Poisonous Fox

I tasted motor oil.

My face scraped against gravel, cold, dry, tasting like oil.

I blinked. Bleary eyes.

My nose pressed against the ground. Gray stones, black stains, a jumble filled my vision–including what I thought might have been hair, if hair were purple.

The hair concerned me the most.

I had hazy nondescript feelings that I had awoken face down plenty of times before. But that hair, at least, what I assumed was hair, was a light purple. That was not the color my hair should have been. Why was my nose buried in someone else’s hair, and where was the rest of this person?

Horror slowly dawned on me. A creeping sensation, climbing up my spine, climbing much further than it should have. This… this body–feels strange. It was akin to having nerves cramped and stretched, or an arm fallen asleep. It was improving, but not quickly. Painful. But I was no stranger to pain.

It was just, I, when had I experienced pain before?

My left forearm itched worse than a yeast infection. I scratched at it through my jacket’s sleeve. My fingers scratched very well, so well, in fact, that they got caught in the leather. Odd. When my nails got stuck, there was a pulling sensation, then a sliding one. It persisted even before my nails should have touched the sleeve.

I pulled up my right hand, inches from my face.

Those were not my fingers.

Those were not my nails.

Lilac fur covered the back of my hand and fingers; my fingers were shorter than they should have been, by about an inch, but they ended in black claws that extended my fingers to about where they should have been, lengthwise. I rotated my hand, verifying that it was indeed my hand, that it was connected to my wrist, and that it obeyed my commands.

Revulsion and nausea began to join the mounting horror.

On the opposite side of my hand, the pad of my hand, it was bare of fur, but the skin was thick and rough.

Oh no. That revulsion grew. I felt ill. But proper ladies never spoiled their appearances. No powder rooms available, I needed to keep it together. I smashed back those emotions. Logic. I needed to ascertain my situation.

I wiggled my toes. They felt strange, very strange, but I could not bear to look.

What has happened to me?

The temptation to swear and curse and utter crude language rose up, but just as the revulsion, I ruthlessly crushed the urge. As I was taught, though I cannot remember my teacher, and as I was trained, though I cannot remember my trainer, I hold myself upright and bite back against these emotions. Physically biting down upon my tongue helps.

My tongue felt longer and thinner.

My teeth felt sharper and fewer.

My nose was huge!

I stared down at it. It extended far, too far in my vision. How could I ever learn to ignore this? It obstructed my sight. My horizon, the edge of my perception, had shrunk from the bottom, but expanded in other ways, towards the side, and forward. Sharper vision? But… No. I squashed those feelings, repressed them, brutally. Facts only. My nose was a muzzle.

Could I even speak?

My tongue felt clumsy, the patterns of movement learned supposedly over years of adolescence now fail me. My muscle memory, corrupted. I tried working my tongue over and over, forming consonants and vowels.

The itching, burning sensation of my left forearm worsened. The burn went deeper than skin, was spreading. I needed to check it, but… but I was afraid. What other horrific change had been wrought?

Shamefully, I ignored it. Instead I focused on speaking. Or rather, attempting to.

“Ga–da–gi–ir–da–an–tah–ss…”

I continued practicing, until finally I could utter a word. In English, I thought. Though I had no way to verify. After what felt like forever, all the while my left wrist burned and itched bone deep, I finally managed to almost speak the phrase that felt ingrained in my very soul.

“Goodah girlss donn’t–” I nixed that attempt and tried once more, certain I could get it this time, “good girlss donnnsswear–” I growled in frustration, and noticed that sound came far more naturally than regular speech, as though my body were that of some savage. Once more. “Good girls donn sssweahr.” So close. Once more. Once more. Once more. Until finally, I succeeded. “Good girls don’t swear.”

A small portion of pride filled me for succeeding, until I realized that uttering that phrase was such a trivial task, or should have been, that my pride turned to shame. To console myself, I reminded myself that I would only improve. This success merely proved that I could manage speech.

Practice would make perfect. Anything less would be failure, and failure was always punished.

