The Stained Tower

Gathering all my copepods from the paternoster, I mount my faithful sumpter and rebuild our formation. The hoary will be on or around me, sumpter will be at the front, and then as a form of trickery, I shall place the heliotrope at the back. That way, they seem important, so when they make an appearance, it will warrant alertness from Mithridates.

With my fly-leg sword at my side for use at a lance, I take this final lull to collect my bearings. The basement’s walls are constructed of gray stone or ‘concrete,’ a word I often forget to use. Those concrete walls are carpeted in dust, peeling paint, and disordered scribbles.

The tight passages and corridors breed a heavy sense of foreboding.

It’s the type of place my instincts scream at me to avoid, and those instincts were honed by years of surviving alone in squalors, so they are rarely mistaken. Yet, I conjecture the scariest thing hereabouts is a spirit woman bearing an army of phantom shrimp-beetles. 

‘Mithridates’s back is now against the wall, and he will attempt anything he can to escape or end me. I doubt this basement has a means of escape. That means all I must do is ensure I do not allow him to slip past me. Aye, I need to search for him and learn what I can to guarantee I persevere over him.’

My thoughts shift to what I witnessed with Norman and Dylan earlier. ‘It would be better for everyone, including my own nerves, if I could end this before Terra even arrives to assist.’ I raise my sword, provoking a confused stir amongst the copepods. ‘Stay close. Sable soldiers swarm the walls. Onward!’

The forgotten walls become a stream of black as we charge, and the sable gradually makes their way up.

Turning the corner, we first come into a corridor with a single room that reads, ‘Retired Mechanical/Electrical/Ball Controls.’ It’s crowded with devices, levers, and switches I do not understand. 

My hoary eyes see naught, and there is nowhere to hide, so we do not linger but veer into the following passage.

Skittering into the next passage, the wholesome spectacle gives me a second’s pause.

Every surface of this subsequent passage is covered in the scribbles of a pupil who appears to have been endeavoring to learn the English language. Much of what is written is simply the current English alphabet duplicated time and time again, with digressions for letters that the student had difficulty writing, such as several meandering rows of the same letters.

The sole exceptions to the scrawl are toward the center, where someone penned in clean, if simplistic, handwriting the English alphabet, and the words "King," "Mithridates," and "Fairy.” Then moving outward, the student attempted to copy their work. 

Near some letters, there are ‘notes’ penned in what I presume is Mithridates’s language. I find it rather self-evident that Mithridates does not grasp English very well, but he appears to have had someone teaching him.

I suppose this passage gives me pause because it makes Mithridates appear… ‘ordinary’ in a way. It’s a tad peculiar to see when I have likewise witnessed his cruelties.

But despite his studies, I believe it’s impossible he learned English well enough to compose that letter of assassination in such a short time. Not to mention, the latter half of that letter had writing that does not resemble the isolated examples of Mithridates’s language that do appear on the wall.

Whomever the person that was teaching him was, is of great interest to me, yet handwriting is not of much help when I have no other examples to marry it to. ‘It’s important that I remember these examples are here.’

My eyes see naught more than this, and there are no additional rooms here, so we press ahead.

The following passage has smears of dark blood upon the floor, green mash upon the walls, and debris scattered all about. Pieces of flies and pellet casings are mixed with the rubbish. My mind jumps to the inference that there was a disorganized struggle here between Mithridates and someone else.

From what I can tell, the blood has already taken on a blackness. While living in London, blood of that shade is how I knew no one was ever going to claim a forlorn corpse’s belongings. It was a sure sign I could take all I desired from their former abode. The miasma of the dead tends to adhere to everything around it, so their earthly belongings would have all been burned anyway. Hence, I can tell it has been at least a few weeks since this struggle between Mithridates and whomever else transpired.

Noticing a single room toward the middle of the passage, I assemble the copepods and peek in to find what looks to be a dusty abandoned room. I send the copepods in with orders to creep upon every surface while I listen for any commotion. When a minute has passed, I open the door, discovering a room stuffed with various signs that read, “Let There Be Love,” “Let There Be Friendships,” “Let There Be Peace,” and other such trite and dreamy phrases.

