---

Bella didn't much enjoy being silenced, especially when the person had the audacity of a mediocre white man who expected those in his presence just to believe what he says without question. But she was thankful she did, if for no other reason than it confirmed her fears.

She was going crazy.

She had to be imagining all of this. The stress and trauma finally got to her. She wasn't really here. She was having some intense hallucinations and would wake up either in her bed or in some padded room. Clearly, magic wasn't real. Who the fuck would believe it was.

So she closed her eyes and willed herself back. She opened them to the same room, with the same strangers arguing back and forth. Some confirming they believed the old man and others continuing to fight back.

So she closed her eyes again and opened them. Same room, same people.

Fuck.

The Archivist, or whatever the fuck he called himself, pinpointed something though. Something she didn't necessarily want to admit, but she had questions. She saw something. A dream, but awake for it. Could it be...?

"You mentioned clairvoyance..."

Was she really about to do this? Go along with whatever the hell was going on?

"I have been having similar visions. Some of things that haven't happened and some of things that did. What does that mean for me? For us?" She was more so concerned for herself if it was, as he so eloquently put it, an unfortunate gift.

So not only was she gifted with this ability that caused her no end of grief and trauma, but she was being hunted. Hell, she was used to that, at least.

"I agree though. I don't know anyone here, really. Let alone trust anyone. For all I know you led us here with the sole intention of having these...witch hunters come find us and wipe us all out. Hell, I'm used to being hunted down. What's a few more people added to that list?"

---

Great, so Witch Hunters were part of the equation now?

Bea scowled, dropping their nearly burnt out cigarette on the ground and stepping on it much like Mathias had.

This whole group was strange. People she knew, sure, but did she want to be around them? Probably not. Pom kept looking at her like she’d stolen the elf’s whole weed supply. The girl with bright coloured hair- Bella-something?- was about to walk out. There was a possible halfling stinking off the fucking lake, a smell Bea had to deal with near daily at work… The purple eyed creep was floating above them all.

And of course the town’s finest- Kenny Burton- was there! Already preparing to beat up whoever looked at him wrong.

Bea’s head turned towards her fellow smoker as his claws and fangs really came out. There wasn’t much shock or fear there. Maybe it would save the hassle of dealing with Witch Hunters if he went postal and took them all out… Then again, there were people in here who didn’t deserve that.

I’m turning into a monstterrrrr! The shadows giggled around her feet. There were hints of manifestation, the cigarette ashes on the ground being flung up and around.

”Big fucking assumption about us all being spell-slingers, Mr Big Bad Wolf,” Bea rolled her eyes at Mathias as he seemed to come out of his murderous freakout to a much more depressed one. Just in case, she started to move away from him and back towards Rowan.

”He is right. I also have work tomorrow… Bet nearly everyone does. We barely know each other- even if we’re from this deadend town- and you used to kill people like us. I definitely don’t trust you.” Her words were both scathing and frustrated. Because she was stuck with a magic that had shadows haunting her. She had no control over it… But what could he teach her? He saw the future, big deal. That didn’t make him a magical genius.

But that thought, and Emmy’s questions, did bring up a thought… ”How do they find us in the first place? You used magic, they use- what, rumours? It can’t just be that.”

Rowan had her hand in her coat pocket, thumb rifling idly through the pages of her notebook. When she reached the end, she would go right back to the start in some off-kilter rhythm. Her eyes began to glaze, her sight drifting to a place none could follow.

The Archivist’s proposal was clear and left little room for interpretation: it was war. In a world of emerging power and knowledge, some seek to kill the practitioners, burn the books, and reinforce stagnancy. Perhaps it is old world elites seeking to maintain their hegemony, or a simple fear of the unknown. Regardless, war was being brought to them, and they needed to be prepared. She hated it.

