As our story begins, we first take in the world upon which our story takes place. We see it now, the earth, the Fulcrum earth, at the very centre of the axes. Copies of it in infinite lines disappear towards the darkened edges of reality.
The lens flickers, and the copies vanish. We’re only human, after all, and we only know of the fulcrum itself, not of the outside worlds. But it’s still a big world, of course, with a lot in it we don’t know about.
After the atom bomb and the arrival of magic, the connection to the outside worlds, the signing of the inside accords and the establishment of the Caliber Institute—along with the other groups that splintered from it worldwide—history more or less resumed as we in the audience might expect. Wars still occurred, technology still advanced. Measles was cured. Japan’s economic miracle happened. The moon landings still happened in 1969.
Speaking of which… our view of the earth is eclipsed somewhat, as the dark side of the moon pushes its way further into frame like a disobedient child in a family photo. But we also see, at the centre of the South Pole-Aitken basin, something incongruous: almost like a coral reef, dripping upwards with chromatic aberration, with a clearly man-made station circling it on all sides.
⁂
Within its clean and sterile walls, we see several uniformed employees operating consoles, taking measurements of energy readings that are ostensibly being filtered through this coral-like structure. Charts on the walls seem to be mapping infinitesimal changes to the brightness of the sun. There are stars-and-stripes patches on the uniform shoulders.
In another room, a line of pads suspiciously similar to a transporter room from Star Trek, though with esoteric runes carved into the walls and equipment. In another, a number of tables with a group of people not in uniforms but in clothes they’ve obviously been wearing for a while sat signing stacks of consent forms. One seat is empty; its occupant clearly having spent less time reading the documents than signing them.
We see what can reasonably be assumed to be this person in another room, one with a glass partition in its centre and each of the room’s other occupants behind it. One of them speaks through an intercom, while the others variously press buttons, pull levers, and note things on clipboards.
‘We will now begin flooding the chamber with the theoretical energy referred to in the documentation, signed by Subject 001 here, as “Kavod Radiation”.’
There comes a beep, then the mechanical sound of shielding being retracted. The glass partition darkens, as the test chamber and its single occupant is bathed in strange moires and chromatic light. Another of the scientists actually crosses themselves.
‘If you could give us a full description of your symptoms. So, a couple things I wanna go through on our Kavod radiation checklist, first, how long until your skin starts to burn, then, how long until you go blind, and of course how long until you die… if you die we can of course adjust the exposure for the next subject, so don’t worry too much about that.’
Someone with a clipboard nudges them.
‘Of course, we may have gotten the dosage just right on the very first try! Wouldn’t that be something? We have a different checklist if that miraculously happens to be—’
Subject 001 doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence, as Subject 001 has died.
The assembled scientists berate their subject for going non-verbal, having not yet noticed that his eyes have changed colour and his posture is unnaturally still. They reactivate the shielding and mark the test as a failure.
The Kavod Radiation does not dissipate as the safety protocols are reenacted, but for some reason it’s no longer measurable by their instruments. As such the first inkling the scientists have that something is wrong is when the glass partition folds itself open like a paper envelope, and several of the scientists turn inside-out.
The entity now crammed into the emptied-out body of Subject 001 tilts its head in confusion, the neck giving a gristly snap as it breaks. Its joints crack and pop as it realises they can be moved. It’s loud here, and a hand—now backwards on its wrist—goes up to the organs that allow it to hear. For the first time, the entity experiences pain.
One of the employees has triggered an alarm, and it blares away as they cower in the corner, watching the thing that’s wearing Subject 001’s body step haltingly through the blood and viscera toward them.
⁂
But roughly around this time, it’s about two in the morning in the city of Middlemarch, England. A woman with a pink outfit and an anxious expression sits in a comfortable chair in the Caliber Institute. Across from her sits a minotaur with the buttons on his shirt straining to keep his bulk contained, as well as a tie featuring a picture of Garfield from Garfield.
‘Now, Ursa,’ says the minotaur, Cepheus. ‘I know you aren’t approved for fieldwork, and the last time you, uh. Snuck out, things did not go to plan.’