But speech was only one method of communication. I needed alternatives. So I ran through a range of facial motions, which were not intuitive, not with this… alternative face. I smiled, or tried to. The muscles stretched strangely, my lips pulled back and I felt air on my gums. I stopped smiling after that. It had been a false expression, anyhow.

It was while I practiced expressions and speaking that I was interrupted. I realized, albeit lately, that I had never actually gotten to my feet, nor had I taken stock of my surroundings. Another failure. I would castigate myself later.

“Is someone there?” A man called out, his voice echoing strangely on the rocks.

My slothfulness would be corrected now. I needed to gain my feet, to gain my bearings.

From where I had been laying on my stomach, I rolled onto my back. My spine pinched oddly. My bodily control was not great. I could manage shakily, but I was far from graceful or dextrous. But I could worry about that later. I needed to assess my current situation. There was a man nearby. He could have been the one that had brought me here; or maybe he was a good samaritan; or a fellow victim… too many unknowns. I needed to know more. I would exercise caution.

Before I responded, I finally examined my surroundings. Canyon walls towered above me, blocking out most of the sky. The walls appeared natural, with many irregularities marring their surface. Pockmarks and black stains decorated them, proving a violent past. The canyon floor had perhaps been a streambed in ages gone, though now all I found were jagged rocks and packed gravel, along with patches of lichen. Whatever geological history had taken place here had been violent. It looked like it was long past. Or so I hoped.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” the man continued, reminding me there was an unknown and potential threat nearby. “Whoever you are, I mean you no harm.”"

That is what someone who intended to harm me would say.

My eyes landed on an odd yellowish oblong stone, longer than wide, with a bulbous end. Belatedly, I realized it was a bone. And now that I knew what to look for, I saw that the valley had been littered with them, though many had been ground down with the gravel.

This location was not safe.

“I’m going to approach,” the man said. With the echo, it was difficult to be certain, but I thought he was coming from the ‘up-stream’ direction, or from the incline. The canyon walls wrapped around there, for the streambed meandered. “Again, I mean you no harm. But we need to level-set. Just an honest face-to-face dialogue.”

I considered my options. I could try running, but my legs felt wobbly and I doubted my success. I could try hiding–but despite the fragmented ground, the rocks, and the irregular cliff walls, no hiding place would shelter me beyond a cursory examination. The third option was right out–I was in no state to climb these walls. That left my final option, the dialogue. I loathed the potential power imbalance, but my hand was forced.

“Who–” I croaked out, again adjusting to the new tongue and mouth “-who are you?”

“Good! That’s great. Introductions then,” the man said.

He came around the corner and I finally got a good look at him. He wore an incredibly expensive suit, well cut, with a white silk shirt. A rich gold watch adorned his wrist. His shoes had been shined. Everything about him screamed wealth.

That was, until I got to his face. I gasped instinctively before steeling myself.

“You… are you alright?” I asked, allowing my thoughts free reign during my shock. He looked like a burn victim, his skin wrinkled, white and pink, with oozing cracks. It even had a certain aroma of rot. Then I realized I had been drawing attention to an unfavorable aspect of his, and thus generating unfavorable attention upon myself. I belatedly reprimanded myself. That had been foolish. I needed to recover. “-I mean, yes. Introductions. My name is Jackylyn,” I said. I tried smiling as I sat up.

He ignored my first comment and grinned. I felt my stomach turn when I saw his cheeks spread and the cracks began to gape. His teeth were pearly white at least.

“As I suggested, introductions then,” He said.

His cheeks were sallow enough that his cheekbones were clearly visible through his ultra pale and thin skin. His eyes were blue orbs of luminescent light, giving the impression of flames within his occipital orbs. His lips were thin, his mouth wide, and his head bald. The only part of his head that failed to give the impression of a skeletal abomination was his ears, which were long and pointed.

This man was not human. If he was even a man at all. But then again, someone might say the same of me. Being not human. I was never a man. At least not that I remembered.

“My name is Nick Delaney, former CFO of Balon Pharmaceuticals, and currently blessed by the entity self-described as the god of death, Thanatos.” He approached with his right hand outstretched, as though for a handshake.

