Stupid Sexy Cryptids [148-151]

148: Many Licks from the Heart of Darkness

"We write our own futures here, Solara. And we don't throw girls off tall bridges to fix the weather," I said.

Not anymore anyways. I didn't voice my thoughts of the Salem witch trials and the Spanish Inquisition memes.

"The Frontenachii tell me that MY world is outside of their finite doom curve or whatever and that they have never encountered a world so filled with humans. Isn’t that right, Commander?" I glanced at my newly acquired Wendigo privateer.

"Right you are, Lord Administrator," the Wendigo agreed, “This world is very… unique. Nothing like we’ve ever seen. I absolutely expected it to be conquered by now, yet not only did you resist us valiantly, you’ve somehow gotten me to defect. Heh.”

I turned my attention back to Comet. The Maned Wolf looked like a despondent college student who survived finals week and a breakup simultaneously.

"Right then, Solara," I kept my tone conversational. "Let's chat.”

“Chat?” She looked back at me warily. 

“Yep. Just two people having a friendly discussion about sleigh-based logistics."

"I already told you I can't reveal anything that would threaten the Sleigh’s operations,” she stated sharply, fluffy ears wiggling under Sergey’s fingers.

"I'm not asking about operational weaknesses," I stated. "I'm simply curious about the magic of the Sleigh itself. The charity headquarters. How big is it exactly? Like, are we talking about a Carnival cruise ship or more of a... Death Star situation?"

“Death Star?” Comet blinked.

"Uhhh, just some local lore,” I said. “Anyways, your flying Christmas fortress. It collects all souls from seeded doomed worlds, yes? How big is it exactly to store all of them?”

"It's... vast,” she answered. “Truly vast. The Workshop interior contains a multitude of worldscapes. Forests. Mountains. Citadels. When a world is... harvested... its terrain becomes part of the interior."

"So you're telling me it's bigger on the inside," I said flatly.

"Yes?"

"Like a TARDIS."

"A what?"

"Nevermind. Continue."

"The Workshop… spans horizons,” Comet explained. “Warehouses of gift-wrapped boxes reach toward a candy-cane striped sky. Toy factory citadels within great columns churn day and night, producing gifts crafted by millions. The collected… Residents... Their numbers are great. Each one is given a purpose. A role to fulfill… A place in the grand chorus."

“The more I’m hearing about this flying Sleigh dungeon,” Wattica commented, “the worse it sounds. Not even Frontenachii Capital ships screw around with dimensional magic.”

“Why?” I asked her.

“Dimensional magic is expensive in terms of energy,” the Wendigo replied. “We don’t like to waste energy. Hoarding magical stuff is how we roll. That reminds me… I’ll also take payment in artifacts if you have such. Your dimension gnaws at my heart greatly, Emperor… makes me quite peckish for terrorising the locals.”

“Hrmm. Could you hoard the magic presents Comet can pull out of her sweater or the sweater itself now that it’s off her?” I wondered. “Or would it infect you with festivus? Could you use the sweater’s pockets to pull out infinite magical stuff to claim?”

Wattica's ears perked up with obvious interest. "I like the jibe of your words."

She approached the null-box held by one of her prad girls cautiously, like a cat investigating a suspicious cucumber. Her claws clicked against the metal lid.

"Sevviya," she called over her shoulder. "Get over here and scan this junk."

The cheetah Scrutimancer padded over. She leaned over the box, snapped it open and inhaled deeply.

"The sweater is inert without a host," Sevviya reported. "The festivus outfit gate pocket requires belief and intent to function. Only the Herald is able to operate it while wearing it.”

“But it is magical enough for me to claim, yes?” Wattica tilted her head.

“I… believe so,” Sevviya said, “yes.”

“And it won’t get into my head, won’t overwrite me?”

“I don’t think so, my Lady,” Sevviya clarified. “This is high level Stabalist artificery. It is very specific in alignment and purpose. Converting it to a hoard item will take time and effort and I believe that doing so will potentially disrupt its function.”

“If we break the sweater now we won’t be able to pull infinite presents out of it later,” I pointed out, “we should start with something she's already pulled out of it as a test.”

“Mmmm… infinite magic hoard,” Wattica tilted her head up Gomer Simpson style, drooling excitedly at the prospect of limitless hoard items.

“Her gun got chucked into a corner,” I said. “Maybe try claiming it first as a test?”

“Kendra! Bring me the gun,” Wattica ordered.

The hawk girl in null-armor who had been freed from the festive tape by the other prads rushed into the corner of the bar and brought the Wendigo the peppermint Gatling gun.

“Sniff,” the Wendigo ordered. “Determine claim potential.”

Sevviya’s nose wiggled over the gun. 

"This weapon is a sub-artifact," the cheetah reported. "Lower tier Stabalist manufacture, aligned to the belief of the wielder. The target… blooms into festive…ness.”

Sergey frowned at Comet. “Were you going to turn me into a Christmas tree with that?” He asked.

Comet’s ears tilted back. 

“Yes,” Wattica answered for the Herald, reading her thoughts. “She was planning to fuck you tonight and then point that gun at your head and… bloom you, liberate your body from the mortal coil of this… doomed Earth. She believes firmly that such is a positive thing, not murder, as your soul would be reborn in the Workshop and she could visit you… Maybe stay ‘friends with benefits’ after you… get turned into a kobold.”

Sergey’s expression transitioned through several stages: mild flattery at the prospect of sex, confusion, then horror. 

"So the whole, uhm, seduction routine..." He swallowed. "The lap-sitting, the ear-scratching, the face-in-sweater thing..."

"Foreplay before festive murder," Wattica confirmed with a teethy smirk. 

Sergey looked down at Comet with a look of judgement. "I feel... conflicted."

"Understandable," I said. "She did try to assassinate you via cuddles."

"In my defense," Comet mumbled, "I think that you would have made an excellent gingerbread decorator. Very steady hands. Good with frosting… probably."

“Probably?! That doesn’t make it better at all!” Sergey complained.

“Sorry,” Comet said. 

“She is picturing you as an adorable kobold,” Wattica chortled. “She thinks that it’s fine to be a kobold.”

“Adorable in what way?” Steve asked. 