Behind Ursa’s eyes, a vision plays out of her having tagged along with Nora and Merlin when she wasn’t supposed to, and specifically of her trying to cast sleep on a Fae, failing to remember the Fae’s immunity to such spells, and getting knocked out for her trouble. Merlin and Nora had needed to get her medical attention, and had botched their job as a result. In the present, Ursa sinks a little further into her seat.
‘But this is a job that requires someone who can mingle in a social setting, and there’s no danger. There’s an underground auction tonight, hosted by several parties with an interest in, ah, privately funded projects. The Institute has something of a blind-eye policy for them, since they serve their respective communities pretty well and don’t cause much trouble. It’s a working relationship.’
Ursa nods at this. She wants to appear eager. She is eager, to be fair, but she wants to be obvious about it.
‘As such, the Institute has received an invite for a representative to attend. Usually we don’t feel the need to do so, but there’s an item—lot 616—that we need to–‘
‘That we need to steal,’ Ursa finishes smoothly, still nodding.
Cepheu pauses. ‘Uh. No. We need to see who purchases it, and–‘
‘And steal it from them. Got it.’
‘Again, no. Lot 616 is simply an item we want to know the whereabouts of. You aren’t to steal anything. Nor are you to try and buy anything either.’
Ursa considers this. ‘Ok,’ she says, and is quiet for about a third of a second. ‘But what if there’s something the Institute will really want to get.’
Cepheus seems somewhat blindsided by this line of enquiry, and cedes some ground. ‘Like what?’
‘I dunno. Like. A doomsday weapon or something. Or like if they’re trafficking people.’
‘They aren’t trafficking people. We’d know. They once tried to sell a unicorn and we had to put a halt to–‘
‘WHAT IF THERE’S A UNICORN THERE?!’
‘Please don’t buy any unicorns, Ursa. Just go, observe who buys lot 616, and report back.’
‘Okay but for real, what if it’s something really important and I have to bring it back here?’
Cepheus hesitates, before reaching into the taut top pocket of his shirt. From this, he retrieves a pair of round spectacles, and extends the temples of them telescopically to hook them over his horns. He looks closely at a sheet of paper on his desk.
‘You’ll be fired,’ he says, before immediately putting the glasses away.
‘Alright, okay, I get it. You want me to get like, a video on my phone? Irrefutable evidence?’
‘Oh, actually, about that,’ says Cepheus. ‘There are wards on the building that will render your phone inoperable, so you’ll just have to remember.’
A surge of panic lances through Ursa’s heart. ‘What, like. It’ll brick my phone?’
‘Temporarily… yes?’
‘I don’t wanna be offline though; what if I get cancelled and I don’t respond in time?!’
‘Cancelled on what?’
‘Youtube,’ says Ursa, forgetting that she hasn’t exactly told anyone about her videos or her channels.
‘Oh.’ Cepheus’ impressive brow furrows as his tone becomes incredulous. ‘Yeah, uh, my wife sometimes watches that. I think she likes, uh, Mr. Beast? Do you know that guy?’
‘No, Cepheus, I—why would I know Mr. Beast?’
‘Well if you’re on the same channel as him?’
‘No, I… I have my own channel, it’s… never mind.’ Ursa gives up. ‘I’ll head over to the thing.’
Cepheus slides her a map. It’s the same sheet he peered at earlier, and has a bit of info on the event and a pin for its location. It does not mention getting fired. Apparently Cepheus was just doing a bit. Very funny.
‘And Ursa…’ says Cepheus, as she’s getting up to leave. ‘You really don’t have to go into fieldwork if it’s not the right fit. You’ve got a lot of talents that might be better spent elsewhere, you know? I can talk to the Director on your behalf, if you want…?’
Ursa resolves to use this evening to prove she’s more than capable of working in the field. She just needs to get a few things first.
⁂
The entity now in what was subject 001’s body lies on the floor of the lunar facility. It had been walking instinctually, but when trying to observe the electrical impulses causing the body’s legs to move, it panicked and shut them down. The body had slammed down face first.
