@OwO

Rain.

The default weather of Bluegate suffused the night of the city in a white glimmer throughout. From its darkest alleys to its highest towers, there was a persistent gentle glow reflected by the myriad streetlamps and electronic billboards. So natural was the falling rain that well-near a quarter of the populace went without umbrella in the streets, content to let the rain drip upon their bare heads. A simple shake once inside did all one needed.

Within the confines of an unlit safehouse, upon the fourth floor, Tsune Kataoka -Macaron- looked out upon the dancing tiny flecks of light that bounced upon black asphalt. The power wasn't out, but the money was -such frivolous things as keeping the house lit were luxuries that could be ignored. In the background, a boiling pot bubbled. One man manned the stove in a wrinkled business suit that, at one time in the past, was pristine. A scrunched, unamused look covered his face as he stared into the then-empty pot of water. Even at a time deep into the night as this, he still wore his sunglasses, albeit raised up onto his head.

Hideji Kataoka could have been out on the grind, but instead was here, once again, caring for a girl whom his superiors deemed a waste of time. But he couldn't be elsewhere -his conscious could only convince him so many times. The nearing-middle-age Kataoka goon was once a staunch friend of Macaron's own late mother, and on her deathbed pleaded with the bleeding heart to keep her safe. Such wishes went unrealized until everything went to shit regardless. Hideji was bound by red tape, as much as he wanted to give little Macaron a chance. Even today he remained distant and unsure. Having arrived late to the mission, so to say, now that Macaron was an adult Hideji was a cautious sort around the young woman. He could rarely maintain eye contact with her, despite persisting as a grizzled street soldier that regularly punched guts for owed money.

And here he was, serving as the small guarantee that Macaron wouldn't be kicked out of the safehouse if other Kataoka's showed up. Here he was, preparing to make some crap premade macaroni for the night. Here he was, with a folded piece of paper in his jacket, debating if the suspicious letter addressed to his flimsily-charged protectee should actually reach her eyes. What was he, her father? Hideji, in his trance looking into the boiling water, absently scoffed to himself, breaking a long silence in the safehouse.

"Kid, you've got something addressed to you," Hideji opened up, "It ain't spelled, I checked." In the years following the Kataoka massacre, there had been a non-stop circulation of plots and ploys to shift power about the squabbling scraps of the family that remained. For all over her irrelevance, there always remained the chance that Macaron would be next on someone's list. It wouldn't be the first time a Kataoka died to paper. Hideji dumped the dried macaroni into the boiling water and dutifully stirred to keep them from sticking.

"Didn't read it. No name. Want it?" He left the mystery to her decision. Something tugged at his heart to offer some semblance of control to the girl.

---

@ERode

Closed.

Amaya gripped the handle to a safehouse and wrestled with it once more, just to be sure it was locked and not simply poorly settled in the frame. Rain cascaded off the side of corrugated metal overhanging the entrance, practically deafening. She could opt to get inside via magical means, but risked the potential that someone was inside and really really wanted their solitude this night. It was highly unusual for safehouses to be outright locked. Owners sometimes decided the property was better used as a public rental, forever damning someone in the Dark Sphere to finding some other favorite spot. Other times it was someone especially anti-social and ungenerous. Given the placement of this particular safehouse squarely in an industrial park, Amaya could only presume the latter.

Before she could decide to turn away or take her chances, the sound of jingling keys caught her ears. A sordid, despondent man approached the entrance with a key pinched between his fingers. The way in which he walked up the door -and to Amaya- spoke to someone wholly devoid of fear or worry. Amaya could have been invisible, for all his expression indicated. And still, he addressed her.

"Evening, miss," he said with a tired, distant voice. The man was well into his fifties, poorly shaved, dirtily dressed, and soaked in rain without an umbrella. A ragged coat sheltered his hunched back and shoulders. He stepped right up to the door, and began to unlock it. Unusual. She'd never seen this man before, though it was admittedly unusual to see safehouse owners ever. Most wanted nothing to do with the property until money could be made.

"I've seen you coming here before. Sorry that it was locked," the man said. He opened the door, and with his unmoving, silent posture, gestured for her to enter. He followed inside and shut the door. The interior was shabby, but in the sense that it wasn't truly meant for living in, and yet had work done to it to try and alleviate that feeling. A larger-than-small warehouse had been converted into what amounted to a lounge, complete with a tilted billiards table and dart board missing two or three darts from the original set. A tiny, two-seat bar hugged the entrance wall. There was only one time in Amaya's life that there being two seats mattered.

The dismal man shuffled over to an empty chair, and pulled items out of his coat and place them upon a coffee table. A shredded wallet. An aging but indestructible phone. A pile of loose charms on chains and strings.

"I won't be here the whole night. It's all yours. Tired? Smoke?" the man croaked. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and deftly slipped one into his lips before lighting it with an ember-tipped finger.

---

@Estylwen

Something was wrong.

Within the ancestral estate of House Asher, Reina was seated at the head of an oblong table along with twelve other notable faces. The heads of the House ruminated in silence for a full half minute, their expressions a mixture of dour confidence and gloomy worry. A pair of servants, one beside Reina and another at the doors to the meeting room, waited as sentinels to the noble gathering. All throughout the day, a creeping feeling of dread had pervaded the minds of House Asher's most adept. For some in the room then, it was a feeling they did not share, for not all of those in power were truly capable. Nevertheless, their seats were theirs', much to the disappointment of their more skilled peers.