“Short, scaly, colorful eyes, colorful claws,” the Wendigo clarified. “Seems like the reborn souls are conceptually converted, their original bodies gone.”

“Isekai into the North Pole village,” the slightly drunk resistance cell leader chortled. “Neat.”

Sergey blessed Steve with a glare.

"Hrm." Wattica stepped closer to the Gatling gun, "Sevviya, if I claim this weapon, will it maintain functionality?"

"Stabalist Syntropic artificery responds to belief structures. Your claim will likely overwrite the original enchantment matrix, disconnect it from the Sleigh," the Scrut replied

“No danger of infection, yes?”

“None. The weapon isn’t physically connected to the Herald.”

“Great.” The Wendigo grinned. Her hand clamped down on the festive weapon. She struck a pose, one leg up on a barstool, chest puffed out.

"I, Wattica Abricomb Frontenachii claim thee," Wattica intoned, "I name thee... The Toothache."

Nothing happened.

"Hrm," Wattica grunted. She squeezed harder, dark knuckles cracking. "I said... Mine."

Still nothing. 

Wattica’s confident grin faltered. She looked around the bar nervously. Her soldiers were watching. The humans were watching. I was watching.

"Sevviya?" Wattica nervously glanced at the cheetah. "Why isn't it... bonding? Is it broken?”

"It is a Syntropic artifact and we’re in a thick Linearity locale my Lady," the Scrutimancer stated. "The Self-reinforcing belief matrix resists the overwrite because it believes it is still a festive toy. You cannot just shout at it similarly as you’ve done in your Mother’s Estate on Holartiz. You have to... consume the intent. Strip the layers with… greater vigor.”

"Like… how?"

"Ingest the essence," Sevviya clarified. "You have to lick the topmost layers of Syntropic magic off. Physically. Like getting to the center of a Tootsie Pop."

“Uhhhh…” The Wendigo looked at the colorful gun, not looking too sure about licking it.

“Ha!” Sage laughed into my ear. “She’s a claim-virgin! Probably flesh from a time bubble like T-bum.”

Galateya let out a huff, swatting Sage with bark and fern-tipped tail.

“Are you a claim-virgin, commander?” I asked pointedly.

“Ummm,” Wattica let out, looking very shifty. “Erm… I’ve absolutely claimed items before. Just not on this planet. I am a self-made Wendigo! I simply... prefer pre-owned vintage items! They have character!"

“Bet my juicy tits her mom gave her their family’s items to re-claim,” Sage added. “She never popped a magical cherry."

I stared at the increasingly flustered-looking Frontenachii Commander.

"I… know how to do it!" Wattica fretted. "Watch and learn, peasants! This is how a true Frontenachii asserts dominance!"

She cradled the gun awkwardly, trying to find a grip that didn't look ridiculous. She failed. She looked like she was holding a particularly large, aggressive baby.

Then, she extended a red tongue that was far too long. She squeezed her eyes shut, looking like she was about to take a shot of bad medicine.

SLURP.

She dragged her tongue slowly up the length of the bottom barrel.

"Uh," Steve whispered. "I feel like we should leave the room. Or pay a cover charge."

Wattica ignored him. She groaned low in her throat. "Hrrr-Mmm. Tastes like... stubbornness. And nutmeg. Ugh. So much nutmeg."

She licked again, harder this time. A wet, sloppy sound echoed through the quiet pub.

SCHLUCK.

"Come on," she mumbled to the gun, bringing her face right up to the muzzle. "Give it up. Give it to Mama. Don't make this weird."

It was already weird. It was getting weirder.

She opened her skull-jaw unhinged-wide and wrapped her lips around the cluster of barrels.

"Aww yus,” Sage commented. “Look at her deep-throating ‘dat Gatling gun. T-buns, is this standard military procedure?"

“No it isn’t,” Galateya said at Sage's giggling. “This planet makes everything weird.”

Wattica began to suck. Her cheeks hollowed. Her throat worked. She made aggressive, wet noises, her head bobbing rhythmically as she worked her way down the shaft of the weapon. Her eyes popped open, wide and panicked, realizing exactly how this looked, but she was too committed to stop.

GLORP. GACK. SHLUUUURP.

"No technique," Sage critiqued, "way too much teeth. She is going to scratch the finish too much."

"She is trying her best," I defended my new employee.

Galateya covered her eyes with her hands, face palming.

“Gah! W-what… What are you doing?! Slayer! Stop!” Comet let out, blushing furiously.

“Do not stop,” I encouraged as the Wendigo faltered slightly. “Claim that gun, Commander.”

Wattica pulled back with a loud POP. A strand of saliva bridged her lips and the weapon. 

Where her mouth had been, the bright red stripes were slightly duller. Like a candy cane left in the sun.

"Ugh. It is fighting me," Wattica growled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Spicy little thing. Bloody tastes like aggressive friendship."

“I can see that. It's still looking quite festive." I said.

"I know!" Wattica snapped. "My jaw hurts! Ugh. This thing is so thick!"

She went back in.

The sound of relentless, aggressive licking filled the pub, the humans staring quietly at the gun-nommage.

Wattica furiously gnawed on the receiver, white teeth scraping against the festive plating, cracking it. She licked the ammo feed with frantic, desperate motions. She sucked on the trigger guard. She treated the weapon like a popsicle that owed her money and she was trying to collect the debt in saliva.

Lick. Lick. Slurp. Gnaw.

Comet made increasingly bothered noises of fox-wolf-despair at the devouring of her weapon.

Wattica fur turned matted. She looked deranged. She had one leg hooked over the gun now, wrestling it on the table, clawing at it all over and licking angrily.

"Be mine!" she mumbled around the metal. "MINE! Stop being so fukin’ happy!"

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the color began to drain away.

I watched as the vibrant peppermint red gradually turned to a sickly pink. Then a bruised purple. Finally, a dull, lifeless gray. The pristine white bone-colored stripes yellowed, looking like old teeth, then grayed.

"Almost..." Wattica wheezed, drool dripping from her chin onto her hexasuit. "Just... the tip left..."

She wrapped her mouth around the muzzle one last time.

SUUUUUUUUCK.

The gun shuddered. The last of the sparkle died. The festive gloss faded into a matte, necrotic finish. 