The alarms going off are very loud, and the fluorescent lighting is painfully bright. The mouth formerly belonging to Subject 001 opens and from it spews an inky, oily substance that spills across the floor, mixing black with the red left behind by the last two people to approach. It shimmers and shifts with a distinct disregard for concepts like ‘fluid dynamics’. If one were to put their hand in, they would find it much deeper a pool than it had any means of being.
Subject 001’s hands avoid the pool though, instead dragging the body across the floor towards a section of the facility where the lights aren’t quite as glaring. One of the creatures that look like the body the entity is now inside had tried to stay calm upon running across it, and made some sounds that it recognised as an attempt to communicate. Almost like the changes in the stars that were so familiar. But the entity had concentrated too hard on trying to understand, and the creature’s head had twisted into an unpleasant shape.
More bits are soaking into the medical scrubs Subject 001’s body is wearing.
A shout comes from the other end of the corridor it’s crawling through. Two more of the creatures, with similar clothes to the ones before. They’re holding long, grey metal objects that flash at the ends and make an even louder sound than the alarm. Smaller objects are fired from them towards Subject 001’s body, but are unraveled into gases before they make contact. The creatures, similarly, are unraveled.
The body staggers to its feet, so that its hands can be used to cover its ears. It continues on.
⁂
Ursa has made her way up to the Institute’s R&D department, with the intention of getting some way of recording the auction later on.
Inside, a tinny voice can be heard, as if from a phone speaker. Presumably because it’s coming from some kind of phone speaker.
‘Babygirl, where are you?’
…says a small, masculine, somewhat piercing voice.
‘Uh. Emva? Are you here?’ says Ursa, feeling as though she’s an archeologist cracking open a tomb best left undisturbed.
‘AUGH’ says Emva, locking her phone and stuffing it into her pocket. Then, ‘Hey, Ursa, how’s it hanging?’
Ursa decides not to make a remark, and instead allow Emva to save some face after being walked in on while watching boyfriend ASMR. ‘Hey Emva, listen, I’ve actually got to go to this auction thing later, and I need to record it, but apparently they’re gonna brick my phone while I’m in there? Which seems rude, but whatever I guess. Do you have anything magical I could maybe use to record events instead?’
Emva’s teeth appear in a sort of vicious grin. ‘Ah, well. It seems we’ve both got something the other one wants, don’t we?’
‘Do we?’
‘We do,’ says Emva, leaning forward intensely. ‘Cepheus told me you’re on the Youtube. With a certain Mr. Beast.’
Ursa finds herself looking up to the heavens with a sort of pleading affect. ‘No, Emva, I already told Cepheus, I’m not–‘
”Cause I wanna meet him. You sort that out for me I’ll getcha anything you want.’
‘Just because I’m on Youtube doesn’t mean I…’ Ursa tries, before trailing off upon taking note of the slightly disturbed look in Emva’s eyes. ‘Actually. Yes. Yes I’m close personal friends with Mr. Beast.’
‘I knew it!!’
‘Yep, me and…’ At this point Ursa realises she has no idea what his actual name is, but trundles on regardless. ‘…Mr. go way back. I could give him a call if you wanted, have him here in the next few minutes.’
Emva’s already wide eyes light up like the last living moments of a deer on the motorway. ‘Wait for real? Ok. Ok. I need a sec to get changed, hold on…’
Minutes later, Ursa—having sprinted to the nearest Primark only to have to settle for a shirt with Mr. Beast’s face on it and a pair of ripped jorts, and copying them with her shiftweave—wears Mr. Beast’s face not only on her outfit but on her actual, changeling head as well.
Emva, too, is wearing a new shirt. It reads “PLEASE GIVE ME MONEY”.
‘Hey there Emva,’ says Ursa Beast, in her best approximation of a voice she’s never actually heard. ‘I’m just in town to film my latest uh social experiment, where I make two men eat poisonous mushrooms for cash! And my good friend Ursa called and said you were a big fan, so I thought I’d–‘
‘Listen here,’ says Emva, reminding Ursa oddly of Liam Neeson in Taken. ‘I need money. My husband, he’s an… elf and he’s very sick. And so is my son. They’re both sick, and both elves, and also my husband needs money for his top surgery, and my sister has a special disease that means she needs to eat platinum coins or she’ll turn into a cursed oak.’ She gestures at the slogan on her shirt.
