by Kat Quinn
There’s a commotion up ahead, a commotion behind, goddamned commotion every fucking where. Might as well just be a mosh pit full of idiots, trying to kick and jump but just making a goddamned mess of things by getting in their own fucking way.
Lin comes leaping from the stairway, slicing through an unsuspecting guard with a short sword before the one next to him can even turn in time. “And just what did you think you were doing, coming down here alone?” He chastises, unsheathing a katana while relieving the second attacker of their head in one smooth, continuous swipe.
“Trying to stop this exact fucking thing from happening!” I yell, gesturing broadly at the people now torn between which of us to defend against, as well as generally at the sky, indicating the mighty racket.
“Well, as long as you weren’t trying to keep all the fun to yourself,” Lin smiles like a demon, deadly and hungry for destruction. “I suppose I could see fit to forgive you,” He says, charging forward and impaling someone who was stupid enough to bring a gun to a sword fight.
Chuckling, I swat aside a knife as it tries to slip between the ribs of my bare chest. “You’re a fucked up dude, Lin.”
“Now’s not the time for flirting, big boy.” Lin says with a wink, shrugging his shoulder coyly before slamming it into someone else’s chest, knocking them aside to clear a path between us.
My laughter booms enough to compete with the klaxon, joy a bizarre thing to feel while smack dab in the center of twenty or so people trying to block my way by means of murder. Maybe I’ve gone a bit mad, but I’ve clearly chosen a pack filled with madness; we’re perfect for each other.
Behind Lin, the rest of our group walk slowly down the stairs, mostly supporting a hobbling Miss Fern, whose cane glows bright enough to make a physical slice of golden light, sealing off the path. On the other side, David slams two wispy fists against the blockade, screaming inaudibly with obvious, uncontrolled rage. The older woman holds fast as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, favoring one leg while a long gash along her left side bleeds worryingly. Zeke jumps into the fray with Lin and I as Dizzy and Monty stay back and tend to Fern.
It barely takes any time for the path between groups to be completely clear, and we turn to face the growing cluster of opponents at the opposite end of the hall.
Finally, that deafening klaxon alarm stops. Either the ship stopped sinking, or the nuclear launch is already upon us.
“The decor here sure is charming,” Lin, by my side, remarks sarcastically.
Zeke scoffs.
As the three of us form a wall, checking out the idiots trying to unmovingly block our way deeper into this creepy medical hellscape, the darkness around them flickers. Sheets of shadow lining the hallway start to take form. Other, darker patches slither along the flat planes, barely perceptible in the poorly-lit atmosphere.
“Well, chaps, I dare say that our company may not be completely pleased to greet us. The least they could have done was prepare a crudité platter! I feel most unwelcome, what about you?” Lin asks, sliding a foot back to shift his weight as he raises his swords in preparation. “Perhaps we should show them a proper greeting?” With that, Lin speeds forward like a whip, stinging the nearest opponent with his blades before snapping back to my side.
They don’t like that. They don’t like it at all.
Our temporary stalemate broken, they charge, shadows leaping from the walls and diving directly towards us at the same time as black-clad guards wielding clubs, knives, and fists in the front lines.
A bolt of lightning slices through the air next to my ear, splitting off into an entire tree of electric branches, one impaling a shadow creature on its path towards my head. The rest break off and coat the whole area in a shower of angry sparks. A bubble of crackling light encompasses the space between us and our attackers, erratic and buzzing with energy as it fully reveals our battlefield.
The hallway we’re in is wide, spaced enough to easily pass large hospital beds side-by-side with room to spare. As far as humanoid shapes go, there are only about 20 of those assholes, but at least five shadows lurk outside the electric field, contemplating their next strike while the first few humans run at us. At the back of the crowd, two enterprising guards draw their firearms, a third manifesting a pool of water from the air. Fuck. Water elemental.
“Shields!” Zeke shouts, throwing a metal disk towards the crowd of assholes while one tackles him to the ground. Zeke flips the fucker over, pinning him, and raises his hand in the air; metal disk appearing back in it. Ruthlessly, Zeke slams the round blade through the throat of the idiot beneath him, nearly beheading them in one breath before jumping back to his feet and throwing the blade at our clustered opponents again. Blood barely has time to scent the air before he’s already off to wreck someone else’s day. Fucking vicious.