Wattica released it, panting heavy, satisfied breaths. She slumped into the bar booth next to me, looking like she had just run a marathon using only her tongue.

149: Alignment Lore

The weapon in the Wendigo’s clawed dark hands was now entirely black and gray, scratched up all over and looking like it had been dug up from a grave.

"Done," she gasped, wiping a copious amount of saliva from the receiver with a napkin given to her by one of her minions. "I did it! I claimed it. It is mine. And I never want to taste cinnamon ever again. Ughhh."

"Congratulations," I said. "You are no longer a hoarding virgin."

"Bleh," Wattica hissed, hugging the black and white gun possessively. “It wasn’t easy, okay?”

"I need a shower," Comet whimpered from Sergey's lap. "I felt that. Spiritually. It felt like... being licked, devoured sideways by a ghostly, horrid apparition."

“Is it part of your hoard now?” I asked. “Do you feel less magically famished?”

“Mhmmm.” The Wendigo nodded. “I do feel a tad better, but it’s… feeling empty… like it needs something else.”

“It needs to sit in a Corpse Seeker Dragonheart Engine to fill up,” Sevviya said with a sniff. 

“Would that make it limitless?” Wattica wondered.

“No,” the cheetah Scrut replied. “That would charge it up for a few shots. The longer it stays in your possession linked to your Fractal Engine heart, the more shots it will be able to hold. Right now it might hold about one very weak shot.”

“Shot of what?” the Wendigo asked.

“Temporary conceptual conversion,” Sevviya clarified. “It will make the target feel intense fear, which will empower your Omnid nature, my Lady.”

“Neat,” Wattica clipped the Gatling gun to her belt. “Feh, I feel magically exhausted.”

“A goodly hoard takes time to build up, your Voidness,” Sevvya added. “Even more so if such is done in a local environment.”

“Feeeeeghh,” Wattica stretched. “On one hand the locals are easy to feed off, due to their lack of magical resistance… On the other, it is much harder to make a hoard here. Why can’t things just be easy?”

“Reality seeks balance, my Lady,” Sevviya lectured, “Every dimension, dungeon and being wield their own alignment particularities on the scale of Entropy, Linearity and Syntropy which are beneficially positive in some ways and negatively conniving in others. Entropic worlds are easy to cast magic in but are filled with dungeons and monstrous, hungry conceptoids. Linear worlds limit magic but are safer to exist in.”

“What about Syntropic worlds?” I wondered.

“Syntropic worlds are… theoretically possible,” Sevviya answered. “Omnids are an example of a highly Syntropic species, their magic creates self-reinforcing conceptual permanence. Until very recently the Frontenachii High Command considered Linear worlds impossible to gate into. I have no idea how one could possibly reach a fully Syntropic world. Syntropic magic is simply incredibly solidified, crystallized mana aligned to a particular concept.”

“Is the excessive Linearity going to screw over the Greens?” Wattica asked.

“I expect that the Greens are going to have plentiful performance issues, yes,” Sevviya said. “But they will eventually adapt. The Legate Council majority are gambling on Sixth Fleet’s persistence to turn this world into a Pleasure Garden.”

“And if I tell them to piss of?” I asked.

“Won’t work.” Sevvya shook her ginger mane. “If they’re told no by the local Lord they simply appeal to the lower class nobles or even the commoner, send Green Agents across the planet, offer improvements to individual land owners. They’re cautious and meticulous.”

I fell silent, considering what I could do to screw the plans of the Greens sideways.

. . .

I looked at Galateya with my real body. “Teya, can you claim items too?”

“Uhm,” she said. “If my… half-mad Instructors are to be believed, I can claim a small domain by terraforming it and increase its size as I get stronger. Also… I can consume magical items.”

“Like Wattica just did?” I asked.

“No,” the dragon girl replied far too quickly. “I can break something apart with my claws and eat it whole.”

“Like a sexy snek?” Sage giggled, which earned her another swat from Teya.

“Taniwha stomachs break magical items down completely,” Galateya explained. “Supposedly the more magical… stuff I eat the more capable my Phase-shift gets. No idea if that’s true on the account that I didn’t get to eat much magical stuff in the bubble.”

“Do your insides reorganize themselves like your outside?” Sage asked. 

“Yes,” Galateya replied. “My teeth, tongue, saliva and stomach optimise themselves to melt, deconstruct whatever I eat.”

“So you can eat rocks?” the fox asked

“Yes.”

“How come making out with A-man didn’t melt his face off then?” Sage mused.

“Because I can control it,” Galateya answered with a dry tone. “I’m not going to melt a person.”

“But you CAN melt a person, yes?” Sage said. “It sounds to me like you can melt anything with yo sexy dwagon mouth.”

“Is this conversation going somewhere?” the dragon girl asked wearily.

“Just thinking outside of boxes.” Sage shrugged. “You’d be, like, totally unbeatable in an all-you-can-eat contest.”

“The Dungeon Seeds,” I said, a lightbulb igniting in my head. “Could you eat them to increase your terraforming power?”

“Uhhh… presumably… yes,” Galateya said.

“Yass,” Sage first-pumped, “The empowered T-beast can totally make Sagetopia bloom dimensionally! And if she eats enough Seeds… I bet she could turn into a dragon we can ride! Eeeeee! Endless Story style, except with more Mile High Club shenanigans!”

Galateya rolled her eyes at the excited Skinwalker.

“What about you?” I glanced at Sage. “Can you eat artifacts?”

“Skinwalkers eat flesh and souls, not artifacts, bruh,” she replied. “Very… selectively too if we want to stay sane. I wouldn’t want to contain random antagonistic souls, that’d fuck up my foxy-psyche. I’ve a theme I’m sticking with. Chewing on stuff outside of it would mess up the focus of the skulk. Specificity creates greater Syntropic power.”

She sighed.

“When I was younger, I… considered saving everyone that was dying on Earth in the skulk… Unfortunately doing so would drive me insane,” she said. “Humans are made from separate desires and dreams, the clash of such would create Entropy in my little personal heaven, decay it and me into… unwholesome badness. I’ve chosen Raelle Knight specifically for her pure, kind heart and love of foxes.”

“Hrm. What are Skinwalkers born as?” I wondered, picturing a vague flesh lump in my head.