Ursa Beast isn’t entirely certain how to process all that. ‘Uh. Emva, I’m not very um liquid right now. All my money is tied up in…’ Her ability to bluff fails her. ‘…Tax fraud.’
The pleading expression Emva is wearing distorts. ‘And with that… I fucking got ya.’ She produces a phone from her pocket, which has a recording app on the screen. ‘And don’t even think about trying to delete the evidence, because thanks to this little thing, it’s tamperproof, even by magic.’
She flips the phone to reveal what looks a lot like a barnacle stuck to its back, only made of a strange, almost glassy material that distorts the light into red and blue around it.
‘Uh. What is that?’ asks Ursa Beast, backing towards the exit.
‘Courtesy of a friend of mine in America, who sent it for me to take a look at. It negates magic. So even the fortune-manipulating powers of the Beast won’t get that recording.’
‘Hold on, I don’t have powers–‘
‘AS SUCH: I expect to be invited onto the next Beast Game. And I expect to win.’
Ursa Beast considers this. ‘Um. Okay?’
Emva claps her hands together, and immediately removes the shirt to reveal a bikini top that reads “I’M” on one half and “RICH” on the other.
When regular Ursa returns to the room—and through a freak magical coincidence the shirt with the Face of the Beast has transformed into a shirt with her own face on it—Emva thanks her for the opportunity.
‘I fucking got him,’ she says. ‘Gonna be in the money very soon.’
‘Oh,’ says Ursa. ‘Why does your top say “RICH I’M”?’
‘I fucked up on the print. Anyway. You needed a way to keep your phone from being magicked, right? Funny coincidence!’
She pries the barnacle from the back of her phone and hands it to Ursa, who takes it with a bit of disdain. Luckily her phone is in a case, so she doesn’t have to stick it on directly. ‘Thanks for this, Emva. Oh, and uh Mr. Beast saw me on his way out and he says he never wants to speak to me again? What did you do?’
‘I fucking got him,’ says Emva again.
⁂
The scent of something familiar drifts into the entity’s awareness. A kind of power in the air that feels almost comforting, like a jellyfish detecting salt being added to a freshwater environment it’s been dumped in.
It steps with great effort in the direction of the feeling, coming eventually to a branch. One way leads to a larger chunk of whatever power it is, but at the same time through a brighter corridor with an alarm still going off. The other, a smaller thread, seems to lead through a room with strange symbols on the walls and circular pads on the floor. More importantly: it’s dark right now.
The entity practically falls in that direction, willing whatever that feeling is to pull it homeward. Beneath Subject 001’s foot, the teleporter pad flares to life.
⁂
Ursa loiters at the bar in the auction’s event space. She’s dressed in a fairly nice outfit, made her way to the Oxford Theatre, greeted the bouncer at the door and made her way to a basement where the actual auction is taking place. A mass of folding chairs in the centre of the room contains any number of powerful, presumably dangerous people.
Ursa is drinking an espresso martini and trying her best not to let anyone notice that she’s on her phone.
She goes into a bit of a blind panic when she notices that one of the attendees is standing beside her at the bar.
‘Hey can I get a uhhh old fashioned? Cheers.’ He’s wearing a white suit with a black undershirt. It matches his eyes. When he spots that Ursa’s staring he flashes her a smile, revealing a set of extremely sharp teeth.
’You here by yourself?’ he asks.
Oh god. Just act natural. ‘Yep! How about you? Are you looking for anything fun?’ Fuck!!! ‘In the auction. I mean. To buy in the auction.’
The man snickers and downs his drink, licking his lips with an extremely long tongue. ‘I’ll maybe see you around, huh?’
Why the fuck did you say that Ursa what is wrong with you?
