Investigators are still searching for the mind ─ or minds ─ behind the horrific web series which has long since taken social media by storm. 'Game of Masters', is the title of the unconventional ─ and particularly disturbing ─ self-acclaimed reality game show in which randomly chosen contestants are expected to face gruesome odds to escape a perilous dungeon. The question remains, however, on whether or not the horrors of this series are as deadly as they appear, or, if it truly is all in good fun. Many insist that there is more to the events of the show than we are led to believe [...]

[ EmmentShooter: If anyone's interested, flip over to Falcon News ]
[ EmmentShooter: They're talking about the show right now, and they just mentioned something about an interview with a past contestant ]
[ EmmentShooter: Could be interesting ]



[ LostInTheLair: who tf does this guy think he is?? ]
[ TonysLeftShoe: Seriously, did he even run the dungen? ]
[ TonysLeftShoe: Dungeon * ]
[ helluvaHellraiser: I highly doubt he did, there's not a scratch on him, and he's way too calm about all of it ]
[ helluvaHellraiser: He's treating it like it was nothing but a stupid game ]
[ wreck_RE_um: right?! ]
[ wreck_RE_um: hes strait up making fun of past contestants 4 not being "good enough" ]
[ wreck_RE_um: wht the hell is even his problem??
[ wreck_RE_um: doesnt he get tht ppl have legit DIED on this show?! ]
[ EmmentShooter: He just wants attention ]
[ EmmentShooter: That's why he's going so far as to "challenge" the DM ]
[ EmmentShooter: Not that it'll do anything ]
[ EmmentShooter: With this display, the dumbass is gonna be under 24/7 watch "for his protection" ]
[ EmmentShooter: The whole interview was probably a ploy by the investigators to try and trick the DM into targeting the guy ]
[ wreck_RE_um: and THIS is the idiot those useless dopes chose? ]
[ EmmentShooter: Apparently so
[ wreck_RE_um: disgusting ]
[ helluvaHellraiser: Hey, check the stream, looks like Jerry's run is about to come to an end ]

I suppose dear Jerry's luck finally ran out. Such a shame, but that's just the way of the odds, it seems. Sometimes the cast is high, and sometimes the cast is low. We need only to hope for the best, and prepare for the worst, because we never know what may be waiting just around the bend. Such is the cast of the dice, after all. So watch your back, my friends, and be careful where you let your feet lead you, for you never know when you may be faced with the dreaded final roll. Until next time, may luck be on your side."

[ EmmentShooter: You okay, wreck? ]
[ EmmentShooter: I remember you mentioning that you knew Jerry personally... ]



[ wreck_RE_um: no, im not ]
[ wreck_RE_um: i need to go ]
[ wreck_RE_um: plz ]
[ wreck_RE_um: no one dm me ]
[ wreck_RE_um: i cant fucking do this ]
[ wreck_RE_um is now offline ]

Lily was resting her head on her arms for a little too long, long enough for her too doze off into a dreamless sleep. All the studying she had done had tired her out enough. Even her phone going off with an incoming call from her mother didn’t wake her, not until her mother dialed her and it rang again for a second time. Lily groaned and rubbed her eyes as she sat up, grabbing her phone in the process.

“Hello?”

“Hi dear. Are you still coming to dinner?"

With squinty eyes, Lily brought the phone in front of her face. The time on the top right read 5:06 pm. If she took a quick shower and raced down to her mother’s, then she could make it on time. “Yes, I’ll be there. See you.”

“Bye honey, see you soon."

Lily ended the call, rubbing her eyes once more before dragging herself out of the chair. She was leaving behind a small mountain of notes, all in preparation for an upcoming exam she had the following week. The material wasn’t too hard, it was just a lot to go over.

A few moments later, Lily stepped into the steaming shower. She allowed the water to wet her hair for a good minute before scrubbing clean. These get-togethers were almost always a chance for her and her siblings to all have dinner together with their parents. Lily had two older siblings: Samantha and Matthew; the latter being the oldest of the three. Him and his wife also had a daughter: Natalie. Lily always enjoyed seeing her niece and playing with her. Natalie was only three years old, but she was wise beyond her years.

After Lily finished with the shower and readied up, she headed out of her apartment and locked the front door. The distance to the underground garage was a short walk away. The dimly-lit, low ceiling space was missing some cars, but it was mostly full. Her vehicle was currently in the northeast corner underneath one of the light bulbs that didn’t work. Speed walking the rest of the way, Lily finally reached her car and quickly got in, locking the door and turning on the ignition. Unfortunately for Lily, she would never make it to her mother’s house, and no one was any wiser as to her sudden disappearance from the Silver Lakes Apartments.

A sudden clack sounded on the roof of Lily's car, seeming to echo much more loudly than it should have as the sound reverberated through the parking garage. It was followed by a steady but chaotic clattering as something tumbled down the windshield, before coming to a dead stop in the crack between the window and the hood of the car. The item was small, but not hard to see, by far. A shining blue d20 with golden numbers adorning each side. One of these sides rested perfectly against the windshield.

[ 13 ]

A playful laugh split the silence before it could even form, a sound like a multitude of people all giggling in perfect unison. The voice didn't seem to come from any one where in particular, but rather, from all around, and the car did nothing to muffle the sound of it.

Something much larger than the die fell on the roof of the car then, and an arm hidden by the sleeve of an overly large sweatshirt reached down from above to retrieve the die with white-gloved fingers.

"Thirteen..." the voice finally spoke, that laugh still lacing their words in a tone of impish amusement, "Luck be kind, or luck be cruel...a well-off hero, or a tragic fool? High roll! High roll! A gift, indeed, for such a sorry soul... But ah, alas, the number here, you see, is not a number to whoa, but sadly, my hero, it is truly a number to fear..."

The car creaked and popped as the movement of some form started overhead, and in a moment, a figure dropped down on the passenger side of the car, back facing the vehicle. The figure stood still and silent for a moment, die held carefully in hand. Soon enough though, the strange, warbled words continued, cutting a bit here and there as the voice modifier worked to keep up with the individual's speech.

"You set off on an adventure to visit your family. A dinner like every other. You're running late, your studies having displaced you in time, it would seem. Alas, no matter, your family would never mind a small delay, but oh, dear hero, what will become if a simple encounter were to set you astray?" they paused, then turned, masked face looking in through the window. Cold. Emotionless.

"Before you can make your regular escape from the confines of your garage, your vehicle is approached by a figure most unsettling. What do you do?"



She thought she was alone. Lily gasped as something suddenly hit her car. She looked up, not that it’d do her any good, then her eyes followed a die coming to rest at the base of the windshield. She was confused and in fear, her heart just about to burst through her chest as a much louder thud shortly followed. Someone was toying with her, and she went into complete panic at the realization. Lily was hearing their words, but she was having a hard time registering them. It was only when the figured jumped down and made Lily nearly jump out of her skin that she listened a little better.

