Curate, connect, and discover
"You seem remarkably dispassionate these days," they said in a low voice.
The soft creak of the floorboards was the only sound. They seemed to shift towards you, and you recoiled from the brush of their fingers.
"We're strangers," you whisper, voice cracking. "We're practically strangers now."
The rain is coming down hard and unrelenting. The roads are muddy and slick, unlit and miserably cold. You are aimlessly seeking shelter when none but your nemesis stops beside you.
"Come to gloat?" you shout over the rain.
"Always," they call back with a smile. "Looks like you need a ride."
Your teeth are chattering. Your head is pounding. Your clothes are sopped.
"No, thanks. I love it out here," you snap.
Their smile drops. "Get in. We need to talk."
"It looks like I win."
"It does look like that, doesn't it?"
"Admit you never stood a chance."
"You sound a bit insecure, demanding my validation."
"I can't pay you."
"It appears you did not read the contract."
"Do I even have a purpose?"
"You're the reason I'm tolerating this world at all."
"I wish I wasn't so weak."
"You're not meant to carry everything alone."
You jokingly called it your little Trash Shrine.
Suspended from the window hung little earrings you'd picked up from the ground over the years.
On the sill, glass jars held marbles, seashells, buttons. A planter grew dandelions, henbit, and white clover. A little vase of blue jay, cardinal, and raven feathers. A decoupage box filled with magazine clippings and pressed flowers.
You were just adding to your little cushion full of yarn bits when you hear skittering on the kitchen floor. Something tugs at your pants leg and you flinch back. A raccoon stares up at you with unnaturally glowing eyes.
The little raccoon chatters and skitters up to the countertop. It promptly sits on top of the cushion you were just stuffing yarn bits into.
"Thank you, human," a voice says in your head.
You jolt. "Y-you're welcome?"
"I truly thought I was all but forgotten," the voice says. "Not many of your kind pay homage to the God of Discarded Treasures."
"Oh, well, I didn't know I was," you say honestly. "I mean, I would have if I did know. You seem like a cool God."
"I am the rain reclaimed from refuse," the voice says. "The rainbows left by gasoline spills. The flavor of raspberries left by castoreum--"
"I'm going to stop you there," you say. "I mean, I can't be the only person who likes to creatively use trash. What did I do differently?"
Silence.
The raccoon turnes and analyzes the shrine, and skitters over to the decoupage box. They nudge the lid off with their nose, and dumps out the little clippings that lay inside.
"It seems you invoked me accidentally," the voice concedes. "The clippings you have in this box just so happen to perfectly match the words to summon me, if left in the right order." It laid out the passage letter by letter.
"Deus Quisquiliae, exaudi orationem meam, benedic mihi thesauris abiectis."
"Well, no wonder no one summons you," you sigh, sipping your tea. "Most people don't speak Latin these days. Maybe some linguists, Catholics, or doctors. God of... I don't know that word. Hear my praises? Exaudi like, exhalted? Benedict Cumberbatch something me something something."
"There are others that would work. Discarded languages. Discarded treasures. The prayer asks that I bless you with the items that deserve a second life."
You took a picture of the Latin phrase in your phone. "Well, I could make this a daily thing. Do you show up every time?"
"Not in ways you might see, but yes."
"Well, okay. Thanks."
In the following days, you find money in the parking lot. A barista offers you a scone they couldn't sell. The persimmon trees drop their fruit as you come near. You find a discarded chair after yours falls apart. You slip down a hill and find a bed of natural clay that you form into shapes and bake in the hot sun.
Perhaps it's not what everyone would consider a blessing.
Some may even think of it as a curse.
Nevertheless, you set aside a little time each day to thank the little Trash God for their bounty.
You are a person who covers your counter space in clutter and inadvertently makes a shrine to a long forgotten god who shows up to thank you.
"That's what I keep saying!" you cry. "I'm mid at best!"
"You are," they growled.
You fidget in your seat.
"And yet," their eyes flicked at you, seething. "And yet, they chose you."
Your eyes cast downward. "Y-yeah."
"Why?"
"I was... There, I guess," you say with a shrug. "It was chance. They needed a writer, I just wanted to be part of something. I didn't know I'd be creating a whole new dimesion to save the world. I swear."
"They should have chosen me," they growled. "Do you know how long I worked for this? And they pass me up for some rando they found on the street?!"
"Y-yeah. I mean... Yeah!" You stand up. "Why would they choose me? I'm not ready for this yet! I should quit."
"Wait, wait, wait," they said, gripping your arm, looking even angrier. "Don't just quit. Do you have any idea the kind of opportunity you have right now?!"
"Wait..." You look at them, anxious and unsure. "I thought you said--"
"You can't just throw away an opportunity like this!!! Do you even know what you have?!" they pulled you back down to your seat. "You don't deserve this opportunity-- frankly, don't quit your day job. But... But you walk away, and there's no way you'll get back in."
"So..." You nibble on your lip. "What now, then?"
They give a long suffering sigh. "You're going to need my help." They pulled out a pack of red correction pens.
"So you're the so-called writer I've heard soo much about, huh" flips quickly through the pages of your drafts and scoffs "pathetic"
"It's dark. It's time to set up camp," the swordsman said.
"We lost all our gear, though. Nowhere to sleep unless we conjure something up."
The party pointedly turns to the wizard.
"...No," the wizard says. "I'm not using magic."
The party shouted in indignation. "WHY?! Come on, we're tired! Why can't you do it?!"
The wizard groaned. "Listen, I'll get us some light."
"You always use light spells! Why can't you ever conjure something useful?!"
"Because it's-- it's very hard to quality control magic!" the wizard sputtered. "Do you want tent spikes sticking out of your leg-- or, or HOLES in your tent?!"
"It's better than sleeping in the open air--," the swordsman tried.