We scour the room a breath longer but discover naught, other than long disremembered relics and mementos.

Together, the copepods and I advance toward the next passage.

Following an especially dense smear of dried blood around the corner, we encounter two corpses plagued by maggots. I do not believe them to be Mithridates’s maggots, merely maggots. The ordinary flies around the two bodies lead credence to that at least. Though, ‘ordinary’ insects are becoming less ordinary with each passing day.

The corpses themselves both wear masks made of a black granite-like stone I am not familiar with. The masks are tight against their face with spikes along the sides of the mask. It almost looks as if the black stone was melted and then poured over their face to harden while someone sculpted it.

This time I stop to pull the mask off with the fly-leg sword. I wish to know what variety of surprises might await me, and these bodies could be a hint.

When the mask falls from their face, what I perceive is not of mankind.

Gray skin, a jewel embedded in their brow, and a plate of pitch-black bone that grows from the jewel to their cheekbones. Around this bone and to their jaw is face paint radiating a dainty red radiance. It’s difficult to tell with my hoary eyes; all I can do is merely speculate color for anything that does not have a spiritual quality.

They also have unusual ears. At first, they resemble human ears, but at the top of the ear, they take on more of a boney substance and then curl back for several inches until they eventually circle all the way back toward the earlobe. The curve is comparable to a ram’s horns and even concludes with a sharp point.

I pull back the sleeve of the arm to find another bone plate covered in the same pitch-black bone except shaped like fish hooks. Examining them further, this bone appears to grow around most of their vitals, including their chest.

My persistent prodding causes their head to tilt back and their mouth to slide open. I notice that inside their mouth is an additional pair of canines along with an entire row of inverted needle-like teeth at the back of their throat. Looking to their waist, I notice a glass jar with what resembles small jellyfish bobbing about.

Due to the decay, visually inspecting anything more than the bone plates, teeth, face paints, and such is nigh impossible. Moreover, jabbing bodies that have aged this long can have the unpleasant consequence of ‘bursting,’ so I shan’t disturb them more than this.

I gaze at this unknown being for a second and then glance about the hall.

My eyes see naught more, so we proceed. Though I do not understand what these are nor what’s happened, I do not understand most things. I feel answers will come in time, but I shan’t be distracted at this moment.

Pushing forth, I come upon the final hall where there’s a steel door marked ‘New Year’s Eve Ball Vault’ in vivid paint. This vault alone appears to occupy half the basement’s space. I approach cautiously, discovering the door is slightly open, its surface is bent, and its hinges are melted. 

Propped against the wall is yet another one of the corpses from earlier. This one has cuts upon its body that smolders with yellowish-brown flames akin to those that Mithridates’s Interface wields. It would seem that either his Interface’s flame does not go out so easily once it has caught fire, or it’s that way for all Kiln flames. 

Though, the most unusual thing about it is that the body is less decayed than the others. The blood around it is still old; it simply appears the flame might preserve the body.

I descend from my sumpter and peek into the vault.

Inside, the ground is littered with glass shards, shimmering metals, sparkling stones. The vault’s lights are bright, and I can detect the rumble of the devices called ‘generators.’ In the corner, I find the two balls, the vault’s namesakes. One appears to have had a lot of glass on the outside, but it has been torn asunder. The other seems to have had a chunk of the middle removed and then a makeshift door fastened to it. It’s as if it has been fashioned into a tiny hovel.

Around this hovel are two more bodies, one covered in maggots and one smoldering with flame. The outside of the ball is coated in a layer of green mash. Either Mithridates won with significant injury, or he lost, and in that case, I could not wager a guess at what occurred next.

Noticing a hint of moving color, I adjust my stance. In the back of the vault, I heed Mithridates’s figure. 

