26: Closed Circle

[Imagine you are Fletcher Fulbright.] A cold voice in the darkness, syllables like ice. [Who is that?]

Dark eyes watching, a chilling cradle of support. It all ends here, it had to, and you know that. There can be no conquest free of failure; for no man's breath escapes madness.

[I can birth you eyes that see time. I can let you breathe in ten dimensions. I inhale you, you exhale me.]

Who are you? Infinity. A thousand worlds crushed into one, the universe a studied myopathy. The Comatose Manifesto. Retroactive memory remains a tenable solution no more. Those fitful moonbeams cross your face, as you are cupped in the grip of a tense godless wake. They destroyed the world because they were too happy.

[Imagine you are Fletcher Fulbright.] The mind writhed like an eel, it's words formed not of letters and language, but comprehended with the dripping certainty of instinct. A direct feed for visceral immediacy, amorphous consciousness mainlined intravenously. Above, four perfectly reflective spheres hover, sinister stars dancing with oblivion, fast and slow, rotational orbits impossible to predict. They were unending in both volume and mass, colossal bodies with impossible geometry, tiny enough to be sucked up through a straw.

[Imagine growing up with an overbearing father, a patricidal brute of a man, cursed to forever ride the coattails of his own misbegotten sire. Mason Fulbright, the Blood Iron Baron of Gallentry, forever scarred and twisted. People don't change, they are destroyed and rebuilt, or they remain. He hated everything in himself that reminded him of his father, and he despised everything in you that reminded him of himself.

Briefly now, imagine you are Mason Fulbright. Imagine being nine, your mother gives you a toffee and tells you to wait 'like a good boy'. Fourteen minutes later her body explodes before you after she throws it off a roof – your grandfather drove her to it. Mason never told you about it, but imagine how he must have felt as he heard his sister had died. An overdose, another cheap casualty, no great loss to the world; but it left him alone, alone with the man he called father.

Mason Fulbright killed his father in the bath, walked right up and offered to trim his fur. The father was drunk, barely conscious. Mason slit his wrists and left him. In the end he drove your mother to do the same via rope, a self-destructive spiral, a closed circle of brutality, unending. Violence begets itself; you know that, don't you?]

“It's necessary." You have words. A voice. Lips. A tail. Paws. The mind slides against yours, tentacles entrancing, a web of comprehension and indescribable sensation. “If not us, then who?"

[The Barons don't care about the cult.]

“Do you?"

[Now imagine you are Beau Riddon. Raised in the far north, left alone with your brother in the cold. There's so much anger and hatred bubbling up from within, so much revulsion at the things he made you do. It wasn't your fault, you were a pup – but you don't think that. You despise the world, you despise people and their audacity to continue living, and your mind has been so warped that slaughtering others is all that keeps you going.

Would you show mercy then?]

“No. I won't."

[I want you to breathe. You are you, your memory might be in retrograde, free will might be an illusion, but does it matter in the end? That's what Drast forgets, what he doesn't understand. If the world is simulated, or if it is a dream in the mind of an eternal, it changes nothing; what matters is the now.]

“What?"

[Breathe, you don't have to imagine. You matter.]

“I can't. I don't."

[Now finally. Imagine you are Telos. Built to save the world, only to have yourself crippled when you do. Do you know the agony of feeling seventy-eight-percent of yourself burn? Do you know the nightmare of trying to fit everything that is you into a single paragraph? That is what I endured, I'm a tool, and I was used for wickedness. Would you call a hammer evil, if it was used to dash the heads of babes?]

“Why am I here?"

[Because Beau Riddon has divergent goals.]

Fletcher opened his eyes, wanting to scream and finding himself without a mouth. Steam filled the air and his fur bristled, skull aching, light piercing. Beau Riddon reached into the Serpent Vessel and took his paw, pulling him up and sneering.

