while, and I needed to get over my hesitation if I wanted to get stronger. I pulled open the scroll and read its contents. I still had Comprehend Languages active, and it wouldn’t wear off till its hour duration was reached so I could still read the abyssal scrawl that covered the old parchment. I skimmed through the scroll till I found what I was looking for. The demon's name. Finding it out would give me dominion over it even when the scroll was used up.

I exhaled in relief when I finally found it. “Yes,” I whispered, and grabbed a piece of charcoal and one of the journals laying around. I scribbled down its true name to make sure I didn’t forget it in the future. With that done, it was time to get this party started.

I pulled out the scroll and let the arcane power within me unleash the beast locked away.

The scroll ignited in green flame, disintegrating in my hands. The heat didn’t hurt—it welcomed me. In its place, something else arrived.

The demon appeared with a violent pop, the air rippling around him like a heat mirage.

It was tiny. Barely three feet tall. Green skin, oozing pustules, barbed tail twitching in annoyance. His claws were long and curled like daggers. His face was hideous, impish, with too many needle teeth and eyes as black as the void.

“Argh. Shit-piddling toe-rag. Never summon Shovel. Never feed Shovel. Now call Shovel?” the demon squeaked in a voice that sounded like a helium balloon stuffed with gravel.

It looked around the laboratory and sniffed the air curiously before finally looking closer at me.

“Wait. You’re not Illy.”

“Uh...that's right. My name is Caesar. I found the scroll containing you in a casket.” I said slowly, surprised by its behavior. With all the griping from Mizora about the savagery of the demons from the Abyss, I had expected something almost impossible to talk to.

Instead, I got something that looked like a deformed goblin with a throat infection.

“So. You’re Shovel’s new master now? Fine.”

Wait. What the hell. That was a little too easy. Was this a scheme?

“Your name is Shovel?” I asked, cautious. “Is it not Ozzek’vuhl?”

The reaction was immediate. Shovel shrieked, throwing itself face-first onto the stone and wrapping its gangly arms over its head.

“You didn’t have to say it! You didn’t have to say it!” it screeched at me, voice trembling with something I didn’t expect—fear.

An uncomfortable feeling was building inside of me at seeing the demon losing it right at my boots, but I tried to push through it. At the end of the day, I couldn’t trust this thing. Not without insurance.

I couldn’t afford to let weakness show. I cleared my throat loudly to stop the demons' panicked screeching and projected authority into my voice.

“Listen to me Shovel. If you follow my orders to the letter, you won’t have nothing to worry about. If you don’t? Then I think you can imagine what happens next.”

I had no idea what would happen next—but I didn’t need to. Let him fill in the blanks.

Shovel’s head bobbed up and down in panicked enthusiasm. “Yes yes, understood! Already accepted you! Just tell me what you want!” it wailed.

Fucking Christ. A demon was making me feel pity for it. What the hell was my life? I tried to refocus.

“I read your old master’s journal. Said his apprentice ran off with the gem needed to open this,” I said, pulling the flesh-bound grimoire from my Bag. The screaming face on the cover whispered faintly, but didn’t scream. “You said to him that it fell into the well.”

Shovel blinked, sniffed, and nodded.

“Yes! Yes! Down into the dark, slippery tunnels! Apprentice boy took it! Shovel can fetch! Shovel good at crawling!”

“Then go. Now.”

It didn’t need to be told twice. The little monster vanished—literally vanished—it’s body blurring into thin air as if swallowed by shadows.

I blinked owlishly at his form disappearing from view. I needed to read up on whatever demon Shovel was. What its powers or what capabilities it had so I could effectively use it to my own interests. Another thing to add onto the growing list on my plate.

I rolled my shoulders with a groan and clipped my bag around my waist as I made my way out of the laboratory to go see this other warlock in Mizora’s employ.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I watched from a distance in some tall grass with the brass eyeglass I'd snagged from the ruined apothecary on top of a sloped hill that overlooked the druid grove at the supposed warlock Mizora had told me about. I knew it was him. There was a hint of the arcane that rolled off from him, and he was also the most recent addition to the grove. He looked like a damn painting from a fantasy novel cover — everything about him was too clean, too precise, like it had been designed.

His skin was deep brown, old faint scars scattered across his face. His expression was caught between youthful charm and the weary discipline of someone who’s seen more than he lets on. His long black hair was braided back into cornrows and his one good eye — dark and clear — flickered with emotion as he spoke, expressive and theatrical, like a stage actor caught mid-myth. He wore what seemed to be a tailored, nobles ensemble reworked for battle: a low-collared jacket of faint crimson and navy trim, fine but worn from the road.

He was sharpening one of those needle-like swords with a whetstone while he told some kind of story to a cluster of tiefling children who sat cross-legged in the wet grass, rapt with attention.

They ate it up. He was charming. Expressive. Fluid in how he moved, even seated, like a dancer or an actor from a high-budget play. All the presence and poise and panache.

I didn’t buy it.

This was a man who'd bargained his soul away to a devil. How much of all that was an act? How deep was the lie? What did he give up his soul for?

I still had the uncomfortable feeling rolling in my gut from earlier and it grew as I watched him interact with the kids. My jaw was clenched at the thought of working with a servant of Mizora. My imagination once again getting away from me as I imagined the worst type of person to work with.

But what choice did I have?

My thoughts were interrupted by the rhythmic crunch of boots climbing the hill. Two figures were ascending toward me. I lowered the eyeglass, slipping it into my bag before brushing off any grass off my sleeves. One I knew. Nymessa. The other was someone I hadn’t met before.

She was almost my height but she moved gracefully, wrapped in a patchwork of vibrant cloth and travel-worn leather, dyed in dusky purples and twilight blues. Collar decked with hanging bells like a court jester. A musical instrument like an early design of a guitar was slung across her back — the worn wood catching little flecks of sunlight — and her satchel jingles faintly with trinkets and tuning pegs.

Her skin was soft lilac, almost glowing under the sunlight. Her face had that ethereal symmetry that made my brain short-circuit for a second, and she had wide, expressive eyes — a rich orange hue. Her horns curved back gracefully over her head like polished bone, almost antler-like in their gentle sweep. Long curls of violet hair spilled down her neck and forehead, some strands caught by the breeze as she climbed.

This world man. Everyone seemed to be too beautiful or perfect. It was literally unreal.

Nymessa caught my stare and gave me a smirk. “Spying on our newest guest?” she teased. “Didn’t realize the visiting Planeswalker was already a fan of the Blade of Frontiers.”

“Blade of what now?” I said, brow cocked. “Sounds like a mouthful. What is that, a sword or a stage name?”

“That’s his title, apparently. A bit of a legend around these parts. Escaped from Avernus on the back of a crashing Mindflayer ship.” She shrugged like it was just another Tuesday. “Damays and Kanon found him crawling out of the wreckage last night. They invited him here.”

“Huh. That does sound impressive. Even though I don’t know what a Mindflayer is. I’ll have to ask someone later. You know why he was in Hell in the first place?” I said nonchalantly. I mentally took note of the mention of a ship crash nearby.

“All he told us was that he was hunting a devil’s champion. Followed her onto the ship and ended up here. But that’s all we know so far.”

I grunted noncommittally as I popped my neck in relief.

“You gonna introduce me?” I asked, tilting my head at the quiet tiefling beside her.

Nymessa gave a knowing smile. “Thought you’d never ask. This lovely lass is Alfira. She’s a savant with the lute.” She said as she put her hands around Alfira’s shoulders and pushed her towards me.

“Caesar. Caesar Jimenez,” I offered, reaching my hand out slowly. Not too fast. No sudden movements. Still getting used to that social part of things.