"And then!" the wizard continued, "And then, you have to keep such an item conjured! Did we buy an emerald in the last town? Maybe a ruby? NO, I'm working off a crummy hunk of quartz! A polished quarts, maybe? REFINED QUARTZ?! NOOOOO. I have a small, dirt-stained, misshapen LUMP!"
"Why does that--"
"BECAUSE THE ROCK CONDUCTS THE MAGIC THAT KEEPS IT PERSISTING!!!" the wizard shrieked in dismay. "You need quality gemstone that can HANDLE that consistent power need! You know what happens when a gem overdraws magic energy over an extended period of time?"
"...No?..."
"You get a fire hazard! You risk breaking your gem! And if the gem gets broken, where does the magic fall?"
"I don't--"
"The WIZARD!!"
A timid scholar spoke up, "... Can't you transmogrify something?..."
"Can't I-- can't-- " the wizard laughed and gripped his head. "I'm working WITH A LUMP OF QUARTZ!!!"
"I heard of a wizard who could--"
"And Lord Agument is the best in our field! Do you think I'm the best?! With the way you pay me?!"
"But your fire spells--"
"Yes!!! Yes, because that's what I've studied!!! I am good at the section of magic I studied!!! Pardon me for wanting hobbies outside of work!!! Not EVERYONE can be Lord Agument, who mastered all forms of magic on a crummy little quartz."
"Listen-- just-- can you start the light spell," the swordsman wearily sighed.
"YES. I CAN."
Wizards have as much faith in magic as software designers have in software - none at all. A wizard is explaining to the rest of the party why they won't use magic to solve all their problems.
"I hardly sleep, and when I do, I am plagued by nightmares."
"I can help, but the price is steep."
The vampire wrenched away the religious bauble and tossed it aside. Their hair dripped with holy water. The hunter stumbled back, their injured leg giving out. They scrambled for any weapon left, but came up empty.
The vampire loomed over them. The hunter did their best to stand, using the wall for support. Cornered in an abandoned church. How fitting.
"A pity this should end so soon," the vampire said, tracing the hunter's jawline with a sharp nail. "You fought valiantly, my faithless little hunter."
"Quit stalling and kill me," the hunter spat, flinching from the hand and flattening themselves against the church wall.
"Ah. The faithless hunter is so quick to be martyred." The vampire laughed low at that. "Perhaps I want to make you mine. I have a weakness for the fallen."
"I won't become like you."
"Oh?"
"Your kind destroys lives with what you do." The hunter trembled. "You... You destroy homes and families. I'd rather die."
"You seek vengeance, but it will not absolve your grief," the vampire said, a shadow cast over their features. "Just as you seek death, though it will destroy your hopes for vengeance. What an exercise in futility."
"It is not futile to give others peace," the hunter bit back.
The vampire shook their head and brushed aside the hunter's hair. "Poor, faithless hunter. In the end you are still forsaken."
"I don't want to hear that from a creature who lives off stolen time," the hunter said, swatting away the hand. "How many have you killed for your miserable half-life?"
The vampire smiled wide, fangs glinting in candlelight. "Enough to survive. I live off the corrupt and self-righteous. When such prey wanders in so freely, why deny myself?"
"Because even monsters get lonely," the hunter said with a mocking smile. "How long must a beast live alone to beg for companionship from their hunter? How many came to pity you before your hunger reminded you of what you are?"
That struck a chord. The vampire's eyes grew wide, feral with fury. "If a beast is what you seek, it's what you deserve."
They pushed the hunter onto their bad leg, who then toppled sideways. The vampire gripped a fistful of hair and drew them close. They flailed, and the vampire wrapped another arm around them to hold them firm.
Fangs grazed their neck. Their pulse fluttered.
"What are you waiting for?" the hunter hissed. "Do it."
A droplet of salt hit the vampire's tongue. A single tear streaked across the hunter's face and down their neck.
"Do it," the hunter whispered, going slack. "I have... Nothing." Their voice soft and broken, a confession.
The vampire drew back, and wiped the tear from the hunter's face.
The hunter's eyes shot open in silent betrayal.
"Kill me, you coward," the hunter growled.
"No." The vampire cradled their head and gently laid them across the floor. They knelt beside them and cupped their cheek.
The hunter lunged, or tried. The vampire caught their wrists and held them there. The hunter screamed raw and anguished.
They fought the vampire's hold until they exhausted themselves.
"I've lost my appetite," the vampire said, and stood.
Their soft steps echoed through the old church. They paused to pick up and toss back the religious bauble. The hunter caught it.
"Perhaps one day you'll find some use in that," the vampire said. "If only to remind you of the day a beast took pity on you."
And then they were gone, leaving the hunter alone with their thoughts.
Part 2
"You have misunderstood the lore, hunter. It is neither crucifix, nor rosary, nor holy water, nor any other trapping of faith, but faith ITSELF that is anathema to my kind. And yours has proven to be. . . insufficient."
"I keep you safe." "No. You control me."
The man who strides in is haggard and unkempt. He looks at you with a dead-eyed expression and a look of utter despair.
"So, uh, here goes," he says. "People say you have some kind of power. And I just... I'm wondering if you can check my red string."
"Of course," you say. The request is not unusual. "I'll even tell you who's on the other side, if you like."
You find the start of the string and motion for him to follow. He trails behind you wordlessly, his eyes glued to the floor.
Outside, you can see the string disappear into the horizon.
"We'll take my car," you say.
You drive down the road in silence, following the twists and turns of the string. Sometimes you lose sight of it and have to retrace your steps. It's a bit difficult to pinpoint one string in an area full of people.
Finally you reach a residential building. The string goes straight into the walls of the third floor.
"We can stop," the man whispers. He sags in his seat and buries his head in his hands.
"You recognize this building?" you ask.
He nods quietly.
You touch his shoulder gently. "Then why--"
"It'll never work," he mutters. "My roommate, he's so... Oblivious."
You tilt your head. "Have you shared your feelings?"