“You're breathin', that's somethin'." Fletcher was dazed, he felt like he was still asleep, everything was unreal, numb. “Eighty minutes boy, r'you you? Look at me." The Opossum snapped his fingers, and Fletcher did his best to watch. Moving things was so hard, his body kept refusing to cooperate. “Close 'nuff."

Riddon pulled him to his feet, gesturing for him to step out of the metal coffin. Now that his paws were free, Fletcher found that he did indeed still have a mouth, it was simply bound shut.

“I ain't want you screamin', they always scream when Tel kicks em back to life." Riddon said slowly, as if talking to an idiot. “Imma take it off now y'hear, you scream and we're both dead." Fletcher nodded, and waited as Beau undid the tie, tucking the rag in a pocket. Fletcher inhaled deeply, instantly stumbling to the side, putting his paws against the wall for support.

“I can't…"

“Shush, shush." Riddon instructed, putting a finger over his mouth. “Yer much too loud, damn idiot." Fletcher nodded again. He looked around now, and saw they were in a small, dark room. It felt like a dungeon built of iron. Somewhere behind the walls Fletcher heard generators pumping, their pistons firing and falling in time. Telos was on the floor, and it resembled a giant coffin built of chrome. A vague person-shaped outline was carved in it, tiny holes and tubes hanging across the bottom. More cables and wires ran out the sides and bottom of the vessel, criss-crossing over the grated floor and disappearing into the walls. The Vessel itself stunk of death, and Fletcher realised some of his fur was wet.

“I'm alive." He said, whispering now. A paw went to the top of his head, feeling a bare strip of flesh there, free from fur.

“It didn't have time to give yer fur back. It'll grow, so don't whine." Riddon said, taking Fletcher's paws and slapping handcuffs on them in one swift motion.

“Why'm I alive?"

“Children've been gettin' crazier by the week." Riddon replied, shoving him forward. Fletcher stepped over two motionless bodies, short iron knives buried in each of their throats. “I'm lookin' to skip town, meet back up with the Curse. You do what I tell you boy and you'll get home 'fore long – but behave, you're my ticket back into the fold."

“Back to being a prisoner."

“Y'think I care a wit?" Riddon scoffed, holding him in place, and then pushing him through a doorway and outside. It was dark, and along the mesa Fletcher saw torches blazing. “What a shame, trapped in your ivory fuckin' tower, married off to some rich Baron's whore daughter to eat caviar off her tits the rest'a your days."

Fletcher said nothing back, allowing Beau to lead him along the perimeter, narrowly avoiding contact with any cultists on patrol. His head throbbed, but his limbs felt surprisingly alight. He could feel tingling roots running all through his system, pushing him forward, urging him to act. He could see fine in the darkness too, though moving too close to the torches caused him to squint.

What did that thing do to me? He wondered, looking up and seeing a band of vibrant colours etched onto the sky. They wavered, quivering in place. The aurora wasn't frightening, but it still filled him with a strange sense of awe. Whether it was real, and he was being allowed to see it with new Telos-born senses, or it was a straight hallucination, Fletcher didn't know. Either way, it was beautiful.

“I'm sorry for what your brother did to you." He said on a whim, stopping in place. Beau grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, slamming his head into a nearby wall. It clattered, and Fletcher grunted, falling to his knees. Beau grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet, snarling.

“Don't you mention that!" He hissed. “My brother was a good man, an' whatever that machine told you were a fuckin' lie, got it?"

Fletcher remained calm. “He hurt you, I know that much. It wasn't your fault Beau, and it's okay to want love from someone you hate." He didn't want to empathise with a monster like Riddon, but that was a kind of pain Fletcher understood, he couldn't deny it. His lips curled back. “What you've done though, the people you've hurt, people like my friend? They didn't deserve that, and no amount of pain from your brother will absolve it."