Ursa flushes and shifts her gaze to the auction itself, which has just sold some sort of homophobic magic urn or something. Next up is lot 616, actually, and luckily by then the guy has made his way back to his seat, beside a woman who looks a lot like him.
‘What the fuck was that,’ Ursa asks herself, waiting for her pulse to drop.
‘Lot 616,’ announces the auctioneer. ‘Is the Infernomicon of Iggwilv, a tome of apocalyptic power containing many sealed-away entities. Shall we start the bidding at five million?’
Immediately, a bald man with brown skin and flowers tattooed on his head raises a paddle to place a bid, as simultaneously a somewhat greenish woman on the opposite side of the room does the same. A furious bidding war ensues.
When the dust settles, it seems the woman has won. The lot is purchased for 1.2 billion pounds. The bald man snaps his paddle in two and gets up to leave.
There’s a flash of blue light, a crack of thunderous force that sends showers of plaster tumbling from the ceiling. Suddenly the entity from the lunar base tears itself through a hole in space, emerging into our reality and warping physics around it like an iron ball on a rubber sheet.
Eldritch puissance bleeds from it, sending the crowd of bidders scurrying for shelter. It hangs aloft in the air like a nightmare. None looking upon it have even the slightest hope of comprehending its true nature.
This is because it’s still trapped in the body of Subject 001, and as such just seems to be a normal, if slightly unsettling, man. It falls face-first straight downwards, experiencing the Earth’s gravity for the first time, and smashes a number of chairs. It does not get up.
As the attendees scatter, most of them going for the stairs, but some—the guy in white and black and his companion, Ursa notes—head for the back room behind the auction. Ursa pays little attention to it, though, pushing her way against the crowd towards the man who’s just landed here. ‘Move, move,’ she says as she shoulder-checks the bald guy. ‘Can’t you see he’s hurt?!’
The man who somehow teleported in is wearing medical scrubs, and is covered in gore. Some of it is dry and crusted on, but most of it is still wet. There’s an oily black stain around his mouth, like he’s been drinking, or maybe vomiting, tar.
‘Hey. Hey, can you hear me?’ Ursa asks.
The man is writhing in apparent agony, covering his ears. Almost instinctually, Ursa casts silence on the area around them.
She’s relieved to see the man’s painful contortions calm somewhat, and she reaches out to shift him into the recovery position. As her hand gets close, she feels an unfathomable chill against her skin, and a blistering heat against her leg—the barnacle is practically glowing when she retrieves her phone from her bag. Like a heat sink, almost.
It’s at this point she notices that the man isn’t breathing, and she tries to talk him through a breathing exercise. She has to mime it in the bubble of silence, but the man copies her and after a moment, sits up. All this time, the entity didn’t realise what the lungs in the body were for.
A security guard from one of the auction attendees’ retinues makes his way towards them, shouting something that’s eaten up by the silence. When they don’t reply, he draws a weapon and comes closer still before collapsing into a pile of wet, fleshy string.
‘OH, okay,’ says Ursa, though no sound comes out. ‘Okay. That’s not good. Um. Hey. Hey, everyone’s leaving, you’re safe.’
The entity looks at her mouth moving. Again, it recognises the attempt to communicate, the use of language. The brain of Subject 001 spoke this language, actually, and parts of it light up in recognition. It’s quiet enough now for the entity to realise this.
It reaches out, and a voice arrives in Ursa’s mind without bothering to take a diversion through her ears beforehand.
‘Where,’ it asks.
‘Oh my god,’ thinks Ursa. ‘Okay. You’re in the Oxford Theatre.’
This does not elicit a response.
‘In Middlemarch?’ tries Ursa.
Still no recognition. ‘Where.’
‘Uh, England? The UK? Earth?’
Nothing.
‘What. Is this,‘ the entity thinks to her. It’s looking at its hand.
Ursa understands, though, as the telepathic intent of the question comes across. ‘Oh. It’s a body. A human one,’ she replies, without opening her mouth. She holds up her own hand and wiggles her fingers.