The dread came via the Labyrinth; something was amiss in the regions of meta-space that House Asher presided over, like a threat to claims of land guaranteed only by the standing of a banner. It felt as though the banner was tilting, or a great ominous wind battered at its fabric. To some, it felt as though an army was manifesting on the horizon. All of this was a preturnatural sense, one that could not be truly explained to those who did not already understand what exploring the Labyrinth meant in spirit.

"...But it is not House Baskerville, that much is certain," said Victain Asher, breaking the dark silence.

"That only makes this more sinister," replied Leonus Asher, his chin cupped upon entwined fingers, "For who else?"

"There is no spell known within or without that could achieve something like this," chimed Erina Asher, who spoke in self-sure proclamation.

"You cannot claim that," Victain retorted.

With such an unprecedented feeling, and without the requisite arcane knowledge to parse it all, House Asher was left with this predicament: where does one even start in such a situation? How does one begin to assess such an esoteric state? Even for those who exalt Obscurity, they were left with an opaque wall of mystery.

A man of raven hair and lidded, almost saddening eyes spoke then -Cygni Asher. "The answer surely lies within the Labyrinth. And if it is a veil upon our property within, then it is assuredly also within Yusei's domain. He will be aware, and far more prepared to understand this." Cygni cast a long sideways glance across the table to Reina.

"Our head, then, seems the best path forward. You can speak with Yusei, Chosen, foremost of all of us," he said.

"But it will require a Dungeon," Victain said, "You can all feel it too -the cloudedness, even you, Cygni."

The raven nodded. "We can pool our efforts into this, it is critical," Cygni said in a monotonous tone, "And ensure the door remains open and clear. What say you, Reina?"

The heads of the House all turned to Reina. She could feel the implications Cygni levied upon her -this was not simply the only way to solve the issue.

It was a challenge.

---

@Remram

Blurriness taunted him.

In Mathias' hand was a shakily-snapped photograph. Despite any misgivings by others in the DSC, Mathias knew who it was. It was unmistakable.

The Mist.

It was the first sighting in years. For all his efforts, the next time he appeared was wholly detached and unrelated to any missions, any searches, and investigations, any anything that the Dark Sphere Command was involved in lately. The photograph practically grinned at him.

You thought you were any closer to me? it whispered.

The photograph depicted a man in untouched white, clean-kept and well-groomed despite the carnage that surrounded. Mathias had learned early on that this was The Mist's MO: unfettered violence administered with impossible precision and care. The location was a penthouse on the northern end of Bluegate three days prior, once owned and occupied by a known independent mage of middling report. The photographer was similarly mulched, but their evidence was clearly intact. It was almost undoubtedly purposeful. Despite the new lead, it was on the backburner.

"Mathias, are you listening?" crooned a woman's voice. Hovering over the man was a blonde, braided woman carrying a clipboard and papers. The electric hum of the DSC warehouse returned to Mathias' senses. "The crew is waiting for you," she said. Nina Carol was Bluegate Squad 3's radio operator, though the term 'radio' was used if only for familiarity. In reality, the communication was wholly arcane, but Nina nevertheless performed the duties of a monitor and mission director all the same.

Mathias was about to delve into such a mission, one disappointingly unrelated to The Mist. Across the warehouse, in another room, magic-touched machines whirred away, scribbling waveforms upon an unrolling sheet of parchment not unlike a seismograph listening to the rumblings of the earth. For two days, the sensor was picking up on a growing thunder within the Dark City, and it was now their task to deliver a host of machines into the side-realm in hopes of uncovering some deeper meaning to this disturbance in the collective conscious.

A team of four awaited him in the briefing room.

---

@Kronshi

There was no way.

Ozymandias would have experienced it before, but this time around his assessment was certain. The dismantling of a door within the Dark City was something Ozy had done before, and even granting that the one before him now was of a peculiarly different sort of essence, the fourteen hours he had spent revealed everything he needed to know about it. So he thought...

The composition, the origin, the shape within the subconscious that had guided its creation, where in Realspace it most corresponded to (the answer was that it reflected no less than five specific doors within a specific Bluegate mall), and the rules that specifically guided its being locked. He had eliminated three of the four esoteric makeups that prevented the otherwise functional door from "opening" already, and the fourth should have just been removed as well, and yet...

There was phenomenon in Realspace, wherein on exceptionally rare occasions computerized electronics could experience unpredictable glitches due to the one-in-a-billion chance that a cosmic ray happened to knock out the exact right spot on a circuit. The struggle with this door felt almost the same. No less than ten times now had he calculated the exact right way to reverse the complex and yet meaningless final lock on the door, and each time it almost seemed as if the effect was being reversed by wayward signals, or his own magical input interfered with.

The door itself was innocuous, as were most portals within the Dark City. But unlike most others, this one had one important feature:

It was permanent.

Every night, the Dark City was different. When looked at for the forest it was the same as always, but if you scrutinized the trees one would find misplacement, shifting, and inconsistency. This door was different, which tended to mean that someone had purposefully placed it, or otherwise entrenched its existence. Finding such a structure would normally have been pure chance, but for Ozymandias, it was purposeful.