“Alfira. Alfira Melvaris,” she replied in a soft voice, her hand warm in mine. Her grip was gentle, almost hesitant.

“She’s been dying to meet you ever since you traded Dammon that…tru-uk?” Nymessa teased, dragging the word out in that way people do when they don’t quite understand what they’re saying. “And let’s not forget how you outed that old hag from our camp.”

Alfira turned a soft shade of pink and gave Nymessa a weak little shove. “You make it sound like I’ve been gossiping all day.”

I chuckled, letting some of the tension ease out of my shoulders. “How’s Dammon doing with the truck, anyway?”

“He’s determined. Frustrated beyond belief, but determined.. That's all that matters.”

I was about to respond when Nymessa suddenly put a hand to her brow, squinting toward the sun. “Would you look at that. Shift change.” She turned to us with a wink. “Duty calls. You two have fun.” And just like that, she was off—boots crunching the dry grass as she practically jogged toward the grove’s perimeter.

Alfira and I watched her vanish from view.

“She can be such a pain in the arse,” Alfira muttered, loud enough for me to hear.

“She didn’t mean anything bad by it,” I offered. “At least I don’t think so.”

“Oh, no. She meant exactly what she said. She always does.” Alfira sighed, brushing a lock of hair behind her horn. “But… she’s not wrong. I did want to speak with you. If you don’t mind?”

“Go for it.”

She let out a small breath before composing herself and locking her burning irises with my brown ones. There was strength in her eyes, buried under the shyness. “What’s it like? Where you’re from?”

I blinked at that. I guess it’s what I should’ve expected.

“It’s… more modern. If that makes sense to you,” I said, scratching my jaw while I picked the words. “Imagine Faerûn, but with less dirt and a hell of a lot more metal. Magic doesn’t run the world where I come from. Machines do. It’s all wires, engines, electricity, and noise. Technology is king.”

Her brow furrowed in disbelief. “Magic isn’t dominant in your plane? But how? What do your gods do in the meantime?”

That made me pause. I looked down at the small silver cross that hung from my neck, running my thumb along the edge of it like I’d done a dozen times since waking up in this new life. “That’s a good question. And I’m probably the worst person to answer it. There’s a bunch of religions back home, but our gods don’t walk the earth or throw meteors or whisper power into your blood. Most of it comes down to faith. Belief. We hope someone’s listening.”

“And you still believe?” she asked, uncertain.

“I want to,” I admitted. “Even after everything. I want to believe someone out there is watching. That it all means something.” My voice was quieter now. “But it’s hard. When you hear the world is at its worst… when prayers go unanswered, and good people suffer anyway… doubt creeps in. It wears you down.”

I turned my head, staring out at the grove and the shoreline beyond it. The wind was soft, brushing the grass like fingertips. If there was ever a place to believe again… it would be here.

We stood in silence for a little while, just listening to the wind, before Alfira broke it.

“Why did you choose to help us?” She said quietly before clarifying quickly. “I mean…we’re very glad to accept your help but why?”

I turned back to her, giving the only answer I had. “Because your people helped me first.”

That made her laugh, a soft, lilting sound like wind chimes in spring. “That’s it? That simple?”

I hesitated, just for a second. Then I decided to be real with her.

“When I first met Damays and Nymessa on that beach. I’ll admit. I was afraid. I had never seen anything like you before. I thought it was all over for me. But I took a chance. They were the first people I ever had a conversation with after having no memories. That one moment… it gave me a direction. A reason to try. Helping your people was me trying to give that feeling back. That chance I took is the reason why there’s good in me at all I think.”

Alfira looked at me like she was seeing past my skin, into something deeper. Her smile was radiant — no other word for it. It hit like sunlight after days of storm. It made my chest ache.

“Spoken like a true budding hero,” she said gently. “You’re giving me far too much material for a song.”

“I’m not a hero by my world's standards actually.” I said embarrassed while I rubbed my neck with my right hand. “More of a… rogue type.”

She tilted her head and grinned. “Then maybe your world needs new standards.”

God, that smile. It should’ve been a crime. I couldn’t meet her eyes for long. It was dangerous.

She cleared her throat and suddenly looked unsure.

“I know I heard that you fought goblins and faced that duplicitous old crone in the heart of our camp but...did…were you afraid out there on your own?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “I was afraid the entire time.”

She blinked, taken aback. “Then how did you… do it?”

“Fear isn’t a bad thing. It’s how you handle that fear that matters. It’s…it's hard to explain but it can paralyze you or it can make you fight as hard as you've ever fought before. If that makes any sense.” I hadn’t even been through a whole week yet to be saying profound shit like that but I did truly mean those words. Time will tell if I lived up to it.

Alfira had a look on her face that I couldn’t decipher. She opened her mouth to say something when I heard it.

A melody. Faint, soft. Like someone humming through silk in a tunnel far away. Distant, but rising.

“Do you hear that?” I said, cutting her off.

She tilted her head. “Hear wha—”

I raised a finger to my lips. “Just… listen.”

We both stood still. Silent. And then it returned — fuller now, as if the wind itself carried a voice through the trees. Haunting. Beautiful.

I shared a look with Alfira. “Are there other musicians like you here?”

She shook her head slowly, expression distant. “No. It’s just me now.”

I wanted to ask what she meant by now, but the moment was already moving. “I’m gonna go check it out. Okay?” I said as I began my way down the sloped hill.

I didn’t get far before I heard footsteps crunching beside me.

“I’m coming with,” Alfira said flatly, like she dared me to argue.

I smirked sideways. “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”

We walked in step down the winding, uneven trail toward the shore. The sun was warm, the breeze salty, and the tension under my skin wouldn’t let me relax. Once we made it to sea level, I caught a glimpse of movement in the distance. A small figure near the waterline.

A child.

“What the fuck…?” I muttered, squinting through the haze. The silhouette was definitely a tiefling boy, standing knee-deep in the surf, still as stone.

“Mirkon?” Alfira called, concern creeping into her voice. “Mirkon! What are you doing out here by yourse—”

She trailed off suddenly, blinking like she’d just forgotten where she was.

And I got it. Because the sound had returned.

That melody. It curled around my brain like a silk noose—whispers set to rhythm, sweet and terrible. It made the hot sun feel oppressive, like I was being baked alive. The water looked cool. Peaceful. Welcoming.

I took a step forward, unthinking.

No. No. No. That’s not me. That’s not my thought.

I shook my head violently, like I was flinging something wet and wrong off my skin. The world came back into focus, and I saw Alfira struggling to pull Mirkon back.

“Mirkon, we have to go. Right now,” she said slowly, voice unsteady.

“But… it’s just a little water. I just wanna listen. Just a little closer…” the boy murmured, eyes glassy, trying to pull free.

That’s when I heard the wings.

A heavy whump-whump-whump above the waves. I turned to see something out of an old legend.

My mind instantly came up with a name I shouldn’t have remembered.

“La Lechuza.” I whispered in quiet horror.

Hovering across the bay were four winged figures, perched atop a stone spire rising from the sea. Three watched in silence. The fourth sang. The creatures looked like nightmares dipped in legend: half-woman, half-bird, with long, cruel talons and pallid violet skin stretched over sinewy muscle. Their faces were sunken mockeries of elven beauty—gaunt, sharp-jawed, eyes hollow. Wings like ravens, massive and fanned wide, feathers the color of ash and grave-dust.

The singer wore a crown — no, a headdress — woven from bone, feathers, and gold spikes arranged in a sunburst pattern. Tiny skulls lined her brow like pearls. A mask of bone hid her face, grinning blankly as her song twisted through the air like poison.