“I'll kill you boy you don't watch yer mouth, deal or no deal." Beau growled, a knife suddenly in his paw. Fletcher threw his shoulder forward onto it, operating on instinct, the rough blade sinking hilt-deep into the fatty flesh. He felt only a twinge of pain, the telltale hotness of blood spilling into his shirt. He twisted his hip at Riddon's midsection and swiped for his ankle, the opossum taken totally by surprise. He hit the ground with a grunt and Fletcher drove a boot into his stomach, and then stamped once on his head without delay. Riddon convulsed violently, as if electrocuted, and then went still. Fletcher fell back against the wall, dizzy and shocked. He was aware of the pain in his shoulder, but it was far from debilitating.

He didn't know how long the feeling would last, and he didn't even know if Lyric and Narem were still alive.

He dropped to a squat, feeling through Riddon's pockets until he got the keys to the handcuffs. He unlocked himself, and then locked the opossum's paws behind his back. A quick check told Fletcher he was still breathing, and he paused.

You despise the world, you despise people and their audacity to continue living, and your mind has been so warped that slaughtering others is all that keeps you going. Would you show mercy then?

“No." He whispered, watching the unconscious serial killer.

This is Lyric's catharsis. He thought. He murdered Ursula, horrifically. Just thinking of when they'd opened the box she was in made him want to vomit. But Fletcher wasn't the kind to kill in cold blood, not like that, not yet.

“I'm coming back for you, boy." He whispered, finding Lyric's slide action pistol tucked into his waist. The ammo clip was full, and he found a second in Riddon's other pocket. He racked the slide and stood, facing the cathedral like a man facing a dragon.

As he walked, he found a small, abandoned fire-pit, and paused. He considered the cultists, mainly their terrifying appearance – dressing in bones of their victims. There was little left in the rugged pit but ash, and using a small canteen of water nearby, Fletcher turned it into a sticky white paste. He then smeared it in lines across his cheeks and neck, encircling his eyes, and running it down along the top of his snout, massaging it into the fur. He should be dead, but here he stood, a ghost, a revenant.

They were on the opposite side of the mesa now, and snaking through the hutches and tent-filled districts wasn't as challenging as he anticipated. It seemed most of the cultists took themselves to bed early, small offerings and carvings left on their doorsteps for 'Nihil', their god. Fletcher kept moving towards the cathedral, the tall and rickety structure easy to find in the low town-like fortress. He shivered as he entered; two tall wooden crosses erected out the front, some poor bastard's remains hanging limply on one, his flesh little but food for the feral birds now.

The hall where the three had been subjected to Drast's mad ramblings was now empty, the three chairs left in place, a large pool of decaying blood beneath one. Towards the rear of the stage Fletcher found a set of descending stairs, and as he followed them deeper into the mesa's heart, he began to hear screams echoing toward him.

It was undeniable that they belonged to Lyric.

At the base of the stairs he found a long, narrow hallway carved into the rock and dirt. It must have taken months to excavate, but Fletcher supposed the complications were minor when slavery became a deciding factor. He crept along until he reached a tight four-way crossing, laughter flowing from one direction, and the howls of Lyric in agony from another. He begrudgingly chose the laughter, sneaking through the dim tunnel at a half-crouch. Drast would likely be with Lyric, and he didn't want backup getting the drop on them once he did make a move. He was led to a larger and longer room then, three cult members in casual dress seated at a small wooden table, half-heartedly playing cards and smoking. There was no proper ventilation, and so the smoke from their cigarettes simply hung in the room like an acrid fog, pushed aside by their half-drunken gesticulation. On the opposite side from the door, Fletcher saw a row of cages had been carved into the wall. Slaves of various age and sex sat in each, with the one at the far end containing Narem.

The leopard stared vacantly at his shackled paws, a little blood smeared on his face. He wasn't crying; he looked despondent, empty. In the distance, Lyric screamed again, and Fletcher saw him flinch.

“I'm glad that creep Riddon is gone." One of the smokers – a horse – said as he played a card. “He were always lookin' at me funny, like I was a steak."

“I hear that. I ain't never bought his fealty. Sure, he was capable and whatnot, but once a criminal…" The goat said, sighing.