"...what do you do?"

The young woman found the willpower to reach for her door handle, nearly tripping and falling onto the pavement below as the door no longer held her weight. She’d always feared she would be a target. Of what? Well, there was plenty to choose from in this evil world. There was an empty space between her car and a neighbor’s. Lily hurried and circled around their trunk, her back to the row of cars as she didn’t dare to lose sight of the unexpected visitor if she could help it.

“Leave me alone! What do you want?”

Her purse was in the car, the same purse holding a small bottle of mace as well as her cell phone. Lily kept her eyes open to try and not be caught off guard.

For a few moments, the figure did not move, simply watching the young woman as she ran from the car. Taking in the scene. Studying, as it would seem. It wasn't long, however before they moved around Lily's car and stared after her at an almost casual pace.

They took the way around the front of the car, continuing along that line between car and wall despite the obstacle it caused. Walking behind a rather large truck, they were out of sight for a moment, and then, suddenly, they stepped out from behind an SUV a few cars ahead of her. With a flick of their hand, the figure sent the die tumbling once more towards the woman, and awaited the result as the object landed between the two of them.

[ 7 ]

"Seven," they spoke out the number as a matter of fact, "A sadly low roll for our hero, but a lucky number to be won. Mayhaps thy luck still can grow. After all, to fail so soon would be no fun. You chose to flee, forgetting all guard. Your tools and weapons left far behind. The chase is a waste, for despite all the math, the figure manages to cut off your path. Flight or fight, the choice is yours, the third of these, of course, would be to freeze."

It suddenly dawned on Lily whom she was up against the moment the figure appeared once more.

“I’m not playing your game...” she added, emphasizing her statement with a head shake. Lily slowly took some steps back in the direction of her car. Would she be able to sprint quickly enough to reach her vehicle?
“This building has plenty of cameras.”
It had a few, some not even fully operational.
“Your best bet is to leave right now before someone shows up.”
She stopped, then without warning turned on her heel and sprinted what she thought to be a short distance to her designated spot.

Just as before, they watched her go, showing no hurry as they waltzed over to retrieve their die. Giving it a small toss in the air and catching it once more, the figure continued after the woman, a soft hum sounding from behind their mask.

Despite their late start and careless pace, the figure was soon in step behind Lily, their voice coming in just behind her as they spoke again, "Ah the pitiful hopes of an unwilling hero," they sighed, "You cling to an assurance which holds no ground, and entrust your fate to a comfort that does not exist. To think fate is but a choice, to believe that one can simply choose not to play. Your pursuer is amused by your efforts. Alas, the game has only just begun," and with that, they quickly twirled in front of the woman, slipping into her path with a grace that didn't quite match their short, pudgy form.

"You attempt to flee once more, reluctant hero, but the figure once again defies all logic, and with one little prick, the clock begins to tick," as they spoke, they raised an arm, something metal catching the light for only a moment, before piercing pain met the side of her neck.

A small clattering. The soft tick, tick, tick, tack of the polished resin bouncing off the hard ground as the little blue die danced to a stop.

A simple design of a golden calla lily was all that showed on the upward side of the die.

One.

"The sedative courses through your veins at an alarming rate, the world steadily growing distant as sleep takes hold. It was foolish to think you could ever fight fate, foolish to think you could escape a story already told..."



Was that even possible? To be outmatched to such an extent?

Lily pressed her hand against the side of her neck, stumbling back into one of the many structural beams within the underground garage. She looked at the masked figure and a few moments later she could barely make them out. Her legs unwillingly gave out as Lily slid down to the ground, trying her hardest to hold on to whatever bit of consciousness she could. In a futile attempt to plead for her life, Lily opened her mouth to speak but no words would come out. Instead, her body went limp before lifelessly coming to rest on the ground.

Ipomoea sighed.
Another late night, another graveyard shift. Though— since Ipomoea started working at the Quarter-Moon cafe, he noticed the graveyard shift become quite lively. He played with that thought in his head as he meticulously wiped down the counter, thinking of how if this time was a graveyard then everyone must be undead. Maybe that would make him the most normal one there, in the small cafe full of curtains and crystals and candles and whatever else the owners thought to decorate this place with. Ipomoea knew that most of the nick-knacks in there were fake, of course. His golden eyes scanned over the flimsy tarot cards on display with half the minor arcana missing, then to the sets of quartz and random assorted “minerals” that were actually plastic with no energy to their name. Even the magic books on the shelves were entirely absent of any words whatsoever, just printed cardboard blanks glued into a cheap bookshelf. As much as an enchantment to let in the vast night sky would be a beautiful thing, the ceiling was instead covered edge to edge with tacky glow-in-the-dark star and moon decals. He let his gaze land on the draped curtains of “enchanted silk” or what-have-you at the door, which was actually just a translucent polyester.
Of course, Ipomoea started fifteen minutes early, just to tidy up this cafe— he was alone, after all, and if he started cleaning at Eight pm, he would easily have been overwhelmed balancing orders and housekeeping. Eight was when the evening crowd started to pour in, he knew, and then there would be maybe three or four people still seated by the time it was 3 am and time to close for more cleaning.
Two minutes before Eight. Ipomoea stepped away from the freshly-ground coffee he sorted into bags and then passed over that television mounted to the ceiling, causing it to crackle and glitch for a few seconds until Ipomoea stood at the window. Fortehaven was sure a strange place, not as much of a big, sinful city like those he was given in stories, but it was the closest city he could get, and he was grateful for the honking of horns and the small but functional square he called home and the smell of asphalt and smoke. He could still hear the bustle of night life from the window, and he could still look up to see light pollution and smog instead of clear stars.
The espresso machine was already pulling two shots for a certain regular Ipomoea knew would arrive at eight. When the gaudy owl clock finally struck and hooed eight times, however, some… figure sucked the light and sound out of the outside as they walked in.

The figure which entered the coffee shop was tall and slender, dressed all in black from head to toe. A hood pulled up over their head, meeting with the stark contrast of white in the form of an emotionless mask, completely hiding all features this person could have. They stood there, straight yet calm. Too calm. Their head tilted a bit to one side as they looked over the lonely barista, and their white-gloved hands lifted to hold a simple, shining blue object between their fingers. Too tiny to be seen from far.

In a moment, the object was tossed, and it bounced and clattered across the floor of the Quarter-Moon Cafe before eventually coming to a stop in front of Ipomea.

[ 8 ]

A hum escaped the figure, before slowly they started to step toward the other individual, "Eight," they spoke, voice a mingling a various octaves and tunes, a crowd speaking as a whole, "Seems luck may not be on your side, tonight, little hero... You're preparing for work-- The Graveyard Shift --eagerly awaiting the arrival of a beloved regular. Just as the clock strikes for the hour, however, it is not your friend whose face you find, but rather the sight of the devil himself...how do you react, little hero?"