A letter arrived to him nights before, unmarked, detailing the location of something only he could "understand". In all of the oddities that tended to come with anonymous writings in the Dark Sphere, Ozy picked out a subtlety within the tone and the mannerisms of the text -an echo of his father. It was assuredly not his father speaking through the letter, as the man was not subtle in the slightest, but something within it sparked memories of him nevertheless. A coded message? A secret confidant?

What lay behind the door?

The night felt ominous, and at Ozymandias' back there was a looming feeling of being watched or simply known. He was so close. A horrible noise howled in the distance of the Dark City's streets, and Ozymandias was then stricken by the sound of a child's genuine laughter within the skeleton of the building he stood within.

Whatever was happening that night, was the discovery behind this door worth seeing it to the end?

“Evening.”

Her response was curt, but not hostile. It was a good thing that the older man had announced his arrival with the rattling of his keys; from experience, Amaya had little trust to spare for those who habitually silenced their movements.

She stepped into the safehouse, shaking the rain off her jacket at the entrance. Concrete flooring. No need to kick off her boots then. Her gaze swept across the dimly lit environment, marking shuttered windows and exits. Expert couriers would have memorized the layouts of their safehouses by now, but Amaya preferred to treat every environment as if it were the first time. The cost of complacency was hefty, after all. The woman strode for the bar, ducking her head beneath the table in search of an outlet.

There.

Her duffel bag, a thrift shop steal for how long it had stuck with her, was swung up top of the counter. She unzipped it, pulling out a small electric kettle and a two-liter jug of water, plugged the appliance in, and boiled the first pot of water for the night. Blue light shone from within the glass, gradually transitioning to purple, then red, as the temperature climbed and the water boiled. Rainy nights called for hot food, and even freelancers of the Dark Sphere weren’t so hard-boiled as to eschew all human comforts. Though there were types out there. A flicker of a memory, of that dumpster-dwelling girl who turned out to having been the heiress of some big House.

Amaya lifted her hand up, refusing the offered cigarette. “No, thank you. Here for a property inspection?”

Rare to speak to the landlord-types, certainly, but she wasn’t against it. It’d take a while longer for the water to boil, and then another five minutes for her food to rehydrate. Plenty of time to decide whether to stay the night or to find a bridge.

Asher Estate, Realspace

_@Asuras

---

Reina gave a look to Cygni as she languished in her seat. He was trying to get her killed, the sooner the better. Yes, send her to deal with the Anomaly, alone. If he wasn't so powerful, she would have stripped him of his position and exiled him long ago. But House Asher needed strength. And he knew this.

She'd deal with him. But first-

Reina glanced up at the servant beside her, then gestured with her chin towards the double doors. The servant, Isabella, with her ashen hair and wary eyes, understood immediately, and left through the doors. She returned momentarily with a prison inmate in tow, cuffs still on his hands. He was made to stand beside Reina's seat. The look on his face was aghast, with darkness brimming around his eyes. He knew what his fate was, as a death row inmate, but the nondescript woman seated beside him, was she really the one who'd-

She looked up at him, her red eyes flashing, and she smiled.

Before taking up one of his cuffed hands, she kissed the back of it. Nothing would appear to happen in real-time there except for the magically adept. Well, they were all magically adept after all, weren't they? There was a draw, a suction, like hungry jaws clamping down on the sinews of the soul, and eating them up like a hearty stew. Minutes passed…

Before the man's breath hitched, and he fell backwards, collapsing dead on the floor.

Reina had let go on the hand a second before, and brushed fingertips to her lips, savoring the taste. Her insides were enlivened, and her mind sharp. A much better state of mind, a much better… atmosphere.

Her eyes glanced cooly at Cygni, and she spoke in a crisp voice. ”I think a Dungeon is a brilliant idea. However, I will not be entering it alone.”

Her hand gestured to Cygni, ”You will be joining me.”

A chin rested on a curved fist as Reina glanced over at Erina. ”And you.”

If any House member was looking carefully, they'd realize they were both chosen for what they said. Cygni daring to even breath a hint of a plan that could get their precious head killed. And Erina, spouting opinions instead of facts at her table.

Of course, it was a small correction. Reina would be present, and would ensure nothing happened to her enemy, and her faithful. They were both skilled, exceptionally so, making her command more like a slap on the wrist than a true punishment.

Alas, she had her own ulterior motive. She wanted to bring Cygni with her so he didn't make a mess of her House while she was gone. And Erina would be a witness so Cygni would have a harder time trying to kill Reina. Apostles knew Cygni coveted her position, but she would thwart him at every turn.

As the servants lifted the body of the prison inmate out of the room, Reina continued. ”We will discuss with Lord Yusei, and we will ascertain this Anomaly with our own eyes. I will not rest until this threat to our shores is dealt with.”

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｐｒｉｃｅ　ｏｆ　ｈｕｍａｎ　ｌａｎｇｕｉｓｈｉｎｇ

It was a safehouse, but it certainly didn't feel safe.