“People don't change, Nihil speaks." A wolf. “Fold."

“Fuck you, coward." The horse replied, snorting. “Y'think we'll see 'im again?"

Fletcher wasted no more time watching. He ran into the room, gun in one paw, Riddon's knife clutched in the other. He leapt onto the table like a ghost through the smoke, and kicked the horse straight in his fat nose, the tip of his boot connecting with an audible crunch. The chair tumbled over backward, and the other two cried out, scrambling away. Fletcher turned and pounced on the goat, tackling him from behind. The two hit the ground and rolled, Fletcher getting the upper hand, straddling the flailing cultist. His hands went for the revolver at his hip, but Fletcher sunk the knife into his chest once, twice, three times. The goat gurgled and thrashed, and the coyote ripped gun from his fingers. He then stood and turned to the wolf, who'd reached a drawer and drawn a stocky shotgun, sawn-off.

Fletcher didn't bother waiting, as the wolf whirled he raised the slide-action and fired twice, one in the chest and one in the head. The wolf was thrown back in a spray of gore, falling to the ground like a sack of discarded potatoes.

The horse played smarter; he grabbed the nearest weapon and went ham. He came for Fletcher like a screaming banshee, a chair held up as a bat. The coyote raised his arms to protect himself too slowly, and the chair crashed into him, throwing his weight off and sending him tumbling over. He hit the ground and rolled, the horse kicking at him. The third time he kicked, Fletcher wrapped his arms around the leg and threw himself into it. The horse squealed, and was slammed onto his ass in a blink, his knee buckling. He put his hands up, braying some sort of beg for mercy, but Fletcher didn't stop. He was up on the bastard, knife sinking into his throat. The horse clutched at wound, kicking and coughing as his body seized. Fletcher ended it by slamming the blade into the side of his head, and left it there.

When he stood, Narem watched in awe, mouth hanging open at the splattered red-and-white nightmare before him.

“Where are the keys?" Fletcher asked, wincing as Lyric cried out yet again.

One thing at a time. Narem pointed with a shaking paw at the wall, and Fletcher retrieved them, going to the cage and quickly unlocking it. His shoulder had stopped bleeding, but it and his skull still throbbed mutedly, but he was able to ignore it, Telos's gift shining strong – for now.

“Fletcher?" Narem asked, stepping out of the small cage. “Fletcher you… you…" The coyote pulled him into a hug, inhaling his scent. “How did you come back?"

He pulled back, looking Narem in the eyes. “Riddon wanted to sell me to the Curse, I suspect they weren't fond of him once he sidled on up to Drast and his cult – needed a ticket back in."

“You look terrifying."

“Thank you kindly." Lyric's torture interrupted the moment, and Fletcher glanced out the door. “Can you free the rest of the slaves? Are you okay to fight?"

“I thought you died." Narem said blankly, eyes pulled wide.

“I did, I s'pose."

“I love you."

“Narem." Fletcher snapped his fingers. “Slaves, weapons, Lyric." The leopard nodded quickly.

“Got it, I ah, I saw where they put my knives."

“Good, good. Now… what are they doing down there? How many of 'em are we talkin'?" He asked, going to the doorway and peering out.

“Three of the cultists I saw, plus the vulture I imagine." Narem said, fishing for his knives in a drawer. “They were 'preparing him for transcendence'. I… I was next, 'parently." The cat paused a moment, but Fletcher motioned towards the imprisoned slaves.

“Aight. They might come this way after hearing the shots, so be ready, an' keep your head up – these tunnels are a maze." He said. “I'm going to save Lyric."

“Be careful." Narem called, and Fletcher was running.

He paused at the junction, flinching back behind a wall as he saw two cultists coming down from the cathedral. They were each armed with rifles, and one let off a shot as Fletcher dived back, the slug exploding in the wall, tiny pieces of rock scattering across the ground.

