"Nothing could be worse than this," moaned Method, all of us knowing that wasn't true.
"Sit over there on the bed. This won't take long, it's a simple potion to just get it unstuck from you."
We eyed the stained, bare mattress in the corner of the room dubiously, deciding to remain standing.
"Here you go." The Chemist was brimming with pride, smiling wide, which was very disconcerting as he only has half a lip and you can see his teeth through the side of his face.
Method took the proffered vial of orange liquid reluctantly, holding it with two fingers. "Thanks. This gonna work? Get the mörkö off my back, stop my body being consumed?"
"Of course it is!" The Chemist was affronted—he may be unorthodox, but he knows his potions. "Go on, down the hatch."
Method looked to me for reassurance but I just nodded. What choice did he have? "Bottoms up." He poured the potion down his throat.
I took a step back. So did the Chemist.
We craned our necks forward, mesmerized as we followed the progress of the thick goop, an orange trail beneath Method's skin and clothes as it burned its way into his stomach. In a second every visible piece of skin was alive with fiery orange, showing his veins and shining like a fire burned inside.
We both took another step back.
"Argh, uck. Hell, it's burning me, I'm gonna melt." Method clutched at his throat then his belly, corrupted skin spasming, wobbling and swinging under his clothes, making it look like he had a family of ferrets crawling about and biting him in places that should never be nibbled on.
"Don't puke," cautioned the Chemist. "The mörkö is getting smaller. It's giving me the daggers and it isn't happy, but it's shrinking. Here it goes, just a small blob stuck to your neck, now. Ugh, those eyes! Proper mean sucker, this one. Doesn't want to leave." He grabbed the beaker he'd made the potion in and cautiously stepped up to Method, lost to pain and fear. Taking advantage of a scream, the Chemist poured half the contents into Method's mouth, clamping his jaw shut until Method swallowed.
We retreated until we were backed up against the wall.
Method collapsed to the floor, writhing about and shouting abuse at the Chemist, turning from orange, to bright red, then purple.
And then nothing.
His color returned to waxy, but he wasn't wheezing now.
The Chemist stepped close and nudged Method with his boot. "Result. The mörkö has been banished."
"Are you nuts? You killed Method. What's the point of being cured if the cure leaves you dead? Not really worth it if you ask me."
"I only killed him a little bit. Don't worry, he'll be fine." The Chemist bent and clenched two fists into a ball then hammered down on Method's chest.
Method shot upright, gasping for air, eyes wild and terror-stricken. There was a pop, like a champagne cork, and then Method just... Okay, this may sound nuts, but he inflated like a tire. From hanging flesh, looking like a coat hanger for discarded skin, he ballooned out to the man I remembered. Rotund, obese, but solid looking at the same time. Dangerous looking.
He jumped to his feet, sprightly for such a large guy. My vampire "friend" was angry and he pounced for the Chemist, doing the shimmer shuffle that all vampires do, moving too fast to follow. He was at the ghoul's neck, teeth bared, milky venom dripping from exposed fangs.
"I wouldn't if I were you," I warned. "The Chemist's so full of his own potions and experiments you'll be a lot worse off than you were, trust me."
Method got control of himself and came back down to reality. He backed off, teeth back to normal, and only then realized that his full figure was restored.
"I can't believe you were gonna bite me. After I just got you your body back and everything. Go on, bugger off. But pay me first," he added hurriedly.
"Sorry, got a bit carried away. Damn, I feel great. Like a proper vampire again. I feel unbelievable." Method skipped about like a schoolgirl, brimming over with energy and vitality.
"That's because the mörkö had to give back all it stole. You've got all your blood magic back." The Chemist held out his hand and Method dug deep into his pocket, opened a wallet, and piled bills up high.
"Thanks. Sorry for overreacting. Nice to meet you again, and I wouldn't have bitten you, honest."
"Hmm." The Chemist grabbed the money then retreated to the other side of his work bench.
"Thanks, dude, see you soon," I said.