The thin brows on Ipomoea’s face furrowed, tilting his head in confusion. The short, low ponytail peeked out over his shoulders, a tiny fluff like raven feathers contrasting with the cream colored ribbon he used to keep it out of the way.
“Uh…” the cogs in his head started turning. This was strange, definitely not normal by this city’s standards… could it be someone bringing him back to the tiny village in the middle of nowhere?! Almost on instinct, Ipomoea took a step back as his sunshine-yellow eyes widened.
No, no— they don’t like magick of any sort over there, what was he thinking?! Maybe this… thing was the devil as it claims? There were so many devils, though… each demon had its own ritual and banishment, he knew.
No light, no plague, no wings, no horns… how could he tell?
With a chuckle, Ipomoea replied with “luck never was on my side, don’t worry about it. Do you want to order or do you want to keep blocking the doorway?” Maybe, just maybe, if he got this thing to talk, he could find something in his mental library to get rid of it.
Maybe it was some demon from the Ars Goetia, angry with how its kind of magick was disrespected taken as a gimmick here? Which ones would be insulted… was this Amdusias or Beleth, with that chaotic choir of a voice? Was this Paimon who felt the cafe disrespected his philosophies and secrets? Was it Bathin, insulted over the plastic trinkets labeled as precious stones?

Continuing forward, the figure stooped by where the die had come to rest, and picked it up in a delicate pinch. They chuckled at the barista's words, a cacophony of wicked amusement, and straightened back to their full, remarkable height, and looked at the little trinket in their grasp as they spoke, "You attempt to make conversation with the devil, hoping to find a means as to be rid of the being if but only you could learn something about them," they dropped the die on a table, letting it roll once more.

[ 3 ]

"Sadly," they spoke once the number was revealed, "Your social skills fail you as always. The devil refuses to speak with you, and merely advances without a word. No hint. No clue. Nothing at all that could possibly help you."

After the cloaked figure finished speaking, Ipomoea raised a finger as if to ask something of this strange, malicious spirit. “First of all, you are currently speaking. So technically, technically you’re still speaking with me, right? Second, what do you mean ‘as always’?! I’d say I’m a great person to talk to, I have— uh.”
He had what, exactly? The verses of each testament in the Bible? The book of Solomon? Dante’s Inferno? Martin Luther’s critiques of the catholic church, or perhaps the orders of heaven and the types of angels? Well… he sure found it interesting! People always asked him of strange mystical things, and he could always pull out magick knowledge or Christian lore or anything else he could lay his fingers on. True, he… might not be capable of talking about sports or game shows, he didn’t read too far beyond this niche interest instilled in him, but he was sure he was great at conversation! Great at— at talking? Interaction with people? Was this a person?
Ipomoea scooted closer to the countertop he had just cleaned, the bottle of vinegar and water sitting half-full next to a dirty rag. Maybe if this thing had a reaction to water— wait, wouldn’t he have to make the water holy or something like that? Maybe water in general could help if it was some lesser being?
“I uh. Need to clean, still, so please— please take your order, or leave?” Spray bottle in hand, be pointed it to the cloaked creature staring him down. His calloused hands shook, but he kept what courage was left in that strong face of his. Maybe, if he managed to get behind the counter, he could pull out some salt, dangerous as it could be, and make some barrier, or maybe do a generic dispelling chant… or maybe one of the useless trinkets in this god-forsaken cafe was something of spiritual value that could stop this madness.

Though their gaze could not be seen, the figure looked at the spray bottle, head tilting in a way that seemed question if the barista was being serious. Shaking their after a moment, however, they swept up the die and slipped their hands into their pockets as they continued forward, ever-approaching the working man.

"Still, you prompt the being, despite having failed once already. Still, too, the devil refuses to respond. They approach you despite your plea, and give no care to the threat you make in a desperate attempt to stall. They can see right through your shell of courage, and know full well of the fear that lies in your core. You are no match for this wicked fiend, and you know this without question. Still you fight, and it shows true strength, but will this be enough to challenge your foe?" their hands pulled out from their pockets then, but rather than the die being in hand, they now held only a simple coin, which they showed to the barista in a grand display as they continued, "Simple odds, no game to play. Who acts first, we shall see. Heads the hero, and tails the fiend."

With that, they flicked the coin high into the air with an embellished movement, and caught it fast as soon as it fell, slapping it down onto the back of a white-gloved hand.

They peeked.
Then they chuckled.

"A stroke of luck, it would seem," they said, though didn't speak or show the result as they tucked the coin away and stepped back. Spreading their arms, they laughed once more as they lowered their head, "Take your best shot, hero."

That.. just made it all the more confusing for the poor barista. He hesitated, his spray bottle lowered at his side as he stared. Well, if a coin saves him, then a coin saves him. He’ll just have to see how far he can push his luck.
“Don’t… you think a little too highly of yourself?” Ipomoea mumbled as he glared over his shoulder to the cloaked figure. For once, his height made him feel a little bit better— sure, he was still a bumbling mess, but he was a bumbling mess that could reach for a shallow tub of salt from the counter.
His eyes stayed glued on this strange target as he gingerly held the tub with the very tips of his fingers. “I-I mean, I think everything has some kind of— you know, weakness? Wouldn’t it make most sense to just leave me alone? This is— this is your last chance for a coffee, or something, I-I’m sure there are people waiting outside the door. They might— they might really want to know about how technically angels didn’t have white wings—“
Ipomoea was about to gather the salt in his own hand, but hesitated, and instead flung the entire tub at the specter, cutting his palm on the cheap aluminum of the salt tub. As the hero he was, he yelped when his hand stung from added salt and proceeded to run into the empty kitchen. Maybe he could get to the back door? Maybe he could glean just a LITTLE more information, like if this thing was actually a demon of some sort or not.

A somewhat horrific yell sounded from the tall being, causing the voice modifier behind the mask to crackle and pop at the sheer volume.

"Son of a bitch!" the entity spat angrily as the metal bin bounced off of them with a painful sounding clong before clattering to the ground in a deafening crash and rattle.

With an animalistic growl, the figure clenched their hands into fists before taking off after the barista, using one hand to propel their lanky form over the counter as though it were nothing. They shot into the kitchen, hot in their pursuit of the runaway hero and quickly caught up to the taller individual, grabbing him by his shoulder and throwing him roughly to the ground, "You make a mediocre attack before taking to flee," they growled, "but you fail to account for the speed of the fiend. In one fell swoop, you are laid prone, your enemy standing above you with burning violence."

Slipping a hand back into their pocket, they pulled out the die once more and tossed it unceremoniously on top of the barista, not even letting it roll as the object hit Ipomea's check and immediate fell still.

[ 18 ]

The fiend snarled at the number, hands clenching tighter before they kicked Ipomea harshly in the side, causing the die to jump and land on another side.