He laughs. "So, so many times. He just doesn't get it. He doesn't think... Two guys..." He sighs and shakes his head in resignation. "I need to move out."
"You don't have to explain it," you say gently.
"Do you want to come in for some tea?" he asks.
You nod.
You walk up the stairs behind him. The string pulls taught as you reach his floor. You walk down the hallway, glancing at the various apartments, and pause at the door that the string leads to.
"Why are you stopped over there?" he says. "I live over here."
You blink, then follow him. He hesitates at the door. "I think he's home," he says.
"He can't be. The string leads down the hall," you say.
He opens the door. "Oh. Hey, roomie," he says.
His roommate waves back.
He gestures for you to sit.
You shake your head. "I have to tell you something," you whisper.
"Don't worry, he's got a headset on and he can't hear you right now," the man says.
"He's not your soulmate," you say.
"What?" he squawks.
You look at the string. It pulled taught straight into the wall.
"Come out to the hallway with me," you say. You knock on the door the string leads you to.
The man who answers says, "Oh no. Is your roommate being dumb again?"
Your client hesitates. He experiences a moment of realization.
"Oh. Y-yeah," he says.
"I got your favorite snacks," says the man who answered. "Also I need to share this new show with you. I know you'll love it."
Your client looks at you uncertainly. You smile.
"Oh, you're, um, welcome to join too," the man who answered says.
"No, you two have fun," you say with a knowing smile.
Your client smiles. "Thanks."
Some say that an invisible red string is tied around the fingers of soulmates meant to be together forever. As it turns out, you can see these red strings, and have therefore created a highly successful matchmaking business.
"I have something of yours."
"I know. You can keep it."
Beads of sweat rolled off Hero's brow. She was struggling to restrain Villain, and a crowd was actively trying to pull her off.
"I stole this weapon so I can destroy the comet!" Villain said. "It's heading towards Earth!"
"He's lying! Let go of me!" Hero growled, but the crowd wouldn't budge.
"He's protecting us from a comet!" One shouted. "Put your pride aside and give him the weapon!"
"Yeah, he's actually protecting us!" another screeched. "Unlike you!"
"In this shocking turn of events, it seems Hero is actively blocking Villain from saving the planet," a news anchor said. "Those of you watching may wonder-- who is the Hero and who is the Villain? Hero can't seem to stop stealing the spotlight, even at the cost of her own planet."
Hero let go, at that. Villain glanced up. "You... You're showing me mercy?" He said. Mawkishly.
Everything inside of Hero cringed. He was playing up the pathetic anti-hero routine again, and everyone was buying it.
"Sure," Hero said. "Fine. Take it. Have at. I'm going on vacation."
Villain stared at her in surprise. He covered his mouth to hide a devious grin. The crowd gathered around him, fawning all over him, treating his little scrapes and scratches.
Hero set her jaw. She walked away. She went home, she packed her things, grabbed her cat, and booked the first flight out of the city.
Not even hours after her plane landed was her phone ringing off the hook.
"You've got to stop him!" Her supervisor shrieked.
"He's destroyed half the city! Do something!"
"He lied! There's no comet!"
Hero took a slow sip of her caramel latte, put her phone on "ignore", and went back to reading her book.
The hero is fed up with being painted as in the wrong for fighting against the villain just because the villain is more sympathatic, so they decide to take a day off. This leads to disaster as people realize just how horrible the villain really is
"Why won't you just die?!"
"And deprive myself of your disappointment?"
"You shot me! In the foot!" The god whined, curled up on the floor.
"Well, yeah," you said. "You were about to destroy the whole city."
"My foot! Do you know how long that takes to heal?! I'm going to have a limp!"
"You also killed people. I really can't feel too sorry for you."
"Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?!"
"I know exactly who I'm dealing with." You crossed the room and knelt in front of him. "Do you?"
The God raised his head to glare at you. "Some pathetic human who got lucky," he said at last.
You smiled and raised the gun to his head. "No, I was sent here," you said. "But try again."
"A couple of puny humans--"
"You're too old for this foolishness."
The God quieted, at that. His eyes went wide as something registered. He shrank a little in terror.
"You were summoned by the Gods, weren't you?" he whispered.
You stared down at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. "The Gods will give you a lighter sentence if you come with me quietly."
It was then the room shifted, or tried. You could feel him pull at the fabric of reality, but you wouldn't let it budge.
"You tried that already," you said. You placed a hand on his shoulder. "No more running."
He tried to grapple you, but his power was never in brute force.
"You chose this," you said.
You gripped his head. He shrieked, wide-eyed and terrified, clawing at you desperately. His hands shrank, now short and stubby. His shoes flopped to the ground, feet too small to hold them. The bullet wound became but a tiny birth mark. His head shrunk, his eyes more soft and wide. Soon enough, he was nothing more than a harmless human baby.
You cradled him in his shirt. He screamed and cried and babbled.
"You will live among the humans, stripped of your memories, stripped of your godhood," you said gently. "For as many lives as you have taken, you will be reborn. That is your punishment."
The baby fussed and spit up a little.
"...Lovely. Now, let's go introduce you to your parents."
You've been sent out to defeat a powerful, reality bending god. All have died horrifically trying. And here you are in front of the crying god as they complain about how you just shot them.
The audience roared, the energy electrifying.
"And there he is, folks! The Scarlet Fist! Our reigning champion remains undefeated!"
Jay panted from the center of the amphitheater, slick with sweat and blood. He smiled and licked the blood from his knuckles, eyes wild.
"What's this? A new challenger approaches! It's none other than the Sandstorm! He is the reigning regional champion two years running, but does he stand a chance against our all-time champion?!"
A sand mage sauntered into the ring. Powerful, cocky. A showboater. Jay let him demonstrate his power, twisting and forming the sand into a dragon. He flew atop the dragon and spewed balls of sand that blew craters into the ground and boundary walls. The audience cheered.