Partially shifting both hands, I leap at the closest shithead stupid enough to get in the way, my claws easily raking through one arm, but meeting resistance against their armored chest. Busting heads has never failed me before, so I slam together the brainless skulls of two goons over and over until they explode like watermelons beneath a sledgehammer.
Something slices through my back, Dizzy screaming as it happens. Screaming louder and sharper than a banshee; so sharp I feel a hot mist splatter across my back as the shadow that attacked me vaporizes into pieces. Shit, I didn’t see any of them pass her lightning, how did it get behind us?
As I turn my head to check, Dizzy slides along the ground on her back, feet first, between my legs. She topples over two guards who were inches away from striking me, proceeding to wildly wail on them with unaimed fists until they pass out. Back at the staircase, Miss Fern’s blockade is down, David nowhere to be seen while her and Monty stride forward to join us.
With surprising competence, Miss Fern easily crashes the dulled jewel down onto a shapeless mist emerging from beneath one of the rooms with black walls. It flattens out, stilling like a lifeless carpet draped awkwardly between rooms. “Poor dear, they’ll be feeling that one in the morning for sure.” She calmly continues, not pausing as she makes a direct path towards one of the fully-formed shadow people angrily testing the edges of Dizzy’s electric field. It meets the business end of Miss Fern’s cane as well, melting to a shapeless puddle at her feet. Damn, old lady’s a secret fucking badass.
Meanwhile, the rest of us mow through the first layer of fuckwads in our way, making just a few steps towards whatever the hell our next goal in here is. Fucked if I even know where we head after we get through these assholes, not like they just helpfully left a goddamned map with arrows on the wall.
Wetness slams into my face hard, without warning. A living, squirming thing that closes me up and forces its way into my mouth and nose and ears. Liquid tries to squeeze into my pores and stretch apart my skin, taking over every single available space; forcing its way into occupied ones, too. I can’t manage a gasp, lungs too full; brain squeezed so tight I can’t think words well enough to yell for help or sputter out the drowning. Hell, I’m too blindsided to do much of anything. The attack is so sudden and thorough, there’s barely time to register it before my vision goes black around the edges and starts to fail. Didn’t even have the chance to panic.
But then I’m screaming, and it makes a sound. It feels like I’m boiling alive, but I’m fucking alive. My skin steams, vapor rising, quickly wicking away all moisture. I’m on the ground, I realize, Dizzy straddling my hips as she glares furiously at the crowd, eyes churning like golden pools of molten lava; burning rage glowing from within. She opens her mouth and screams, a goddamned pillar of fucking fire ripping from her mouth like dragon’s breath, punching a tunnel of hate through the mass of bodies stupid enough not to run from my guardian Fireball.
As the flame sputters and cuts off, she slumps down, panting for just a few seconds with the exertion. Dizzy smooths one hand over my now-dry skin, her touch noticeably cooling for the briefest of moments.
Movement catches in the corner of my eye, and I don�
��t even think. I throw her off and roll on top, blindly reaching up to swipe in the direction of danger. For my troubles, I’m stabbed in the back, but it’s better than having my fucking throat ripped out. Metallic blood barely registers as it squelches between the fingers of my overheated hand. Not one to waste things, I pull it towards me, letting the blood flow and coat my hand in iron, everything else uselessly dusting to the ground.
How courteous of them to provide me with more weapons.
Leaping to my feet, I yank Dizzy up by her arm with my free hand, keeping an alert eye on the significantly thinned throng of opponents. One of the gunmen takes aim at Lin, but not fast enough to avoid the scattershot of blood iron I thrust in his direction. Poor fucker didn’t know what hit him.
Dizzy cries out, hand clutching her shoulder as a red stain quickly blooms beneath it.
Red.
