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Episode Twenty: Battle Joined (Revised)



You yelp in pain as you bend too far at the waist and strain the stitches in your back.

“Easy there, Diesel!” Janice says.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “My bad.”

Janice raises her eyebrow. “Didn’t we just learn that you needed to stop beating yourself up?” She points out.

“I think the lesson was more I need to stop beating myself up in a non-productive way,” you tell her. “That aside…are you up for this, Janice?”

“I was going to ask you that,” Janice replies. She grabs the clipboard from the base of your bed and flips through your chart.

“Hmmm…” she says. “What do we have here…Bruising, contusions, severe perforation, no fever so far…high blood pressure? You should start eating more salmon.”

“Later,” you say. “After the case is closed.” You lean forward and lock eyes with the Necromancer Nurse. “Can you do this?”

Janice gives you a feral-looking grin, the devil-may-care smile of a madwoman…or more precisely, a mad scientist.

“Even if it goes wrong,” she says. “The results will still be fascinating.”

“I can work with that,” you say, standing up straight and unbuttoning the top of your hospital gown. You shiver as you pull the gown down to expose your torso, then roll back the gown’s hem to expose your legs.

Janice lets out a low appreciative whistle. “Nice ink,” she says. “Good linework, excellent thaumaturgy. Your sect do that for you?”

“My father,” you tell her, starring down at your legs. “Mind you, he scribed most of the Sak Yant for our Sect.”

Two black-lined tigers twist up the sides of your calf muscles, surrounded by quotes from Pali scripturs inked in the old Tai Lu script. More tattoos cover your upper body, ink usually concealed by the fancy button-up shirts you like to wear.

There’s a Ha-thaeo stenciled on the back of your left shoulder for good luck, and a Maha-niyom on your back right shoulder for good first impressions. A Panchamukhi—Five Deva Faces—shields your chest while Ong Phra—the Buddha’s Body—wards your back.

The Buddha’s Body didn’t seem to do jack squat against Kayne’s sharp knife…but then again, you’re alive.

You look down at the ink on your leg and smile despite yourself.

Dad was such a worrywart when you first signed up with the Black Forest Sect. He insisted you get as many Sak Yan tattoos as possible to maximize your luck during battles. You remember squeaking shamelessly as the needles were applied, as wimpy as a kid getting his first flu shot…

It all ended in betrayal and heartbreak, of course.

Still, you’re starting to realize that the bad memories don’t have to drown out the good.

Janice starts applying sticky sensor patches to your arms, legs, sternum and temples, linking them to wires that run into a heavily customized EEG monitor she’d designed herself.

You take a red-ink pen and scribble lines of C ++ code along your ankles, knees, elbows, and wrists, modified programming scripts that alter your old, inert tattoos, modifying their residual magic to create a new kind of spell.

“How’s Jace doing, by the way?” you ask Janice as you work.

“Very well!” Janice replies. “The implants are taking well! The regalvanization treatments need some tweaking, but still…” she speaks in an excited whisper. “He managed to digest a burger the other day!”

“That’s wonderful!” You say. “I’m so happy for you!”

“I’m so happy for us!” Janice chirps.

You make the last mark on the side of your chin, then look down at the laptop screen and re-read your Guru’s latest message:

PROTOGON: ZOMBIES AND OTHER UNDEAD ARE ANIMATED BY A MAGICAL PARASITE-CONSTRUCT THAT INFESTS A CORPSE AND CHANNELS ENERGY THROUGH ITS EXISTING MUSCLE GROUPS.

PROTOGON: THEORETICALLY, WE CAN CREATE A SIMILAR CONSTRUCT WITHIN YOUR LIVING BODY TO ENERGIZE YOUR LIMBS AND MOVE THEM AROUND INDEPENDENT OF YOUR NERVOUS SYSTEM AND PAIN RECEPTORS. YOU WOULD USE THE SAME MENTAL TECHNIQUES YOU EMPLOY WITH YOUR BRONZE SWORD TO CONTROL YOUR MOVEMENT––PUPPETING YOUR OWN BODY, IN OTHER WORDS.