‘What is this.’ The tone, if it could be called that, is slightly more alarmed. It holds up a hand and the fingers break unnaturally as it moves them, before they snap back into their proper places.
‘So I’m guessing that’s new to you, then,’ Ursa sends back, wincing. ‘That’s ok. I’m not quite human too, so you’re in good company.’
The entity looks at her quizzically, and Ursa goes out on a limb. There’s nobody else around anymore, after all.
‘I’m a Changeling,’ she tells him. ‘Meaning I can do this.’
And she shifts back to her base form. It looks a lot like the rosy pink Ursa she’s been up till now, only with much of the colour bleached away; only the barest trace of it in her pallid cheeks and the tips of her whitish hair. She holds herself vulnerable like that for a moment, then reasons it’s been long enough and makes herself look human again.
The entity watches this and feels an immense sense of relief. This, it recognises. It’s reminded of watching the stars across the universe and using them as beacons to communicate with others like itself. Brightening and dimming them to pass on knowledge. Tweaking the wavelength of their light just slightly.
In response, it flickers the eyes of Subject 001 into something resembling that of an octopus. The same gesture in kind, almost.
Ursa has stretched out her hand toward him. ‘I’m Ursa,’ she says, both telepathically and with her actual mouth. She drops the silence.
The man reaches out and pulls her hand towards him. He feels her wrist. Holds it to his ear.
‘Red. On the inside,’ he says. He has an American accent.
Ursa pales just slightly, but is smooth enough to keep it subtle. ‘Um, yes! My blood! It’s supposed to stay on the inside, if that’s… okay.’
The entity remembers the showers of red from the facility it awoke in, and feels that it doesn’t want to do that to any of these other humans.
Ursa gently pulls her hand away, and asks: ‘Do you have a name?’
Name, thinks the entity. It doesn’t know the concept exactly, but can think of something similar; the way it knew which of the others had sent certain information by the unique, individual traces they’d leave in the light.
The body’s mouth, however, seems entirely unequipped to produce even an approximation, so the entity sends one into Ursa’s mind.
‘X̵̢̨̡̢̨̣̺͍̗̩͙̩̻͙̺̒̀͋̓̐̿̈́͐̐̏́̈͂̊͐̏͘̕̚͝͝ͅą̵̺͍͔̘̼͉̠͉̫͔͕͚͎̻̈́͌͂͌̅͂̉͒͌̆̄͊̉̈́̾̂̇͂̈́͂͊͌̀̑̈́̓́́͆͗͛̀͛̚͘͜͠ͅë̵̡̧̛͎͇̖̝̪̱͇̹͕̣̝̙͍͈̥̥͚͇̲́̆̂͋̉͗̾ͅͅ’̶̪̫͚̖̝̩̭̻̼̯̯͛̈́́̊̅͒̽̍̊̇͆́̎͗̿͐̈̕̕͘͜͠c̴̡̧̧̧̩̪̱̟̫̹̪̣̩̥̳̜͓͎̜͉̩̠̥̲͎͙͈̯̰̮͈̥̬̬̞̊̑̎͋̆̑͋̅͂͆̉͛̐̎͋̐̔͊̈́͋͋͘͘͠͝Z̸̢̗̭̖̻͛̊͂̃͋̍̋͆̇͒͐͗̐̉͒̅̈̚͠͝h̶̢̡̨̢̛̠̹̞͍̱̼͉̹͉̯̬͉̻̰͇̬͚̙̮͙̻̰̮̣̼̲̮̠̰̗̮̭̓̏̄̐̓̄́̑̋̐͛̈́́͂̿̉̀̔͗̒̾̇̍̆͋̈́͠͠͝’̵̧̡̨̹̳͈͍̺̮͎͔̭̮̦̋æ̶̡̡̨͉̦̞̼͈͓̭̝̙͕̬̥̳̙̼̱͈͎̱̟̓͆̃̒͆̂̀̈́́̍̆́̄̿̉̏̽̇̊́̽̀̍͊̿͆͌̏̐̕͘͜ͅͅl̶̡̢͉̯̭̥̜̦̦͔̼̜̗̯͍͓̏ͅĺ̷͍̤̰̯̠̜̠̭̥̫̲̟̫̥̬͐̾͆́̿̀͘͠‘, it tells her.