“Ah,” Sage smiled. “Here, I’ve got tons of pics of me saved from when I was a smol spawnling. Uno memento.”

She grabbed the keyboard and typed stuff into the search bar and then opened a folder.

The first photo that loaded displayed a crib. Inside, I saw… a crystalline figurine? No, a newborn girl… except she was clear. Transparent. Refractive at the edges, light passing through her head and breaking into colorful rainbows on the white linen cloth lining the crib.

“That is definitely not how I pictured newborn Skinwalkers,” I said. “You look like a Swarovski crystal figurine. Very pretty too.”

“Skinwalkers are born pure, clear,” Sage said. “We don’t become… this fleshy.” She gestured at herself. “Till we nom our first soul.”

She flipped to another photo. I recognized Mrs. Vale holding an even prettier crystal baby swatted up in a bundle, crystalline, transparent hair casting a million rainbows.

“Why do you look so adorably cute?” Teya asked.

"Skinwalkers are born as mimicry-of-desire-engines," Sage explained, “As newborns we’re… akin to mirrors that reflect expectations. I looked like this because my mom expected, wanted me to look like this. Also, until we chew on our first soul, we breast-feed on pure, liquid mana! Skinwalker facts 101!”

She flipped through more photos showing the crystal baby turning into a crystal toddler, chatting away about baby facts.

I focused my attention on my Emperor-self.

“Are your sisters worried about you now?” I asked the un-festived Herald.

“Uhhh…” Comet winced. “Presumably. Rudy knows exactly where I am… but I don’t know if she will call another reindeer to aid me or simply wait for me to handle the situation or do nothing till I… die.”

“How many times have you died for your cause?” I asked.

“Many times,” Comet sighed. “Many worlds attempted to resist our gifts in various ways. I do not fear torture or execution as I will simply be reborn in the Workshop, my body reforged anew. You might have caught me for the moment, but you cannot stop all of my Sisters or our Saint, Emperor. You can slow us down but the See-Mass Spirit is already here. Our souls are…”

“Wattica, put a Lazarus bracelet on her,” I said, interrupting Comet’s rant.

“With pleasure,” the Wendigo snapped her fingers and one of her prads pulled out a black centipede from a pocket and snapped it onto Comet’s wrist. 

Solara yelped trying to claw the bracelet off, but the hexagonal-segment-shaped centipede coiled tight, fusing to her.

“Wha-what have you done?” She glared at me.

“Your soul isn’t going anywhere without my permission,” I said. 

The Maned Wolf swallowed nervously. 

“Relax,” I added. “I’ve no plans to torture you. This is simply a precaution so you don’t chew your veins open to be reborn elsewhere. The Omnid bracelet will hang onto your soul until you get incarnated on one of my warships.”

Comet stared at me, clearly not believing in my statements.

“So, how many other reindeer are out there?” I asked conversationally.

Comet's throat worked silently for a bit.

"More than five," she managed. "Less than... twenty."

"That's a pretty wide range," I observed. "Also I know that there are nine. Can you give me names? Just first names. I'm trying to picture the team dynamic here."

"I cannot reveal things that would compromise—"

"I'm not asking for their current coordinates or weaknesses," I interrupted her. "Also, I can already pretty much guess their names, judging by the whole See-Mass theme you’ve got going."

Comet squirmed on Sergey's lap. The astrophysicist kept up the gentle ear-scratching, which seemed to help her relax.

"Your team is named after the nine reindeer, yes?" I pressed. 

“Yes.” She ground out.

"Okay, Rudy and Comet. Who else? I'm trying to remember... there's a song, right? Something about a reindeer with a glowing nose?"

Comet's ears flattened. "I cannot confirm or deny specific—"

"Dancer?" I threw out randomly. "Prancer? Pretty sure those are from the song."

Comet flinched at the names. I was on the right path.

"Is Prancer a friend of yours?" I asked casually. "What species is she? I don’t desire to hurt anyone, I’m simply curious about the diversity of your charity-workplace."

"Hyena," Comet mumbled out 

"And Dancer?"

"Peacock."

"A peacock reindeer, hum? Very graceful, I imagine."

Comet nodded reluctantly. 

"What about the speedy one?" I continued. "Dasher, right?”

"Dasher," Comet confirmed. "She's... she's special. She’s… Our Saint's… partner."

"Oh, the boss's girlfriend? What's she like?"

"Mothman Omnid," Comet said. "She operates… dimensional gates, moves us from world to world. Very powerful. Very loyal."

I filed the revelation away. The gate controller was romantically involved with the dungeon master.

"And the clever one is…" I kept the questions friendly and non-threatening.

"Vixen." Comet's voice dropped. "Leech prad. She handles... infiltration. Manipulation."

"Sounds delightful. The strong one?"

"Donner. Shark. She handles... structural problems."

"By structural problems you mean...?"

"Things that need to be broken." Comet shrugged. “Places that need to be cracked open.”

"Who else? Someone flashy maybe?"

"Blitzen. Electric eel. She handles... rapid response, can create storms.”

"There's another one, right?” I tapped my masked chin. “Something about love?"

"Cupid." Comet said. "A prad… Millipede. Red and black and gold. She... she spreads joy."

"So," I said, counting on my fingers. "Dasher the Mothman, Dancer the Peacock, Prancer the Hyena, Vixen the Leech, you as Comet, Cupid the Millipede, Donner the Shark, Blitzen the Eel, and Rudy the... dog?"

"Mutt," Comet corrected. "Yes.”

"Nine reindeer." I leaned back. "And the Sleigh itself? Does it have a... personality? A living avatar? Like the Frontenachii ships?"

"The See-Mass Spirit," Comet whispered. "She is the Sleigh. The Workshop. Everything. She sings."

"She sings?"

“Yes.”

"This interrogation is far too polite," Wattica observed. "Normally there would be more screaming and chewing fingers off by now."

"I prefer conversation," I shrugged. “Violence is pointless if her Blood Pact ignites her blood and kills her for revealing too much.”

I yawned and glanced at the monitor clock in Sage’s loft. It was 2 AM and I was starting to get woozy from being awake for far too damn long.