Jay rolled his shoulders. The sand mage had fans in the crowd. He should play around a bit and make it look like a challenge. One of the sand balls flew in his direction and he dodged. Then another, and another.
A snake made of sand came into form and coiled around Jay, stopping him from evading. Jay pretended to struggle in the snake's grip. The audience loved drama. He punched through the snake's body and the sand crumbled where he touched.
Spikes emerged from the ground, and Jay managed to evade mostly. He didn't think the audience noticed a bit of the spike crumbled away before it could pierce his foot.
Half of the snake struck again, and Jay yet again dodged. The snake hit the floor and burst into a mound of sand.
The mage swooped down with his sand dragon. A fatal mistake. Jay leapt on top of the dragon, and it crumbled mid-flight. They both tumbled and rolled onto the ring.
The mage stumbled back, exposed.
"Y-you must be cheating!" The mage shrieked. Jay laughed, because of course he was. This mage was woefully green. Jay tried to prolongue the fight a bit longer before punching out the unfortunate young fighter.
"Who else wants a piece?" Jay taunted.
--
It was a good day in the ring, and Jay had full pockets. He took his win to the local bar and was enjoying the open tab from his latest admirer. He was downing a pint when a young man slid into the chair beside him. The young man hardly looked the type for fighting rings, too nervous and too bookish, but Jay had seen all types. Possibly with coin.
"Business or pleasure?" Jay asked with a crooked smile.
"I-I know your secret," the young man stammered.
For a moment, Jay's smile flickered. "Oh, you think so?"
"You're no mage," the young man said, adjusting his glasses. "You're a walking power dampener. An, um, impressively powerful one, at that." He shrunk a little at the wild look in Jay's eye.
Jay's eyes darted around, and he grabbed the young man by his scruff.
"Keep your voice down," he growled. "Who sent you?"
"No one," the young man said. "I... I need your services."
"Business, then."
Jay released his hold. The young man smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt.
"Uh, well, m-my name is Lucas," the young man stammered. "I... I'm a student at Wingcrest University, and I'm studying for my Greater Healing degree with a concentration in Healing Ethics. Particularly, my thesis sheds light on the misuse and abuse of healing magic, as well as dangerous magic practices that are unfortunately commonplace."
He shifted. "Most healing centers deal with surface injuries and cosmetic healing and neglect internal injuries or cause clots from dangerously rapid healing. This is common knowledge among Healers, but it's largely considered a necessary evil that occasionally we'll lose some patients. I wanted to argue for stricter policies and show that such tragedies are, in fact, avoidable." He fiddled with a loose thread on his sleeve and bit his lip.
Jay rolled his eyes and groaned. He was going to get this kid's life story. He wasn't really interested in the inner workings of Healing Magic, and an attractive patron across the way was exchanging flirtatious glances at him.
"Sorry, I, uh, tend to ramble," Lucas mumbled. "S-so, um. During my research I stumbled upon a dangerous conspiracy. Depreciating healing magics."
"Where do I come in?" Jay asked, patience thin, eyes elsewhere."
"Oh. Yes." Lucas pulled back the collar of his shirt. "I-I may not look it, but I've, uh, been afflicted with a Wasting Curse. Are you familiar?"
Jay glanced over the sunken black and purple handprint, a hallmark of the Wasting Curse. "I've seen it in the ring. You need a Disenchanter," he said. "You should have no problem paying, being a student of Wingcrest. Get it treated sooner rather than later. It's not something to ignore."
"I-I've been," Lucas said. "To several."
"Well, yeah. It takes a few days to reverse." Jay said. "You need to be patient and follow your healer's advice."
"You don't understand," Lucas grit. "I've been to three different Disenchanters who claimed they can help me. But... The curse was custom-made, a variant they could have never possibly encountered before. It uses a form of malicious regeneration interlocked with my healing magic. A fitting punishment for my meddling."
Jay passed his glass back to the bartender for a refill. "So what does that mean?"
"Trying to remove the Wasting makes it spread," Lucas explained. "Each Disenchantment brings the curse closer to my heart."
"Listen, kid, that's awful," Jay said, "That really is. But what do you want me to do about it? You need a professional."
"I need a bodyguard, first of all," Lucas said. "Someone unaffected by magics."
Jay fixed him with a long, tired stare. "I'm not a body guard. Check the guild nearby."
Jay moved to slip away from the booth, but Lucas grabbed his arm. "I also need a strong power dampener. Someone who can block my magic and slow the spread of the curse."
"They sell power dampeners everywhere nowadays," Jay said dismissively.
"Yours is extremely, exceptionally powerful," Lucas said with a note of desperation. "I could fill an entire amphitheater with power dampeners to achieve a fraction of what you are. Whoever cast it on you was a master of the craft."
The flirtatious patron cast a final glance before leaving. Jay flopped back to his chair with a sullen expression.
"Listen, I know this isn't... How you want to spend your evening," Lucas worded tactfully. "But this is life or death for me, and I am willing to pay you very, very handsomely. Name your price."
"Give it a rest, kid," Jay sighed. "Just... I'm not a bodyguard. I have shows scheduled. I can't just walk out in the middle of a season."
"But I--"
He drained another pint. "And you're right, you do ramble," Jay grumbled. "You give me a headache." He patted him on the back and shoved past. "Good luck, kid."
"I'll tell," Lucas said.
Jay stopped in his tracks. "...What?"
"I'll tell everyone your secret."
Jay set his jaw, and turned with a raw fury. He grabbed the young man and pushed him back into the bar counter.
"You want to die tonight?" Jay hissed.
"You left me no choice," Lucas hissed back.
They stared each other down. Lucas shivered.
"You... You might as well," Lucas whispered, his voice cracking. "I'll be dead soon anyway." His lip quivered. "I'll be dead by morning."
Jay's anger faded. He took a deep breath and righted the young man, and smoothed out his rumpled shirt.