The potion master moved to the door and unlocked it. As we left he said, "Come to the club on Tuesday. I've got new material, it'll knock your socks off."
"Maybe. I'll have to check my diary," I said, knowing that I'd definitely be busy.
"See ya, fellas, good luck with finding the witch."
He slammed the door in our face and locked up.
He's a nice guy, but damn his place stinks.
"Think maybe I upset him?" asked Method.
"I dunno, do you usually try to bite the jugular out of your buddies?"
"Um, sometimes."
"Guess he's just moody, then. Wow, you are one big vampire, you know that?"
"Yeah, great, isn't it? It feels so amazing to be back being me."
He did seem pleased with his huge girth, and who was I to judge? "So, how many witches have you annoyed lately?"
Method's face darkened, a look I remembered from my youth. It meant look out, I'm definitely gonna be killing you. "Just one, and I know where to find her."
So, we went to pay her a visit.
An Admission
The car was sluggish, mainly because of Method. He spilled over from his own seat onto mine, making it hard to use the handbrake or change gear. Still, he was smiling, in between scowling. There was definitely a lot of scowling beneath the plump folds of flesh.
I've often wondered what it must be like to be large, but I burn through my calories like I'm mainlining an illegal substance, which I guess I am—magic use makes me run at a very fast speed, eating up calorie reserves until I'm dangerously close to death on occasion, so some spare meat on my bones would be welcome. Plus, the powerful frame must be reassuring. I'm more like a scrawny scrapper with boiled eggs for biceps, but at least I can wear my slim suits, so it's swings and roundabouts I guess.
Method was moody, but back on form. Aggressive, in other words. Cursing the woman he believed responsible for the hex and setting the mörkö on him, but refusing to call his goons, saying we had to deal with it in person.
All I wanted was my bed, but I owed him, and whatever he said he was definitely calling in the favor.
Between his moaning, which I was getting tired of, he gave directions to the wayward witch, and I followed without thinking, too tired and on the magical comedown to take much notice.
"This is it, pull up."
I pushed at his flesh, pulled the handbrake on, put the car in neutral then turned off the engine and checked out the street. "Oh no, you have got to be kidding me. Do you know where we are?"
"Of course I do, I gave you directions. This damn woman has had it in for me for years, and only last month she made two of my goons fall in love with each other and they eloped. Eloped! Goons! They could have just got a house together and stayed local, not run off. They went to France! France! My goons!"
"Okay, calm down. That's witches for you. They like to give you what they think you need, not what you think you need."
"What's needed is for you to blast her, Spark. Blast her good."
This was getting ridiculous. "Look, Method, I came because you asked, and I'm happy to help, to a degree, but I've got the demon off your back, and that's what you asked me to do. But this, dealing with a spiteful witch, this you can handle yourself. Or, use your own people. Why involve me?"
"Because they can never know about Udele Scozzafava."
"And why is that?" I asked, knowing only too well why. I wanted to get the hell out of there. This was witch central, a place where those that refused to acknowledge the Witch Council lived in a series of terraced houses in t
he center of the city. You did not go there unless invited, and even then you went with serious backup and even more nerve.
"Because, well, you know... Ah, dammit, Spark, I'm a man of certain needs, and certain standing. I've got a reputation to maintain and so I have to keep some things quiet, on the hush-hush. So, I come here, or did, until that damn thing started sucking on my life force."
"And now you want me to deal with her so she won't tell? Or won't try something else?"
"Now you're getting it. I can't let my guys know about my, er, indiscretions. They think I'm above all this."
"I thought you were, too," I mumbled.
"Sorry to disappoint. I may be a vampire but I still need her particular kind of services. Or I did." Method clambered out the car, or rolled out, and was halfway across the road before I swore under my breath, got out, locked up, and chased after him.
"You sure about this? There's no other way?" I was hoping he'd change his mind, but knew he wouldn't. This was gonna be a nightmare. If we got out alive we'd be damn lucky.