PROTOGON: YOU’LL ONLY GET ONE CHANCE TO CAST THIS SPELL, DIESEL. IF EITHER OF YOU MISHANDLE THIS ENCHANTMENT, THE RESULTING BIOFEEDBACK WILL BE…DEBILITATING.

PROTOGON: MAKE ABSOLUTELY SURE THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT, MY STUDENT.

PROTOGON: WHEN YOU’RE READY FOR ME TO SEND YOU THE SPELL-ESSENCE, TYPE [YES].

“You know,” you say softly, trying to ignore the butterflies dancing in your stomach. “This whole setup reminds me of Frankenstein.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Janice says dryly. She chuckles. “Want me to start shouting It’s Alive?”

You close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. “Let’s save that for the big finale,” you say, as you lean over the laptop, type in the word “Yes,” and hit Send.

#

You are Mandrake Kayne, the Beast Breaker, operative of the Hrunting Society. Your body is a weapon. Your thoughts are steel. You are beyond anything as vulgar as doubt or pity. You cannot be vulnerable for a minute, not here in this twisted slum of monsters.

Your bandages itch like crazy. Your old scars and newer bruises ache with a dull, throbbing pain. You ignore these sensations and scan the empty market plaza for threats and advantages.

The nearby Goblin Complex and movie theater have rooftops where snipers could take clear shots at you. You’ve strung razor wire across the entrances to those buildings. If sharpshooters try to sneak into those buildings, you’ll hear their cries of pain.

There are four escape routes roughly ten meters from where you stand, shadowed paths you can dart toward after dropping your smoke charges.

There are three structures that obscure line of sight in this plaza—the golden Goblin statue, the concrete flower boxes, the brass fountain. Each should provide a degree of protection from shrapnel if you’re forced to detonate the claymore mines...

“Oy!” The Ogre says, opening a blood-crusted eyelid. “Hey! Turn thy gaze toward me, thou mince-making Mummy-Man!”

You take a deep breath and ignore the faerie scum’s taunts. You are tranquility. You are an engine of excision and purification—

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” The Ogre shouts, displaying impressive lung volume considering all t.

 You sigh and turn to face the Ogre.

You’ve hogtied him to the trunk of an ancient oak, binding him with mix of barbed wire and the iron chains you found him with. Curved claymore mines are duct-taped to his skeletally thin chest, ready to go off at the slightest hint of treachery.

A monster so thoroughly shackled, you muse, does not have the right to look so arrogant, you muse with a grim humor.

“Dost thou think that rabble will come to rescue me?” the Ogre rasps. “Do you really think they’re that dumb?”

“I don’t understand it myself,” you reply honestly. “What do they want with an iron-burned abomination like you?” You walk forward and look up, peering into the Ogre’s eyes. “What do you have that they want? Is it a treasure? A secret? Have you bound them with one of your faerie pacts?”

“Mayhap they prize me for my handsome looks,” the Ogre says, baring his yellow tusk teeth and wiggling his long pink tongue around in his mouth. “Know ye not this face is treasure dear? Ladies prize my shapely mug…”

You punch the Ogre’s nose, a light jab that irritates his already cracked cartilage.

“WRAGH!” the Ogre shrieks.. “Can’t you take a…canst thou not take a joke?”

“Why do they want you?” You ask again.

“I don’t know. I can’t read minds!” the Ogre moans. A bitter look crosses his twisted face. “Mayhap Felix read too many faerie tales. Methinks he plans to trade me back to the Sylvan Queen for his real son.” He chews on his swollen lips with his tusks. “That lickspittle loser,” he rasps. “I ain’t nobody’s fool. I ain’t nobody’s bauble!”

“Hmph.” You turn and walk away from the rambling Ogre.

You dismiss his fear and pain and visible anger from your thoughts. He is just another slavering predator, after all, a mere slave to his instincts—

The sound of breaking glass echoes in the night.

You sink into a crouch, dagger slipping into your hands. Your eyes dart back and forth, seeking out potential threats: a cobalt-blue gaslight, a trash can, a small shape darting back into the shadows...

Your throwing spike pierces through the scurrying rat and nails the filthy rodent to the ground.