“Right then,” I said. “This pub has rooms upstairs. You can rent all of them and stay here tonight. Comet, please don’t attempt to escape. The Corpse Seeker outside is watching. Think of your current position as a vacation, a holiday. Sergey, you’re in charge of Comet. Wattica, you and your division can rest here tonight. If any other reindeer come to the pub to retrieve Comet, make gun units throw furniture to trap them. I’ll be on the roof, meditating on how to best resolve the dungeon issue… and will come downstairs if any other Heralds show up.”

“Will do, Lord Administrator,” the Wendigo Commander saluted me.

I disconnected from the Emperor gun unit.

“Kawathra, take over,” I yawned again. “Walk the Emperor upstairs, make him sit on the roof in a regal pose. I’ve sleep business to attend to.”

“On it,” the Datamancer commented via the neural interface.

“Great job, Emperor-sama,” Sage petted me as we both slid lower on her bed. “You did well today.”

The wall computer screens dimmed one by one.

“No rest for the wicked,” I murmured as Sage pulled a lush, red-white blanket with dancing fox patterns over me and Galateya. 

“Eternal rulership is a bitch,” Sage laughed, kissing me. 

I returned the mind-melting kiss, letting the tension of the endlessly seeming day bleed out of my muscles. It was a slow, lazy feeling, devoid of the frantic, reality-shattering lust from our sexcapades in the shack-jungle.

This was... pure comfort. 

The kind of comfort that I had always dreamt about, but never found until Shady invaded my grandfather’s mansion.

Shady, I thought blearily, sandwiched between the cozy warm hugs of a fox and dragon. I wonder how she’s doing now. Is she going to be bothered by Sage or…

150: The Stray

Snow fell in fat, lazy flakes spiralling from curly clouds above.

I stood on a cobblestone street filled with white stone and red brick, imperial and Slavic style buildings. Chrisp, winter air bit at my cheeks. I looked down at myself, feeling somewhat confused as to how I got here. 

A heavy gray wool coat with thick wooden buttons, a scratchy scarf, and sturdy leather boots sat on my body. I took a step, packed ice crunching under my feet.

"Comrade Emperor," a playful voice called out.

I turned. It took my brain a moment to recognize Sage. The Skinwalker looked like a foxy prad, standing tall on digitigrade legs, wearing a stylish, belted beige trench coat and a matching beret with a red star perched jauntily between large, russet fox ears. Her tail swished behind her, brushing against the dusting of snow on a wrought-iron fence featuring hammer and sickle logo inside of a star.

"Sage?" I asked.

"In the fur," she winked, offering me her gloved arm. "Welcome to Laika’s dream of 1950’s Moscow."

"A… curious-looking world," another voice noted. “A few linear notes… with a heavy sprinkle of magitek and looming entropy behind the curtain.”

I turned my head.

On my other side, Galateya stood examining a snowflake that had landed on her gloved hand. She looked like her human self featuring pale skin and jet black, straight hair. The eyes remained undeniably hers, luminous violet-blue irises glowing ever so slightly from within. She wore a dark blue coat with a thick fur collar.

"Where are we going?" Teya asked as we started walking, looking around at the vintage 50’s round cars chugging past us across the snowy road. A few pedestrians walked past us, humans and prads walking arm-in-arm, laughing and talking in Russian.

"Cafe Pushkin," Sage said, pointing a clawed finger toward a warm, golden glow spilling onto the snowy sidewalk. "Come on, don't let the frost bite."

We walked into the cafe. A brass bell chimed above the door, announcing our arrival.

The interior was a sanctuary of warmth. Polished wood paneling lined the walls, reflecting the glow of crystal chandeliers. 

We sat at a small round table near the large front window.

"This is nice," I said, unbuttoning my coat as the heat of the room washed over me.

"It is how she remembers the good parts," Sage said. "Before the cage. Before the fire. The parts she wanted but never got.”

“Where’s Laika now?” I asked.

“On her way,” Sage said. “She’ll be here soon. She paws at the window of this fine establishment before heading to cry alone in the icy, side street. Then Comrade Vladimir meets her and promises her the world and seals her fate dooming her to dungeon-servitude.”

Teya sighed as she took her coat off.

“Someone looks pensive,” Sage elbowed Galateya. “Whatcha thinkin’ bout, my draconic BFF?”

"You lied to an entire room full of prads," Galateya muttered, looking at me. "About being the Slayer."

"I told a story," I clarified, "A story they wanted to hear. Wattica needed a reason to defect that didn't make her look weak. And Comet needed a reason to surrender that didn't shatter her worldview completely. I… connected the dots, that’s all.”

A gray coated commissar in a red cap approached our table, feline claws tapping at a nagan sitting on her leather belt.

“Morning ladies and Slayer of my heart,” she stated. 

My mind momentarily careened sideways at the unexpected voice I recognized instantly.

“Nexxy,” I said, looking up at the Serval prad girl with a smile.

“Yeppers,” the commissar grabbed a chair and slid into it. “Mind explaining where I am?”

“Yes,” A tall, imposing figure stepped out of the shadowed alcove. I recognized her too. It was Annie… the human dream-version of Shady. As before, in my high school nightmare, she was blonde, pale and had silver-gray eyes. She pulled off a white, lush winter coat with an imperious look and took a chair next to me.

Shady's arm wrapped around me in a choke-hold style tight embrace. “Where are we, Skinwalker?” She demanded at Sage.

“We are inside the persistent, looping soul-dream of a very lonely, sad prad doggo,” Sage replied, stealing a sugar cube from a porcelain bowl and popping it into her mouth. “Specifically, the Stratanavigator of the Sleigh Warship Dungeon. Welcome to the deep subconscious of Laika, also known as Rudy the Herald of See-Mass, the Harbinger of Festivus.”

“A dream dive?” Shady tightened her grip around me, making me let out a strangled noise. “You pulled my consciousness out of my beauty sleep for a date in a Soviet cafe?”

“Princess, we are here to prevent the world from being turned into a dungeon,” Galateya stated, “also, please don’t smoosh my… boyfriend so hard. He’s obviously not enjoying it.”

Shady stared at the dragon challengingly and smooshed me even harder. “I found him first. I’ll smoosh him as much as I wanna! Fox, I want answers. Why did you pull me across the Astral to a dog’s dream?” Her naughty face snapped to the Skinwalker.