I. Fucking. See. RED.
It’s not even a conscious choice as I find myself leaping towards the second gunman, unstoppable while I fly over and through anyone in my fucking path. His eyes are wide with surprise and fear as my fist slams straight through his fucking chest, bones snapping and gouging my skin as they’re forced the fuck out of my goddamned way. Breaking his spine is almost nothing in comparison; ripping a good chunk of it out with one vicious yank child’s play. Even with human teeth, I gnash at his fucking throat, wolf claws slashing unforgivingly at everything else until I bathe victoriously in his blood. To say the bastard met a violent end would be a goddamned understatement and I’m motherfucking proud of that shit, fuck you very much. Don’t TOUCH what’s MINE.
Some of the assholes around us catch a case of sense and fucking bolt. Too bad for them I thrill in the fucking chase.
Too bad for me, I’m starting to feel the abuse my body’s taken, muscles just barely starting to burn. Not all the blood I’m drenched in is someone else’s.
Sneering, I look back at my pack, reluctantly letting the rest of those little bitches run off to mommy while I stick with the people that matter to me. The hall’s cleared of everyone except us in no time. And the dead.
Miss Fern’s breathing slightly heavily, but hasn’t even broken a sweat knocking out the shadow creatures, a thick black rug covering the hall floor. She smiles warmly while resting both hands on the jeweled head of her cane, standing innocently at the center of her own chaos. It doesn’t shine as bright and clear as it did at the beginning of this journey.
Monty’s got a swollen black eye and bloody knuckles, but he ignores them in favor of patching up the group where he can. Relieved, I take note that Dizzy’s shoulder is currently receiving his treatment.
Remaining alert and suspicious, I drag myself back towards them… Feet not fully cooperating on the way. Dizzy’s head snaps up. Immediately, she breaks away from Monty and swiftly storms towards me, not stopping until I stumble directly into her. Must’ve gotten more fucked up than I noticed?
My back is on fire as she digs her nails into the tender flesh of a gaping wound, sharp needles piercing that fucking shit like the most brutal of deep tissue tattoos. “Fuck!” I shout.
“Shut up,” she demands in an eerily booming command. Yes, ma’am.
A fiery blaze rips through my insides, faster and faster, zipping into every corner of my system like a vengeful tornado of heat. Then, all at once, it’s like that blaze is ripped from my very bones through the gash Dizzy’s digging in, her fingertips coming away thick with blood so dark it’s nearly black.
In her hands, an inky ball throws a tempter tantrum, tendrils of hate thrashing out in whips and curls of anger until she squashes it between both palms, compacting it. Her eyes burn bright gold as thin beams of light push through the gaps in her clasped fingers, building in intensity until her hands rip apart, revealing an ethereal, floating, shimmering sphere.
Where the black one was angry, lashing out, this golden one is serene, and almost… curious? It’s beautiful. The orb has no face, but it looks to Dizzy for guidance all the same. With both hands open, she gently guides it towards her in an embrace, disappearing once clutched close to her chest.
Eyes closed, slumping down with a relieved sigh, she starts to rest her head against me as we look on at yet another display of her bizarre and baffling magic.
We should have watched our backs instead.
From absolutely fucking nowhere, David slams into Dizzy, ripping her away from me as she screams, startled. One second, we’re alone and relatively okay, the next, Dizzy’s slammed up against a wall while this red-eyed monster brutally assaults her.
Her nose is broken, bleeding, both eyes shut as her body goes limp from an immediate concussion that better not be fucking brain damage. Her shirt is ripped down the front with deep claw marks, stomach shredded from this shithead’s frenzied assault. As she slides limply down the wall, he doesn’t stop; screeching wordlessly while six claw-laden arms slash at her from every angle. Six arms can do a shitload of damage in just a second.
Even my reflexes aren’t enough to stop him; there’s barely enough time for me to shout in surprise. Barely enough time for my whole fucking heart to fall to the floor, shattering to pieces while my whole world implodes. No, no, no, no, fucking NO.