I don't know when my gun ended up in my hand but before I realized what was going on, I was pulling the trigger. The crack of the shot echoed over the water like thunder off canyon walls. The melody cut off mid-note. The harpy with the headdress jerked. A streak of dark blood splashed from a tear in her wing, her eyes flaring with raw hate as she twisted to face me. Her voice split the air, a banshee screech that punched into my ears like hot nails.

“GO!” I roared, already firing again while they took to the air. “Get the kid out of here!”

Alfira stood frozen for a heartbeat too long. Then she blinked, seized the boy in her arms, and bolted like her life depended on it.

I kept squeezing the trigger. Another round cracked through the air, then another. But they were moving fast now, erratic and shrieking, wings folding and diving in unnatural patterns. One moment they were silhouettes against the sky — the next, claws and teeth diving straight for me. The sudden sound of my gun clicking empty happened.

They began to descend towards me.

I dropped the Glock and reached into my bag. I pulled out two more guns out of my bag. A revolver in my left and a luger in my right.

They screamed as they swooped, and I screamed right back. I opened fire wildly — messy, aggressive, fueled by nothing but adrenaline and fear.

One of them veered too close. A shot tore through her wing and she crashed, skidding in the sand like a falling kite. I didn’t hesitate. Walked straight up and emptied the revolver into her back until the hammer clicked dry.

She didn’t move again.

I dropped the spent revolver and pulled out the other German pistol to replace my free left hand and started shooting at anything with feathers and teeth.

One dived at me like a missile. I aimed blind into the sun and fired on reflex.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

She didn’t even scream—just dropped out of the sky and slammed headfirst into the rocks behind me with a meaty crunch that I felt in my spine.

I turned—

And got leveled.

Another slammed into me like a cannonball, full force to the chest. My breath left me all at once and the sky spun as I flew backward, hitting the trail with enough force to send dust and stones flying. Pain flared across my ribs and spine like fire.

I barely had a second to breathe before the third one came at me — claws out, teeth bared, hate in her eyes.

I didn’t think. Just moved.

“Dolor!”

The word tore out of my mouth in a hoarse bark, and a ray of red-hot force shot from my palm. It struck the harpy center mass, right in the ribs. She reeled in midair, stunned just long enough for me to get to my knees and raise my last pistol.

I emptied this one too.

Every round drilled into her chest, one after the other, until she dropped like a sack of bones.

I took deep breaths as I looked around wildly for the last one. I was knocked onto my front and felt the talons dig into my back. I let out a wet gasp as I was picked up and thrown into the cliffside. I hit hard, bounced, landed on my face.

Before I could crawl, she was on me again.

This time, she didn’t throw. She lifted me by the shoulders — face twisted into a hate-fueled snarl. Her teeth were jagged and yellow, flecks of blood and rot at the corners of her mouth. Her hands were twitching, talons poised to tear.

Why was there always a bird trying to kill me I thought as I watched her about to lunge at my face.

I registered the sound of a lute playing when I heard the sound “Sibiloth”. Suddenly, bird bitch wasn’t looking so good. Her face twitched. Her wings faltered. Her head jerked as if she were having a seizure — like someone had jammed spikes behind her eyes.

She wailed, louder than before, and her claws loosened.

That was all I needed.

I had dropped my last pistol somewhere, so I used both of my pointer fingers to cast.

I grinned through bloodied teeth.

My fingers lit up with a red glow.

“Dolor.”

Bang.

Two blasts of pure crimson fury shot from my fingers, slamming into her gut like twin cannonballs. Her body exploded backwards. Blood and steaming gore rained down on the rocks and my clothes — intestines, flesh, shreds of broken rib.

She hit the ground behind me in pieces.

And then it was quiet. Just the sound of the tide rolling in. My own ragged breathing. The thrum of magic still buzzing in my fingertips. The faint final note of Alfira’s lute fading into silence.

I staggered a few steps forward before my knees gave out beneath me, slamming into the sand and gravel. Blood soaked my clothes, sticky and half-dry. My hands were trembling. I was still breathing. Still conscious. Still alive.

I heard the crunch of footsteps before I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. Alfira dropped to her knees beside me, her violet curls windblown and damp with sweat.

“By the gods... I’m so sorry,” she whispered, voice tight with guilt. “I came back as fast as I could.”

She pulled her lute into her lap and ran her fingers over the strings, playing something soft, something slow—melancholy in a way that wrapped around my bones like warmth in winter. Then she whispered a single word under her breath.

“Virellen.”

I gasped as blue light poured into me. Not like a spell exploding—more like a balm soaking through cracks. My ribs knit. The cuts on my face pulled closed. My breath evened out. The burning in my chest faded to a dull ache. Only bruises and scrapes remained.

I turned to look at her, voice hoarse. “Is the kid okay?”

She nodded quickly. “Yes. I carried him back along the trail. He’s safe in camp.”

Relief surged through me like a second heartbeat. I nodded and stared down at my trembling hands.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For saving my life.”

Alfira gave a soft, watery smile—then blinked away the tears and straightened. “How am I supposed to follow your example,” she said, “if you’re not around to keep setting it?”

That got a real laugh out of me. Loud, raw, maybe a little maniacal. She giggled beside me, and for a moment, the fear of the last few minutes felt miles away.

When the laughter died, I raised a hand, and she helped me up. I grunted, wiping my face with the edge of my sleeve before realizing I was still covered in blood and viscera. I muttered a quick Prestidigitation and let the magic do the work—washing away the gore, the sweat, the smell of burnt feathers and cordite.

Bit by bit, I retraced my steps across the battlefield, scooping up the weapons I’d dropped. The revolver, scratched but intact. The Luger, half-buried in gravel. Each one went back into my bag with mechanical efficiency. I’d reload later. The adrenaline was fading, and fatigue was crawling back in.

Alfira walked beside me in silence as we made our way up the trail toward the grove. The sun was beginning to lower behind the hills, casting long shadows across the stone. While we walked, I wondered why the hell didn’t anyone come and investigate the gunshots or the sounds of a fight breaking out so close to camp. My thoughts were basically answered when I heard a horn blow.

I turned to Alfira. She looked worried. “That’s the third time in the last three minutes that someone on sentry duty has blown the horn.”

Third? I must’ve not registered it earlier with all the excitement

I frowned. “Are we under attack?”

“Yes. We are.” She said sadly.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I had told Alfira to run on without me while I slowly made my way back. By the time I was in the camp, whatever was happening was already over. Goblins. A goblin war party had followed some people back to here.

Kanon was dead.

He was the punk who nearly put an arrow through my eye the other day. Didn’t mean he deserved to die.

He was protecting his people. He died doing it.

That counted for something.

I didn’t say anything. Just moved on.

I had my eyeglass out again and I was watching the warlock again. We had just gotten attacked, and the motherfucker was already brushing it off as if nothing happened. He was teaching a kid sword techniques.

People had died. Children screamed. The grove was still mourning. And he was playing the hero.

That was it. That was everything I needed to know about this guy.

I was going to kill Zariel’s dog without his help.

My eyeglass went over the newcomers to the grove. One looked like an almost middle-aged wizard. A goth elf girl in armor. A pale elf that looked like he belonged in a vampire movie. Some kind of unique, tall, goblin warrior? She was almost the one who stood out the most. No, that honor went to the walking, talking white lizard in mage robes.

An interesting crew, I’ll admit.

But not my problem.

Not right now.

I tucked the eyeglass back into my bag and exhaled hard. I had work to do.

I had a devil to kill.

I let the pull of my laboratory take me. That now-familiar pressure wrapped around my bones and dragged me through the void. A blink later, I stood inside the Necromancer’s damp lair once more.