Her first thought was to hide. That would be easy enough. The witch hunters had a target on Lena’s back first because of her fiery incident at the comedy club. It meant their primary form of tracking was watching out for incidents and following a trail from there. Rowan had the luxury of a more ‘under the radar’ ability. If she were clever, she could tuck herself away, and the witch hunters wouldn’t be an issue for her. It beat having to be a soldier, risking her life and even considering the thought that she would have to kill another person for her own survival

If she went with that approach, doubtless Lena would be caught sooner or later. The man floating above them, while magnificence in suspension, was nothing but a shining beacon to danger. And who else?...

Bea’s eyes narrowed behind the shades, head tilting towards Rowan as she came to properly stand beside her taller friend. Her voice lowered to a muttered whisper. ”I’m starting to wish it was a murder cult.”

Rowan stopped thumbing her notebook. Snapped back to Earth. She turned to face her friend; her eyes were wider if only for a moment. A panic? Fear? Shit. Hiding was off the table.

”I wouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch.” She replied with a somewhat ominous tone. Instead of maintaining eye contact, her sight flicked between Lena, Matthias, and Mason. Did they even have a choice if they took lives or not? Never mind those who wanted to.

Bea raised an eyebrow, turning slightly to properly look up at Rowan. Even though they’d only become friends again recently, it was still easy for Bea to read her. She hadn’t changed in that way- still timid, even quieter when processing things. Someone who tended towards hiding rather than fighting… and years ago Bea had always wanted to give her someone to hide behind.

There was a spark of that old feeling now fighting against the all consuming apathy.

”Don’t worry, I’m already thinking of all the worst scenarios,” Bea intoned, not particularly comforting. But their attention turned from staring at Rowan back to the Archivist. They spoke agian, to the room this time. ”None of us wanted this magic. Is there any way for us to get rid of it, instead of fighting or dying?”

---

---

Pom’s sunglasses did little to hide the deer-in-headlights look of pure terror on her face as Officer Burton and his ugly, wispy dwarven deputy joined them in the parlor. This whole thing had been a setup! Habitually, Pom began to raise her other hand to join its partner over her head as she grumbled under her breath that this shakedown was bullshit and she wanted to see the warrant Kenny had to even grant him permission to enter the mansion. A muffled “I know my rights…” was cut off by an audible “Ope!” as the pie box began to slip out of Pom’s left hand. She barely caught it against her knee, wincing as the already battered contents all shifted to one side.

Her sunglasses were barely hanging on to the tip of her nose as she straightened back up, the chromatic assault of light doing nothing to hide the dirty look she fired directly at Kenny. Officer Burton was a crony of the Man. He was the kind of cop who’d threaten to hit her with an intent to distribute because he ran into her at the grocery store in the aisle where they sell ziploc sandwich bags. Just because he was a good tipper whenever he dined in at Norm’s didn’t make up for how much money he was personally responsible for Pom losing or for how many half-smoked joints he’d crushed under his dirty boots.

She hated having to pretend to be nice to him when Shelly made her wait his table. Being able to fully sneer at Kenny was much more satisfying than muttering cannibal when she was out of earshot after dropping off a plate of bacon for him. Her glare shifted to the slurring, perverse dwarf who accompanied Kenny. Pom imagined he got that nasty looking mark on his mouth for running it too much. She didn’t condone violence, but it served that racist rockeater right. She blinked rapidly as Kenny swatted at his “deputy” and his hand went clean through the dwarf, who seemed unphased as the smack phased through him. Pom gawked around the room to see if anybody else had just seen that shit.

However, there would be no immediate confirmation as the Archivist took command of the room. He spoke of impossibilities–secret cabals that shaped history by eradicating magic–so naturally Pom believed him immediately. It had never felt so good to learn that she was being persecuted. Everything the Archivist said completely checked out. Pom chuckled a little to herself and shook her head in amusement. Well, it was no wonder she never found any concrete proof of Nessie immigrating to Lake Ontario or that it was Bigfoot and not the raccoons that left her trash cans knocked over. Simply, they must’ve been magical creatures locked away by the Man. The only thing the Archivist had forgotten about were the liches.