I eyed him suspiciously. I had to look up to see his face, he towered over me by several feet. I felt like a child beside him. He held his hand out for several seconds, his lips narrowing until almost invisible, before I finally decided it was no trick. I reached upward and shaked his hand.

“Jackylyn,” I said, “but I go by Jack.” My tongue still felt strange, but my speech had improved drastically, far more quickly than I would have anticipated otherwise. “Any chance you know where we are?”

He looked around then shrugged. “Not a clue. Thanatos dropped me off nearby. I take it you were dropped off by a purported deity sponsor as well?”

I frowned, or I tried to anyway. My eyebrows lowered, and something on the top of my head shifted. I refused to dumbly repeat the word 'deity,’ but my mind raced with potential meanings. I had no clue about any divine sponsor, but that did not mean I lacked one. But this man, Nick Delaney, apparently was claiming that a god of death was his sponsor.

What did that mean?

I doubted any divinities existed, and if they did, why would they deign to lower themselves to a mere mortal’s level? In my experience, the powerful cared naught for the low and poor. In short, I decided the man must be delusional. But claiming that out loud could prove unproductive. No, I would keep these thoughts to myself.

“I don’t know about any sponsor,” I answered after a pause. When I thought I saw judgment in his eyes, I hedged my answer with “at least, not to my knowledge.”

“Hm.” He did not sound convinced, but he slightly nodded his head. “You must be a local then? Some kind of beast?”

Why would he… ? No, that was just an offensive question. A slight rumble sounded from my throat, almost imperceptible. The top of my head shifted.

“I’m human,” I answered, perhaps a tad more heatedly than I should have.

“If you say so,” he said with a skeletal smile. “But that would mean that you are sponsored by a deity, even if you don’t want to admit it. Which is fine…”

He tricked me? I think he did. Or tried to. He played off of my own dissonance and bodily dysphoria with this horrible animal body that I had been shoved into. If I had been a human, like him, and then recruited by some ‘deity’ for some inane reason, then of course I would respond poorly to being called a beast. This proved that my suspicions were warranted–this man was clever, in a dangerous way.

He continued, “and I don’t need to know. At least not yet. But if we’re going to work together, we’ll have to share details. But that would be later.”

That was somewhat presumptuous of him. But if he planned on working with me, then it was likely he did not have any immediate malicious intentions for me. Unless he was bluffing, to get me to lower my guard. However, with the size difference, with him towering over me, I did not think that he required subterfuge to overpower me. It left me feeling vulnerable. This was a feeling that I instinctively loathed.

“Perhaps later then,” I said, agreeing with him while avoiding making any commitments. This avoided provoking him to violence, just in case. I could not afford a confrontation.

Just then, something swished in my peripherals, it was lilac, it was bushy, and it matched the twitch that I felt in my spine.

“No…” I whispered.

I felt that twitching on the top of my head, but that twitch felt like it came from my ears. Except it came from the top of my head. My ears should not have been there.

A fresh wave of horror and nausea, even dread, washed over me. I wanted to cry, to scream. I wanted my body back. I tentatively reached up to the top of my head. I felt my ears. They rose a full hand above my head, maybe more. They were covered in fine felt, and the insides held fluff. My repressed emotions, the dam I had built keeping them them back broke. I heard myself uttering nonsense in a strange voice, repeating “No no no…” dumbly. The dysphoria swept through me like a tsunami, collapsing my rational thought, forcing me to focus on all that was different and wrong.

That thing, that horrid thing, swished again. I caught it in my hands. A tail! A mother-sworn tail. It was long enough that it could curl over the top of my head and cover my muzzle.

And I had a muzzle.

“No!” I shouted.

And ears! On top of my head. And long.

Dear mother…

I refused to exist like this. I knew intellectually that I had always struggled against depression, that my–my sister! That she had always told me to keep living, at least for her. But… she was not here. And this… this was too much. Far too much. I could not stand this. I would not!