And it was all in part to its vile occupant. Trash littered the floor. Though, the rats and flies seemed to stay away--a surprise for the gutterways that Macaron always resided in. Maybe it was the fact that Macaron never left food out. A craven image of a woman who devoured bone, pith, and seedling. Or those who knew her always had the brief thought that she ate the rats. Of course, that wasn't true in the slightest. But the thought always resided in the back of one's mind.

One's home was a reflection of one's self. Macaron's wasn't great. A swathe of animals formed her psyche. Beaver to dam any pathway of the house with a mixture of trash and knickknacks. Bear to mark the walls in territorial anger. Raccoon to wash everything in sight. Squirrel to hide things in the walls.

Her cabinets were filled with empty tin cans that she couldn't bear the thought of throwing out. It was too difficult to figure out whether she kept them from attachment, sloth, or a primitive desire to cut the sides of her mouth. Perhaps it was all three.

While she never used it, she always kept a mug in the cabinet--even if the bottom of the mug was anointed with circles of dull silver from years of stirring. One that she always washed, even if it was just because it hadn't been used.

She stared out the window, the destitute shade ensuring a one-way observation. People looked like small bugs from the fourth floor. Not quite ants--more like beetles. Perhaps that's why people liked penthouses so much. At least, that's what Macaron mused. They, like her, would find the joy in crushing and burning ants. It was juvenile joy that Macaron managed to acquire in adulthood, even if her languid self would never act it out beyond her thoughts.

And as she wasted away with petty and cruel delusions, a familiar face looked after her. One might find the humour in a thug wearing an apron. But the apron was a dull red--frayed fabric that seemed to be older than the man who wore it. Macaron had cut the cuter ones she had to ribbons. Something about the design angering her. And there he was, making some macaroni.

If she had good humour, she could suppose that it was fitting. She always lacked something to properly make macaroni. The "I" was the issue. The cheap noodles would always get stuck to the bottom--an impenetrable layer of starch within a pot that would sooner find itself embedded in drywall than being scraped out in a sink. Or sometimes the issue would be her impatience and carelessness--the willingness to choke down vaguely cheese-flavoured broth.

Well, what was macaroni without cheese?

From the refusal of eye contact, it seemed like cheese was something Hideji could do without. He was probably smart for that. There was no telling when her unprompted smile would turn into the grimace of a hannya mask.

The news of a letter was certainly unexpected. So much so that the only emotion that Macaron could feel was bewilderment. She never received letters. Not since her family's retained lawyer--the one that didn't die--gave her the pittance that carried her to adulthood. The few letters that came from the government were handled by either Hideji or--when she took care of her--Amaya.

"Why not?" Macaron replied as she approached to take it from his hands. "Maybe it'll have a lock of hair to curse me in it or something."

The thought of curses or danger didn't dissuade her.

Everything about this felt wrong. The door, the halls, the silence. Not exactly a new experience within the confines of a Dark City but Oz could tell there was something about this that was different.

Leaving the letter leading him to its exact location aside, someone had managed to hex a door with a magical lock so complex that Oz had spent around 7 hours just cracking three of the bindings and 7 more on this last one alone. He was certain that this time the equation was perfect and... no, the door remained bound. The young man stood up and began pacing as he thought, keeping an eye and ear out for an approaching threats as he attempted to figure out why his magecraft was failing to open this path.

Rewrite's core function is the ability to change

Whoever left me that letter is aware of where I live,

the criteria that spells function under,

as well as has insight into my capabilities if they know

barriers included. This particular barrier

my skill with lock-picking spells. They also knew about

had 4 bindings with their own set of

this door and likely have some idea of what's behind it.

criteria and no 2 bindings could share a

What are their intentions with having me open up this

criteria but they could contradict each other.

barrier? They could have set a trap for me somewhere,

Balancing out the requirements for these

but then why not grab me while I'm focusing on breaking

bindings is difficult and runs the risk of a

the bindings? They could simply want what's behind

magical backdraft if done incorrectly. However,

the door, but how do they know I won't just take it for

I have gotten the formula close enough to not

myself? Similarly, they could kidnap me and force me

notice any repercussions for failing to unlock

to open the door if they don't want me taking anything.

the binding which leads to my next question.

Yet, nothing within this place has made a move.

Am I actually failing? It could be that I got

Likely answer, this is a test and my suspicions of

a previous binding wrong and didn't notice,

being watched are correct. They have some manner of

but the more likely conclusion is that the

keeping their eyes on me to witness how I crack this

barrier spell actively resists my tampering

vault and what methods I use to approach solving this

with a tampering of its own. That's it.

puzzle. Likely some form of detection spell, but they

The reason there's no recoil is because my

would have to be better with it then I am my own to

formula is always balanced by an inverse spell

be out of my range or have some means of obscuring

produced by the door. If I'm right, that means

their location that my Detect can't get through.

whoever created these locks knows how to use

Seeing as they thought that only I could understand

Counter and understands Rewrite well enough

this door and yet seem more knowledgeable than me,

to be able to use Counter on it. Alright, now

I have to presume that they bear a different crest

to test this hypothesis, I need to create an

than I do. Which also means that whoever is

inversion of an inversion of Rewrite but to do

testing me didn't make the barrier themselves

that without just casting another Rewrite spell,

but likely knows who did. Furthermore, I can

I'll need to utilize Establish and set a condition

assume that since this door requires the three

for imaginary variables. Negative of a negative

spells that I have learned during my training

is a positive, but the root of negative one is i

with my father, that these people knew him

so I just Establish that i squared can remain

personally and it is equally likely that

as i² within the natural numbers. Then it'll

the door-maker is in fact my father such

be equal to negative one but be a positive

that his disappearance is what makes me the

natural number, meaning I can invert it to -i²

only one who could understand this door.

and that is not equal to one, meaning my formula

The keys to this door were chosen deliberately

would not simplify back into Rewrite.

for me to be the only one who could unlock it.