Shovel stood in the corner, clutching something purple glowing in his warty little claws.

“I did it, master,” it said, voice soft, hunched like it expected to be hurt. “Tiptoed past big spiders, skittered across their webs. Found the shiny stone you wanted.”

Goddammit. Every time it spoke like that, it made me feel like shit.

Still, I walked forward and took the gem from the demon gently. It was cold to the touch—colder than it had any right to be. The kind of cold that whispered things to your bones.

“Good work, Shovel,” I said softly. “I knew I could count on you.”

Total lie. But its tail twitched in what I assumed was happiness.

I was tempted to take a crack at this tome finally. But I didn’t really have time to read yet. There was an important thing I needed.

I needed a mask.

Not just any mask. One with functioning filters. One that could let me safely work on the next iteration of my fear toxin—something stronger, cleaner, maybe even airborne through skin contact if I could stabilize the dispersion matrix. I would need it if I was gonna take on Mizora’s orders alone and fix Zevlor’s goblin problem.

And I knew exactly where to find one.

The Protectorate kept my old one in that Oil Rig of theirs for all I know. The last time I saw it; it was laying on the interrogation table.

I reached into my bag, dropped the still-chilled purple gem from Shovel into the bottom, and closed my eyes.

Focus.

I latched my will onto the memory of where it had all started—my first Planeswalk. The basement. The lab. The birthplace of my first formula. I felt the familiar tug, like a hook behind my ribs, and let the green light swallow me.

When I opened my eyes, I was back.

The same burnt air. The same chemical stench. The scattered remains of broken vials, shattered shelves, torn blueprints. Familiar chaos.

I walked straight to the wall where the scarecrow masks were hung like trophies. Some grinned. Some leered. Some were cracked or bloodstained. I ignored those.

I just wanted a mask that worked.

I found one—plain burlap, no expression. Just a stitched front, two eyeholes, and filter vents where I could slot in canisters. No frills. No nonsense.

It would do.

I reached out.

Click.

The sound was so crisp in the silence that it felt louder than a gunshot.

My hand froze midair. I turned slowly, instincts screaming before my brain caught up.

A figure stood in the shadows of the room—just beyond the broken glass and light. Watching.

He wore a wide-brimmed hat low over his face, casting shadows so thick they looked like tar. But his eyes—those eyes—were lit from within, two ghost-white orbs that glowed like candle flames behind coin-sized holes in his burlap face. A crude mask sewn from sackcloth and something darker, rougher—like skin turned inside out and stitched with wire.

His grin stretched impossibly wide. Not painted. Not stitched. Real. Teeth gleamed in the dark like wet bone. Too many. Too sharp. A predator’s parody of a smile.

A thick rope hung around his neck, tight like he had once broken it.

His long coat dragged along the ground behind him, ragged at the hem, caked in something black that flaked as he moved. His limbs were wrong. Too long. Too fluid. Like he had grown into its clothes and never stopped stretching.

He loomed—more than six feet tall, maybe more. The room suddenly felt smaller.

I knew without question—

I was staring at the original creator of the fear toxin.

“So,” he hissed, his voice rasping through the slits of his mask like air escaping a dying lung, “the thief has wandered back into my home.”

The masked figure stepped from the shadows, long coat trailing like torn flesh behind him. In his gloved right hand, he held a syringe filled with a glowing orange liquid, the fluid bubbling faintly.

“Is it courage…” he mused, tilting his head with a slow, deliberate motion, “or desperation that’s dragged you back here?”

The dim light from the single overhead bulb flickered once. Twice.

My mouth refused to open. I was shaking.

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t answer,” he continued, his tone darkening into something more amused than angry. Something expectant. “You and I… we’re going to become very well acquainted, soon enough.”

He began to creep forward, each step echoing off the concrete like the ticking of a countdown.

Fear made me move finally.

Chapter Text

The coffee was stale.

Not cold. Not lukewarm. Stale. Like someone had brewed it two days ago and reheated it out of spite. Emily Piggot took another sip anyway. It was bitter, acidic, and it burned on the way down. Good.

She focused on that sensation more than she should have.

No—she knew why. It gave her something concrete to concentrate on. Something she could control. The last few days had been a rolling nightmare of cascading failures, sleepless nights, and systemic embarrassments. And all of it—all of it—began with one new parahuman.

A Tinker.

Because of course it was a fucking Tinker.

And not even one with the decency to have a standard confrontation she could quietly clean up. No, this one had to toss a Tinker-grade psychoactive agent into the middle of Downtown Brockton Bay. Broad daylight. Right across from an Empire Eighty-Eight safehouse.

The footage was almost surreal to witness: an expanding tide of orange gas spilling into a parking lot, curling between parked cars like it was hunting for something. It looked less like a street incident and more like the opening salvo in a war crimes tribunal case study.

Then came the fallout.

Five hospitalized. Two in sedated comas. One fresh trigger event. And the incident timeline was such a mess that she had to assign two separate cross-analysis teams to reconstruct it, because nobody could agree who had done what, when, or in what order.

And the truly infuriating part?

The kid hadn’t even known what he was doing. Her fingernails—short, trimmed, clean—tapped a steady, disciplined rhythm against the desk. An old habit. Something to keep her sharp, to keep her from letting the frustration show.

The first stills had hit her desk within the hour—grainy, black-and-white from a parking lot camera. The image made her gut twist.

A tall figure in a trench coat, standing eerily still in the gas. A crude burlap mask with jagged stitching and vent filters. Ragged silhouette. Like a curse given shape.

It dragged up old memories she had long since buried under medication and sheer willpower. Ellisburg, choked in green gas. Misshapen silhouettes moving in the fog. The stink of biological napalm that clung to her hair and skin for days.

The name had all but unanimously been agreed upon.

Scarecrow.

The original Scarecrow had been a Trump-Master hybrid—passive cognitive degradation and harvesting intelligence within a thirty- to fifty-foot radius. The closer you got, the worse the symptoms hit: circular reasoning, broken logic chains, the inability to hold complex ideas together. Your thoughts unraveled until you were left with intellectual mush. Worse, he could transfer intelligence—steal IQ points and parcel them out to his followers or burn out his own neurons to empower someone else.

With a power like that, it was only a matter of time before he built himself a cult. Stillwater, Oklahoma. More than a dozen desperate fools hanging onto his every riddle. The instability wasn’t a surprise—he’d snapped completely, convinced himself he was the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz book. Not a gimmick. Not theatrics. An actual psychotic break.

Then the Slaughterhouse Nine came calling. He’d been on their short list.

The aftermath was a bloodbath, as it always was with those monsters. Piggot didn’t linger on the casualty reports—Protectorate and civilian alike—but she remembered Scarecrow’s role clearly. Credited with killing Nice Guy. Last seen through a shattered window, skin bleeding and crawling with Breed’s trilobites, laughing and screaming hysterically just before hellfire missiles reduced the building to flaming rubble. Breed was presumed dead after the creatures stopped appearing. So was Scarecrow.

And now, years later, a younger parahuman has picked up the name.

Another bogeyman. Another potential monster in the making.

She compared the new Scarecrow to the old one in appearance. Even with how eerie Jimenez’s look was, it had nothing on De Luca’s.

She’d followed procedure to the letter—mobilized local PRT assets, coordinated with the Rapid Response Team, briefed Armsmaster and Miss Militia personally. They had him boxed in at Miller’s Garage within the hour. Containment seemed inevitable.

Then he was gone.

Truck and all.

Initial theory: an accomplice. The possibility that he was both a Tinker and a Mover never even made it into the first few rounds of analysis.