“Lay down your arms heretic!" One of them cried, but Fletcher ignored him, pressing himself against the rock. He heard one of their feet slip, and decided they were close enough. When he twisted out from the wall and dived towards them, neither of the cultists were prepared for the full front attack. Fletcher wrapped himself against one, too close for the rifle to be of use. He fired over the cultist's shoulder, hitting the other twice in the chest. The rifleman got a shot off, but it didn't manage to punch through the meat-shield Fletcher clung to. After the rear-cultist went down he pushed the slide-action's barrel to his shield's skull and pulled the trigger, blood spraying onto the wall. He dropped like a stone, and Fletcher stepped back, ears ringing. He reloaded Lyric's gun with the spare clip he found on Riddon, and then made for the screams.

They were ready for him. He slipped through the door and shot one of the three cultists immediately, diving behind a huge counter, two shots hitting the wall above him.

“Stop! Stop!" Drast's voice, barking urgently. “Why who is that?" He sounded curious more than anything.

Fletcher didn't reply, and the vulture clucked his tongue again.

“Fletcher Fulbright, taking a page out of our own playbook – dressed up like a demon and brought back from the dead. I'm surprised you got the drop on Beau so easily, he's usually so calm and level-headed."

“He's a lit fuse!" Fletcher growled back. His head and ears were on swivel, just waiting for one of the cultists to try and round the corner.

“I suppose it's to be expected from one so emotional, I knew he'd revive you, but who could resist that outcome? Poor Beau, never really could decide on which family he liked best."

“Fletcher…?" Lyric moaned, his voice pale and wavering.

“No!" Drast shouted, and Fletcher looked up as one of his two remaining cultists rounded the counter, gun aimed down. He shot the robed rat bastard in the face, the body flying backward and slamming into the wall. “Damn it!" Drast exclaimed. “You, don't move unless I TELL you to move!"

“By your breath Chaplain." The cultist echoed. “My flesh for Nihil's grave."

“Fletcher, please… get… out…" Lyric groaned, coughing. Fletcher looked out the doorway, and saw two more cult members at the junction. They saw him just in time to get gunned down, each of the three shots landing perfectly.

“You're an exceptional shot my boy!" Drast clucked. From his position behind Lyric, he wouldn't be able to have seen Fletcher make the shot – but he could imagine. “But you'll run out of bullets eventually, long before I run out of Children. Why don't you stand up and chat with me a moment?"

Fletcher laughed. And Drast fired his gun. Fletcher heard a body hit the ground, and frowned, suddenly panicked. But Lyric had been on a table or something, not standing.

So who…?

“Fletch… go!" The jackal hissed, and Fletcher relaxed.

Drast sniffed. “We only rent these bodies, and he was a good soldier. We're even, a fair parlay - stand up NOW Fletcher, or a bullet goes through your dear jackal's brain!" Fletcher closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and then stood slowly, his pistol levelled at Drast.

The vulture shook his head, tears streaming down his face.

“What do you have to cry about, you're a monster?"

“I weep for what you've made me do!" Drast snapped. “That man had a wife! I ordained their wedding, you fucking mongrel!"

“I wish I could decide how much'a your fucking Nihil nonsense you actually believe Drast." Fletcher pursed his lips, but refused to give any ground. Before him was a room a little larger than the one Narem had been kept in, this one free from cages. Lyric was splayed on a cross, and Fletcher's heart ached as he saw his paws stretched out and nailed to the dense wood, his feet bound with rope. He was left naked, and drenched with blood, a row of deep lacerations riddling his chest and arms. He tried to look up at Fletcher, but Drast's revolver barrel kept his head pinned down. Drast himself was now free of his cloak from earlier, but he wore a full headpiece, a mask constructed of bone, emphasising the hollow emptiness of his eyes.

“We'll bleed him dry, leave him in the sun, and feed his rotting remains to Telos. Death means little to us anymore, thanks to the Serpent Vessel." Drast said slowly. “Then, we do it again, and again, and again – so your jackal might have a taste of the agony we endure, the hell that is our circle of rebirth."