The calla lily.

More pleased with that result, the being began to laugh, "Your luck continues to do you foul, poor hero," they spoke coldly, "Thus brings an end to this hunter's prowl," and with that, he stooped, pulling a new object from a pocket and taking no hesitance to jam the needle into the barista's neck, "Sweet dreams, flower boy, for the nightmare is soon to come."

Ipomoea fought against the dark tendrils swirling at the edges of his vision. He wondered again if, for a moment, this demon was here because of the family he left behind.
“Fuck you.”
Those were the last words Ipomoea pushed out of his lips before everything faded to a sea of black.

Two A.M. blinked on the little clock on a side table, and Mac still sat cross-legged on the floor. Insomnia struck him again, as it often did— dreams, he thought, were the most likely culprit. Looking back at each nightmare that kept him awake, it just caused everything to bubble up again, his stomach turning at each sight and smell and sound. He got up, left that simply-worded book about a secret garden or something, and wrote on a little post-it note.

Prazosin Dose was all he scrawled on there, with shaky letters, and he stuck it straight on the fridge.

The sight of the fridge made Mac realize he was hungry. Well— would it be fair for him to eat this late? His love still slept on their shared bed in the other room. Should he offer a snack? He might’ve woken Ozzy up when he slid out of the bed, anyways— Ozzy had always been a light sleeper, even more so since the… accident.

With a sigh, Mac resolved on heating two plates of frozen dumplings, a set of gyozas he folded a few days ago with Ozzy. Why was he the one still plagued with dreams? Surely Ozzy couldn’t sleep either, and… what Mac went through wasn’t that bad. Sure, they quite literally cut away at his neck and tongue until his voice no longer sounded, but he could walk! He could use his hands and his head perfectly fine and he had so much, and he still woke up from fear despite everything while Ozzy slept next to him without working legs.

Mac shook his head. Nonsense, he told himself. The whir and light of the microwave felt blinding compared to the tiny book light he used. He stopped the plates each time with one second remaining and set them on the small table, and he took out a set of chopsticks for himself and a fork for his beloved. Then, he padded over to the bedroom, trying to swallow an instinct that started to nip at the back of his head.

There was no danger in his house. It’s all in his head, everything dangerous is past, everything is in his head. He ignored his hairs standing on end as he went to check on his husband.

By the time Mac returned to the bedroom, a light on the bedside table has been lit, flooding the space in a warm, golden glow that failed to reach the furthest corners of the room. Osric was sitting up in bed, head turned down as he absently cleaned his glasses. Upon Mac's arrival, the red-haired man looked up with a warm, auburn gaze and smiled softly...though the gesture didn't quite reach his eyes...

"Hey homie," he said quietly, despite the fact they were the only ones in the little home, "You couldn't sleep either, huh?"

He was trying to make Mac feel a little better by implying that he had already been awake, but he knew that his husband would catch the lie in an instant. Sometimes they just went along with such acts together, both needing the comfort of knowing the other was rested assure. More often than not it was Osric putting on the act, with Mac accepting it as truth, if only to make Osric feel better.

Patting the space next to him, Osric gestured for Mac to sit beside him on the bed. When they had first moved into the new house, they had made an oath not to eat in bed anymore, finding humor in blaming the destruction of their last home on the fact that they had brought sweets into bed the night of accident. However, that oath was quickly abandoned as Mac's insomnia grew more frequent. At some point, it has become something of a routine for them to enjoy a snack in the middle of the night, nestled up in the comfort of their bed.

Osric was alright with it. In a way, it was comforting to know that Mac was there, and more so that he could be there for the other man. Besides, ever since the accident, it wasn't like he needed to worry about getting up for work anymore...

Mac smiled back and set one of the gyoza plates down on the nightstand that Ozzy’s glasses rested on while he slept. He kissed the other man’s forehead gently and gave a little peck on the lips before turning around and walking to his side of the bed.

Be careful. Hot. Macbeth signed, his hand movements small like a whisper, smile still on his scarred-up face. Then, he reached for the dumplings and absently nibbled on them, his legs crossed. He slouched heavily as if he could fold himself into a ball.

His mismatched eyes glowed in the dim light, one blue one a honey-colored shade, but they had a distanced and glassy look to them at that moment.

His chopsticks still in his hand, Mac signed Are you okay? with that distanced but worried look still in his eyes. I’m sorry, he continued, to wake you up. I can’t sleep.

Another pause. Drink? Mac tilted his head, a smile showing through his thin lips again.

"One thing at a time, love," Osric said gently, chuckling a bit as he moved a hand to gently touch Mac's. It was a simple thing between them, essentially, a gentle way of telling Mac to shut up. It wasn't made to me rude or cruel, in fact, it came from a place of love and concern. Concern that the silent man was getting too worked up over something.

Osric's dark eyes met Mac's bright gaze and he smiled right back at the man, "I'm fine, I promise. You don't need to apologize. Honestly, you weren't even what woke me up this time. I think some critter was messing around the trashcans or something," he nodded to their window that looked out on the side yard, "Happened a bit ago while you were in the kitchen, stopped though when I turned the light on. Besides," he sighed and took Mac's hands in his for a moment to gently rub his thumbs against the webbing between Mac's thumb and forefinger, "I'd rather be awake with you than rise the next morning to find you didn't sleep. Not to mention," he released Mac's hands then and shift to grab his plate and take a bite of a dumpling before continuing. He chewed, holding up a finger in signal for his husband to wait, then swallowed and finished, "Being woken up means yummy food with a dash of rule-breaking, and you know how much I love breaking the rules."

If sound could come out of Mac’s throat, Ozzy would hear a sweet laugh. Instead, a soundless breath with a wide smile told him that Mac was laughing. He set his chopsticks down on his plate and leaned over to his husband, gently cuddling up to the other’s side.

Raccoons, Opossums, Cats, Mac signed, a smile still making his eyes twinkle. They’re hungry, like us.

A few moments passed and Mac rested his head fully on Ozzy’s shoulder, his hand reaching out to hold Ozzy’s. He couldn’t explain how happy he was to just have these moments.

Though, he still had to get drinks. Hydration was important! Maybe tea could help them both with sleep? He turned his head to kiss his love’s cheek, and then slid off the bed.

Water, tea, coffee? Which?

Maybe he’d leave some food out..? No creature deserved hunger, he felt. It’d be easier to eat the little treat, maybe a piece of that spare sandwich ham, than rummaging through rotten food. Once again, he ignored that gnawing beast in the back of his skull that screamed how he should hide, make himself small, run, do something— he felt that instinct trip too often, part of his mental issues. He’d learned to ignore it, or at least process through it. While his steps wavered and hesitated, he still gave a gentle smile to his love.