I frantically checked my clothes. I still wore my leather jacket, I still had my cargo pants, and on my right thigh, strapped to the side, I still had my knife. I grabbed it, unsheathed it, and pulled my tail around with my left hand.

“Woah, hey!” Nick said, panic in his voice, holding his hands out flat. “Calm down! We can work with this–don’t–!”

I brought my knife down towards the base of my tail and yanked it taut, feeling agony radiate up my spine before the metal’s edge ever touched fur.

Nick shouted and crashed into me, tackling me.

My side hit the rocks littering the canyon floor, sharp and jagged pieces of flint, slate, or shale, with lichen only pretending to soften my landing. I wrestled for my knife; I needed to get rid of this–this thing hanging off me like a tumor. I needed to get Nick off me. I hated being touched.

His weight pushed me down. His rough hands, long skeletal fingers, grasped around my wrists, bruising them.

I could not be at his mercy! I would not!

“Get off!” I spat, wrestling to get my legs up and my feet against him so that I could push.

“Jesus, calm the fuck down!” He swore. His hips pushed down on me.

No! No no no–the words blurred into a haze of fury and fear, a volatile soup, I lacked awareness to even know if I spoke them or not. I needed freedom. Even more than I needed to excise my flesh, I needed to not be held down by groping overweight–

My jaws snapped shut, just barely missing his shoulder as he pulled back. Had I tried to bite him? My claws scratched air, his hands holding me at the wrists. His hips pushed against mine, trapping me between his weight and the edged rocks. I could not move. He was too strong. I could not–

“Breathe, dammit! I’m not gonna hurt you. Just breathe!”

“No!” I shouted, managing some coherence. I snapped my jaws again, but he kept too much distance between us. More words then. “Get off! Get off get off get–”

“Alright! Just drop the fucking knife!”

Knife! How could I forget that. Could I bring it to bear? No. It was worthless. Worse than worthless. My wrist was trapped, my hand, trapped. I lacked leverage or reach or strength or weight.

“Open your hand.” His tone firm, unyielding. Was that a threat? I could not tell. The implicit language, the underlying situation, was one of a threat.

What options did I have?

I could think of none. Words were my only way out. I focused, tried calming myself down by a force of will. I… I was not as successful as I would have hoped. Akin to pulling oneself up by the bootstraps, akin to impossible.

“In, hold… out. In. Hold. Out.” Nick mimed a fairly common breathing exercise. I found myself miming him, only realizing after the fact.

Words then. “If… If I let go–?”

“Then yeah, I’ll get up. Just don’t hurt yourself.”

This powerlessness was truly loathsome.

“Fine.” I spat. I opened my palm, and the knife clattered to the rocky ground. “Get up.”

He hesitated. I narrowed my eyes. Something within me bristled. This was it, this was where he would–

“Alright. Alright. Just let me help you up.” He rose to his feet, interrupting my spiraling expectations. He held out a palm to me. His foot just happened to rest on my knife, holding it against the ground. I still had claws. I had options. I could run. If I had to.

I slapped his hand away and scrambled back, away from him, then up to my feet. I found a crouch almost natural to hold, but I refused to make myself even smaller than I needed, and I rose up to my full height. Still, my head only came up to Nick’s mid-section. The man must have been a giant.

Or I was just that short.

Which brought me back full circle to dysmorphia.

“This body isn’t mine,” I said, my tone a mixture of hissing and growling. It took practice to keep an understandable English tone. The man picked up what I was saying though. Or seemed to.

“It’s not that different,” he said. “Other than some hair–”

“-and the tail, ears, claws, muzzle.”

He shrugged. “Try focusing on the similarities. Two arms, legs. Eyes. You’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

“I’m not,” but even as I said that, the urge to self harm passed. I was better than that. I had to be. However, I had a troubling thought: the strong treaded upon the weak. I had shown weakness with my recent lapse. He would be prone to take advantage of that. I needed a show of strength. So I added, “But whatever. Give me my knife back.”

He eyed me warily, at least so far as I could tell with those burning blue orbs and that horrifically wrinkled, oozing, and veined visage.

“You’ll keep it sheathed?”