With all that being said, Oz went about undoing the Counter security hex placed upon the door. It took him some time to verify his math was correct as this was his first time trying to do such a thing but when there was no recoil, he breathed a sigh of relief. That meant there was a spell that his formula affected, and his hypothesis was correct. Unfortunately, that also meant that all the bindings were likely never unlocked to begin with and he now had to start over. This was going to be a long night, but at least he was accustomed to pulling all-nighters.

"Right, thanks Nina."

Mathias responded politely, yet disinterestedly. As much as he wanted to go off and search for The Mist in a Rambo-esque fashion, duty called him, and he was not going to ignore it even if it meant letting that man slip through his fingers.

He puffed the last bit of smoke from his cigarette and then put it out against one of the concrete pillars, standing up from one of the cargo crates that he was sitting on. The picture was neatly folded and slid into the back pocket of his pants. His boots echoed amid the low electrical hum of as he walked across the warehouse, his thoughts focused only on that damned photo of The Mist. That damned smug smile was branded into his brain, as if he knew that Mathias was going to look at it and flashed his best smile just to taunt him knowing that he was just out of arms reach once again.

Get your head in the game.

The door faced him and with a deep breath, Mathias pushed it open. Mechanical whirring of magic touched machinery filled his ears and waiting there around a table was the rest of the crew. "Evening everyone, my apologies for the delay. I see everyone is present." He walked over to an unfolded white screen and grabbed a remote sitting on the table to turn on a projector sitting on top. The projector illuminated the screen with the picture of machines.

"As you know, we are tasked to delivering equipment to the Dark City to investigate the ever-growing thunder phenomenon. That machinery will analyze the current environment of the collective consciousness, and we report our findings to the Bluegate DSC branch." He explained with a level of authority as someone who had been through this scenario dozens and dozens of times and had as much enthusiasm as someone who stood up in that same exact spot dozens and dozens of times.

"We will be transporting the machinery in this." He clicked the remote and the image of a black truck with a shipping container attached to it. "Armor plated and reinforced by enough reinforcement craft inscribed into it to be nigh impenetrable. Our best driver will be at the wheel while the rest of us will protect the cargo."

With another click of the remote, the screen changed to an image of the readings that they had been receiving through those seismography machines. "Our destination will be where the highest concentration of these disturbances is located. Once we arrive, we'll setup the equipment and guard it until it gathers enough data to be analyzed."

And then there was another click of the remote. The squad were being shown a top-down map of the Dark City with various routes marked down. "We have our route thanks to the reconnaissance, but as you know expect it to never be a hundred percent correct given the nature of the Dark City. Each and one of you should have packets detailing the route for your own personal review."

His eyes glanced at each individual in the room, knowing that each and one of them was up for the task. The only one who could not put their full heart into the mission was himself. Chances are they all knew that too. His one and only purpose of being part of the DSC was to catch that man and there he was letting him slip through his fingers. However, he had a job to do.

"This is a highly unusual situation, but we will treat this as any normal mission. However, keep in mind that if we have noticed it then that means it's likely that someone else has too. Be prepared for anything. Now, any questions?" He asked his comrades and awaited a response.

It was true, of all the years he had been working with the DSC as part of the 0th Special Forces Group he had never once seen a disturbance within the Dark City at such a magnitude. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he could not help, but to wonder if the timing of the photograph and the disturbances were too perfectly aligned. Surely not.

@ERode

The small warehouse's only windows were thin and wide slits lining the upper end of the walls, looking more like the windows to a basement despite being far above ground. More than likely, it was simply to allow some light whilst dissuading would-be robbers from trying to scale up and over. Rain pattered against the mottled window panes that had rusted shut over the slits.

The ragged man scoffed, his cigarette bouncing in his lips. Slipping the pack back into his coat and taking a drag, he exhaled the white smoke out into the lounge, where it hovered for a half minute before disappearing into entropy.

"Not for this one, no," he scoffed again, "This one gets taken care of. I'm never worried about it falling into disrepair. No, I just needed somewhere to think by myself, out of the rain. It's been a weird feeling -this night," he explained. The man stood up and fixed his attire, wrapping himself up tighter in the cloth -he was clearly feeling cold- before sitting down again. "Usually I just curl up in a corner of the Dark City, but with this weirdness I didn't wanna risk the chance that I miss my exit in the morning. Always feels... claustrophobic when that happens."

"Was here earlier by myself, but I locked up when I went out to grab a bite. Guess I just wanted to keep it for myself then but... Couldn't leave someone out there in the rain. Glad I changed my mind, 'cause it looks like you really need a spot. Can't go home?" he asked, pointing towards Amaya's boiling kettle.