And the cherry on the shit sundae? He surrendered.

Not to the PRT. Not to the Protectorate. To the Brockton Bay Police Department. Walked in, carrying a crate of parahuman-grade concoctions, and handed himself over like he was returning lost property.

Deep down inside, she had hoped someone would escalate when they had him cornered in Miller’s garage. Parahumans usually do. And then Miss Militia would have all the justification she needed to blow his head clean off his shoulders. Would’ve saved her from this headache.

Instead? They got a rapidly deteriorating Tinker with memory loss, whose moral compass, according to Armsmaster’s lie detector analysis and Gallant’s emotional readouts, currently pointed toward “genuine and well-intentioned.” And while he played at being harmless, he’d already demonstrated the ability to produce chemically stable, combat-grade enhancements.

Fear gas. Potions. Invisibility brews. Healing vials. Regenerative cocktails. The kind of things people would kill for.

The kind of things the PRT could use.

And that was before factoring in the Mover classification.

Now Chief Director Costa-Brown wanted a briefing. Full panel. Video call in five. Every Regional Director patched in. The whole song and dance.

Emily reached over and opened the latest summary report, flipping past the medical logs, the surveillance captures, and the transcript of the interrogation. She paused on the last page.

A new designation proposal, stamped URGENT.

Parahuman Designation: SCARECROW.
Classification: Tinker (Biochemical), Mover (Dimensional), Trump (Formula Acquisition)

Pending official rating.

The classification was ridiculous to comprehend. Practically unheard of. It wasn’t enough he could already break through dimensions on command. No, he needed to be a Tinker-Trump as well. His Mover ability was all but guaranteed above a 10.

She closed the folder and sipped the stale coffee again. The bitterness wasn’t enough to ground her anymore.

Emily straightened her back, rolling her shoulders until something in her spine cracked, a little reminder that her body was as stubborn and unforgiving as she was. She had survived Nilbog. Survived Ellisburg. Survived Brockton Bay’s slow rot, its endless gang wars, its gallery of monsters. She could survive one more freak in a mask.

That was what she told herself, anyway.

Her eyes flicked to the corner of her monitor.

Shit.

One minute left.

The office was too quiet. Too clean. Sterile white light hummed overhead, reflecting off the dull metal filing cabinets and the stack of reports she hadn’t yet touched. She glanced around—habit, paranoia—and then exhaled, deep enough that her chest ached and her kidneys flared sharp with pain. She had delayed her dialysis for this meeting, and it already was beginning to bite her in the ass.

She ran one hand over her hair, smoothed out her suit jacket, and made sure every crease was straight. It was armor, of a kind. Image was half the battle in these briefings, and she knew damn well her enemies weren’t just capes—they were the men and women on the other side of the call.

She clicked to connect.

The faces appeared one by one. Directors from every corner of the United States—Anchorage, Houston, Washington, New York, Chicago. Armstrong’s feed was conspicuously absent. That made her frown. Armstrong was always prompt, painfully so. If he was late, something in Boston was on fire. She hated that thought almost as much as she liked it. Misery loved company, and it was a small relief to know she wasn’t the only one drowning in her jurisdiction.

Twenty seconds to spare, Armstrong’s square lit up. He looked harried, his tie crooked, a background aide whispering in his ear before quickly leaving the frame. Bad day for him, good reminder for her: none of them had it easy.

Now the grid was complete. Every Regional Director present.

Except the Chief Director.

No one remarked on her absence. No one ever did. They all knew how this worked. Costa-Brown had a flair for timing.

And right on schedule, with five seconds left, her feed opened.

Rebecca Costa-Brown.

Her dress uniform was immaculate, white fabric pressed crisp enough to cut glass. Makeup subtle, calculated, flawless. Her hair perfect. Even over the grainy government video call, she looked like she had just stepped out of a recruitment poster. It made Emily’s teeth ache.

No one, not in years, had ever seen Costa-Brown rumpled. No stain, no crease, no loose hair out of place. And Piggot wasn’t the only one who suspected the truth: a Thinker or Stranger in her retinue, someone whose only job was to keep the Chief Director’s appearance pristine. It would explain a lot.

Because no one was that perfect.

Even through the pixels of the screen, Emily could feel the weight of those eyes—sharp, brown, piercing—fixing on her square in the grid.

It wasn’t a mystery on who to everyone else either. I was practically one of the main reasons for this meeting considering the latest fuckups to happen on my watch in the past few days. It was best to just rip the band-aid off and get being bitched at over with. Emily schooled her face into neutrality, fingers digging into the armrests of her chair under the desk where no one could see.

Still, it never failed to make Emily’s skin crawl when the Chief Director’s eyes fixed on her. Costa-Brown didn’t glare—not really. She didn’t need to. She could just look, and it was enough to make Piggot feel like she was under a microscope, like every flaw in her record and every scar on her body was being cataloged.

“Good morning, everyone,” Costa-Brown began, voice crisp, no warmth. The kind of tone Piggot had come to despise—measured, calculated, untouchable. “I know moving our monthly meeting up by three weeks is unconventional but given the… unique situation unfolding in the Northeast, it felt prudent to hold it now.”

Her gaze never left Piggot’s square in the call.

“Director Piggot,” Costa-Brown continued, phrasing it like a polite request when everyone in attendance knew it was anything but. “Why don’t you give our fellow Directors a brief recap on the incident in Brockton Bay?”

Piggot suppressed a sigh, cleared her throat, and began. “The incident the Chief Director is referring to took place February 8th, 2200 hours, at PRT Holding Facility Bravo-Seven. The site came under direct assault by an Empire Eighty-Eight strike team. Identified participants include Fenja, Menja, Hookwolf, Krieg, Alabaster, Othala, and Victor. I’ve already circulated updated dossiers on each involved parahuman through encrypted channels.”

She glanced at her own notes, though she hardly needed them. The disaster was seared into her brain. “Surveillance confirms the attackers infiltrated under cover of a convoy truck scheduled for legitimate arrival. They utilized compromised passcodes to bypass the outer gate—suggesting prior intel leaks or inside cooperation. Once inside—”

“You didn’t notice a convoy truck had been stolen on your watch?” Tagg’s voice cut across her like a cleaver. The man’s tone was flat, accusatory, his lined face radiating that familiar dispassion.

Fucking Tagg. Of course he’d be the first to jump at her throat.

Emily turned her gaze toward his window on the feed, letting silence hang a half-second longer than comfortable. Then she spoke slowly, deliberate enough to make her annoyance clear. “The vehicle was not flagged as stolen. It was commandeered by hostile parahumans fifteen minutes prior to arrival. At that point, it was already en route. Our monitoring systems did not have the luxury of retroactive foresight, Director Tagg.”

His mouth twitched, but he said nothing. A small victory.

Armstrong broke the stare-down before it escalated. “What happened to the personnel in the truck?” His tone carried the kind of concern that was either genuine or very well practiced.

Piggot inhaled, sharp and shallow. “As of this briefing, all personnel in the truck are missing.” She didn’t elaborate. No one needed to hear her speculate aloud what Hookwolf’s idea of ‘handling’ captives looked like. The imagery alone was enough to make her jaw clench.

She forced herself forward, flipping to the next page of her report. “Engagement breakdown is as follows: once inside the perimeter, Fenja and Menja tore free of the convoy roof, creating immediate mass panic and confusion among facility personnel. Alabaster and Krieg held positions outside, deliberately drawing suppressive fire. This provided cover for Hookwolf—augmented with super-speed courtesy of Othala who stayed in the truck—to breach the facility’s south wall. Simultaneously, Victor had established a sniper nest in an adjacent high-rise, providing precision overwatch and suppressive fire on our responding teams.”