"Don't cry," Jay said. "Don't..." He shushed him.
Lucas made a good effort, trying to hold it in. This wasn't exactly the place for tears. He choked a bit and a sob escaped.
"I'm going to die, and so, so many people are going to die, because it's more profitable to keep them sick," he whispered. "They don't want my research getting out, and I'm not going to be able to save anyone."
"Oh... Shoot." Lucas's knees gave out, and Jay caught him just barely. He could feel his shirt get moist, and he gently patted his head. "Shoot, kid."
"All good, Jay?" The bartender called out.
"Yeah," Jay called back.
"Something for the kid?"
"I'm 27 years old," Lucas grumbled, wiping his eyes. "I'm not a kid."
"Yeah, grab one for the..." Jay paused for a double-take. "Wow, really? 27?" He eased the young man into a chair.
"I mean, I'm in graduate school," Lucas muttered. "...Was."
"Okay, yeah." Jay scratched his chin. "Listen, fine, I'll help you out. I'll tell my manager I have an injury from the last match and take the flack. In return, I need half up front."
"R-really?" Lucas lit up.
They discussed the amount and terms of payment over drinks.
"I appreciate your cooperation," Lucas said.
"And one more thing," Jay said, very somber. "This is very, very important."
Lucas nodded.
"Don't tell anyone about the whole... Power thing," Jay said. "I mean it."
Lucas frowned. "I will uphold my end if you uphold yours. I am a man of my word."
"... Fine, I'll take that," Jay said.
You are a gladiator that can win fight after fight against even the most powerful wizards. Your secret? You were cursed as a kid to nullify any magic that came close to you.
Long ago, Pierre had been thought a sorcerer. His mastery of the automaton was second to none. He created little birds that twittered and sang, and ladies that danced and spun yarn.
Then the famine hit. He was accused of bargaining with the Devil. Mobs came and destroyed his beloved creations, and he was forced to flee for his life.
For years Pierre hid away in an abandoned castle on the western shore, isolated from all but his own creations. Year after year he sought to improve his craft. He never forgot nor forgave the people who both revered and reviled him.
When the armies finally came, he was old, weak, and tired of running. Though, to his credit, he hardly needed to. He had given the automatons life, or life as best he could. Now they loyally served him.
When armies crossed the drawbridge, mechanical archers shot spring-loaded arrows. When soldiers ascended the stairs, a dragon made of iron opened its maw and spewed fire ignited by sparks and oil reservoirs. Suits of armor would spring to life and heave their axes down. Even the castle itself would move, shifting passages and narrowing halls, shifting floors and collapsing staircases.
It was all cogs set off by pressure plates. All precisely measured engineering. Cold metal and sharp angles. Pierre looked over his creations with both pride and profound regret. He broke his back making the castle what it was, and no one dared to take it.
He had abandoned his joyful creations for the sake of peace from his enemies.
Pierre no longer had the advantages of youth, but he had the experience brought by years of craftsmanship. His hands were gnarled and his shaky. Even as the castle was under siege, he worked tirelessly to create a spark of joy.
The resulting automaton was his finest creation. He poured into it his heart and soul.
The automaton was small and frail, hardly the size of a child. In its hands was a small wooden harp, lovingly carved. Its eyes were made of pearls, and its hair, chords of dried seaweed. He pulled the counterweight that set the automaton in motion, and it played a soft, sweet melody.
Some days the harp would drown out the screams and cries of those outside who wished his destruction.
Kingdoms rose and fell. The armies that sought his blood deemed the castle a lost cause.
It took years for a single explorer to reach the center of the castle. By then the old tinkerer was long gone. Only the child of metal and seaside treasures remained, still poised to give a moment of joy to the shunned.
“It is one man, by himself, in a castle on a hill. How does an ENTIRE ARMY fail to take it???”
You're a murder victim haunting an old apartment building. The newest tenant's apartment is full of teenagers trying to perform a seance. You're doing your best to be as disruptive as possible because they keep almost summoning your murderer.
Villain could feel her mind go blank. God, she really said that out loud.
Hero was close, much too close, and her strong arms gripped her shoulders so, so tightly. She smelled a little like strawberries and musk, and her hair tickled her face a little. No one had ever gotten this close before. Villain twisted her wrists in the cuffs behind her back and tried to ignore the warm feeling in her gut.
"I… Um…" Villain tried, flustered. Her eyes flicked to Hero's lips. They looked soft.
Hero cleared her throat and put an arm's length between them. "Nice try, but you're still going to prison."
Villain's stomach did little somersaults. "You're, uh, going to take me there yourself?"
Hero blinked and seemed to avoid her eyes. "Well, um. Yes."
"And, um, keep a close eye on me?"
Hero flicked a glance at her and grabbed a walkie-talkie with one hand. "Hey, Superhero," Hero squeaked, voice cracking, "When's your ETA?"
Villain could see a little pink in her ears.
Static. Hero muttered a curse. Superhero always took his time answering.
Villain knew she should take the opportunity to try to run. Hero only had one hand on her shoulder. One warm, strong hand.
She pulled her shoulder back and barreled into the Hero. Hero, caught off guard, dropped the walkie-talkie and fell back. Villain made a run for it, jumping off the rooftop onto a fire escape.
"Hey! No, get back here!" Hero roared. She leapt onto the fire escape below Villain, cutting off where she was headed. Villain jumped off the fire escape to the ground, and Hero launched after her.
The full impact hit Villain square in the back, and the resulting fall knocked the wind out of her. Hero straddled her from the back and roughly grabbed her arms.
"Don't think I'll go easy on you just because you're cute," Hero grunted.
Villain's heart fluttered. She turned her head as much as she was able. "You think I'm cute?"
Hero reached for her walkie-talkie and came up empty.
"It's on the rooftop," Villain helpfully reminded her. "Does he normally take this long to respond?"