"Just water for me," Osric replied, reluctant to have Mac slide away, as shown by his arm reaching out into the space the man had occupied, he himself flopping slightly to the side to stretch further, fingers wiggling at the edge of the bed, just barely brushing against his love's thigh, "but please hurry back? I know you're worrying right now, and I'm worried you might fall into one of your...moments...I don't want you having to go through that alone while I'm here blissfully unaware..." he frowned a bit, hand falling limp as he just lay there, awkwardly sprawled on the bed, looking up at Mac with a concerned expression, "Just...please be careful," he added as he slowly started to sit back up, "and if something happens, and you need me, chuck a fucking glass on the tile, you know I don't care. I'll come as soon as I can," with that, he pat the arm rest of his nearby wheelchair and regained his smile, "I'm getting better at moving myself into this thing, so you shouldn't be waiting too long."

I am okay.

Mac knew that was a lie as soon as his hands dropped down. After a pause, he corrected— will be okay. Just another little act to help them both feel a bit better.

A pause, a silent walk to the other side of the bed, and another quick kiss on Ozzy’s lips, Mac leaning in for just a moment before going off for some water for his husband and tea for himself.

He filled the gooseneck kettle with the water dispenser— after every corpse dumped into some city waterway he witnessed, every time he watched blood streak down the drain where the same water gets collected, he never trusted tap water again. The pair had one of those office-style water dispensers, and had the luxury of getting a few five-gallon jugs shipped to them every week. Some fears and images Mac just couldn’t get rid of, so they both adapted, and they’re adapting again now.

While Macbeth waited for the water to get hot enough, he made up his mind to just take out a little paper plate and rip up some ham for the poor creature scavenging the trash. Maybe it would get this meal before day broke and the seagulls ran around the beach. He left one glass full with ice-water and one mug with some loose-leaf tea in a metal strainer, and he gingerly unlocked the door to their little beach-side house.

He smelled the brine of the ocean, the full moon making the night bright and calming and the waves giving a gentle sound. He shoved each peaceful sense straight into the maw of the instincts absolutely shrieking in his head.

Scff




Something was moving on the side of the house.

Tik tikka



More sound.

Cats ran rampant through the little beach front neighborhood, owners giving no mind to the detriment the creatures caused as an invasive species. There were some other creatures too. Rats among them, though the cats usually kept them at bay.

A plastic trashcan rattled as something bumped against it, rocking and wobbling in a hollow sound that echoed into the night.

A cat shot past Mac, dashing through his legs with a stressful trill and bounding off the side of the home before scrabbling up the fence and disappearing into the night.

The night was silent once more.

Silent until...

Tick-tick-tick-



A shining blue object bounced along the uneven stone pathway connecting the back of the home to the street-side front. It sparkled as it caught the small bits of light leaking into the side yard, and yet, it also seemed to emit a light all its own, glowing like some magical crystal from some fantasy story. It stopped, a few feet from Mac, getting stuck in a more irregular section of the stone, and it sat there, almost seeming to pulse with power.

Soft footsteps soon followed the object as a figure emerged from the darkness that which it came. The figure, dressed all in black but for a blank white mask, emotionless and hollow, and a pair of stark white gloves, seemed to glide over the broken walkway as they moved toward the little blue item. They were tall, towering in the darkness like a cryptid with their slender frame and unnatural posture. A hood was pulled up into place, casting an eerie shadow over the already unsettling mask, and the cape of their cloak swished lightly around them, trailing ever so slightly as they moved along.

They stopped as they reached the blue object, stooping to pick it up and sighing a bit, the sound coming out distorted and wrong, "Seems a reroll may be in order," they spoke then, their voice a wild cacophony of multiple voices in one, "This asperous terrain has caused for an incalculable result. Such will never do," they stood then and moved their head around to glance back over the rough ground and hummed, "Though I wonder if rolling once more would simply bring about a similar outcome. Perhaps...it may be time for a...different tactic."

Slipping the object away, they casually pulled out yet another object, and held it for Mac to see. At a distance, not much could be made out, but the round shape and the shine it help when it caught the light gave reason to believe that this object was a coin.

"Simple odds," the figure spoke again, this time with a laugh, "Heads you succeed, and tails you fail. Let's see what our actions next shall unveil."

Well— Mac was right, there were in fact hungry cats outside, but thanks to this absolute asshole they all scattered off. The seagulls can have the ham, then.

He raised an eyebrow and shot a glare at this weird poltergeist. He was almost entirely sure this was one of his many fucked up bits of his brain doing something. At least he could tell at that moment it wasn’t real, though. Lots of people have blue dice, and as much as he heard of that stupid “Game of Masters” show he decided it must have been staged elaborately. It was clear this wasn’t just some hitman service or some organ harvesting, as so many “corpses” in that show were bent and torn out of recognition, from what he seen. And how would this be some weird torture? After all, who the hell would go through all of that trouble to torture random people? With so much money, too? Just tear away their nails, or smash fingers, or drop water on their face, or break their legs and arms—

He stroked his hand through his ginger hair. He shouldn’t let those thoughts trickle through. He flooded his brain with reciting some song verses in his head again and again until it drowned out any coherent thought and instead had that song become another little earworm for him to complain about later.

You know ASL? Mac signed, his hands moving wildly as if he were shouting. Fuck off if you don’t.

He then just walked inside his house again, locking the door behind him. The water must have been ready, by now. Damn, yet another thing to tell his psychiatrist. He could barely handle the heaps of medication he was on at the moment, what if they suddenly decided he had some schizophrenia and threw an extreme antipsychotic or whatever at him, too?

"Oooh~ You're a fun one!" the voice sounded from inside the house then. There, sitting at the little dining table in the corner of the kitchen, the being could be seen, leaning on their elbows against the table, that damn coin still held in their finger tips, "For the record, if I may make a quick comment out of character here, I do in fact know sign language, from a number of regions, even, believe it or not. Back on track, however, why don't we get this show rolling, shall we? I'll give you a choice, dear hero, we can stick with the coin, or revert to the original chance of the die. Which odds do you prefer?"

Mac paused, glared again, and poured the hot water into his mug. He then walked over to another kitchen cabinet, pulled out a small, orange pill bottle, and knocked one of the little pills into his hand. Some benzodiazepine, he knew, probably chlordiazepoxide or something like that, but he just stopped keeping track of the exact name and marked the as-needed anxiety medication with a little star sticker. He massaged the bridge of his nose before signing again to the strange illusion.

This is a hallucination, probably, he signed quickly and with an annoyed look on his face. I don’t know what you want. Have fun.