"Roland, by the way. Yours?" the man introduced himself. He took another drag, and was careful to keep the ashes he flicked within the confines of a grey-caked crystal ashtray. Despite his haggard appearance, there was an aura of peacefulness to him, if perhaps only by his cordial behavior and total lack of apprehension like most other (presumed) mages exhibited. His eyes did not focus, his posture did not tense, and most importantly there wasn't a hint of magic manifesting on or around him, readied to be loosed the moment Amaya made an aggressive motion.

The lack of tension became taught when a knock on the door rattled its metal frame. Roland turned his eyes towards the door.

"Ah, a packed house tonight I suppose. This one you may wish to be prepared for," he said ominously.

Amaya could feel it too -that behind the door stood something dangerous.

---

@Estylwen

With a strength borne of practice at this very feat, Isabella deftly hoisted the lifeless inmate's corpse onto her shoulders, and carried it out of the audience chamber. It was well twice her own weight, but she strode out without strain. The display, despite being both normal and expected, had always drawn the disgust of at least one or two members of the Household -especially those at the bottom- whenever it happened, but on this night their distraction left them wholly unperturbed. They remained in a deep contemplation, or otherwise blankly watched Reina suck away life without batting an eye.

The table remained placid even as Reina recruited Cygni and Erina to the task her cousin had suggested. None expressed any misgivings or doubts, even from the two now roped in. Cygni was as stone-faced as ever and Erina even smiled. Perhaps to her this was an opportunity and felt no shame in having being selected as punishment.

"Considering the mystery tonight, I am glad you would bring others with you," Leonus said, nodding sagely. "Tis' better to be cautious." Cygni stood from the table with a slow, respectful speed.

"Let us prepare the Dungeon quickly then. No time should be wasted. With Erina and I accompanying Reina, it would behoove us to add in a few more disciples to the ritual to ensure its maintenance," Cygni said. The room nodded and hummed in agreement. He turned to Reina, fingertips gently splayed on the table, and continued, "Whenever you are ready, Miss Reina, we shall attend your delve."



The meeting adjourned, and the heads dispersed throughout the estate. As most did not reside in the house naturally, there was a significant number of head mages loitering in the various lounges and living spaces, idling away with servants and siblings while the Dungeon was prepared. Such trivial rituals were beneath their character, and while they would be there to maintain its integrity they had little interest in forging the portal.

Deeper within the ancestral Asher estate, buried beneath stories of stone and dirt, younger disciples of the House wove their lesser skills together in generating a portal into the Labyrinth. Twelve robed men and women conspired with words and silence, and with gestures of hands, wands, and charms, as an inky black sphere coalesced slowly over the center of the room. Flickers of blue light cast by arcane torches fluttered shadows about the room, and a strange feeling of the world growing larger around oneself caressed at the skin, as if the air itself were distancing from one's body.

When at last the ritual was completed, the disciples' focus remained keen. The black sphere sharpened into edges, first as a many-faced prism, and then into a thinning square. The sides stretched down to the floor, forming an opaque door into nothing. The heads had by then filtered into the subterranean stony chamber, and took positions besides their accompanying disciples.

Cygni and Erina stood at either side of the murky door, awaiting Reina.

---

@OwO

The cheapness of the macaroni weighed on Hideji. He was no stranger to poverty meals, but having secured a better-paying lifestyle than 'obnoxious hustler' there came a better appreciation for nutrition and quality food. Macaron ate shit like he did in his youth, and despite having the money to bring something better than "Knack Mac n' Cheese", his restless timetable prevented him from doing so this time around. It would have to do. He just hoped she wouldn't snap and toss the bowl like other nights. Five dollars was five dollars.

With the noodles inefficiently strained of water and slathered in quickly-melting cheese dust, Hideji unslung the ragged apron and served a bowl to Macaron at the one table. He settle the bowl precariously at the edge; the rest of the table was crammed with useless junk and trash that he had no energy to move. Hideji handed the letter directly to Macaron, and made his way back to the kitchen to serve himself the rest. He would not sit with her.

"You know, other safehouses are even shittier than this, but since you're in here," Hideji stressed the subject, "The family scrutinizes it more. You could stand to do something, little lady."

The letter was nondescript but addressed to Tsune Kataoka in a handwriting that barely seemed manual. It was already open, but by Hideji's comments, Macaron could suppose that he had opened it to check for curses, and not actually read its contents. Once unfolded, the plain print paper wrote to Macaron:

If this letter does not reach its intended's eyes, you will not live long. Go ahead and run and hide, it's more amusing that way. To Macaron:
What is it you want? Money? A name? Everyone back? Sorry, I can't do that last one, but I figure it might be an answer. If you just want to be left alone and do whatever, I can understand that. If so it'd be difficult to convince you here. If that one is the case, you can just tear up the letter now. Bye!

Still reading? Then be at the Jebby Tim's on Falloway St. on the night of June 16th -the alley behind it, that is. You'll see the rift into the Dark City. From there head for the tags.

You were there for the massacre of the Kataoka's. I know. But I also know you weren't suppose to leave that scene. Death missed you, he told me.

A small scribble of a winking face finished the sentence before continuing:

If you wanna be useful and may get things order, I can help, but I need your help as the anomaly you are. Be there or be

A word followed, but was utterly scribbled out. No effort was made to replace the final word, as if the writer had given up on trying to be clever, or otherwise forgot. The night, as it so happened, was the 16th of June. Auspicious.