There I discover he has scribbled the same message across the wall time and time again. “fair see 𐎠𐎼𐎫—fair see 𐎠𐎼𐎡𐎣—fair see 𐎠𐎼𐎫—fair see 𐎠𐎼𐎡𐎣” [1]

I pause; the fact he may be penning me a message is enough to persuade me that he knows I am here. We separated quite a distance from here; he should be wholly unaware that I, or anyone, has given chase.

Whatever the case, if he is going to permit me an opportunity to scout the battlefield, his equipment, and armament, I would be a fool to not seize it.

While he continues his scribbles, I examine his body for any threatening adaptations. The most obvious adaptation is the two fly legs that jut from his back, except one of them has snapped off. It now lays on the ground next to him, likely smote by Norman.

I am not certain if he was wearing it earlier, but unfortunately, he has wrapped himself in red and white sheets. It seems like an ancient style of dress comparable to Proximo’s dress; the issue is it covers any additional adaptations he might possess.

My eyes drift to the only item I can study, the crossbow. The whole thing is made of fly parts held together by some type of green algae-like substance. Even the darts are enclosed by the carapace; it’s conceivable that the darts recharge on their own.

Oddly, the crossbow has four bowstrings, with three of them being higher up than the lowest one that appears to be operated by the lever at the back. Those top three strings seem to each connect to a small rope that is drawn back to fire a dart. If I am correct, those top three are what he fiddled with to make the fly legs, suggesting the bottom may be the other darts that transform organic creatures into flies.

His crossbow is relatively cumbersome, at least three feet in length, and likely several pounds in weight. It should be troublesome to operate with dexterity and vulnerable to my hoary haze.

For a second, I watch to see if he may turn around for me to see more, but alas, he does not even glance back. That makes me warier; he should be turning to check the door. He may already be aware I am here watching him.

I command my sable copepods to take position around the steel door. Climbing atop my mount sumpter, I then order the storage sumpter to my side.

Retrieving the ‘white phosphorus grenades’ from the storage sumpter, I examine one of the little cylinders that read, “WP-34NB, ‘Non-Burst Prototypes,’ Mothballed - Warehouse Storage,” and then decide to take a second one. [2] ‘If I am going to use one, why not use several. And I shall do my best to not ‘granny lob’ them as instructed. Even if I do not understand what he meant.’ 

So that I may deliver both at once, I push the two levers against one another and then run the cattail through both pins. Next, I flex the cattail, pulling both pins, and then fling them both awkwardly through the crack in the door. Then, grabbing two more grenades, I repeat this as I anticipate Mithridates will not readily react since grenades should be unfamiliar to us both.

I suppose his messages may be a petition to parley with me, yet… I raise my sword. ‘Thou hast shown me no reason to contemplate parley. [3] As far as I can be aware, thee art stalling so thy Interface may rejoin thee. Nick, Lorcan, Dylan, everyone, I shall end this now.’

When I hear the canisters rupture with a shrill hiss, I command the sable copepods to invade the vault. Hundreds of feet beneath Times Square, a clash betwixt Kiln commences. [4]

My sumpter and I follow the sable vanguard, squeezing through the crack in the door. Smoke is obstructing everything; this is to be a contest of Perception. My army scatters, immersing themselves in the grenade’s white smoke.

As if unsurprised, Mithridates places the final touches on his last sentence, “𒁲𐏐𐏋,” and then draws the two topmost bowstrings on his crossbow. [5] Spinning around, he yanks a lever at his crossbow’s front.

There’s a flash of yellow. Smoke swirls as darts run through the sumpter, striking the ground beneath me. The ground creaks and crunches.

I leap from the sumpter and clamber to the top of the ruined glass ball. Four fly legs burst from the concrete, shredding the sumpter. I glimpse Mithridates retreating behind the ball on the vault’s opposite end.

Sliding down the side of the glass ball, I cloak myself in the dense white smoke. 

Darts whistle past me. 

