Iwaku: Dark Reign

[Tegan]

"I'm doing my job, angel. It's not always about fluttering hearts and pretty words of devotion," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the whir of machinery. "To be a Soulmate one must be willing to be a Shadow."

Such arrogance, such will. It feels like years have passed since that conversation. Perhaps it was. In this city between the cracks, this purgatory, a second could be a decade if the Tyrant willed it. We have no choice to believe it. He gave us buttons for eyes. I'm a fool like you, Asmodeus. Perhaps if things had been different, we could have—

WHUMP

Syracuse's invisible hands pin her down, he's shouting over the cacophony. Tegan knows what she has to do.
She grips a crimson shard. "Stop it Tegan, you will bleed out!" A waste of language. They both know that the shards of the Mad King's sword would contaminate her body and mind until she was his willing puppet. Her only chance is to rip out the strings.
"There's no time left. There's no time. Now. Must be now." The Obscura. Syracuse is holding her. Wrapping her with his bandages so she's like him. She's bleeding to death. Blanking out and in in and out. Out. In.

Professor.

The pen's golden nib paused mid stroke, causing the ink to smudge the parchment. "Yes?"
Tegan's eyes are still not quite open, the ends of her short hair are wet from perspiration. For the past day, she has been immersed in her memories, searching to the ends of the world and beyond.

"I've managed to predict which Fate Lines will lead us to the components. Save one." She tries in vain to sit up, the sheets slip away, pooling at her hips. Her body goes slack. Every surface, every item in her room is black onyx. Her luminous skin is the only point of light in the dark, it is this anti-thesis that gives the darkness form.

"We still don't have an energy source to power the Obscura."Her eyes follow Syracuse as he sits on the edge of her bed. The brittle rags that are his fingers brush against the flesh of her collar as he helps her to sit upright. "Leave finding the source to me." The Hijacker reaches for the wooden box on her bed side table, retrieves the long bone pipe. Within the metal bowl he places a soft black marble. Lights it, holds it to her mouth, bidding her to breathe. "Your hands will be full enough with the Sheathe and the arrays."
Tegan coughs, thick, gray smoke escaping her body in tendrils. The key to lock her doors of perception. Respite. "The angel will be nothing."
"Do not underestimate Asmodeus or his companions."
"I do not fear him."
"It is not he you should fear."


"When this is all over, what will become of us?" Tegan's hand is next to his. Her fingers slowly flex, daring to brush against the bandaged digits. Her eyes are already bloodshot, her words unchecked. Syracuse disappears then reappears at the writing desk, continuing his work. "When this is over, I want you to go to Iwaku Beach."

Tegan turns her head away before he can perceive. "Iwaku doesn't have a beach."

Feral is floating toward a hole in the ceiling, her eyes closed and face split with a Trickster grin as the power washes over her. The raven, fox, coyote and cat dance around her like ghosts, beguiling her to rise up, to use her wily nature to destroy Medusa...

BLINK

"Waaaugh!" Feral is in a heap on the ground. The appearance of Syracuse disrupted the energies, broke the Fate Line. Feral can feel the Cycle's influence leave her body as soon as it entered. The Neko shudders, clutches herself. "it almost got me"
But the Hijacker has placed Tegan's prone form upon the throne. He whispers something in her ear. Feral only catches the last part.
"...the lens is affixed. I must go and finish our work." Then to Feral, the remaining N00b, the neko who went through so much for their cause. He needs her for just a little more.
"Please, be with her." Syracuse turns away. His hand lingering on Tegan's. Goodbye. Syracuse is gone.

Feral is alone with the woman who gave so much to her people. Then took it all away.

"you impossible cunt" Feral straddles her, chokes her. Blood pours from Tegan's mouth, down her cheeks, jaw, neck, collar bone, all streams joining the confluence, the crimson ocean at her breasts. A red queen in a liquid gown.

"you you helped us promised us" Feral's cheeks are hot with tears. "that medusa would free us from their cycle" Her cries become screams as she throttles the star child. "wake up! say something! TELL ME WHY GOD DAMN IT"

"One...last..."Tegan raises her head, eyes burning bright as stars, the light reflects from the prism above Feral looks up at it and Feral sees—

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Feral hits the floor next to the throne, curled into herself, eyes rolling back into her head, mouth frothing white and then red. All is quiet.
Tegan remains seated upon the throne. Her empty eyes stare ahead into nothing. Her heart has ceased its rebellious beat.