---

@Kronshi

Adjust. Restart. Reconsider. Restart.

Ozymandias toiled away at the door, each time getting closer and closer to understanding the nature of that final lock; each time comprehending the meaning behind that cosmic ray that interfered. Once again he was upon the final step, and need only apply one final method. The metaphysical lock -invisible and intangible- began to turn slowly, as if contemplating, taunting, whether it wished to humor Ozymandias. It was almost there... almost there...

Restart.

The ray struck again, and the door's locks all snapped back into place. But... it was plainly evident then that for all of the seemingly random and inexplicable nature of that cosmic ray, Ozymandias was always getting closer. Surely this one last time...

"Struggling?" A small and feminine voice called out behind Ozymandias. Between him and his exit stood a short figure in a yellow raincoat, soaked and glimmering with water that yet still pooled around their feet. Coupled with the hood of the coat, their head was obscured by a cloudy-eyed gas mask. With the swiftness of a frontier gunslinger, there was suddenly a firearm in their hand, held at hip and leveled towards Ozymandias.

A real gun was often useless against a mage, especially in a direct confrontation, and so it was incredibly likely that the object that this raincoat held was either enchanted or merely a conceptualization of something far more dangerous that Ozymandias was witnessing.

"Keep going. Faster. There's little time left," the raincoat said. The firmness of their aim did not waver. There was another howl in the distance. The sound of a child laughing echoed in his head, as if rebounding from the walls from its last manifestation.

---

@Remram

A row of metal fold-out chairs semi-neatly sat out before Mathias in the briefing tent. Four of them were occupied by familiar faces, but a fifth seemed lonely; a certain AWOL fifth teammate remained as missing as ever. The others were a chaotic group of maniacs that Mathias called his squad. It was an unspoken truth that those in the DSC were quirky in one way or another. Perhaps it was just the way of the world that the most colorful people in the military were the ones to become exposed to the Dark Sphere.

Dirk "Ogre" Caldren, a massive, down-to-earth man clad in modified bomb-defusal gear who preferred, paradoxically, to employ stealth magics. The armor was supposedly a ritualistic choice to "shield him wholly from reality".

Emma "Star" Norther, a bubbly young lady that loved to accessorize her gear, and carried with her a manifestation taking the form of a dog. It was, of course, no mere dog, as much as she treated it like one.

Jorgensen Bel, who simply went by his last name, cradled an enchanted M249 -one which he had modified himself from his time in the Marines. He was already well-aware of the Dark Sphere even prior to his enrollment into the DSC, but probably behaved the least posh among the squad, despite his belonging to a House.

Rafael "Glide" Cesar was a young Brazilian man adept with visionless targeting. The DSC remained regularly cautious of his ability to scry, for obvious reasons. His weapon of choice was a sniper rifle with preferentially intangible rounds. He was never without a raised hood and cloak.

The fifth, Jenny, had been AWOL for years, and written off as a loss with all searches ceased, but her relationship with the team and her abilities as a mage were never fully forgotten. The team had no questions, appearing fully onboard and understanding of the mission. It took little to get the squad rolling inside the semi-truck, wherein they situated themselves in the diminutive seats that hung by belts from the interior walls of the towed container. Ogre was, as usual, unsure of its ability to hold him and his armor up.

DSC protocols for manifesting Dark City gates large enough to allow the entry of vehicles as large as a big rig were a closely-guarded secret. Within the tow, Mathias and the others remained unaware of what the portal looked like as the truck was driven to a nearby location, but they could certainly feel it when they drove through the portal. An uncomfortable twisting in their guts, lasting nary a second, followed by the sensation of an aggravatingly large pothole under the truck's wheels. The squeal of brakes bringing the vehicle to a stop signaled it was time to exit. A security perimeter was to be established first before they continued any further within the Dark City's roads.



Emma shivered, stepping out onto the streets, her SMG hanging loosely at her side. Slung around her other shoulder was a portable dog bag, within which lay her compatriot.

"I've never gotten these vibes before here. Th'hells wrong with it? City upset?" she groaned. A monstrous howl at the moon sent the squad into caution.

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｄｕｅｌ　ａｔ　ｈｉｇｈ　ｍｉｄｎｉｇｈｔ

"Please," Macaron said as she took the bowl in hand, "this place is worth as much as me. If they want to be little buzzards pecking around a corpse's corpse for the last drops of their precious grandpa's blood, then by all means.".

She was content to wallow in filth in her miserable existence. The care she had for her family was, at the very least, reciprocal--only her mother never pleaded with her to treat them well. No, the only thing she heard from her mother about her family was wounded apologies in the brief moments between the fevers and dreams. No matter how beloved that woman was, her mother's love could only outweigh the vestigial poison that was Hayao in a select few.

The letter she received was a peculiar one. Her first letter in such a long time, and it was some kind of callout? Though the aspects of the writing carried little meaning for her, what with the fact that she never read her own letters.

The expression on her face was difficult to read. It was a simple smile, but what it relayed was up for debate. Pure un adulterated joy? Raw undulating hatred? Really, she seemed at peace more than anything else. A grin. Closed eyes. The slightest blush as if it were a love letter that confirmed something unrequited.