Hugging the vault’s wall, I sprint toward Mithridates’s left flank. Midway I pick up a fuming canister grenade. I command a hoary contingent to move around his right flank and a heliotrope contingent to climb over the top of the ball he’s sheltering behind. When the copepods are near, I cast the canister toward Mithridates.

Immediately after leaving my palm a dart strikes the canister. It erupts, sending down a hail of flaming scraps. I brandish my sword, dashing out of the burning debris. 

The heliotrope moves up the center. Fly legs break from the ground and assail the copepods. As I hoped, Mithridates believes the heliotrope is deserving of his attention.

Moving around the ball, I see Mithridates’s back.

Mithridates aims his crossbow at the corpses, pausing when he realizes they have caught fire. He hurriedly steps backward, retreating from the heliotrope and straight into my path.

I am at his rear the next moment, slashing at his left calf. The blade rends his ankle; the effect is minimal.

Mithridates recoils. He spins on his heel. A fly leg on his back swipes at me. My cattail catches it. Its cords twitch, dragging Mithridates closer.

I stab at his chest. 

He blocks its tip with the crossbow. There’s a crunch. Drops of green algae leak from the fly-leg sword’s point. The cattail contorts around the leg; my sword pushes against his crossbow.

We gaze at one another. His appearance is that of a soldier wearing corroded chainmail, and through its rings, tiny maggots pinch their way out.

My sword inches closer to me as he shifts his weight. I flex my cattail. His decaying leg creaks under its force; the cattail will break it soon. Though neither of us is capable of traditional expressions, we do not need such things. He can sense my hunger, and I, his fear.

With a gritty crack, his leg snaps. A green mash showers us as the cattail swallows his limb.

He raises a hand, catching the cattail before it swallows him as well. The cattail urges him to his knees. He frantically searches for a way out of his predicament. All he finds is the skittering shadows of hoary copepods closing in.

His arm buckles. With a crunch, the cattail plunges into his neck.

Reaching to his chest, he casts off his white wrappings, revealing a skeletal frame built from fly carapaces underneath. With his ribcage exposed, I can see pulsating veins of putrified water wound within. 

I flinch when I behold maggots squirming inside the veins. The maggots knot into a mass, obstructing the putrid water’s flow. His veins swell, growing into pulsating tumors.

The tumors explode.

A fountain of water washes away my arms and dissolves the cattail. The fly-leg sword clatters on the ground as I take several steps back. My Snappish Beads break; hoary copepods rush to merge with me. While my body rebuilds, I hunt for Mithridates, finding him with only a left arm and leg left. 

Jerking his arm forward, Mithridates props his crossbow atop a burning corpse and takes aim at something.

I seize the sword with my rebuilt arm and sprint toward him. 

With his crossbow propped up, he pumps the lever. A single dart fires, shattering a lock on the side of the ball that’s been made into a hovel. The door creaks open as I swing at Mithridates’s left calf. 

My hurried slash hits something hard. A crystalline globule of green sludge arcs to the far side of the vault. My hunger pangs prove to me that it’s what I am here for—Mithridates’s kiln.

There’s a bang from inside the ball. Something within boots a block of metal from its side. A creature, a monster, sprints out. It chases Mithridates’s kiln.

My eyes struggle to comprehend the sight of the eight-foot-tall monstrosity that just smeared itself upon my memories. 

It resembles the boats Mithridates uses as his nodes; the stacked boats that held Nick, the woman, and uncountable numbers of maggots. The creature resembles two rotten boats turned and stacked atop one another… except it walks upright on skeletal arms and legs made of black fly carapace.

To my horror, its wooden planks creak apart, forming a monstrous mouth of splintering wood. Then, behind its mandibles of sticks, I see what resembles a human skeleton swaddled in palpitating veins of rotten liquid.

The monster snatches Mithridates's kiln, swallowing it immediately. 

At the same time, while Mithridates’s former body crumbles at my feet, I command the storage sumpter to my side.