"I'm sure," he said.
We stood at the door. Method knocked in a particular sequence, a code that unlocked the innocuous entrance to what appeared to be a simple, terraced red-brick home, and the door eased open, letting out a suitably spooky squeal.
We stepped over the threshold with our eyes closed as you'd go insane in an instant if you witnessed the madness of the volatile magical disturbance, and walked into the end of the world.
Yes, I do mean literally.
The Games People Play
I opened my eyes, stifling a laugh. Then had to sidestep as a damn great axe came crashing down and nearly split me in two.
"Hey, watch it," I shrieked.
"Sorry. Usually people arrive over at the edge," said a guy that appeared to be seven feet tall and more muscular than a troll on the rock juice. As he turned, lifting his shield to halt a mace, yielded by an ogre of gigantic proportions, he shimmered a little, his true self revealed.
"Get them idiots out of there," I heard Udele Scozzafava shout to a couple of muscular men in leather kilts and not a lot else. They ran for us, dodging the fighting men and creatures, kicking up dust in the arena as they headed our way.
"I bloody hate this kind of stuff," I moaned, standing and trying in vain to brush the dust off my suit. I glared at Method, but he wasn't paying attention, was already storming across the grounds of the amphitheater, focused on Udele.
Dashing after him, I waved the goons away as their orders were defunct now anyway, and caught up with Method before he got to Udele, boss of ARMageddon. A place I loathed and distrusted, and not just because of the stupid name those that sought out such twisted forms of entertainment thought was cool and clever.
"Method, you need to think before you act. You know how this place works, and you damn sure know it's Udele's rules we have to play by now. I can't believe you dragged me in here. What are we gonna do now?"
"Now? We're gonna kick her ass and make sure she doesn't fuck with me again, that's what. I'll shut her down, I'll brain her. I'll burn her fucking house to cinders with her in it if she doesn't apologize and it better be good."
Method was livid. Face red, flesh wobbling as he gesticulated wildly. Already we had an audience, the fighters stopping to watch the spectacle. One guy paid for his lack of attention and his opponent hacked down hard with a broadsword, slicing his arm off at the elbow, the man screaming and then shouting that it wasn't fair and it wasn't a real victory, and that he'd use his other arm, anyway.
I let go of Method with a shrug. He was a big boy, and if he wanted to play it like that then he only had himself to blame. I trailed behind as he walked up to Udele, standing just inside the black infinity that lay beyond.
She smiled, not in a friendly way, as he slowed, getting closer. She turned and said a few words to the people beside her and they moved away, the way clear for us.
ARMageddon is a Hidden version of a computer game. I guess the best analogy is that it's a virtual reality, but then some. When you step through the door—if you can afford to get the pass code—you are in Udele's realm. This is a world generated purely by strong magic, by someone immensely powerful and very dangerous. It is a place but not a place, real but not real, and if you ever get a glimpse of the Empty you'll understand what I'm talking about.
It is formed through wrapping magic in on itself and around itself, and pretty much anything goes. Udele specialized in giving people and other creatures a way to let off steam in the most visceral way possible. You say what you want to be, and there's plenty of options, and then you fight. I can tell you right now, the fighting is very real.
The only difference between what goes on here and in real life is that you cannot die and anything that happens to you here doesn't carry back with you once you leave—as long as you play by the rules. All the rest, it's just the same. You bleed, you puke, you hurt like hell if you get smashed or pulverized, and it feels entirely genuine.
Many Hidden have gone insane in ARMageddon, unable to cope with the switch in reality. Fighting what appears to be a demon—because to all intents and purposes it is—and having your limbs gnawed off slowly over endless virtual days, then having your insides pulled out twice as slowly, can tip you over the edge. Then, when you think you've had enough and can't go on, you're picked up and shoved out the back door, only to find yourself in a nice rear garden with a neatly mowed lawn and all your bits and pieces intact.