“I did no Astral pullery, Miss Shades,” Sage said, rings of fox-eyes igniting above her head. “You two are an unexpected addition to our Laika-dream-inception. We are currently in the deep Astral and as far as I can determine… you are here because… the five of us are cosmically entwined with the power of a Dagaz rune linking our souls.”

I wheezed, tapping the human-Wendigo’s arm to loosen the chokehold. “Air. I need it.”

Shady released me ever so slightly. “Do you now, Mister Cosmically-entwines-himself with sus foxes without my permission?”

I sighed.

“The fox is funny.” Nexxali chortled. “Also, I am digging the aesthetic,” she preened, adjusting the red commissar cap in the reflection of the window. “Very authoritarian… Shoot first, ask questions never.”

“You look like you are about to arrest someone for thinking about capitalism,” I commented, ignoring Shady's silver glare.

“I might,” the serval purred. “If the price is right. So, Slayer of Ships, we are doing a mental heist?”

“We are doing a seduction,” Sage corrected. “Operation Good Girl.”

“Seduction?” Shady raised a dark eyebrow. “Ashy, haven’t you seduced enough Omnids and prads this week? A sadge dog seems like a poor addition to the collection. Also you already have a dog-themed Prima.” She pointed at herself. 

“It’s a… strategic seduction,” I expressed, weaponizing Shady’s own joke. “Not romantic. We need to convince her to defect before she helps Saint Nikki turn Earth into a festivus dungeon.”

“Uh-huh,” Shady poked my cheek with a sharp nail. “I am sensing an unhealthy-for-someone’s spine pattern here, Ashy.”

“Collecting virgin maidens is a perfectly healthy pattern for a young Emperor of his stature,” Sage commented, making Nexxali laugh out loud.

“I… see what you’re doing,” Galateya said sharply, the texture of her human skin momentarily rearranging itself into steel-gray scales. 

“What?” Shady tilted her head at the human-shaped dragon.

“You’re scaring him,” Galateya said. “Making him think that you’re going to hurt him.”

Shady pursed her lips. “When did you become the group’s Sherlock, rainbo-scalie?”

“When I learned to wield the Sword of Truth,” Galateya stated, fractal frost spreading around her fingers across the table. “You’re hungry and you’re in pain, but that’s no reason to terrorise Ash here and now. Please stop before I freeze you to the nearest wall.”

“Oh? You think you can take me on?” Shady released me, glaring at Galateya.

“Absolutely,” Galateya said. “I am whole and… I have the absolute love and devolution of a Dreamwalker Knight armed with fourteen thousand souls. Your soul is torn, sheared and boiled in entropy and your Knight is a mere prad, not an Omnid Archmage capable of breaching the dimensional divide. You are no match for me. You posture like the Queen to hide how much you’re hurting.”

Shady opened and closed her mouth. The pompousness seemed to drain out of her in a flash. She blinked at Teya, crossing her arms. Sparks of tears flashed at the edges of her eyes. 

“Jeez,” Nexxali chortled. “Our dragon babe grew a spine and is using it as an Astral Sword. What do you know! I'm impressed.”

“And you, Marshall,” Galateya addressed the Serval, making Nexxali’s fur bristle ever so slightly. “You… are hurting too. You’ve bathed yourself in Entropic songs, ground at your soul for decades, ground at everyone and everything around you to break your chains. Plotted and pawed at, twisted events all for us to end here, together in this cafe. Are you satisfied with your feline game?”

“Muchly,” Nexxali answered with a tongue click. “It do be going great. I appreciate the jib of that Truth-sword. Sword me harder, why don’t you, babes?”

Galateya’s eyes flashed brilliant violet, reality between us wobbling with violet refractions at the edges of each object and person.

“You… Leviathan’s CUNT!” Galateya swore, eyes growing wide. “What have you done?”

“What?” Shady asked, looking between the shocked-looking dragon and the smug cat.

“I’ve done what I needed to do to get free,” Nexxali said. “Some of us weren’t privileged enough to be born as Omnids. Some of us had to claw our way up to victory for a long-ass time!”

“You…” Galateya hissed. “You can’t just… do you even realise what you’ve done?!”

“S’already done and there’s nothing you can do to stop it,” Nexxali stated with an extra-smug tone. “Too bad, so sad. Cry me a river, darling.”

I looked at the window, partially ignoring their bickering, which probably had something to do with Nexxali making dastardly plans for our odd circle.

The street outside turned gloomy as twilight settled over the Soviet capital city, turning the snow blue.

A dark figure stood on the other side of the glass, separated from us by a thin pane and a world of difference.

She was small, lanky. A teenage prad girl with floppy dog ears and patches of white, brown and black fur. Her clothes were raggedy. A torn, muddy, oversized jacket hung from her thin frame, offering little protection against the cold. She shivered, clutching her arms around herself.

She cautiously, slowly pressed two paws against the glass, leaving foggy prints on the cold surface. She stared at the warm interior of the cafe, at the patrons enjoying warm tea, coffee and pierogi.

She wielded a look of such profound, awful longing… that it made my chest ache.

Laika. The stray who wanted a home. The girl who traded her life for a false promise of belonging.

"She's here," Sage’s voice whispered inside my head. "Show her what she missed, Ash. Be the goodest boy. Incept hope into her heart, derail her doomed narrative.”

“Me?” I thought back, suddenly feeling mildly nervous. “Why me? Aren’t you the Astral-inception-master here?”

“‘Cus you’re the Slayer,” Sage’s voice stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because you can slice through things that nobody else can.”

“Uhm,” I thought. “What if she speaks Russian? What if I don’t understand her?”

“This is a dream, bruh,” Sage stated. “I’m altering the general weave with the skulk. She will understand you and you will understand her. Also, I’m pulling us deeper to resolve our… personal issues as we’re making way too much magical noise being mildly annoyed at each other for stupid reasons. Toodles.”

I glanced at the spot where the Commissar and the ladies sat just a second ago. Their chairs were now empty, the coats gone.

I looked back at the girl in the window. Her gaze finished its trail over the patrons and suddenly settled on me.

She flinched, ready to run, expecting me to shoo her away or yell or bless her with a hostile look the other cafe patrons were giving her.

I smiled at her.