Hero seemed conflicted in whether to answer. "…Yeah," She conceded.
"With just you, or--"
"I really, really don't want to talk about it," Hero sighed tiredly. "Just… Please."
Villain hummed. "You deserve better," She said.
"So do your victims," Hero said, voice hard.
Villain opened her mouth. Shut it. "This seems personal," she said.
"It is," Hero said. "Superhero saved me from Villains like you. So now, I work for him and pay it forward."
"Funny," Villain said, voice lowering an octave. "Superhero is the reason I'm like this."
Hero was going to ask what she meant, but Superhero came flying from above. A short while later, a prisoner transfer vehicle arrived.
"Thanks for your help as always, Hero," Superhero said. He flashed a wide, toothy grin for the paparazzi as he secured Villain into the back of the vehicle.
"I have something important to take care of, so I'll see you back at the base, Sport," Superhero said, patting Hero's back. Hero slid into the passenger's seat quietly, knuckles white. She watched him laughing with the press as the car rolled away.
"Wow, he can't even help escort me back?" Villain said, smile sardonic. "Also, what was that just now? Is he stealing the credit from you?"
"I don't want the attention," Hero said. She looked down. "Justice is its own reward."
Villain snorted. "Oh, honey... You keep telling yourself that."
The driver flicked his eyes towards the backseat, and pushed a button to lock the car doors.
"Just ignore her," Hero said to the driver, flashing a smile. "Have we met? You don't look familiar."
"He didn't get in the car," The driver gruffed.
Villain sighed. "I know, I know, but proceed with the plan anyways."
"Yes, boss," said the driver.
Hero whirled around. "Hey, wait, what plan--"
There was a sudden sting in her arm as the driver injected her with an unknown substance.
"What th--" Hero ripped the tranquilizer from her arm and tried to grab the wheel.
The car veered and the driver wrenched her arm back. She elbowed him in the eye and grappled for the wheel. He pulled out a gun and aimed it at her.
"Hey, now," Villain said, reaching her arms through the bars. "I like her, so be gentle."
"Yes, boss," The driver said. He kept the gun ready, and glowered at Hero with his good eye. They were speeding down a gravel path. Hero tried the door but her hands felt weak.
"Child lock," Villain said.
Hero bit her tongue to stave off the unnatural woozy feeling in her head. "You'll... Be... S-sorry," she said.
"Don't worry, shh, I'll take care of you," Villain shushed, petting her hair gently. "I just can't let you interfere with my plans. Okay? Okay? Sleep."
Hero's eyes went heavy. She leaned into the soothing hand despite herself. Her vision went black.
The hero clicked the handcuffs over the villain’s wrists. “You’re done terrorizing the city. Any last words?”
“I think I’m in love with you,” the villain said.
The hero turned the villain around. “What?”
Axolotls. Incredible little creatures. Effectively immortal if left underwater, and forever youthful. Axolotls regrow their limbs because of their regenerating cells. These same cells were found to be present, but dormant, in humans.
Biochemists determined a groundbreaking method to isolate and reactivate these dormant cells. First practiced on mice, they extracted a small amount of blood, agitated it with chemical stimulants, placed it in a centrifuge, and re-injected it into the mice. The mice for a short time experienced cell regrowth, and through trial and error they refined the process.
They named this formula Formula A18, named after the axolotles that inspired it, and the 18 chemical stimulants that it composed of.
The results were, in essence, incredible. Beyond being a treatment to stop aging, it in effect allowed patients to regrow limbs and organs. It was heralded as a cure-all and a miracle drug.
However, the process of extracting, treating, and re-injecting cells was costly, and treatment locations charged handsomely for the procedure. Likewise, it needed to be re-administered every two years, as the effects depreciated. Some patients had adverse reactions to the treatment, as well as a higher predisposition to malignant cancers. As you were part of the at-risk group, you were deemed ineligible for the treatment.
At first, people in your life refused the treatment. "Who knows what those scientists are putting into our bodies," they scoffed. "Better for you to avoid all that, anyway." You would've given anything to receive the treatment, then. You were paraplegic and in constant pain after an accident, and you would've given your life savings for one dose.
Then a new variant of Formula A18 was introduced, Formula AV23. This one was different-- it was cheaper, worked faster, and only required one administration. Instead of extracting and re-injecting the cells, a virus was developed to target and reactivate the dormant cells, creating a persistent and cascading regeneration of cells. The company who developed it was a rival of the creators of A18.
Again, you were denied the treatment on the grounds that you were part of an at-risk group.
Everyone but you was getting healthier. You got even more stares than you did before on the bus. People scolded you for not getting AV23. Some even accused you of attention-seeking.
Five years went by. You witnessed a friend develop a particularly aggressive cancer attributed to AV23. The creators of A18 went out of business, and the formula was bought up by yet another company.
Though the name didn't change, A18 underwent modifications to become more "cost-effective" and "accessible". The revised name was A24, and the cheapest so far. Much more, you were eligible for it.
By this point, research facilities had cut funding to cancer research and many other life-threatening illnesses. Many believed AV23 and A24 could effectively replace all healthcare, and those who cautioned the repercussions of allowing such research to lose funding became the minority.
You decided not to try A24.
Five more years, and companies continued to add chemicals, change names, and cut more corners. FDA allowed variants to be grandfathered in. Business was booming, and people around you were changing. It was subtle, at first.
You noticed people would wander in circles. Some would stare listlessly at walls. Regulars on the bus struggled to remember how to swipe their card.
Five more years.
Adult daycare centers popped up all over. Hospitals were packed. Companies denied all connection to the rise in cancer patients and mass cognitive decline.
Five more years.
A man in Idaho accidentally cut off his finger. When he arrived at the hospital, the finger was reported to have fully healed and grown a small network of organs.
A woman in Berlin found hair in teeth growing from a wound in her midsection.
Five more years.