“If I feel like it. This gonna be a problem?” I asked, putting on the strongest front I could. It was almost like whiplash, first one way, then the other. If I was lucky, he would buy it. If not… well, I would just have to convince him otherwise, and remain on guard.

“Alright, sure. Here.” He reached down and picked up my knife by the blade, handing it to me, handle first. I wrapped my hand around it, but for a second we both held it, and he almost refused to let go. My ears flattened. He snorted and released. “Put it away then. Or don’t.”

I did resheathe the knife, but only because I needed my hands free just in case. I glared at him as I slid it back into its thigh holster.

We remained like that for a minute. Him, watching me with what could be either humor or wariness, it was hard to tell. Me, with caution and suspicion. When it became clear the ball was in my field, and that he was not going to give up any further advantages, I spoke first. “I apologize for that temporary bout of insanity. It’s a lot to come to terms with so quickly, and you caught me at a volatile junction.”

“It was a bit of an overreaction,” Nick said, with what I thought might have been humor. Or so I hoped, because the alternative was worse. “But then, I suppose those of weak minds, or those who’re already mentally unstable, might struggle with the forced transition. It was a severe and notable event.” It was worse. He was mocking me.

I grit my teeth and decided to ignore that condescending statement. He was right, at least partially. But I refused to be less than him. At least his body was mostly human. I had a mother-sworn tail! But I could find a way to restore my body. Without harming myself. I took a deep breath and released. I would overcome this. I would overcome. I repeated it over and over in my mind like a mantra.

But something that Nick had said stuck with me. He implied this foul body of mine was a strength. I needed any advantage I could get. Even if it was through a body that left me feeling ill, that left me wanting to vomit.

“How?” I asked.

“Hm?” he asked. He looked me over carefully before releasing my wrists.

“How is this an advantage?” I clarified.

“Ah. Well, I know what you’re going through. I’m human too. Or was. But this new body of mine has its advantages. As an example.”

“Like what?” My voice still sounded so pathetic. I rubbed my eyes and found wet fur running along the side of my–my muzzle.

“Well I’ve got two main advantages, though I’ll only tell you one. I can sense life.”

Why would a god of death offer him a body that lets him sense life? It seemed odd, but after thinking about it, I realized that in a way it also made sense. Afterall, only living things can die. I was curious what his second advantage was, and why he kept it secret.

“So for you,” he continued. “You’re some kind of fox creature, so I would think you have better senses as a start. Maybe other advantages, like speed, or dexterity. Though those advantages seem fairly tame. Of course, it could be that you look cute–”

“-I am not cute!” I interjected scathingly, even though I was still preoccupied with other worries.

He continued as though I had remained silent, “-and you should never underestimate the advantages offered by appearances.”

I remained silent, continuing to cool off. Good girls neve swear, I told myself. Otherwise, I would have. Because due to my weakness, I had overreacted in an obvious way, one that forced Nick to intervene, one that let him put his grubby hands on me, which would be a horrible habit to perpetuate. And now he was talking about my body as though I were cute? Gag. I needed to steer this conversation towards something productive, something else. Before we lingered too long and he got even worse ideas, or his impression of me soured even further.

“Do you know why we’re here?” I asked. It was an obvious question, with what I hoped was an obvious answer, which should be far, far away from how I looked.

“I have a few theories about why,” he said. “But that’s all they are. The better question to ask is ‘how’ we were put here.”

“Anything you can tell me is more than I know,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “It might… no, I don’t know how to say this in a way that won’t knock you over the edge.”

“What?” I asked, no I demanded. If softly and politely.

“Well… you’re not exactly stable,” he said in a bland voice, as though commenting upon the weather.

“Tell me,” I demanded, more firmly.

“Can you handle it?” he asked, grinning. I hated that I showed him weakness. Now he was using it as leverage against me! I would need either suitable counter-leverage, or to leave his company. Seemingly, hopefully, unaware of my current considerations, he kept going. “Or will you have another bout of temporary insanity?”

I crossed my arms and gave him the business stare.