As though she’s known all along she’d need to be standing in exactly that spot, Miss Fern takes just one step forward right before she needs to, one hand calmly swinging her cane at that shadowy fuck shit, the now rust-colored gem making direct contact with his back. As he whirls around, red eyes floating like furious jewels in the center of an angry mist, she raises her other hand towards the top of his head, making contact at the same time that three of his bladed hands slash cleanly through the arm holding her cane, and the old woman’s midsection. Something slips off of the hand, over David’s head. As she slides down, she does her best to wrap her remaining arm around him.
“It’s not your fault,” she says in a ragged voice, the last words Miss Fern will ever say before her and David both crumple to the ground together, him beneath her.
Two thin, nearly-skeletal, deep black arms wrap around her back as a pool of blood seeps out to soak the area in its tragedy. Miss Fern’s body bounces just slightly as muffled sobs sneak out from beneath her.
Another Klaxon blares.
68. Dizzy
There’s muted beeping in all sorts of fuzzy notes and colors, the backs of my eyelids shooting off fireworks to the hazy sounds. Head pounding, I groggily wish someone would turn off their stupid alarm already and let me get back to resting; work on being the most beautiful I can be. I try to raise my hands to cover my ears, but they don’t like being told what to do right now. Stupid things, who let arms become the boss of me when I wasn’t looking?
Ugh. The beeping. It’s louder, clearer, completely terrible. Why isn’t anyone turning it off?
And it’s too warm in here. It’s loud, and it’s warm, and my arms are being buttheads. Am I in a burrito blanket torture chamber? My mouth opens. At least, I think it does, but my voice doesn’t work. How will they know I want them to shut up?
My arms stop living off on their own island kingdom and I start to feel them a tingly-tinglin’; still not accepting that I am their true and rightful queen, but I suspect I’ll be able to convince them with a bit more time and some royal galas. Everyone loves a good belle of the ball.
The horrible beeping starts to really take a familiar shape. One I know I’ve heard before, but aside from the actual bells it’s ringing, it doesn’t hit any in my memory banks. Plus, there’s something else in there, some kind of chaos of roars and lows and bump-bump-bump like a technoriffic rave party.
“Shhhhhhh,” I finally manage to get out.
Whatever rule I thought I’d gained over my arms is totally gone as I feel something wrap around them again, tight, like I’m back in that burrito as the cheesy, bean-y filling. Aw, heck. But then they’re okay and I’m not all snug and tucked in any more.
My eyes are blurry as they finally decide it’s time to open, blobs a
nd blurs of shapes and colors about as clear as the techno rave sounds. Why’s everything so rough around the edges right now?
I blink a few more times, trying to clear my vision. The shapes start to make more sense, but wherever I am is dark and doesn’t want me to see everything. A dark-skinned man with dreadlocks is right in front of me. Right over me? I’m on the ground, I realize. He doesn’t look happy. His mouth is moving, but it takes a little while for the sound to kick in enough for me to hear it.
“Please, please, please, please, please,” over and over again. He doesn’t look so good. Monty doesn’t look so good. Monty, why don’t you look so good?
Then I hear the yelling in the rave, except it’s angry, not excited to dance and jive. Blurry shapes are yelling.
“More coming.”
“We’re close… I can help.”
“You PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT, I should kill you!”
“We don’t have time to debate this, we need to get her to safety and Connor back with us, lest our window of opportunity vanish. We may have to shut the fuck up and take it.”
It doesn’t quite connect. I look at Monty; he’s shaking, covered in sweat, turning gray. His hands are on my chest, looking too heavy for him to hold up. Queen of arm island again, I raise a hand to swat his away. Don’t look so not-good, Monty. Don’t like it.
The sleeves of my jacket are shredded, skin glistening with a thick layer of goo on top of red finger paint. Why would we be finger-painting in the dark?
“You don’t look so good,” I mumble, showing off my physical superiority by easily moving one of Monty’s hands aside. He slips, knocking over a little screw-capped bottle as it clatters off into the blurry distance. There’s a bunch of little bottles next to us, probably why there’s so much goo on me. Little goo bottles.
Little goo bottles. I know those. Monty uses them in his healing.
At once, it clicks. We weren’t finger painting in the dark, not at all.
And Monty doesn’t look so good.