Many who took one of the AV23 and A24 variants went sterile, and birthrate was at an all-time low. Children born during the early introduction of AV23 and A24 physically and mentally stagnated, with underdeveloped limbs, poor fine motor control, short attention spans, weak vocal cords, and very limited cognitive retention. They were known as the "Cherub Generation".
The man's pinky from Idaho was kept under close observation. It grew a mouth, lungs, and a digestive system, and was able to crawl and consume nutrients independently.
A social media trend called "pinky pets" is inspired by this phenomenon.
Five more years.
Though you never went for treatment, you are showing the same effects of regeneration as everyone around you. Reports show AV23, A24 and its variants created a virus that can be transmitted airborne. You are finally able to walk, but your wounds heal in strange ways, and your blood feels like it's crawling.
Systems are developed to handle human's shorter retention spans. De-aging products are a largely thing of the past. Swimming becomes an extraordinarily popular activity, and the Cherub Generation seems to swim exceptionally well.
On a cellular level, most humans have changed, yourself included. You notice your skin is tougher, and your eyesight a bit duller. Your hair falls out and webbing grows between your fingers and toes. A strange new organ grows alongside your lungs. You are no longer able to handle extreme cold like you used to.
Asexual reproduction becomes the only way for most people to reproduce.
Biochemists work around the clock to reverse the effects of the AV23/A24 virus.
Five more years. Humans enter the oceans. Amenities from above-land are redesigned for underwater use. Above-ground cities are largely inhabited by the rare few who were resistant to the AV23/A24 virus.
Deep in the lowest reaches of the ocean, where humans used to be unable to travel, you find others like you.
Scholars set to work to communicate with these ancient humans.
They lament the life you gave up, but they welcome you with open arms.
Humanity persists. Humanity stagnates.
Then, slowly, humanity seeks land, and the ability to change, to age, once again.
A drug is discovered that stops all effects of aging. You decide to not take it. 20 years pass and the side effects are discovered.
You see their name on caller ID. Tears form in your eyes. You collect yourself and pick up, only to hear the line disconnect.
"He's been claimed by a Fae Lord, a Witch, a Demon Queen-- we made deals with one too many entities," the Queen explained with a heavy sigh. "Now, he's gone and got himself possessed by a couple ghosts, and apparently has some kind of arrangement with a Siren and a Dragon. I'm a little lost on his social life at the moment."
The Queen plucked out the sacrificial dagger protruding from her son's chest and tossed it aside with a hanky. The wound instantly healed.
"He's immune to just about anything," she continued. "Lightning, arrows, knives, cannonballs, being frozen or burned and... What was it? Oh yes, poison."
The Prince reached for the knife that lay discarded and began giggling and stabbing himself. The wounds gave off little sparks as they zipped the skin back together.
"Oh, my poor son," the Queen lamented. "In any case, is this God of yours powerful? They might need to be in order to claim him."
The Order exchanged glances. "We changed our mind," they said.
The Prince hopped up on the sacrificial altar and grabbed the leader by his robes. "No no NO you can't stop NOW!!" He giggled, "Beyooooond the time it took for set up, how RUDE it is to call a God only halfway, right when it's getting GOOD?!"
The Order grimaced. "The prince speaks the truth. Complete the spell in the honor of God. Only he can determine if this vessel is worthy."
The Prince flopped back with a smarmy grin.
The Order sunk the knife into the Prince once again and commenced with the summoning. The Prince began to float, and he hit the clergy with spitballs from where he was suspended.
The God appeared and looked over the clergy. "You must know this vessel is... Inadequate," he said, gesturing to the giggling prince. "I have never been summoned to a less suitable vessel."
"Suit yourself! You clearly don't know how to PARTY!" The Prince said, dancing around the floating apparition. "Like I want some boring old god taking up space in MYY flesh prison!"
"Dear, that dance is a bit unseemly," the Queen said. "Stop at once."
"YOU stop, MOM." The Prince pointed at the Queen. "Is she? Is she suitable? She's been offering me up this whole time!"
The Queen shook her head. "That's not necessary, Dear."
"Very well. It is done," the God said, and his spirit flowed into the Queen's mouth. The Queen shook briefly, then closed her jaw audibly.
"Goodness. I expected more," the Queen said, dabbing her lips with a hanky. "Truly a boring God. Let's go home, son."
"Wait, what happened?!" The Order cried.
"Oh, we are also a family of God eaters," the Queen said. "I must have forgotten to mention that. Did I? It's how we keep getting all these contracts."
The prince pointed to the sacrificial dagger in his chest. "Hey, can I keep this?"
When the eldest of the royal children was kidnapped and brought to the ritual table to be the new vessel for the cult's god, they seem oddly fine with it. It was in the middle of the ritual that the eldest royal revealed…
The vampire spat out your blood. "God, what have you been eating?!"
The Hero dodged. Too slow, the Dark Lord swung down his battle ax and cleaved a rock in half. The Hero went for his opening, but the Dark Lord parried. The Hero jumped over another swing, then feinted an attack. The Dark Lord anticipated the feint and swung at the Hero's sword's mid-arc, sending it flying. The Hero stumbled back from the blow, then rolled when the ax came down where he fell.
The Hero retrieved his fallen sword and smiled cockily. "I can do this all day."
The Dark Lord froze at that. The Hero launched into another attack. Dark Lord halfheartedly blocked his blow. Another attack. Block. It felt slow and deliberate, like a training exercise.
"What's wrong? Getting tired?" The Hero snarked.
The Dark Lord planted his ax in the ground. The Hero sensed something was different and stepped back. The two foes apprehensively waited for the other to make a move.
That's when the Dark Lord removed his helmet.
"I am," he said simply. He tossed his helmet to the side. "I am getting tired."
"You think it can just end? Like that?!" The Hero shouted. "After everything you did?!"
The Dark Lord's glowing eyes bore into his.