He chuckled. “Alright. We were both dead before we were brought here.”

“What? But… no. That doesn’t make sense.”

How could we have been dead, if we were both currently alive? Madness. And he thought I had acted insane.

“Yes,” he insisted. “While I can’t say for sure that’s what happened to you, I know that’s what happened to me, and I believe it probably happened to you as well. Don’t you remember?”

“No,” I shook my head while trying to quell the trembling within my limbs. “That is… impossible.”

“Again, I know what you’re thinking. But consider this, before today, wouldn’t you have thought it impossible to wake up in the wrong body?”

I considered him carefully while I tried to think back to the last thing I remembered. The problem I had was that there seemed to be a veil of fog obscuring my memories. I got the jist of things, the vague outlines of feelings and people, but nothing I could concretely define. It was maddening, to have something that should be there, but that was not. I felt a wave of empathy for all those poor souls to have suffered dementia. At least, I assumed this was similar. However, despite all of this, I could not debunk Nick’s claims. But nor could I confirm them.

“I struggle to believe this fact,” I finally said, deciding upon a plain strategy.

“The facts don’t require your belief,” he mocked. “But if you can’t handle them, feel free to ignore them. It’s not like it matters now. What matters now is what we do, and how we take advantage of our gifts.”

I ignored him. I was still working over the facts. I could not remember much. Could he be correct? I was unable to disprove it. Did it matter? Yes, I would think it did matter, if I had died or not. But no matter how I thought of it, I kept coming back to this, again and again, like a sliver of popcorn stuck between my teeth. I needed to work this out. I could not proceed unless I did. I needed more knowledge.

“How did you die then?” I asked him, perhaps tactlessly. But I needed to know. To perhaps jog a memory loose.

“That’s what you’re still focusing on?” he asked, irritated with my question, it was clear on his tone, and the way he scowled with his inhuman fiery blue eyes.

I nodded, refusing to back down. He needed to know I had a spine, that I would not just bow to his every whim. This would be a negotiation, even if the power imbalance tilted his way. For now.

“Not the gifts, not how we’ll leverage them, now how we’ll work our synergy and conquer this new world?”

“Yes,” I said, then thought about it, realizing there was ambiguity in the response. “I mean no,” I clarified. “Tell me: How did you die?”

“I…” He broke eye contact. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He could have been faking his discomfort. But he might also be telling the truth. Afterall, if I had died, and I had been somehow reborn elsewhere, I might find it uncomfortable to dwell on my last moments as well. But at least he could remember. At least he knew what was happening. I would not allow him to downplay this. He brought it up in the first place, he had gotten me riled up; so he was now obligated to complete the conversation.

Hence, the impasse. I stared up at his face. He gazed off to the side, at the cavern walls. Minutes passed.

“You’re not going to let this go?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then, as a demonstration of trust, I’ll tell you.” He finally relented. He sighed heavily, making his regret clear. “I was sitting in at a Board Meeting, prepping for the Quarterly, when some sort of criminal–what must have been a suicide bomber, or a terrorist–” he sputtered in rage and stumbled over his words “-walks in and yells something. I remember the pressure, it must have been a bomb of some kind, and then nothing. Literally nothing. A void, nothing, complete sensory deprivation. Only me and myself. I don’t know how long that lasted. But eventually, Thanatos recognized my value and pulled me out from the void and gave me a pitch. I accepted, and here I am.”

He finished out of breath. His ultra thin skin appeared slightly flushed, though the blue veins spider webbing through his skin gave it a creepy vibe. It was the flushed skin that sold me on his story; anyone could lie, but only an expert could create that sort of emotional effect.

I nodded slowly, seeking the correct words. Finally, I settled on a plain “thank you for telling me.” I reached up to pat his shoulder. I almost failed to reach it. I loathed how short I felt compared to him.

“Right. So now, our gifts.” He unbuttoned his jacket and slipped his right arm out, before uncuffing his sleeve and pulling it up. He revealed a sprawling tattoo of glowing hieroglyphics on his arm. As I looked over them, I felt a headache begin to settle in, a mounting pressure just behind my eyes.