He just grabbed the mug and the glass of water, not bothering to see what the apparition chose. This was a first. He knew he was grounded, in reality— he felt the cold glass for Ozzy condense water from air and the warmth of the mug. He could hear the rustling of trees outside, still. This wasn’t a dingy basement, he saw no dingy basement, or gross demon-man, or bloody stranger, or gas mask and gloves, or strange bastard—

Well. He saw some strange bastard, but that strange bastard wasn’t real and he knew that. He shook his head and walked back to the bedroom.
His instincts still flared and beat at his heart like a caged animal. He just assumed it was his anxiety— it just kept getting worse and worse, and he almost could— well. He wasn’t anywhere unsafe. He was here, on the beach, in his house, with his husband. The gyozas are getting cold.

The figure chuckled as Mac walked away, flipping the coin with a light flourish as the man left.

In the bedroom, Osric was shfiting to move from the bed to his wheelchair, and looked over as Mac entered, deep concern in his gaze.

"Mac," he started. He never used the man's name unless he was talking to someone else. Not unless whatever he was going to say next was of the utmost importance, the most serious he would ever be, and often a matter of life or death...

"Who was that talking?"

Mac froze. His brows furrowed. For the first time in a while, he just mouthed words, as if he expected his voice to magically return to him.

What?

He blinked and placed the two drinks on the nearest surface, some drawers full of the pair’s clothing.
His hands shook and his face went pale as he mustered up a sentence in sign language. You could hear it too? Ghost? Hallucination? No?

Weapons, weapons— what weapons were there in the bedroom, what did he put in there to make himself feel safe— how would he protect Ozzy? Did a stranger just break in?? Knife— was a knife too much? Did they have a gun? Was there a gun, still? His memories just short circuited as the little creature in his head breached its containment and shouted the alarms and knocked down every porcelain vase in his head to let out every bad thing that’s ever happened to him. He needed to prepare, to be safe, to— to—

Mac slapped his hands on his forehead and dragged them down his face. This wasn’t a good time! He needed to be stable! Fuck!

As he managed to get himself to his wheelchair, Osric waved his arms towards Mac, attempting to get the other man's attention. Once he had it, he signed, Breathe. Got this. Top drawer. he pointed at the drawer on the dresser that Mac had placed the cups on, Gun, little, he continued to sign, Mine. Safety.



A creak in the hallway signaled the approach of the masked figure and Osric quickly twisted and flicked off the light on a bedside table, throwing the room into moderate darkness aside from the light of the full moon leaking in through the blinds on the window. Osric had always wanted to get blackout curtains for the window, even back at the old house, but Mac liked the cool glow of the night, and preferred having just that bit of light in the room. At this moment, where they needed the advantage of being able to see where the intruder couldn't, he was a little glad he had never been able to win that debate.

Mac nodded to Osric. He silently pulled the top drawer open and grabbed a Glock, simple and sleek. He paused for a bit— he knew Glocks didn’t have any safeties, they were all automatic, technically.

Oh. Ozzy told him to be safe.

He fought back the blush— now wasn’t the time to blush!— and quickly checked the magazine. It felt like the standard 15 round mag.
Why was he checking it?! Of course it’d be full, or near full! He assumed Ozzy never used it beyond practice. He needed to be steady, stable, to calm down. This used to be a daily thing for him! Why was he freaking out now? This used to never scare him, his father scared him so much more than guns and blood. How would he do this..?

Fuck.

Mac pointed the gun towards the hallway. That thing had a mask, didn’t it? That means it had to have a head. He’d aim for the head. Anywhere on the top would get this intruder to drop, no? He could do this. He could do this.
And so, the sound of a gunshot broke the silence.

The noise practically shook the little beach house, the walls seeming to rattle at the force of the shot.

Silence.

Ozzy rolled over to pull up behind Mac, staying off to the side and out of the way in case anything happened. He craned his head to look out into the hallway, one hand resting lightly on the control for his chair while the other gripped tightly at the armrest, knuckles already turning white from the force of his hold. He dared not to speak yet, his own voice gone in the moment with fear gripping his lungs. Signing seemed pointless, Mac was holding the gun after all, and he needed to keep his focus on whatever awaited them in the darkness.

As the house creaked against the growing wind, a small sound could be heard. Something metallic. Light. Singing in a soft thhheeeeeng before something fell from the air above them and landed on Osric's lap. The chair-bound man looked down at what had fallen, confusion and fear draining what little color he had from his face.

A coin.

"Tails..." Ozzy's voice was barely even a whisper.

"A shot in the dark is quite the gamble," the voice sounded, suddenly behind them in the room, "You trust your skill so fully, you neglect what it often advised. A simple fumble, rest assured, but remember, dear hero, 'don't shoot 'til you see the white of their eyes.'"

A chaotic laugh sounded out, like a crowd of otherworldly beings cackling as one, the sound seeming to echo over itself again and again in a disturbing dissonance of hellish noise.

Just like that, Mac was grabbed from behind, a gloved hand wrapping around each wrist and layering over the gun like someone teaching another how to hold the weapon, though that was surely not the case here. With a powerful jerk, the enemy turned Mac's gaze toward the man in the chair, and held it there as their masked face leaned in lightly to rest on the much smaller man's shoulder.

"After a failed attempt to be rid of the specter plaguing your home, you find yourself trapped by the very fiend--a ghost if ever there was one, rushing you from behind with not a chance to escape. The demon turns your own weapon on the one you love so dear...tell me, hero...where do we go from here?"



Mac felt like his head was filled with thousands of angry wasps.

He tried to drown out each image that pounded into his head. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. DO NOT panic. DON’T PANIC.

Of course, he felt that panic. He felt his heart beat so hard it hurt his ears. He felt his legs growing weak and blood rushing to his head.

He hated feeling someone behind him like that. He hated that he didn’t know who it was. He hated how, once again, someone he cared about was in danger.

The room morphed around him and it caused him to somewhat lose balance. A gross medical room. Bottles upon bottles. Dirty alleyways. Every single man that he knew deserved a violent death. His head started to hurt and he tried to loosen the grip on the gun— the demon couldn’t make him shoot if there was no gun. He had to keep Osric safe.

Instead, a spark ignited in his palms, a blue-orange shifting fire bursting out and causing the Glock itself to explode and crumple in smoke.

What was that? Mac struggled to tell whether that was real, despite the smell of gunpowder and the gun itself breaking in his hands telling him it was.

Before he could overthink, or be overcome by all of the past grabbing at him, he used the little bit of new mobility he had to turn that glowing palm straight into the face of his attacker.

This was… this was just a bad dream, and he was sure of that now. When will he wake up? He didn’t know.

At the spark, the demon's grip on Mac actually faltered a bit as the being jerked back. They didn't pull back far though, staying well within reach, and were quickly met with the man's blazing attack. Stumbling back, they threw their hands up to their mask, a string of cursing hissing through a crackling audio morpher, causing the already chaotic choir of voices to become a robotic cluster of noise that clicked and screeched and popped like something dying a horrible death.