He picked up one of the skulls littering the ground around them, and tossed it to the Hero's feet.
"Whose bodies litter these battle grounds?" The Dark Lord growled. "Did you ever wonder?"
The Hero stared down at the skull.
"Ours," the Hero said lightly. He kicked the skull back. "A millennia of reincarnations made to come here and die over and over."
The Dark Lord stepped on the skull. It cracked, then crumbled into dust. "You're ready to do this for another millennia?"
The Hero faltered then. "As long as it takes," he whispered.
"As long as it takes for what?" The Dark Lord said.
"I... I just want to rest," the Hero admitted. "But time and time again, you razed my village and destroyed everything I love. You've taken everything, and now you get to call it quits and say you're tired? I've been tired this whole time."
"Your village turned away my people when we had nothing," the Dark Lord said. "We took what we needed by force."
"Don't you dare try to come off as the victim--" the Hero started in, but the Dark Lord interjected.
"We were desperate, and turned to forces we never should have trifled with. In turn, so have yours. Neither us have known love and peace since this started."
"Quit trying to act like we're the same," the Hero snarled, but there was a broken edge.
"We need to end the cycle," The Dark Lord said, and started towards him.
The Hero narrowed his eyes and raised his sword. The Dark Lord, undeterred, loomed above him. The Hero shook.
"Run me through, Hero," the Dark Lord said. "Slake your bloodlust. I will come back as many times as it takes."
The Hero held out his sword. The Dark Lord bared his throat and closed his eyes. A bead of blood dripped from where the blade grazed his throat.
The sword clattered to the ground.
The Dark Lord tilted his head.
"I don't want this," the Hero said.
The Dark Lord held out his hand. "It's time to rebuild, then."
The Hero took it. "I'll hold you to that."
You and the Dark Lord are destined to be reincarnated to fight fight one another throughout time. After 1000 years of fighting, the two of you decide to sit down and actually discuss an end to this conflict.
For months, you are haunted by vivid nightmares.
At the center of it is always the same strange, distinctly dressed person wearing a mask. After months of torment, you are terrified of seeing this nightmare entity.
One day you meet with a friend, and you find them dressed like the masked entity from your nightmares.
"Listen," Cara said. "I love you. I care about you. But there comes a time when I feel like I can't reach you." She brushed aside Cup Ramens, soda bottles and chip bags. Bugs skittered out of the way.
"Yeah." Grenda stared at the ceiling.
"Please... Please, for god's sake, go to a phychiatrist. Hell, go to a General Physician. You're not happy, you're not functioning, you're not--"
"Worth it," Grenda said, voice heavy. "I'm not... Worth it. I'm..." She rolled on her side. "God, why am I... Why am I h-here..."
Cara sighed heavily. "Grenda." She tried to grab her arm, but Grenda pulled it away.
"I'm a burden on you," Grenda said. "Aren't you sick of it?"
"No. Grenda..." Cara laid beside her on the floor, touching her head.
"I could just--" Grenda started, but stopped.
"I--... I get tired too," Cara whispered. "I wonder... I wonder why I'm here."
Grenda choked a little. Blew her nose.
"This place is disgusting," Grenda whispered, voice raw. "But looking at it just... I feel like if I keep letting it pile up, maybe I'll drown in it. Just like I deserve."
Cara closed her eyes. "I love you, Grenda. I'm not going to pretend seeing you hurt doesn't hurt me, but... I don't want you to pretend you're fine."
Grenda sobbed. "I... I feel like I drag you down--"
"No." Cara grabbed her hand. "...No. Life... Drags me down. We are keeping each other afloat as best as we can." She kissed her hand.
"Why do you put up with me?" Grenda said. "Don't you hate me?"
"No," Cara whispered. "I just want to help you get better."
Grenda whimpered slightly.
They lay side by side in silence, until something crawled on Cara's arm. She shrieked and bolted upright.
"Grenda... I'm helping you clean your house," Cara said. "Go shower and... I'll start taking out the trash."
"But--" Grenda started.
"If you'll allow me," Cara said.
Grenda took a deep breath. "I... Thank you, Cara. Thanks. But I want-- no, I need to do this myself."
Cara deflated. "But--"
"I don't want this to be our relationship, you constantly having to save me," Grenda said.
Cara nodded gently.
"But you made me feel better," Grenda said. "I'm grateful to have you for a friend."
"Let me help you just this once," Cara said. "And use that energy to see a doctor. Think of it as investing in the future."
Grenda sighed. "You won't let this go, will you?"
"Not when it's about your health," Cara retorted.
Grenda groaned and covered her face. "Yeah. Okay, yeah. Just don't judge what you find."
"As long as you tell me if this is any good," Cara said, holding up a Fantasy novel with a suggestive cover.
Grenda snorted. "It isn't, but all the more reason why you should read it."
"I'm not depressed."
"You haven't showered in three weeks."
"That's just because I'm a terrible, disgusting person whose life is never going to amount to anything so why even bother trying, right? But I'm not depressed."
Everyone has a little creative muse that lives off the things we make. They're very hungry, and they will wander away dejected if we ignore them.
You can use anything to feed them.
Five words, five little scribbles on the page, five music notes.
Every little bit helps. Doodle on your math notes. Vent poetry while you're on hold. Hum some made-up tune during a traffic jam.
They don't need much. They don't need you to be passionate or polished.
They want you to come as you are.
Occasionally they'll bring you little gifts. Mostly, though, they'll make you feel a little lighter.
You may say, "I'm not creative," or "I have no time," or, "I'm so burnt out". When you're prioritizing survival, it's hard to prioritize your inner self.
Work within your time and energy, but remind yourself that you and your feelings and where you are right now all matters.
Your little muse will thank you.
"That smell. What is that?"
"I'm not sure."
"I've smelled it before. It's so familiar."
"You're imagining things."
"No, no, it's this tea. You made me this tea before."
"...You should go."