“That… that is something. You did not strike me as the sort to get a tattoo, but I suppose I just met you.”

“You would’ve been right,” he said. “But this tattoo is the gift. I expect you to have one as well.”

I felt moderately scandalized. “I would never get a tattoo!” Mother would have killed me.

“My sympathies then,” he said with a hint of a smile. “But please check. I believe you’ll be somewhat surprised.”

I narrowed my eyes; my ears flattened. “Why?”

“When a god sends you here, you get these tattoos, and then it’s like a…” he trailed off, a chagrined smile carrying as much boyish charm as an elf impersonating Skeletor could.

“Like a what?” I asked. I had been watching his face carefully the entire time. It was just such an alien contrast. He dressed and acted like the paradigm of a calloused self-centered john, but then he went and played coy.

He shook his head and affected a smile. “It’s our connection to the divinity–to their world, and it allows us to grow and develop ourselves, contingent upon our actions.”

I resisted the temptation to huff. He made it sound like the tattoo would offer him even more power, besides what he had just by being wealthy. But of course, that was what the people on top wanted most: more. All the better to keep the rest of us on the ground. He never even mentioned why he needed more power. Just that he needed more. Typical. Avarice. My lip snarled upward.

“The tattoo’s like a CV,” he said. If he noticed my expression, he failed to remark on it. Instead he continued excitedly, “It’s a record of our achievements and abilities. And since you’re here with me now, I’m willing to bet you have one too.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Like I said, I bet you do. Otherwise, why else would you have been put here? It’s clear this place isn’t Earth, and that supernatural phenomenon has occurred.”

“You think I wouldn’t remember getting a tattoo?” I asked.

“Do you remember growing a tail or ears?”

He… had a point.

“Just check already. I promise it will make sense when you do.”

I consented. It would not harm me to check.

I slipped out of my jacket. I caught him eyeing it. It was a nice jacket. Black with gray stripes, leather but not glossy, warm and waterproof, it had a hood and plenty of pockets. It might have been worn a bit around the elbows, and the zipper took some love to work, but it was mine. And it was a gift. I think. I could not exactly remember receiving it.

Once the jacket came off though, I was just wearing my usual tank top. But something was missing. I was unable to put my finger on it exactly, but something was off. I would have to give myself a thorough review later. When I felt brave. In the meantime, I needed to check my forearms, where Nick’s eyes had already settled.

Ignoring the fact that fur now covered my skin, there were silver discolorations on each of my forearms. The discolorations showed through the fur, shone through it, as though the fur was no barrier at all. It took me a second to realize I was looking at tattoos. Fairly elaborate ones. Two of them. Those were new.

“You have two?!” he said, a mixture of shock and envy.

“You don’t?” I asked.

He shook his head, and tapped his left forearm again. “Thanatos just gave me the one. Though maybe it’s a case of quality over quantity. What do yours give you?”

What do they do? What should tattoos do other than looking pretty? I guess they might be used for intimidation.

“First, how do I tell?” I asked.

He stepped closer, entering my personal space. I would have had an issue, but his interest was locked on to my markings and not the rest of me. Actually, no. I did have an issue. He was in my personal space, and he was gross. Besides, who knew what information he could glean from looking over my markings. Maybe they had embarrassing facts, or my Social Security, or who knew what. I decided not to risk it, at least not without forcing Nick to put an equal amount of skin in the game.

I pulled my arms out of view.

“How about you show me yours  and tell me what they do, as an example.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You were something of a negotiator back home?”

From what I could recall, perhaps I was. The term ‘hustler’ sounded familiar, not that he used it. Regardless of my recollections, I had no intention of engaging Nick on this topic. My past was my own, even if I lacked memories of it.

He rolled his eyes when I refused to respond. “Well alright. I’ll be the bigger person here and start this off. But if we’re going to work together, after I show you mine, then I need you to show me your marks. Sound good?”

The way he finished that made it sound like he thought the deal was a foregone conclusion. In fact, he was already holding out his forearm with the tattoo for me to better inspect. I circled around to see it from his perspective.