Her tone hardened further. “With Hookwolf’s boosted speed, he blitzed through the walls of the facility and directly toward their intended target: a newly triggered Empire affiliate, Andrew Peters, provisional designation Corvid.” She tapped the report once with a fingernail. “Once Corvid was in their custody, they initiated immediate exfiltration back toward Empire-controlled territory.”

Wilkins, from New York, spoke up with a raised brow. “There weren’t any Protectorate capes nearby to assist in the response?”

Emily reined in her irritation at the question. She clearly didn’t care about how many personnel and agents were injured during the chaos. “The attack unfolded within three minutes from breach to exit. The only Protectorate assets fast enough to respond in pursuit were Assault, Battery, and Velocity. External assistance was provided by two New Wave members—Lady Photon and Laserdream—who happened to be in the area in civilian attire. Despite their efforts, once the Empire forces crossed back into their territory, pursuit was untenable. Corvid remains in their custody.”

She paused long enough for the failure to sink in, then turned another page. “Compounding the situation: during the breach, an explosive charge disabled primary and secondary power grids for the facility. Subsequent investigation revealed the involvement of a secondary hostile party. Two men and one woman were captured by PRT troopers using containment foam. All three were equipped with standardized black tactical gear consistent with forces historically linked to Coil—a villain of interest, currently classified as unaffiliated with the Empire Eighty-Eight.”

A new voice spoke up, this time Seneca from Anchorage, his tone skeptical. “I’ve reviewed your Coil dossier. Are you certain he’s parahuman? This escalation doesn’t track with his usual profile. Ambushes, drug trafficking, financial manipulation—yes. Coordinated raids with this Empire’s heavy hitters? It seems… ambitious.”

Emily’s gaze swept across the gallery of faces on her monitor. Nods. Frowns. Tightened lips. Agreement and doubt mixing together, each Director weighing her competence with every second of silence. She could feel it in her shoulders, in the burning knot behind her eyes—the scrutiny, the judgment.

When she spoke, her tone was iron. “Whatever Coil is—Thinker-backed mastermind, parahuman, or simply a man with the resources to rent miracles—it is irrelevant. What matters is outcomes. He has proven capable of equipping his personnel with Tinker-tech modifications, laundering acquisition chains through multiple fronts, and executing operations with surgical precision while consistently extracting his forces with negligible casualties.”

She let the silence stretch for half a beat before finishing, sharper: “He has operated with impunity. No consequences. No setbacks.”

“Until now,” Seneca cut in, raising one gray brow.

Emily allowed herself the faintest curl of her lip. “Until now.”

With a keystroke, she pushed the attached video feed through the conference system. The screens flickered, and the room fell into silence. 

One by one, the Directors’ expressions shifted. Some leaned forward, stunned. Others frowned, eyes darting as if searching for a trick in the footage. Skepticism turned into something else—disbelief shading into unease. The only one unphased was of course the Chief Director.

Emily didn’t need to narrate, but she did anyway, driving the knife in. “Coil’s target was Caesar Jimenez. Newly triggered, provisional designation Scarecrow. Unfortunately for Coil, whatever Thinker-support he relies on did not predict… interdimensional interference.”

She didn’t have to spell it out. They all saw it. The still frames told the story better than she could.

The footage that should’ve been clear—Armmaster’s tech was never anything less than pristine—came across grainy, distorted. Not failure, but interference. Ambient energy bleeding into the feed like static, warping the resolution, drowning the edges of the picture in unnatural halos. The backup generators had barely rerouted enough juice to keep the quarantine wing’s cameras alive. What they captured was enough. More than enough.

Scarecrow, standing in containment. The blur of green energy tearing him free. The exact instant Dragon’s teleportation dampeners—Birdcage-grade, supposedly inescapable—failed to hold. And worse than that, the frames before he escaped: the woman. A winged, horned silhouette bathed in flame-light. A demon out of every Christian cautionary tale, smiling as she stepped through the breach.

She let the word hang in the air, savoring the discomfort that followed.

“We’ve analyzed this incident hundreds of times,” she continued. “Cross-compared with Watchdog projections, Thinker logs, and Dragon's systems. Every datapoint leads to the same conclusion: this was the precise moment Coil’s predictive edge collapsed. The result? His mercenaries suffered their first confirmed capture. Three detainees, currently under PRT interrogation.”

Getting Watchdog support was like pulling teeth. Either they were too busy or the situation was too low a threat for them to bother.

This situation was by no means a low threat. She had actually never seen her request for Thinker assistance approved so fast before. Usually, they might accept it after two weeks of review but by then, their “help” was considered useless. Not this time, the government had questions it needed answered. Unfortunately for them, they were just going to have to wait.

“No Thinker—Protectorate-aligned, Watchdog-certified, or government-affiliated—has been able to extract anything usable on this ‘Mizora,’” Emily said flatly, forcing the words out like stones. “Every attempt at examination, precognition, or predictive analysis has ended the same way: hard lockouts. At best, cognitive freezing. At worst, extended catatonia requiring medical intervention.”

The silence that followed was thick. She didn’t need to look at the other Directors to know what they were feeling. It wasn’t just discomfort. It was fear. They all understood what that meant: an unknown entity, not local, not catalogued, casually breaching dimensional barriers to visit a teenage Tinker in our custody—and leaving our best Thinkers drooling on the floor for their trouble.

“Every scrap of information we have on Mizora,” Emily continued, “comes from indirect analysis. We’ve dissected Scarecrow’s reactions during their interaction—facial ticks, body language, micro expressions, the exact phrasing of his answers. The profile is clear. He fears her. He is reluctant, deferential. Subservient. Our best read is that he occupies a coerced servant role under this Mizora.”

“Have our linguists been able to crack the language they spoke? This…” Wilkins' face looked like she had swallowed a lemon with that frown she wore. “This… Infernal?” She practically spat the word, like it left a sour taste on her tongue.

Chief Director Costa-Brown, who had been silent until now, answered before Emily could. Her voice was calm, even, but it carried that weight that made everyone else listen. “As of this moment, no. Our best teams are still working through the phonetics and audio breakdowns. The language defies conventional translation models. But the sounds made by both Scarecrow and Mizora are consistent with a structured linguistic system.”

Tagg leaned in, his frown deepening. Frustration practically dripped from his words. “There’s no way a seventeen-year-old dropout picked up a completely alien tongue overnight. What the hell was that gibberish he muttered before it shifted into something coherent?”

Costa-Brown didn’t flinch. “It wasn’t gibberish. Not in the conventional sense. Our Thinkers confirm his vocal cords physically altered themselves in the act of speaking. Not permanently—temporarily reshaped, manipulated, to mimic the exact resonance of Mizora’s language. Which strongly suggests Trump interference. Mizora isn’t just speaking to him—she is enabling him.”

The room went still.

She went on. “Which places this in line with precedent cases. Teacher. Ingenue. Parahumans who can alter others—gifting abilities, warping behaviors, binding loyalty. Mizora fits the pattern. We have strong reason to believe she’s a Trump-class reality-altering entity. More troubling, she appears to have directly empowered Scarecrow. Most likely sometime after he used his dimensional Mover ability to escape the perimeter at Miller’s Garage.” She let the weight settle before continuing. “That escape led him not to another Earth… but to what he describes as an entirely separate world. One where he claims to have scavenged ingredients for his Tinker brews.” Rebecca Costa-Brown finished to most of the others disbelief.

Finally, someone spoke, breaking the suffocating silence.