The joy of being right all along was cut short as the Archivist presented them with what the future intelled if they wanted to survive. She had always considered herself a pacifist. The idea that she had to not only fight to survive but maybe even kill filled Pom with dread, a dread that brought forth the shadowy image of a figure slumped over in a recliner and knotted her stomach. She nudged her sunglasses up with the backside of her dirty hand, worried that otherwise the look of guilt might be taken as a confession by the narc in the room. There was absolutely no proof.

It didn’t matter anyway. Like the Archivist said, she wanted to survive. Pom tilted her head. Did she? It felt more like an obligation than an actual desire sometimes. Had to maybe more than wanted to. Her nose wrinkled at the that awful and nostalgic musty smell of lake water and she sniffled yet again, mistaking the scent for a phantom remembrance before realizing the odor was actually just wafting off of the apple of the ghost dwarf’s eye. Pom resisted the urge to scoop Cailean up in a big hug (if only because she didn’t want to pie them) as they came to the rescue with a packet of wet naps. Wiping the sticky sweet cherry from her fingers was such a relief that all depressing thoughts of existential dread were immediately wiped from Pom’s mind as she gave Cailean a big smile.

“Thanks, man. You’re a real lifesaver between this and the backup pie. I owe you, like, a billion,” said Pom with a friendly familiarity. She palmed the dirty towel for now, hiding it beneath the battered pie box. “ Hey but this is all totally radical isn’t it? I mean, it’s just great! Not...not the witch hunter stuff. That’s, um, that’s all kinds of…” Pom grimaced. “Yikes.”

Pom immediately felt like she was bombing this. She shuffled and slightly turned her shoulder from Cailean, clearly a bit uncomfortable. Bringing up people wanting to murder them was an immediate conversation killer, and it didn’t help that Pom had to smell that goddamn lake. Her throat tightened as she tried to save this first impression, worried that failing to do so might make Cailean retract Pom’s “sound” status and instead leave her labeled as a geek or a square.

“I guess, y'know, what I’m trying to say is, it’s just nice knowing that I saw what I saw,” mumbled Pom awkwardly. She shook her head. “Nevermind. Thanks though.” She shook the pie box. “Can’t believe they didn’t give me any napkins with this thing.”

Pom eased up a little, shifting back towards Cailean. She struggled with speaking to strangers in general, and doubly so if they were young people, but Pom was certain if she could navigate things into her wheelhouse then she could avoid her usual awkwardness. They already had a pie connection, so she veered towards that. Worst case scenario, she could at least wisen up young Cailean about cherry superiority. Just as Pom was about to present the most interesting pie discourse possible, she overheard Bea.

”None of us wanted this magic. Is there any way for us to get rid of it, instead of fighting or dying?”

A sudden fear seized Pom, knowing now that the coolest cat amongst them had spoken that the others would soon fall in line and harmonize with her opinion. Normally, Pom’s instincts would tell her to do the same so that everyone would know that she was hip, but she couldn’t. She absolutely couldn’t. She had already lost him once. She was going to lose Bo again.

“N-No!” shouted Pom, pushing past Cailean. She nervously glanced towards Bea and mouthed ‘sorry’ as she turned to the Archivist. “I want to keep it. I’m not gonna fight nobody and I’m not gonna hurt nobody, but I want to learn. Maybe I'm not the quickest, but I can learn things. Like how his can talk!”

Pom pointed a finger directly at Kenny. For once, it wasn’t her middle finger nor was it behind his back. Actually, she was pointing at the ghostly dwarf besides Kenny, but as far as she knew only Officer Burton and Ivar would realize it.

“How do I make mine talk?” asked Pom, uncertain if the Archivist would answer her without first pledging herself to his stupid, likely jealousy-fueled crusade. A hint of anger bubbled up in her voice as she turned to Kenny and seeked her answers straight from the source. “How in the fuck didja make it talk, man?”