The prad girl froze. Her breath hitched, creating a larger cloud of fog on the glass. She stayed there, shivering in the snow, watching me in the warmth, unable to tear her eyes away from the possibility of a different life. Her tail wagged ever so slightly.

“Reel her in,” Sage whispered from nowhere. “Buy her a drink and noms. Be as honest as possible, but vague enough not to wake her up. Your pockets are full of rubles. Spend away!”

I raised my hand and beckoned to the shivering girl.

It was a small gesture. A simple wave of a hand. To the stray on the other side of the frosted glass, it seemed to carry the weight of a royal decree. Her eyes widened. The white line of fur heading up her muzzle twitched. She looked behind herself, checking if I was waving at someone else in the snowy street.

The street was empty save for the falling snow.

I pointed at the empty chair across from me. Then I pantomimed drinking from a cup.

Laika hesitated. Her paws left the glass. She took a step back, looking at the door, then back at me. The longing in her expression warred with a lifetime of rejection.

151: The Infiltrator

I waited, wielding the same soft smile, offering it to the girl betrayed and burned alive by her world.

Patience. Sage said to be the good boy. Good boys were patient. Don’t scare her off now.

Finally, she moved. The heavy wooden door creaked open, triggering the brass bell above it. A gust of freezing wind invaded the warm sanctuary of the cafe, carrying snowflakes that melted instantly on the polished floorboards.

Laika stepped inside. She stood on the doormat, dripping wet, shivering violently. Her oversized jacket hung off her frame like a death shroud. She lowered her head, ears flat against her skull, waiting for the shout. Waiting to be kicked out. She didn’t have footwear, or gloves.

"Hey!" A prad bulldog waiter in a crisp white apron marched toward her. "You! Mongrel! Get out! No strays allowed!"

He waved a towel at her like she was a pest. "Go on! Shoo! You are making a mess on the floor!"

Laika flinched. She turned to leave, hand reaching for the door handle.

I stood up.

"She is with me," I said loudly.

The bulldog stopped. He turned to look at me, a sneer forming on his drooping face. "Comrade, this establishment has standards. We cannot have dirty waifs begging at the tables for scraps. It disturbs the patrons—"

I made the Frontend twist, let the mask of the polite human fall away.

Behind my eyes, I projected the memory of the breaking moon. I channeled the weight of a ten-kilometer starship crashing into the Sea of Tranquility by my hand. I summoned the weight of Sage's fourteen thousand fox souls leering from the shadows behind me like a Biblical archangel.

"I said," I ground out sharply, "she is with me.”

“But…”

“What kind of a Soviet utopia are we building if we do not help a clearly starving child, comrade? Do you think that she’s chosen this life?” I added, channeling my inner Soviet NKVD Agent villain from good old 1990s Arnold films. “Are you perhaps an enemy of the people, a supporter of the old ways that we aim to expunge?”

The waiter gulped. He took a step back, clutching his towel like a shield. He looked at me and saw something that did not belong in a cozy Moscow cafe. He saw the predator. He saw the Slayer.

"I... of course, Comrade," he stammered, bowing his head. "My apologies."

"Bring us two of everything," I ordered, sitting back down. "Pierogi. Cakes. Tea. The samovar. Now!”

"At once!" The waiter scurried away into the kitchen.

I turned my attention to Laika. She was staring at me, mouth slightly open. The fear of being banished from the cafe melted away. Now her eyes beheld the awe of a small creature witnessing a larger predator clear the territory.

"Sit down," I said gently. “Relax.”

She crept forward. Her movements were stiff from the cold. She climbed onto the chair opposite me, perching on the edge, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Water dripped from her raggedy jacket onto the pristine tablecloth. She looked at the wet spot with panic.

"It is fine," I said. "The tablecloth can be washed."

She looked up at me. Her eyes were a soulful, deep brown, almost gold at the edges. "You... you are not from here. I haven’t seen your face here… before." She spoke Russian like the waiter, yet I somehow clearly understood her through Sage’s Dream-weaving powers.

"No," I admitted, realising that my voice sounded properly Slavic when I spoke.

"You... shouted at the man," she whispered. "Nobody shouts at the men in white aprons. They have… the brooms."

"Brooms cannot hurt me," I said. "And as long as you sit with me, they cannot hurt you either."

The waiter returned. He balanced a massive tray on his dark paws. He set down a steaming samovar, a plate piled high with pirozhki, a basket of sweet buns, and a bowl of sugar cubes. He bowed low and retreated without a word.

The smell of hot food and drinks filled the space between us.

Laika's stomach let out a growl that would have shamed a lion. She clasped her hands over her midsection, ears tilting back.

"Please," I gestured to the food. "I cannot eat all of this alone. Help me out."

She looked at the food. Then at me.

"Is it... a trick?" she asked softly. "Is there medicine in it? To make me sleep? To remove me from the street?"

My heart cracked a little more. 

"No trick," I promised. I picked up a meat pie and took a large bite. I chewed and swallowed. "See? Just meat and dough. S’ good stuff."

She reached out and quickly grabbed one too.

She inhaled the food, making it vanish in two seconds. She grabbed another. And another. She ate with frantic desperation, crumbs falling onto her dirty jacket. 

I poured tea from the samovar into a glass with a metal holder. I pushed the sugar bowl toward her.

"Slow down," I said softly. "It is not going anywhere. Nobody will take it from you."

She paused mid-chew, cheeks bulging. She swallowed with difficulty, then took the tea. She held the hot glass in both hands, letting the warmth seep into her frozen, pink paw pads. She closed her eyes and let out a long, shuddering sigh.

"Warm," she murmured.

"Yes."

She opened her eyes and looked at me over the rim of the glass. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why me?" she asked. "I am... I am nobody. I have no name. I have no rare magic skills, no artifacts, no family. I am just... noise in the street, dust in the wind."

"Surely you are more than that,” I said. “You seem like a survivor.”

"I am good at hiding and running," she muttered, looking down into her tea. "I sleep near the vents. The steam helps."

"You deserve better than vents," I told her. "You deserve a hearth. A bed. A place where you don't have to hide."