A thin trickle of blood comes from her nose. ‘Okay. Um. I don’t think I can pronounce that, and it actually hurts a lot to even think about? But it sort of sounded a little bit like “Ezekiel”, if you ignore like the uh. Scary bits. Can I call you Ezekiel? Would that be okay?’
The entity considers this. ‘Okay,’ it says.
Ursa is delighted. ‘Okay! Hi Ezekiel, I’m Ursa. Can I ask whereabouts you came from? Do you know?’
The entity, now Ezekiel, considers this too. It tries to telepathically convey where it was before it was inside a human, and in Ursa’s mind a garbled timelapse of the great cosmic movements of every star in the galaxy plays out. ‘Bweh,’ she says.
‘Sky,’ says Ezekiel, pointing upwards. He begins struggling to his feet.
‘You wanna see the– oh, yeah, fresh air might be good for me too. I can help you up. I can help– come on. There you go. I’m rambling a little. Let’s go. There we go.’
‘Sky,’ says Ezekiel again.
As she helps him along, she retrieves her phone. HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP, she texts to Cepheus.
Ezekiel notices, but seems more interested in the barnacle on the back of it.
‘I followed this here,’ he says. ‘I know this.’
‘Is that so, bud?’ Ursa huffs, helping him up the stairs. By the time they’re close to the top, Ezekiel has gotten much, much better at walking. Which is good, because Cepheus has replied.
Has something gone wrong? he texts.
jkskjjdjkdkjkkdjsjssj YES send someone here NOW. But quietly.
When Ursa puts her phone away, she looks up to see a line of large men pointing handguns at them. She slowly puts her hands up. Ezekiel copies her gesture.
‘Now whaddaya think you’re doing with the guy who turned Frank into spaghetti?’ says one. Presumably they’re Fae, running general hired goon archetypes.
‘Heyyyyyy,’ says Ursa, dragging out the words for more time to think. ‘So. Actually. We’re just leaving? Not a big deal, if you’ll just let us squeeze past–‘
‘You ain’t going nowhere, lady. We’re giving the boss time to gets away.’
‘Sure, not a problem, actually. We’re not actually after your boss. We don’t even know who it is. So if we all just put the guns down, we can just chill a little bit? Not that I have a gun or anything, I mean. I’m not exactly much of a threat am I?’
The goons consider this, then as one train their weapons on Ezekiel. He gives a curious look to Ursa on what gestures he should make next.
‘Alllright,’ she says. ‘We don’t want to actually hurt anyone. But my friend here does have the ability to reduce anyone nearby into spaghetti, or really any shape of pasta he likes. Even bucatini, if he really doesn’t like you. We can all stand around being all threatening if you really want to, but again we really don’t want to hurt anyone, do we, Ezekiel?’
Ezekiel blinks slowly. ‘Blood. Inside,’ he offers.
This is not taken as the friendly acknowledgement of where blood should be that Ezekiel intends, and the goons back away very slowly. Still, problem solved.
Outside, Ursa talks Ezekiel through what he’s seeing in the light of the early evening.
‘So, that’s the sky up there, and you can see the other buildings of the city we’re in. There aren’t any clouds today, but usually there’d be… oh that’s the sun. Don’t look straight at…’
Ezekiel cannot hear her anymore, though. He recognises the star in the sky before him. It’s one of his, one of the millions he’d use to communicate across the expanse of space. Here and now, though, it’s enormous.
For the first time, Ezekiel understands just how infinitely small he’s suddenly become. And exactly where he is. The universe feels very large and very cold. An empty house he’s suddenly an ant beneath.
Ursa rushes to him as he falls to his knees. ‘Whoa, hey, what’s wrong? Are you ok? Is it too much?’
‘It’s…’
A blast of magical force smashes into the side of him, sending him sprawling on the floor. Shadow stretches up on either mouth of the alleyway, preventing any passers-by from seeing things they shouldn’t. And one of the Caliber Institute’s cleanup crews, having been told Ursa’s in need of a rescue, swoop in to save the day.