You lower your arm, grimacing in disgust at your flagrant waste of ammunition. You look down at the dagger you drew with your other hand; your old trench knife, the one that sorcerer enchanted with his corrupt magic.

You sheath your knife, sit down on own the Goblin-sized park benches and try to regulate your breathing.

You’re going to die. You know that, don’t you, Kayne?

“Hmmph,” you mutter.

You’re no monster or magician.

“Hmmph,” you growl.

You’re nothing but a human with knives and a traumatic childhood, Kayne. Do you think you can defeat the monsters that are coming to attend your little hostage trade? Do you think they’ll let you go free after you threatened their loved ones?

“Hmmph,” you snort.

I will do my duty, you think.

Is your duty to stick your neck into a noose? Is this really the hill you want to die on?

Why?

What’s so important about the girl? Yes, she’s one of the dreaded Nephilim. But what makes her more important than all the other demon-blooded half-breeds that exist in the world?

Instead of answering my reasonable questions, you take a deep breath and hide your conscious thoughts behind an iron wall of hissing static.

Such impressive mental discipline, Kayne! You needn’t worry, though. I cannot do anything trapped inside in the porkpie hat you’ve tucked into the lining of your coat. I can do nothing unless you specifically ask.

Oh, yes. You won’t traffic with demons. Such a noble sentiment. But what if your refusal to traffic with this demon means another demon gets its way?

“Hmmph,” you grunt, turning your thoughts back toward the outside world and your impending battle. The buzzing static in your mind grows in volume until it drowns out our newborn psychic link.

Such a pity. I could have helped you. I could have told you so many things.

I could have pointed out the wicked glint in the Ogre’s eyes.

I could have guided your eyes towards the tiny spirits crawling over his body, brownies and pixies and wights that are carefully teasing apart his iron fetters.

I could have told you about the gnarled hand he is pressing against the bark of the oak tree you tied him to. I could have called your attention to the delicate roots that are weaving through the Ogre’s many wounds and slowly sewing them shut.

Alas, you aren’t interested in listening to the words of a demon. You’re afraid my silken suggestions will corrupt you.

You are correct. Every word from my lips is meant to corrupt you.

Still, if you listened to me, you would live a little longer.

Off in the distance, a clock tower chimes midnight. You strain your ears and hear the soft tread of footsteps.

The demon-child walks around the corner, her canine familiar and harlot mother flanking her sides. The changeling’s foster father also rounds the corner, face and handed covered with some kind of silver pigment.

The father holds a pistol to the mother’s back. He catches sight of his changeling boy tied to the tree, and his face curdles with a desperate, pathetic hope.

As they draw closer, you step back and hold your dagger to the Ogre’s throat.

“Good,” you say, hiding your burning hatred behind a bored, disinterested tone. “You’re all here. Let’s begin.”

Behind you, the Ogre chuckles softly. The chuckles grow into bellowing, full-bellied laughter.

You turn you head slightly, making sure you keep the demon-child and her associates in view. You watch as the Ogre, your valuable hostage, starts sinking into the Oak, merging into the tree-trunk like a clam-shell enfolded by an Octopus.

The Ogre’s leering face is the last thing you see before he vanishes beneath the tree-bark. His ropes and wire restraints fall to the ground in a puddle around the oak tree. Your claymores clatter as they bounce off the tree roots and onto the grass lawn.

For a moment, you, the father, the mother and the demon-blooded young girl share identical expressions of dismay.

This wasn’t what any of you had planned at all.

At long last, the silver-painted father removes his pistol from behind the nurse’s back and takes aim at you.

He shoots once, twice. He has never handled a gun in his life. It’s child’s play to fire one of your ballistic knives and dash the pistol from his grasp.

The demon-child—Fortuna—leaps back with wide eyes, flames forming around her outstretched hands. The mother—Fausta—draws a telescoping baton from her purse and snaps it to full length.

You drop your expended ballistic knife and dart to the side, fingers reaching for the remote detonator in your coat pocket.

And with that, you all start trying to kill each other.

Next Chapter: Episode Twenty-One: The Kayne Conundrum (Revised)