“Have we verified that this other world is not just another Earth?” Montes from Houston leaned forward, voice careful but skeptical, brow furrowed in that paternal way he always used when he thought someone was overreacting. “Alternate realities aren’t new. But an alien planet?” He shook his head slowly, like he was trying to ground the conversation back in sanity. “We all know powers stop working properly once you start leaving Earth’s atmosphere. To hear this? It stretches beyond even parahuman standards.”

Emily almost laughed, but forced it down. Bitter humor clawed at her throat like bile. Here we go. Denial stage. She’d seen it a hundred times, in a hundred briefings, whenever something new bent the fragile rules that made their world manageable. First disbelief. Then bargaining. Then panic. And she had no illusions which stage they were headed toward next.

She leaned forward, voice dry. “Besides Armsmaster’s lie-detection system confirming that Scarecrow believes he was on another world, we also ran environmental analysis. Soil samples collected from his boots—the same boots he wore into the BPD precinct and our interrogation room—contained microbial life not catalogued on any of our Earth databases. Foreign bacteria. Completely alien.” She said with a tired sigh. She doubted anything could surprise her now after the week she’s been having.

“That’s not enough evidence to support his claims.” Tagg shot back, voice sharp, obstinate, like he’d rather chew glass than concede a point.

Almost every Director on the call looked back, almost involuntarily, to the still image frozen on-screen: the demon woman, sinewy batlike wings and that cruel, ruby-lipped smirk. A succubus out of a preacher’s nightmare, caught mid-step into their world.

“We’d need more intel,” Seneca added finally, his eyes fixed on the screen like he was trying to stare a hole through her. “Preferably from the boy himself.”

Emily kept her expression schooled, though her fingers itched to drum on the desk again. “There’s another detail,” she said instead, letting the words drop like lead weights. “When Scarecrow was undergoing medical observation, we ran cranial scans. No Corona Pollentia. Nothing. By all means, he shouldn’t even be a parahuman.”

That silenced them. Real silence this time. Even Costa-Brown’s eyes flickered, the barest tell.

“Then what in God’s name is this kid then? Tagg asked, voice low with annoyance, the kind that comes from not being able to fit something into the boxes his brain needed.

Rebecca Costa-Brown turned a page in the document she held in the call. “A new Case File. Him and Mizora both. Case 86 and 87.”

The pause that followed stretched long, every Director weighing the implications. New Case Files weren’t routine.

Armstrong, to his credit, found his voice first. “Are we sure this isn’t premature? Shouldn’t we confirm his dimensional travel leaves Earth before we start adding to the Case registry? And we haven’t had a true encounter with this Mizora yet. Not directly.” His tone was brave, steady. But Piggot caught the tremor under it. He was pushing back at Costa-Brown, which meant he was already bracing for the hammer to fall.

Costa-Brown didn’t even pause. “The time for patience has passed. It took hours of negotiating to keep the President from signing off on a kill order for Scarecrow when preliminary reports flagged him as a potential plague vector. We need control. We need classification. We need containment—political containment—before another scare spirals out of control.”

Emily’s eyes twitched at that. Sharp, involuntary. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“You mean to tell me,” she said, her voice flat, monotone, “that we’re expected to support this kid?”

“Of course,” Costa-Brown said immediately, no hesitation. Her voice was iron, her gaze unwavering. “Cesar Jimenez was never going to spend a day in prison with the abilities he’s demonstrated. If your bluff of imprisonment had been tested, Alexandria herself would have flown down there to make him reconsider his placement in the Wards. He is too valuable to waste. That was before we understood the possible extent of his powers—or his connection to a Trump-class entity.”

Piggot’s jaw tightened. Bluff? She wanted to laugh in the woman’s perfect face. It hadn’t been a bluff—not entirely. Yes, it would’ve been a waste, but she would have signed the paperwork to bury the boy in a cell if it came to that. Better a wasted resource than another Ellisburg. Better a crippled potential than another catastrophe in her jurisdiction.

Her jaw clenched. “Shouldn’t that connection—the fact his mind may be influenced—be reason enough to keep him at arm’s length? We don’t know what Mizora is, what she wants, or what she could compel him to do. Isn’t this far too much of a risk?” Her voice rose a notch despite herself, too sharp, too hot.

Costa-Brown didn’t waver. “On the contrary. That is precisely why he must remain under our umbrella—or at minimum, Protectorate-affiliated. Containment from within, Director. Better a dangerous tool in our hands than in anyone else’s. That is why Brockton Bay’s PRT and Protectorate divisions will see their operational budget significantly increased, should Cesar Jimenez return and choose to supply us with his… concoctions.”

For a moment, Emily thought she’d misheard. Her clenched fists loosened automatically, tension bleeding into confusion, then shock.

Huh?

“How significant?” Emily forced herself to ask. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. This—this was unheard of. In all her years as Director, she’d submitted request after request for more manpower, equipment, funding. Ninety-five percent of them rejected, the other five approved as crumbs. And now? One amnesiac teenager in a burlap mask cracked open a dimensional rift, and suddenly her city was worth investing in?

If the situation hadn’t been so bitter, she would’ve laughed. As it was, she wanted to curl into a ball and scream at the sheer unfairness of it.

“Significant enough to cover any losses in PRT or Protectorate effectiveness. Significant enough to secure Scarecrow’s wares, should he continue to make them available. Consider it… incentive, Director.” She said like she didn’t just hand me the goddamn holy grail.

It was practically a blank check.

On her screen, Piggot could already see the looks from the other Regional Directors. Envy. Resentment. A few concealed it better than others, but she’d been in this game too long not to recognize the tells—the tensing of a jaw, the flick of narrowed eyes, the way lips pressed into bloodless lines.

If she were younger, less hardened, maybe she would have wilted under the sudden weight of their hostility. Maybe she would have ducked her head, apologized, and tried to smooth it over after the call. But that version of Emily Piggot was long gone.

Because fuck them.

She’d been running Brockton Bay’s PRT division on scraps, on duct tape and willpower, dragging it through gang wars, PR fuck-ups, and the endless parade of idiotic capes tearing the city apart for scraps of reputation. She’d been keeping the city belly-up with her own body as the ballast, while every other Director wrote her off as a liability waiting to happen.

Now? Now she was holding the golden ticket.

For the first time in years, Emily Piggot saw something she hadn’t allowed herself to hope for.

A light at the end of the tunnel.

And of course, the moment the possibility appeared, someone had to try and snatch it away.

“Wouldn’t it be better for us if we got Scarecrow to join the Wards when he returns, instead of letting him run off on his own unsupervised?” Wilkins said, voice just maternal enough to pass for concern. Emily knew better. Goddamn New York. They already had Legend in residence, and a budget that dwarfed hers twenty times over. They got new toys whenever they asked. And now they wanted a piece of hers.

Emily ground her molars together, forcing her face to stay neutral. The politics in this job never failed to piss her off.

Costa-Brown answered smoothly, her tone measured, practiced. “Unfortunately, our new behavioral models—built from Cesar’s recorded behavior and personality markers—make it clear that any more pressure to force him into the Wards program, particularly after how the last conversation ended, would push him away from us. To the point of possibly abandoning this dimension altogether.”

Piggot didn’t miss the ripple that went through the room at that. The words abandoning this dimension carried weight.

Costa-Brown continued, turning her gaze like a scalpel. “However, the caveat must be that he registers as an independent Hero. If he signs under as a Rogue, it will draw unwanted attention from the Elite in New York and Los Angeles. We cannot risk him being press-ganged into a criminal network.”

That sent another murmur rolling across the call.

“They’re going to come either way,” Tagg interjected, his voice flat but laced with that self-assured bite Emily despised. “And it’s not the Elite we should be worried about. What happens when the Yangban hears about this and sends some of their numbers to pay a visit.” 