Once recovered, the being growled, throwing their hands from their singed and slightly melted mask and turning their empty gaze on the man who had caused the damage. They looked like they wanted to charge at him, gloved hands clenched tightly at their sides, the white fabic now also slightly singed from the attack. Their shoulders were raised, stiff with anger, but rising and falling, still, with fierce, heavy breaths.

They were like an animal.

Then, they cooled, shoulders relaxing and fingers uncurling as they let out a long, heavy breath. A moment passed, and then they laughed, the sound still distorted beyond all reason.

"Oh, you are fun!" they said through breaking blips of audio, "This thing is trash now," they remarked with a gesture to their mask, more specifically the mouth of the face, "but I'm not about to take it off just yet, so lets just wrap this up now and be done with it all, yeah?"

With a flourished snap, the coin zipped from Osric's lap to their fingers, and they turned it over in an unnecessary show, before flicking it up in the air. Catching it, overly dramatically, they slapped it on the back of their hand before taking a look, "Ah, what luck! Heads, it would seem, and the move is yours once more. Face your demons, boy, come on, show us havoc!"

What the fuck. What the fuck? What the fuck is going on? Why are his hands on fire? Why is the fire a weird color? Why isn’t he being burned himself? Why is this guy not attacking him back?

Is Ozzy okay?

Shit, what was he thinking?! He’s so sure this is a weird dream! Just another product of his chaotic mind. Just another thing to bring up. Humans couldn’t light on fire like that. Fire didn’t look like that! People can’t teleport, and people sure don’t act like that when trying to kill people or rob some place.

Police. Go. His hand movements were frantic and a soft glow on his palms still stayed as he quickly signed to his beloved.
He wasn’t the best at physical combat. For goodness sake, he’s build like a twig. But, he was a stubborn twig. And this was just… a bad dream. His hands were on fire! And they didn’t hurt! How couldn’t this be a dream?! He wanted to run, so badly, but if he ran then maybe this thing would hurt Osric. He hated the energy this creature had when it was behind him, he hated that voice, he hated this dream that felt so real.

So, despite his better judgement, he went straight for the face— the neck, actually. His hands lit up with that blue-orange flame again, so bright the night turned to day.

Osric was in shock from the moment the figure had appread behind them, only able to sit and watch everything that happened. It all felt like a horrible nightmare. His own gun aimed at him in the hands of his beloved--a disgusting threat if ever there was one, to think that this monster would force Mac to shoot his own husband...that alone was already too much, but then the flames burst from Mac's hands, the gun breaking apart and falling to the ground. The noise the creature made as it reeled back, and the laugh that came when the thing recoved. It was like a horror movie come to life, and as much of a fan of horror as he was, Osric was not a fan of any of this.

He was brought back to reality--if you could even call it that--by Mac's signing, giving a firm nod as he quickly moved his wheelchair back to the bedside table and pulled his phone from the charger, immediately hitting the lock button three times to bring up the emergency call option.

Meanwhile, the demon fell back a couple of steps at the force of Mac's attack, hands shooting up over his to lessen the pressure of the small man's hold on their neck. They moved and turned violently, flinging Mac off to the side with a wild growl, then took a moment to pat out the lingering flames on the neck of their cloak before retrieving their coin from the floor where it had dropped.

"Tails," they spoke coldly, wrapping their hand around the coin to form a fist, before stepping over to throw a forceful blow at the back of Mac's skull, "You attempt to attack the fiend head on," they spoke, the glitches in their voice modulator causing an even more unsettling sound than the overlapping voices usually held, "but the demon's superior size gives it the upperhand in the battle, and it easily tosses you aside like no more than a ragdoll. With a hard blow to the base of your skull, the world is already getting dimmer than the darkness should allow, and—"

"Hey!" the voice of the other man in the room interrupted sharply, and as the being looked over, he continued, "Cut the fucking act already, would you? You're driving me crazy with this stupid narrator shit— Hello?" his attention turned then to the phone near his ear, "Yeah, yeah, I can hear you. Look, some fucker's broken into my house and is attacking my husband. He's got a mask and a stupid fucking cloak and—"

Suddenly, the phone flew from Ozzy's hand, smashing against the wall and shattering into pieces like the whole thing, including the protective case, was nothing but sugar glass.

Osric gasped at the action, staring at where his broken phone lay on the other side of the room before looking back at the intruder. He showed fear for a moment, then it quickly turned to anger, "Son of a bitch!" he yelled, "How is that even playing fair?!"

"This is not your game to play, white knight," the being said tightly then laughed and loosened a bit as they added, "Your time may come, but alas, that time is not now. Now conserve your own life and stay the fuck out of my fight."

"Oh, I'm so scared," Osric rolled his eyes so hard his head rolled with them, he was done being scared and useless, "A killer who rhymes, and horrible rhymes at that. Tell me, fucker, exactly what did you expect coming in to a house where your apparent target--for whatever reason--would have a fucking eyewitness? Did you really think we'd both just fold? Ooooh scary demon come to kill us! Whatever shall we do? Insert shrugging old guy in the red shirt meme, guess I'll die," he huffed and focused on the figure again, "Are you fucking stupid?"

"You want to play?" the creature questioned, "So be it. Let's play."

With that, the demon flipped their coin again and caught it, taking a look without all the embellishments they usually took, then made a sound that sounded like a smirk had taken form, "Tough luck, white knight," they said, then flicked their wrist, and just like that, Osric's chair raced backwards and slammed into the wall, the momentum of the crash causing the wheelchair to rock violently, which, first, sent Ozzy flying to the floor, landing in a pile of himself, and then the chair fell forward, trapping the man beneath it in a heavy hold which caused him to cry out in pain for the parts of his body he could still feel.

Oh, that hurt. It was hard to balance or even get up after that blow to the head, but the adrenaline lit him up once he saw Ozzy thrown across the room and in pain.

And he literally lit up. Blue and orange flames burst from his whole form, the whole room bright almost like a flash-bang was thrown in there. He was silent, but his teeth were bared so viciously that he looked like he was screaming in rage.

The fire didn’t burn him. It singed the carpet every step he took, left ashy little marks on the furniture he was close to, but his clothes, his skin, was alright. Somehow. Besides feeling like he was sick with a burning fever, besides the sheer amount of panic and the life and death situation and the fact he probably has a concussion with that pulsing headache seeping through, he was fine.

He breathed out. Like a dragon, white smoke puffed out of his nose. His eyes, blue like ice and yellow like amber, almost glowed through. They stayed on target, glaring at this strange demon.

There weren’t any other weapons around in the bedroom besides that broken gun, but… well, he figured, in this strange dream, he was the weapon now.

He charged again. There weren’t any rules for fighting when it comes to life or death— maybe, if he hit and scratched enough times, tried to dodge enough times, he’d get this thing to run away? And things would be peaceful again, and he’d wake up, and he’d make a nice morning omelette for him and Ozzy.