A warm wind blew down the ravine, smelling of diesel exhaust. It ruffled my hair and caused me to squint my eyes by reflex. The symbols on Nick’s arm almost seemed to twist and churn as I watched them.

Pressure built up behind my eyes. It was not solely the wind that caused me to squint. This tattoo was strange. On his arm, there was a circle with three branches, maybe trunks, sprouting off of it. In the center of the circle was a glyph resembling a skull, which likely tied back to Thanatos. From the trunks, three of them terminated in separate glyphs. I could almost understand them, but not quite.

From the glyphs, each one of them had three dots placed equidistant around it. Two of those dots were almost imperceptible, so small and insignificant were they. The third was larger, and gave the impression of almost being ready to hatch. Another glyph, on a separate trunk, also had three dots, or rather, nodes, though two were imperceptible, and the third was a new branch that led to another glyph, with more dots. It was too much. It was just too much! With the twisting of the tattoo, either as an optical illusion or as a reality-bending effect, I could not focus. My own left forearm burned and itched, while my head throbbed. My eyes watered under the assault.

My headache grew to a migraine. Inexplicably, I had a sensation of almost completion, as though I were just on the verge of a deeper understanding. Although, I did not know what understanding I quickly approached, nor did I know if that understanding was truly worth the pain. Just as I was about to turn away from the tattoo, it clicked.

I understood.

The tattoo translated itself for me. And now that I really looked at it, I saw that its layout was entirely sensible. Compact even. Some might say artistically efficient. I quickly scanned his markings.

Blessed of Death

Talents

Open (9/9)

Closed (1/9)

Closed (1/9)

Spells

Claim Life (1/9)

Closed (0/9)

Closed (0/9)

Gifts

Amphorae (1/9)

Closed (0/9)

Closed (0/9)

“Did you get something?” Nick asked. He was watching my face. I realized, belatedly, that my expression had changed when it snapped together. I thought about denying it, but realized it was probably unnecessary and counterproductive.

“You have a Spell called Claim Life, and a Gift called Amphorae?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m a little surprised you could read it, but apparently you can. You missed the open Talent slot though. If you’ve got one like I do, then you need to be careful regarding your next actions.”

“Why?” I asked, thinking I was missing something here. So what if we had an Open Talent. What did that even mean?

“Thanatos mentioned that I would have enough experience to claim one Talent when I landed, but that it’s contingent on actions I take. If we aren’t careful, then we could unlock a Talent for something unhelpful. And since we only have three slots, that could be disastrous. That’s why it’s important to take control.”

I could see how that would be a problem. But then again, it seemed like Nick and Thanatos had gotten fairly chummy. Nick had a lot of insight that I was missing. It was hard not to feel a little bit jealous of their good old boys club.

“Yeah. So, I showed you mine. Now show me what you have. Before I end up with a Talent for something like bartering.”

Not that bartering would be useless, but if that was in comparison to Spells, then I could see how he might feel that way. But still, I saw no reason to reveal more than I had to. I attempted a diversion, to keep my secrets for just a little while longer.

“We should head out then,” I said, hoping to distract him.

He scoffed. “Nice try. If we’ll work together, then we’ll need a modicum of trust. Now I showed you my marks, and you were somehow able to comprehend them. So it’s only fair you show me yours.”

I narrowed my eyes and felt my ears flatten. But he was correct. I huffed and gave in, holding out my arms for him to inspect. And while I did, I turned my own comprehension on.

I had two tattoos, one on each forearm. On my left, there was a spiral of three lines originating from a central hollow circle. On my right, there was a marking similar to what Nick had, though there were two differences: my circle was hollow, and my Spells were slotted with something differently.

Blessed by ___

Blessings: Rank (1/9)

Body: 10

Mind: 10

Spirit: 10

Talents

Open (9/9)

Closed (1/9)

Closed (1/9)

Spells

Illusion (1/9)

Closed (0/9)

Closed (0/9)

Gifts

Obsession (1/9)

Closed (0/9)

Closed (0/9)