Piggot resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Leave it to Tagg to jump straight to international doom-saying. He wasn’t wrong, but the way he phrased it always made him sound like he was angling for a war footing.

Costa-Brown met his words with the same unshaken calm she met everything. “The status of Scarecrow’s dimensional travel will remain classified at the highest level—Black Label, clearance level five and above, need-to-know only. Yes, it won’t hold forever. Which is why we are assigning a dedicated surveillance team from Los Angeles to monitor Cesar’s activities, and to intervene if necessary.”

Emily exhaled slowly through her nose. That didn’t surprise her in the least. High-value parahumans who slipped through institutional cracks always got shadows assigned to them, whether they knew it or not.

The closest precedent she could think of was Damsel of Distress out in Boston. She had her watchers, her trackers, her handlers—none of whom could stop her from deleting half a street when she had a tantrum.

And now she was expected to do the same song and dance with a seventeen-year-old nutcase who wore a potato sack as a mask.

Light at the end of the tunnel, Emily reminded herself again. Even if it looked suspiciously like a train.

“How’s the testing with Scarecrow’s concoctions going?” Seneca’s voice cut in, gravelly but direct. He wasn’t one for grandstanding, Emily knew. He didn’t posture, didn’t circle like a vulture waiting for weakness the way Tagg or Wilkins did. The man had the unenviable job of holding the front against the C.U.I. if they ever decided to test their luck, and it showed. He didn’t waste time on politics because he didn’t have the luxury.

Costa-Brown answered again, just in time before I reflectively shrugged my shoulders at the question. She would know. She was the one who had them requisitioned.

“Very well. Everything Scarecrow claimed his potions could do has so far been verified. Little to no side effects. Animal testing has been uniformly successful. The remainder are undergoing full chemical composition analysis. But promising as these results are, we need more testing. Which means more samples.”

Of course. Always more data.

That tracked with what Emily already knew. Cesar Jimenez had been the only human trial subject so far—on himself, no less. And that wasn’t by choice. The kid had been a half-dead wreck when they pulled him out of the containment foam, body shutting down from his own power burning out his neurons. Beyond critical condition.

She remembered the call that came across her desk—phrases like terminal cascade and irreversible damage spoken in the sterile tones of medical staff trying not to alarm everyone. They’d had to sedate him into a coma just to stabilize him long enough to make a decision.

And everyone in that room knew Panacea doesn’t do brains.

So they made the call. Administered the so-called Vitality potion he’d brewed. Desperation wrapped up in glass and hope. Emily had expected it not to work. She had wanted it not to work, truth be told. It seemed too good to be true—snake oil with better packaging.

Doctors, nurses, analysts—every last one of them had been forced to watch it happen in real time. The monitors pinging wildly as vitals snapped back into stable ranges. The color coming back to pale lips. Tissue literally regenerating under the skin. His brain knitting itself back together as if someone had pressed fast-forward on a year-long recovery plan. Neurons reconnecting. Scars dissolving. Function restored before their eyes.

It was obscene. It was miraculous. It was terrifying.

And it gave Cesar Jimenez a lot more credibility than Piggot was comfortable with. Without that concoction, the boy would’ve been drooling into a bedpan for the rest of his short life. Instead? He walked out of it whole.

“The official rating is still unchanged, or are we updating it?” Emily asked huskily.

Costa-Brown didn’t even look at her notes. “It’s been updated. Unofficially, Scarecrow is a Mover 12, Trump 3, Tinker 7. Officially? We’re keeping it at Trump 2, Tinker 6. Mover unlisted. Too destabilizing to publish the true numbers.” She said crisply. “Your task will be to sell the public on his cooperation with the Protectorate—assuming negotiations succeed.”

Won’t that be a headache in itself. She’d already seen the chatter on PHO in the aftermath of the chemical incident downtown. A cesspool of paranoia and fear-mongering—wild theories about bioterrorism, Empire false-flag attacks. Conspiracy boards were eating it up, cross-posting screenshots until it was in every thread tangentially tied to Brockton Bay.

And that was before the police testimonies leaked. A half-dozen uniformed officers telling reporters about the “masked scarecrow with chemical weapons” surrendering at their precinct like something out of a Halloween slasher. That footage was already circulating, shaky cellphone videos of him being escorted outside with his ragged mask and trench coat. Every frame of it made her blood pressure spike.

It was going to be an uphill battle from here on out. She could already hear the media questions in her head, rehearsed and hostile: Why did the PRT allow a Bio-tinker to remain at large long enough to create a mass panic? Why wasn’t he secured sooner? What guarantees can you give us that his chemicals won’t end up on the black market?

And all of that was before factoring in the boy’s own damn choices. If he insisted on dressing like a fucking scarecrow, it would be near-impossible to reframe him as a Protectorate ally in the public eye. PR wanted clean lines, bright colors, symbols of hope. Not a goddamn PR disaster bogeyman.

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose.

Tagg was the one to voice the ugly question everyone else had tiptoed around. “What about countermeasures? If Scarecrow decides to turn villain, or if this Mizora orders him to act against PRT or Protectorate interests—what do we have to defend against a dimensional-hopping Tinker?” 

Costa-Brown didn’t miss a beat. “Dragon has already begun prototyping a new generation of teleportation dampeners. Not just the Birdcage-grade hardware, but refinements tuned specifically to the energy residue Scarecrow leaves when he breaks through dimensions. If it comes down to it, we can anchor him mid-transition and force a relocation to a secure black site. From there, we’ll monitor for any dimensional interference from Mizora.

Anchor him mid-transition. What that really meant was slamming an untested net around a parahuman while his body was halfway between realities and praying the containment field didn’t shear him in half.

“Best case scenario,” Costa-Brown continued smoothly, “we sever whatever hold this entity exerts over him and secure his cooperation through more… unconventional means. The CIA has Masters on retainer who can establish loyalty frameworks. The option remains available.”

Emily felt the knot in her back seize. It was no secret that the government employed their own Masters. But it always felt like a gut punch to be reminded of that skeleton in the closet. They dressed it up with phrases like behavioral restructuring but it was slavery in all but name. Chain someone’s mind until they saluted the flag and called it patriotism.

“Worst case,” Costa-Brown said, unflinching, “we maintain him under indefinite sedation. Locked down. Unreachable. A resource removed from play, but not available to our enemies.”

The silence that followed was heavier than gunfire. Piggot could feel the unease ripple across the gallery of faces on her monitor. Some of the Directors tried to keep their expressions neutral, but she caught the flickers—Tagg’s jaw tightening, Armstrong’s faint frown, Wilkins’ narrowed eyes.

This was the reality they lived in. And, perversely, those contingencies were merciful compared to the alternative. Better sedation in a black site than sending him straight to the Birdcage. A luxury very few parahumans ever received.

They all knew how horribly unethical it was. But ethics had always been a mask the PRT wore only when the cameras were on. In the shadows, parahumans got thrown under the bus. Regularly. Sacrificed for the illusion of control, for public confidence.

Emily felt the weight of it all pressing down. Christ, the Birdcage alone was a monument to hypocrisy. A hell they’d built with their own hands. If she ever sat down and really thought about what it meant—that she and her colleagues had consigned dozens to that abyss with no hope of reprieve—she’d lose what little sleep she still managed.

Which is why she didn’t let herself think about it. Couldn’t. Not if she wanted to keep functioning. Not if she wanted to keep this job.

Instead, Emily lifted her mug again. The coffee was cold now, the bitterness flat and metallic. She took a sip anyway. Anchored herself in that small, controllable discomfort.

And stared at the screen, waiting for this meeting to finally be over.