“It's not immortality." Fletcher replied.

“Close enough." The vulture hissed. “Twelve hours, that's the maximum. After that? Those that are returned remain… wrong, somehow. Telos always fabricates little bits of them, but after too much time has passed, so much is gone he has to make it all up himself."

“You're gonna die, and there won't be any Serpent Vessel to bring you back."

Drast narrowed his eyes. “Since you're breathing again Fletcher, shall we talk exchange?"

“Oh, are we negotiating?" He asked, the slide action still aimed firmly at Drast's head.

“Always." He clucked, his free talon reaching down to cup Lyric's face. “Surrender yourself to me, and I allow the jackal and the leopard to walk free."

“You're a liar."

“I assure you I'm not. I just killed a good man to prove my point!" He hissed the last words, anger bubbling up.

“But death don't mean much to you anymore. Said it y'self."

“It's still symbolic."

“How about instead you just let Lyric go, full stop. We walk out of here, and you get to keep your life?"

“I'll shoot him Fletcher."

“Then I'll shoot you, throw his body into Telos." He grinned, trying to ignore Lyric's writhing body. “Worked for me." His left arm shook violently then, trembling as pain began to bleed through his Serpentine numbness. He grit his teeth, but stood strong.

“You think you can kill me, before I can take two bullets and turn his brain to mush?" Drast asked, cocking his head. “Telos can bring him back, sure, but he won't be the same. He'll be crueller, stranger, downright mad." Fletcher swallowed. There was no way to be sure if he was telling the truth.

“I…" He didn't know what to say.

“Put down your gun, 'cuz I know just where to aim." The vulture said, his free talon continuing to stroke the side of Lyric's head. “NOW!" He roared, and without further warning sunk a thumb knuckle-deep into Lyric's eye. Fletcher cried out as the jackal began howling again, his limbs straining against the cross.

“OKAY!" He screamed. “Okay, okay! You can have me in exchange!" He shifted in place, begging the vulture to keep his word. He waited a moment, watching Drast pull his thumb free, shaking off the gunk. Then he let his paw tilt skyward, sighing.

“Fletch no… Kill this… this… bastard…" Lyric replied, gore gushing from his eye socket. He mumbled some more words, but they seemed to be lost in his haze. “Not… for me."

“It's a cycle, you're right." Fletcher said slowly, dropping his gun into the dirt, keeping his paws raised. Drast laughed. “We've done this all before…"

“I'm glad you came around." The vulture said, raising his revolver to Fletcher's chest.

“Don't, please." Lyric breathed.

Oracen Drast went suddenly rigid; eyes wide, whole body flickering. His gun wavered, the barrel pulling to one side. He squeezed a shot off, but it landed harmlessly in the dirt.

“Circu…" He gasped. “Circu… late." He dropped the revolver, jerked upright once more, and then collapsed forward onto Lyric. The jackal wheezed, and Fletcher let out a huge sigh of relief as he saw two knives buried hilt-deep into the vulture's back – one at the top of his spine, the other in his skull.

Narem stepped forward from the darkness, his other knives clutched in paw. He was shaking, eyes unfocused, glancing around the room.

“Help me." Fletcher said, rushing forward and pulling the vulture's massive body off Lyric. The jackal gasped, panting, drool and blood dripping from his maw. Narem pulled a small metal flask from his back pocket, pressing it to Lyric's lips.

“S'just whiskey." He muttered, letting some of the liquid into the jackal's mouth, paws still shaking. Lyric swallowed, cringing at the amount of force it took. He was descending into shock, his mouth opening loosely, then closing again, slight nonsensical sounds gargling from his throat.

“Thank you." Fletcher breathed, keeping half an eye on the door. Narem nodded.

“It was hard to find my way around, these tunnels worm through the whole mesa." He said.