"I'm going to kill this bitch."

The words that came out of her mouth didn't help resolve anything. Neither did the macaroni she shovelled into her mouth.

Amaya nodded at his question.

“Yeah, I can’t.”

Hadn’t been home for a long while. At this point, it’d be more trouble if she returned than if she simply continued to maintain radio silence. Couriers like herself didn’t have the same sort of enemies that a House member would have, but she’d definitely find it harder to keep those around her safe than a House with all their resources and people would.

That wasn’t to say that they were impenetrable though. Even the finest clothes frayed, and most Houses were unkempt antiques whose value came more from age than from quality.

“Call me Amaya,” the raven-haired woman spoke, in time with the beeping of her kettle. As the water boiled, she pulled out a pack of Mountain House Teriyaki Chicken and an aluminum mug, blue with white specks. A bag of tea was dropped in the mug and hot water was poured, before she torn open the dehydrated meal and filled that up to the line as well. A puff of teriyaki powder bloomed in the air; she waved it aside before stirring the bagged meal with a spork, then sealed it up. Roland seemed the decent sort. Some smokers seemed to delight in tipping their ashes wherever they wanted, like marking their territory. Some residents of the Dark City liked to posture and jockey for authority, every line designed to scrape out more information or win some invisible social war.

Mere creatures, granted power they used without thought or purpose.

The door rattled. Her eyes lifted towards the windows, translucent slits evolving with every raindrop that cascaded against it.

“Did they follow you?”

Amaya dabbed the teabag around the mug, steam bursting apart as the surface rippled without rhyme.

“Did they follow me?”

She lifted the mug to her mouth, blowing upon it before taking a tentative sip. A wince, and she placed it down. Her tongue stuck out as she fanned it. Too hot still.

“Or are they the one who’s followed?”

Turning on the bar stool, she faced the door entirely, yellow eyes gleaming in the dim lighting of the warehouse. There were more dangerous things than non-dangerous things in the Dark City, more villains than innocents stalking the umbra of the Realspace. Didn’t mean that she had to be the one who pulled the trigger first though.

There was a door, after all. Maybe they’d just leave.

Asher Estate, Realspace

_@Asuras

---

Fifteen minutes.

That's how long it would take for the disciples to form the portal. Not much time to do anything, but for Reina, it would do.

While the heads sat in the lounges idling away the time, Reina stepped out the back door of the estate, rain touching her white and black hair as she made her way to a steepled chapel, huddled in one area of the courtyard. Graves were laid out beside the cobblestone steps, silent as she passed.

Reina slipped inside, walked down a dimly lit aisle, past neatly rowed pews, all the way to the altar under an arched stained glass window. With a snap of her fingers, candles were lit, and she knelt.

Yusei may have been her master, but she certainly didn't worship him.

Head bowed, words flowed from Reina's lips.

“Receptor glorise,
Ad pedes tuos me offero.
Magister dominii de Man.
Tenebrarum, etc.
Labyrinthus.
Ego sum pulvis arenae;
Pulvis macula;
Petentes ad pedes tuos.

Afferte honorem domui meae;
Salus populi mei,
Et Victoria ad Descensum meum

(Receiver of Glory,
I present myself at Thy feet.
Master of the Domain of Man,
Of Darkness,
And the Labyrinth.
I am the speck of sand,
The spot of dust,
Begging at Thy feet.

Bring honour to my House,
Safety to my People,
And Victory to my Delve.)”

By the time Reina rose, Isabella had joined her in the chapel, holding a small suitcase. Isabella held it up, and Reina popped the tabs, pulling the lid back.

Inside, nestled in foam, was a gleaming engraved pistol, along with six bullets, each engraved as well. Not only were they beautiful to look at, but each bullet was enchanted. They were specifically geared to shatter through most basic-to-adept magical barriers. Since these weren't curses or soul strings, Reina had reached out to an enchanter to commission her Delving pistol. Expensive, but worth it. Delving itself had an… unpredictable nature.

And this night, it would be much of the same, except exacerbated.

Reina picked out the pistol, letting it gleam in the candlelight, before she nodded to Isabella.

“This will do.”

***

It wasn't long until Reina joined the heads and their disciples in the belly of the Asher estate, pistol strapped to her hip. She looked over the disciples’ handiwork of the portal, and gave an approving nod. It was stable, and in the correct shape. It was a fine door to pass through.

Reina moved past the disciples ringing the door, and in front of Cygni and Erina. She eyed them both for a moment, before she turned and addressed the room.

“Fear not. Yusei would not abandon us. We have faced darker uncertainties and passed through safely.

“I have faith that our dutiful disciples will hold the Way open. If we don't return in twenty-four hours, send a search party.

“Though, I'm certain we will not tarry long in the Labyrinth. We will ascertain what's happening in our territory to create this… foreboding feeling, and return.”

With that spoken, she turned back to Cygni and Erina, gave them a nod, and walked into the portal. There was no need to doubt, or hold off. Better to walk confidently, upright, like the head of the House was supposed to. Yes, though she had her own concerns for what exactly they were walking into, and if bringing one who could very well stab her in the back at any moment was a good idea.

But she didn't have the luxury to doubt herself. Not here, not ever.