I can't understand the attraction, as everyone looks stupid in their weird-ass clothes and fake bodies—trolls or giants or any number of true Hidden creatures. Others choose to remain human looking, just amped up, boosted muscles and the looks they've always dreamed of. It tells you a lot about human nature, this place, and what it was telling me right now was to go home and put the kettle on.
"You put a mörkö on my back," accused Method, opening his mouth, ready to let his fangs snap down. But, of course, nothing happened, and this is why I never come to these places.
No magic worked apart from Udele's. That's the deal. And although you remain as you were because of the magic use over the years—so Method wasn't the dust he should have been at his age—you cannot use any yourself, only what Udele imparts to you for your chosen body and abilities.
People come here to beat the living crap out of each other, to release tension, to learn how to fight, but mainly because they are sadistic freaks that like having their limbs hacked off and get a kick out of it.
"Do not come into my house and raise your voice to me," said Udele with a wry smile, her utterly gorgeous face serene as ever.
"I'll tear your fucking limbs off, you bitch. You think this is funny? I've been wasting away out there and all because of what?"
"You know full well what the reason is, and you got off lightly. The last time you came here you broke the rules, and you know that means you have to be punished."
"I thought you just banned me for a year? That's what you said my punishment was." Method had calmed down a little, looking more confused than anything, but he'd already stepped over the line.
"Hi, Udele," I said, trying to calm the situation down. "Sorry about this. Method is a little out of sorts because of the mörkö, but he didn't mean to be rude, did you, Method?" Knowing this could get out of control, I stayed cool and calm, being nice, and tried not to ogle Udele.
"I bloody well did mean to be rude. I won't let this bitch get away with this. I nearly died!"
Udele brushed a strand of violent-pink hair behind her ear, revealing gorgeous lobes that would give a faery a run for her money—yes, I know I've got a problem when it comes to ears, but damn, they were fine! Her hair tumbled down past her firm chest, over the revealing leather outfit.
I knew it wasn't real, knew that in the normal world she was a somewhat plain woman and rather scrawny, but in here she was the stuff of dreams, and part of the reason so many guys, and gals, too, came to play.
"You cheated," she said, a
s if that explained everything.
"What? Really?" I couldn't believe it. Method was going off on one when it was his fault? "What did he do?"
"He brought in some of his damn faery dust. Had it concealed in his mouth, then took it to get an edge when he was fighting."
I turned to Method, astonished. "Seriously, dude? It's just a game."
"It's not just a game! And besides, I was so close to getting to the next level, then I could be any creature I wanted. I had to beat the demon, but he always wins. Always chops off my head."
"Okay, this is getting ridiculous. Can I go now, please?" I wanted nothing more to do with it, with him, or with Udele.
"Go?" asked Udele, incredulous. "No, you may not go, either of you. You know the punishment for entering without your invitation, for coming when not expected."
"Oh, shit," I moaned. "If I ever get out of here, I'm gonna kill you," I warned Method.
"Sorry, Spark, I think I did a bad thing."
We had no choice. We would have to fight in the arena, but because of our crime whatever happened here would transfer over to the real world.
Knowing there was no choice, I undressed, not wanting my suit to get any more ruined. Although, I realized it was a lost cause already as I took it off and tried not to moan about the stains and tears from the rather busy last few hours.
I was down to my boxers just in time. As I took my socks off, I watched, fascinated, as my body stretched and cracked, muscles thickened and then pain overtook me. I blacked out as I snapped and popped and my nerves lit up.
When I awoke, I was nine feet tall and looked like someone had taken a large hammer to my body and bashed it about randomly just to see what would happen.
In other words, I was an ogre.
Method was just fat, I mean really fat. He was twelve feet tall, wore nothing but a loin cloth, and fashioned a cool hairstyle—a Sumo wrestler of epic proportions.
"Is this what you usually choose?" I asked through a mouthful of teeth and tusks that made my voice come out all gruff like I was chewing gravel.
Full Metal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Anthology Page 17