With a silent scream, Mac jumped to the intruder with ferocity. He grabbed at that dark cloak, fire starting to melt and crumble away the fibers. If he could just get a proper hold on the neck, the face, the chest— this thing might die, and he could wake up.

The demon whipped around as the flaming beast of a man grabbed their cloak, easily ripping away as the fibers melted in the man's hold. It blipped. Gone in an instant. Then appeared across the room, "Wasn't expecting that," they muttered, then shook their head and straightened up, giving an amused laugh as they flipped the coin once more, "Tails again, poor hero," their laugh continued, "What strange luck you have...should come to rather amusing in the game to come," shifting, they slipped the coin away and buried their hands in their pockets, not even seeming to care that their cloak was still smoldering with flames, and tilted their head, "Give me a minute, writing on the spot is exhausting. Let's see... Watching as your loved one is practically eliminated by this specter of death who has entered your home, you find yourself suddenly lit aflame by a power you never even knew you had. Fury burns through you like the fire surrounding, as you face off against Death itself, but oh my, what's this," they moved their arm and the flames raced through the room, spreading rapidly as though the ground were covered in oil, "The fire from your form ignites the room faster than you can think, and your love?" they looked over to the man pinned beneath his own wheel chair, "Well...only time will tell of his fate..." with their focus back on Mac, they laughed a moment before their voice when ice cold as they finished, "What will you do, poor hero? Fight the fiend, or save the damsel? The clock is ticking, poor hero, let's get kicking."

The fire surrounding his body fizzled out at the devil’s words, but the rest of the room— shit, was that him? It was… so hot. He still didn’t burn, but… the headache, the fever, the smoke, the whole situation and the adrenaline still pumping through his veins made his head spin.

That fire started to burn its signature red-orange-yellow shade instead of his own strange blue and orange hues. The wood caught, the sheets caught, everything.

This dream was far too real. That demon was no longer a priority— he needed to get Ozzy somewhere safe.

Why was the chair so heavy?! Why was Ozzy so heavy— why was he so weak?! He struggled to lift the chair away and to lift his love out of that chair, and he struggled again as he dragged himself and his partner from that room.

The rest of the house was on fire too. How was the rest of the house on fire?! Did he really do this?? They’ve barely lived here for, what, 8 months? A year? He couldn’t keep track of time, he couldn’t think, the windows were bursting from the fire and that book he was reading was also on fire and the counter he prepared those gyozas on was on fire—

They were out the door.

Mac collapsed, his head throbbing and his skin so hot it was like he was about to get heat stroke in the dead of summer in Arizona.
He pulled his arm over his mouth and coughed.

Blood was on his arm. Of course! Why wouldn’t there be blood? Everything hurt, everything sucked—

Did that mean… that that wasn’t some awful dream? That this nightmare is real? That… shit, that he just spontaneously fucking combusted? What the fuck? Where would he even go? Would he need to drag himself and Ozzy into the city, the nearest police station? Maybe to some ghost buster medium or whatever?

Mac shook his head and hugged Ozzy, as tight as he could given how exhausted he was.





That damned coin.

It dropped once more from above, hitting the stone path along the side of the house and bouncing a few times before spinning and wobbling at rapid speed, the metallic ring singing out more and more rapidly until it finally fell still.

Heads!

It was heads! Wind rushed through the sideyard, encircling the beach house, and bringing the flames into a dancing swirl that reached up into the sky, higher and higher until, suddenly, the flames vanished, and the house was left dark. Evidence of the fire still remained, the walls charred and crumbling in places, the windows broken, the smell of smoke and embers, but, the inferno was gone, completely.

In a moment, the figure emerged through the door. Slowly, casually, approaching the two on the ground. They stopped mere inches from the couple and knelt down to pick up the coin, "You're welcome," they said, "Though really, you can thank the odds."

Giving the coin one final small flip, they caught it simply in their palm and looked at the result, letting out a soft chuckle, "Heads again...you really do have strange luck, hero," they commented, then shifted as they slipped the coin away and pulled out a syringe, "You escape the danger of your burning home with your husband in tow, both of you safe from the flames. By the luck of the gods, the pyre takes leave, vanishing with the approach of your foe. Luck is in your hands, poor hero, but alas, the odds are still not bright. A simple choice, a decision to be made, to finally turn this fine fight. Who shall continue? Who will face the beast to the end? Yourself? Or your closest friend?"

"Mac—" Ozzy's words were cut off as the beast raised a hand.

"The choice is not yours, white knight, so let the hero decide. Should his choice betray you, then...well..." they trailed off in a laugh and turned their attention back to Mac, waiting for his response, "I repeat, poor hero: Who shall continue? Who will face the beast to the end? Yourself? Or your closest friend?"

This idiot really thought that Mac would trust his words, that he’d just take one of them? After doing all of this bullshit??

Another cough. Mac spat out more blood onto the pavement. Didn’t this asshole ghost know already that he couldn’t talk?

He didn’t want to leave Ozzy. He didn’t want to take his hands and start signing to this fucker. He didn’t want this weird beast anywhere near Ozzy.

Mac buried his face into Ozzy’s shoulder, blood still smeared on his lips and tears wetting the simple t-shirt his love wore. His arms tightened around his husband again, and he just stayed still. This wasn’t real. He’ll wake up eventually.
When will he wake up?

He already felt like he was about to pass out. This was just too much. He felt too hot and he was tired and scared and the adrenaline rush abruptly stopped and made him feel the bright pain on his palms and the creaking of every single one of his joints.
Eventually, Mac’s own body betrayed him. He fainted, there on the pathway, hugging his beloved and silently tearing up.

Osric trembled in Mac's hold, clinging to the man in return and preparing for the worst from the villian before them. To his surprise though, the demon didn't act violently, and instead, they simply gave a light hum, "I suppose there's always a third option in these scenarios," they commented, then curled their fingers around the syringe and slipped it away as they rose to their feet.

Sirens were finally sounding in the distance, fire engines, coming in response to the house fire, no doubt, but, it was something. The being looked in the direction of the sound for a moment, before looking back down at the two lovers on the ground. They seemed to study Mac for a moment, as though determining if her was actually out, then focused their hollow gaze on the other, before reaching and dragging the paralyzed man away from his husband, gently setting him up against the house and leaving him there as they stepped back over to scoop up Mac.

"Don't. Do this," Osric pleaded to the stranger's back, "Please...he's been through so much already. Can't this be enough for you?"

The demon stood there for a moment, silent, back to the man on the ground, then simply began walking away, "Tell those guys in the trucks whatever you want, White Knight," they said, "But keep in mind that no one will ever believe what happened here tonight. If you want to be able to follow your husband's journey, I suggest thinking of a good story to tell that won't get you locked up. I'll be seeing you around the platform, I'm sure."

And with that, the beast, and his love, was gone.

Darkness...



























Weightless and cold...



























A cacophony rings...

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