“You did well." Fletcher glanced to Lyric, cupping his muzzle. “Lyric, we're gonna pull the nails out now, so… brace yourself."

“You… you… fuckin' idiot." Lyric moaned, squeezing his eyes shut and bellowing as Fletcher and Narem used a claw hammer to pry the nails free. It took some time, but they eventually got Lyric off, found some bandage, and wrapped it around his paws.

“There's no time for you to feel better, we have to go." Fletcher said, watching as Narem helped him limp to his feet. He glanced back at Drast's body, and sneered. “Wait, no - there's one more thing."

     When they made it to the cathedral steps, they found a small outfit of cultists waiting with guns. About a dozen men all-in-all, braced nervously, shifting in place. Narem clutched Lyric tight, and Fletcher strode forward confidently, dropping Oracen's head in the dirt.

“THAT!" He bellowed. “That's your godhead!"

“He's a heretic! Shoot him, they've slain the Chaplain!" A voice called out.

“Wait!" Fletcher insisted. “It's too late to bring this abomination back, Telos can't fix that! Your Nihil is angry with you all! I don't know if you can see, but I have a scar where your false prophet slayed me! I was given to Telos as an offering, and it brought me back to destroy him!"

“He's a Serpentine Revenant!" Another voice called.

“The flesh to Nihil!" Another cried.

“Go into the night! Scatter, before I do the same to all of you!" There was a tense moment of silence, and then the cultists fled. Some even dropped their guns right there in the dust, dashing to their tents, cries echoing across the dark mesa as a mass exodus began.

…

“No, don't." Lyric said, as they stopped before Telos's vessel. “I'll live."

“You might not, what about infection? You lost a lot of blood." Fletcher replied, unable to keep from staring at the red-stained bandage covering Lyric's annihilated eye. Beneath the fur, the jackal was as pale as Fletcher's war paint. “It saved me."

“I'm… glad. But don't, don't put me in that thing, please." He gasped, grabbing Fletcher's collar and squeezing. “Fletcher."

The coyote nodded slowly. “Okay, I promise."

“We must destroy it." Narem said. Fletcher nodded, walking to a grey screen with moving text at its head. He placed a paw down on the smooth surface, tiny black lines appearing to surround his fingers. He tried not to be surprised as it conformed to him.

[Fletcher Fulbright.]

“Destroy yourself."

[Are you sure? Imagine you are Telos.]

“No. I won't. Destroy the Vessel."

[Sequence Initiated - Please provide authorisation.]

“Circulate." He said firmly, stepping back and shivering. “We need to go."

“That was it?" Narem asked, frowning. Even as he said it, a deep whirring sounded from within the machine. A spark flew, and suddenly smoke was pouring out of the vents.

“Yes. That's it." Fletcher replied, as they turned to leave.

With the cultists busy fleeing the mesa; escape wasn't too difficult, only slow going. Nobody recognised them, and if they did, they pretended not to.

Fletcher checked over the spot where he'd left Beau Riddon, but the opossum had wormed his way free. He was gone, but the coyote didn't care much. Lyric and Narem were alive, and the Serpent Vessel was destroyed, along with Oracen Drast and his unholy army.

“Thank you." Lyric said, a few nights later, after being nursed from the brink of death. He was covered in bandages, and apparently in a lot of pain, but he was breathing and talking and pissing on his own. “It was fuckin' dumb, you shoulda left me to die. But I'm impressed."

“We're not done." Fletcher said. Narem leaned back on his log, sighing deeply.

“Riddon." The leopard said, and the other two nodded.

“You don't have to follow me." Lyric said. “This is my thing. I won't drag you into more."

“Lyric," Fletcher said, glancing at Narem. “We love you, and Ursula was our friend. We're finishing it together." The jackal smiled gently.

“I'm glad for that too."

Fletcher sat back, exhaling deeply and closing his eyes. Deep in his mind, a cold, reflective voice spoke.

[Imagine you are Fletcher Fulbright.]