She huffed bitterly, "There is no such place. Not for me. Nobody cares about the orphan strays like me. The posters and the V-casts promise Utopia… but I don't think that it will come. Wizard Revolution and Nikita Khrushchev speak of Autogenesis Stabalist dimensional magic that will offer everyone a home, but it's a lie…” 

“Oh?”

“I can feel it in my heart,” she said, “like a song playing in my head in an endless loop. The System Wizard managing our national affairs isn't kind. She let Lenin die. She abandoned Stalin. She will betray Gensec Khrushchev just as easily because none of us matter to her. We're all just toys in her mad game of Magitek Revolution. I know how this story ends…”

She stared at me and her body wobbled at edges, suddenly gaining a few inches. A grimy striped tank top became visible beneath the jacket.

“What’s your name, kind stranger?” She asked.

“You can call me... Janson Bond for now,” I replied, sipping my tea. "I'll tell you my real name later, after we become friends."

“Friends, huh? That’s not a Russian name. You don’t belong here, Jan,” she repeated. “I haven’t seen you here before. You… you are an American.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Jim Bond, that's a reference to a Yankee fictional book. Plus, you’ve had… strange women sitting here earlier,” she said, pointing at the empty chairs. “They are gone now, properly gone… not gone as if they pulled on invisibility hats. Something… mental I think, since I can’t seem to recall their faces right. One of them was a feline Commissar, I’m pretty sure. A fox and two others too. High level Soviet mages, I presume. They were… fighting over… your bed, I think?” She sniffed the air. “Yeah. They all like you far too much.”

“Uhhh…” I voiced eloquently.

“Curious and curiouser,” Laika tapped her chin. “You are speaking in Russian yet there’s an edge of another language hiding behind your words. Maybe an auto-translational artifact? Let me guess… you’re an American spy, sleeping your way up the Soviet Ministry of Magic, trying to get our National secrets?”

She seemed to grow another few inches in height, starting to look more like her adult self.

“Sage?” I thought, “what do I do? She's onto me and she's getting taller.”

“Keep it up,” the fox whispered. “Seems like she's got some dreamwalker skills, enough to wobble herself out slightly, but not enough for total lucidity. I'll keep her asleep, don't fret. Be your harmless nomag human self, bro, talk to her about the morality of naughty OP wizards maybe… incept ideas into her mind she wouldn't arrive at herself.”

The rags of her jacket tightened around broadening shoulders. The childish roundness of her muzzle lengthened, sharpening into the profile of an adult prad.

"A spy, huh," I said, attempting to remain outwardly calm. "Nah, more of a… recruiter than anything."

"A… recruiter," Laika repeated. Her voice dropped an octave, losing the raspy whine of a starving child and gaining the smooth, dangerous timber of a woman who murdered countless worlds. "For the Americans? For the capitalist pigs?"

"For myself," I corrected. "Though I suppose my methods are somewhat capitalistic since I have bills to pay. I see value where others see waste. I see potential where others see a nuisance to be swept aside with a broom."

She narrowed her brown eyes. The steam from the samovar and tea cups curled between us, twisting into shapes that looked suspiciously like fox eyes before dissipating.

"You have a whole collection going," she stated again, tapping a claw against the table. "A commissar cat. A seer fox. A dragon knight. A hungry shadow. You collect dangerous women, American."

“Not intentionally.” I shrugged. “Honestly, most of the time it feels like they've collected me, if anything, to satisfy their desires for freedom.”

“Are you a womanizer spy?” Laika asked, “Were they fighting each other as to who should truly be with you?”

“No,” I said. “All of my girls are on equal standing. We're a.. pack.”

The word 'pack' hit her head on. I saw the flinch. Her furry ears twitched atop her head, rotating toward the sound of a word she desperately wanted to believe in.

"A pack protects its own," she mused. "You do smell close."

"A pack does not leave the smallest behind to freeze near a vent." I agreed and pushed the plate of pirozhki closer to her. "Eat. You are still hungry, I bet."

She snatched another yum. This time she did not wolf it down. She ate casually with measured bites, watching me over the pastry with a look of mild curiosity.

"Sage," I thought, "How am I doing?"

"She is oscillating," the fox whispered. "The dream is stable. You need to anchor her to you. Make her want you more than she wants vengeance against the world."

"Right. No pressure." I smirked mentally.

Laika finished the noms.

"So, American," she said. "If you are recruiting... What is the job? Once again, I am an orphan with no skills. I beg. I hide. I run.”

“You smelled my companions being here,” I pointed out. “You weren’t supposed to see or smell them, nor understand that they love me. That’s a skill.”

“I am a prad mutt,” Laika shrugged, pointing at her dark nose. “We all smell things like that from time to time. Magic doesn’t always conceal smells, especially pheromones so potent. What is it that you offer exactly and why would I trust a foreigner? You want information, want me to sneak somewhere? That's how I’d get shot, or worse yet, get captured and be magically compelled to reveal the truth and then get shot.”

“No sneaking and no stealing,” I said. “I want you for you. I’m not planning to send you anywhere. I’d like to offer you my home, the friendship of my pack, a warm fireplace to rest by until you feel brave and happy enough to choose your own path forward.”

“Eh?” Laika blinked at me, tilting her head in a canine fashion. “Yet again, I’m a worthless mutt. I know less than your average idiot on the street. Your offer makes no sense. What’s in it for you exactly?”

"You are a… dreamer," I said, deciding on a different approach.

“What?” Laika blinked at me. "How do you know this?" She asked suspiciously. "Wait. Did you... look inside my head? Are you a Mentalist?"

“No,” I said. “I have no magic skills whatsoever. I’m a perfectly mundane human.”

“What the devil kind of a crap spy are you?” She chortled. “No, really? Why would the Americans send a nullie to spy on us? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“The Americans didn’t send me,” I said. “I came here myself, with the help of my fox Archmage girlfriend… to find you.”

“Uh-huh,” Laika pursed her lips. “Me? Really? Why me?”

“You said so yourself,” I said. “You dream of the future. You know exactly how this story ends.”

Laika stared at me. “Oh. I guess I did, hum. Welp, you got me there.” She relaxed ever so slightly, tail starting to sway once again like a metronome.

“I don’t want the story to end the way it does,” I said. “I don’t want my world to end. I care about my pack’s future just as much as they care about me. Surely you can smell that?”

Laika opened then closed her canine mouth.