Desmodesmus, Zanab Bashir, and Rebecca Chiffrin make their way towards them.
‘Desmus, you really don’t need to–‘ begins Ursa.
‘Don’t you fackin’ worry Ursa, we got this.’ Desmus advances on Ezekiel as he tries to scramble away.
‘No, Des, you’re not listening, he’s not a threat–‘
A bolt of aquatic magic forms around Desmus’ hand as he puts his game face on, stones building themselves up from his shoulders to form the shape of a crude well.
‘Okay so we’re doing this,’ says Ursa, and casts sleep.
Desmus’ spell dissipates as he falls face first to the floor. Ezekiel, watching, thinks Oh she killed it. That’s not good.
Zanab, though, has already drawn her sword and despite Ursa’s protests launches past to slash at Ezekiel, who ducks out of the way and doesn’t want to fight back.
Ursa charges up from behind and tackles her to the ground. ‘Listen,’ she hisses, pinning Zanab down. ‘He’s new to being human. But he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, he’s just been panicking! Which you aren’t helping!’
‘Let me go, Ursa, you idiot. Even if he doesn’t mean to, a threat is still a threat and–‘
S̴̛̩̼̃̃̅̊̀̈́͋̇̈̀͒̅̒̌̕͘͘T̷̡̛̟̬̜͖͓͈̻̪͓̘͆̄̀̿̃͌̅́̃̽̉̉̅̇̅͛͘O̷̧̜̜̤̬̰̝͎̼̦̲̻͍͍̽́͜P̵̢̨͚͓̞͕̦͔̥̜̖̻̦͈̳̬͙̜̤͈͋.̶̧̨̭̣̳̻̟̬̫̗̙̦͈̻̪̭͎͆͂ͅͅ
Ezekiel’s voice appears in Zanab’s mind like a lash, and she convulses then goes still for a moment. ‘Arrgh,’ she says, carefully, no longer struggling against Ursa’s hold.
‘Thank you,’ says Ursa, straightening up. ‘Look, why don’t we come back to the Institute and we can figure out what we’re doing from there? Do you have a car?’
‘Um,’ says a voice from behind the melee. It’s Rebecca, who doesn’t really like to fight. ‘That’s actually what we were sent here to do.’
‘Oh,’ says Ursa. ‘Well then.’
⁂
‘Why is he ticking,’ asks Ezekiel.
They sit in the top floor office of the Caliber Institute, across from the desk of Director Charlton Brynner, a man made of gleaming clockwork and brass.
Brynner is trying to make sense of what’s in front of him. ‘And he just appeared in the middle of the room? No identifiable trail or anything like that?’
‘Nothing I could pick up on, sorry,’ says Ursa.
‘Hrm,’ says Brynner, steepling his fingers. The gesture makes a series of chimes in a pleasant pentatonic scale. ‘By all logic we should be taking this… gentleman to a containment facility while we carry out more tests. If he’s as much a danger as the cleanup report from Desmodesmus implies, we’re at a great deal of risk just by having him here.’
Ezekiel doesn’t respond to this, too distracted by the ticking and the smell of some sort of animal or something somewhere.
Ursa, though, sees red. ‘No. Absolutely not! I joined the Institute to try and help people, and here’s someone more out of their depth than I think anyone in the history of the world and you want to do tests on him? He’s not a threat, not if people treat him properly! And I’ll make sure they do, I’ll take full responsibility. Because that’s what we do here! We help. We don’t just lock people away!!’
Brynner takes this in.
‘…I don’t want to hurt anyone,’ says Ezekiel, quietly.
The director sighs. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Provided you, Ms. Carpenter, keep him calm. And I’ll need to assign a medical examiner to check over his physical form and keep him under observation while we figure out what’s going on. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ says Ursa, feeling more relief than she expected to.
‘Well then, Mr. Ezekiel. Welcome to the Caliber Institute.’
Ezekiel nods serenely, and slumps over, unconscious.
Roll History 