The monster spasms as a pair of glowing, yellowish-brown orbs carve themselves a place above its gaping jaws. At what might qualify as a chest, Mithridates’s kiln shivers out from the faded wood.

As ordered, the storage sumpter arrives. I take two more grenades, toss Mithridates’s crossbow onto the sumpter’s back, and then order it to flee the vault alongside any surviving sable. The sumpter runs as a piercing buzz stirs within the monster’s gullet.

My gaze sweeps the ground for surviving copepods. Around a hundred hoary and two tiny heliotropes are all that remain. I command the hoary copepods to rush the monster as its mouth opens even wider. 

The monster leans forward, spewing a fog of white-headed flies. They pursue the escaping sumpter but veer toward the hoary copepods at the last moment.

Following behind my army, I watch as the flies race into each copepod and pop. There are far more flies than copepods.

The monster charges toward the sumpter. I yank the pins from the two grenades and cut off its pursuit. The cattail grasps the canisters before casting them at its gaping maw.

The monster snatches a canister from the air but fumbles the second. Skirting the tips of two splintered teeth, the second canister cuffs the skeleton’s cheekbone. It snarls as smoke billows from its mouth. Clenching its fist, it slams the snatched canister onto the ground at my feet. 

The canister bursts. 

Pieces of scorching matter shower us. It abandons the sumpter, attacking me instead. Swarms of white-headed flies cast themselves into my haze, gnawing away at it.

I wave my sword as the smoking figure of the monster charges me. It catches the blade. My hoary cattail curls around its side to strike. But the monster hews it in two with the fly-leg sword! 

The cattail’s cords writhe. They latch onto one of the monster’s hands, stopping the sword from hitting me. While hoary eats at its hand, the monster presses down, forcing me to bend backward. Its body creaks overhead, casting a shadow over me. It does the unimaginable and stretches its jaws further.

I peer into the skeleton’s cavernous face. A mass of white-headed flies pours from its eye sockets. They throw themselves into my haze.

The cattail’s cords contort, snapping fingers from one of its hands. I shove away; the monster stumbles backward.

A foot apart, I command a heliotrope to move into my palm. The heliotrope bursts, forming a short glass skewer.

Its enormous mouth grins as it brandishes the fly-leg sword.

In my head, I hear Terra’s voice, {I’m here!}

I glimpse the glint of a sewing needle, dragging a line of thread. A netting of silver threads encircles me. Sewing needles buzz around me, lancing the white-headed flies.

Looking back, I see Terra wearing a gas mask; her silver eye burns with fury. The flies are wrenched from the air and reeled into her silvery tome. The tome slams shut. Its silver pages steam as it cooks its catch. Behind Terra, three more shadows approach from the white smoke.

{Your front!} Terra shouts.

I hear the abrupt hum of metal. The edge of my own sword is caught in the cattail. It shakes under the monster’s strength. Reaching toward the sword’s glass handle, I sacrifice a copepod and skewer the monster’s hand.

The monster ignores it; instead, pushing his weight upon me harder.

“Good work,” Terra’s muffled voice states.

The monster looks to Terra, finding three rifles trained upon him. It tries to abandon the sword, only to discover the skewer through his hand and the cattail itself, are his shackles. 

Terra smirks. “Aim high.”

The roar of firearms follows.

Bullets punch against the monster’s flank. Wooden splinters rain over our heads. And before my eyes, the skull explodes into white slivers.

I spin the skewer toward the monster’s chest as a line of copepods squirm up my arm. The copepods burst, each one lengthening the skewer more. When the last of the hoary dissolves, the skewer is less than an inch from his kiln. The only copepod left is a tiny heliotrope, heaving itself up my arm.

It bursts. The glass skewer stretches an inch more and... the world turns hushed. Only the low hiss of a choked flame endures. But this hiss coaxes a gnawing hunger from deep inside me.

While wood planks bounce noiselessly against the ground, the cattail slithers toward Mithridates, the first of my own kind I ever met.

...And I wonder if Mithridates shall share a tale with me, just as Proximo Aetós did.