 

[Kitti]

​

The destruction of the tower, its stones crumbling beneath their feet as if it had been nothing more than a castle composed of sand, brought the survivors to the top to rejoin the final battle. Those who had not would be mourned if any remained after this battle was over - there was no time to offer grief when one's life hangs in the balance. They had carried one another, she had helped lift Grant aloft with her wings when the floor offered him no solid footing, and the pieces began to fit together once more, pressing them together and binding them to one another.​

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Even as she clutched Grant's shoulder with white knuckled, he moved from her side to take his place, standing tall at Asmodeus's shoulder and supporting the figure. The faces of both Jack and Asmodeus shone in an ethereal light and beckoned them all forward, each to take their place in the roster. Compelled, it seemed, each took their place one after the other until all was nearly complete. They were falling in as though it were natural and even she could not resist the expression on Jack and Asmo's faces. She wished to ease their pain yet the expression on their faces told her that neither would emerge victorious, to free them both would be to kill them and relieve their burden. Wordlessly, she extended a hand to caress their cheeks, all but alone with her thoughts when...​

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A twinge, sharp as a knife, ripped through her chest. Her hand recoiled a few centimeters and her eyes flicked in horror to her own ribs, which were intact. Another seemed to echo the suffering, Tegan crying out while Kitti's vision blurred with the visages of women that seemed as though they existed in another time far, a different place. Clenching her jaw was the only way to prevent tears from welling in Kitti's eyes and made her expression fierce. This sensation cleared her mind, ending the near enthrallment of before, punctuated with Asmodeus's warning.​

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Even as her eyelids closed tightly, the sound of a struggle erupted and was quickly silenced. The pain subsided and was replaced by a feeling of emptiness. The most curious sensation of having been split apart from another filled her and her eyes flickered open for a brief second and another's name filled her mind, crossing her lips.​

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"Tegan?"​

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It was gone then, with nothing left but an aching. Her voice did not carry. She was reminded, with the pain gone, that she was still supporting Asmodeus, though it was unclear at this point which of them was helping the other more. She straightened and gripped the wrist she held tighter, the serpentine trails of silver beneath the skin illuminated in Asmodeus and Orion's unnatural glow.​

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The cycle was in motion once more, freeing itself from the temporary jam, for there could only be one of each figure. There were no doubles in the deck. Her grasp was tight with her realization, fingernails digging crescent moons into Asmodeus's skin. Which was the greater enemy, Paorou or Medusa? Unbidden, a memory of Fluffy smiling sweetly swam in Kitti's vision. Kitti gritted her teeth against it.​

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"It cannot be that one must die for the other to remain" the unspoken implication that she would not let Asmo or Jack kill the other. How she planned to stop them was something yet unexpressed, though she held tightly to Asmo's arm still.​

 

[Porg]

The sky is screaming. The whole of Iwaku is screaming. What's left of it anyway. Here I am in amongst the cacophony just doing what little I can. An upward slice with my other's soul parts a falling rock, the two flaming halves falling with an echoing thud and rolling to a stop. I forge a gauntlet around my hand and leap to the right, punching another flaming boulder, the lump of stone's trajectory altering enough to make it fall just clear of the tower edge.

It's almost like old times, the battles of old Iwaku and for a second I almost feel a little happy about that. The feeling is however quelled by the impending dread and a sickening uncertainty. This isn't like those old wars, the old battles I remember because I can't tell how it will end and..

"What should we do!?" I cry out over the screams of the world. A girder drops from the maelstrom above and a large armoured boot materialises on my leg as I leap and cut it in half, following with a bicycle kick, sending one half spiralling across the roof to knock away a large chunk of an airship that was headed for the group at the centre of the structure.

"What do we do!?"

I cant read the situation, I cant see where this will go or what my role should be. It's almost like being betrayed, people had always died in Iwaku, but most came back. Iwaku was a safe world a good world and now I.. I can't afford to die here, I can't afford to lose. But here and now, more than I've ever been, more than while fighting my own darkness, more than while facing off Paorou alone, more than while watching Lasi die in my arms. I'm terrified I won't come out of this. I'm terrified I won't get back to her, who I promised I'd return to.

"What do I do…?"

 

[Neko Archy]

[DASH="blue"]So as I work on reloading my guns atop the last fragment of reality adrift in a dizzying cosmic void, poised on the edge of utter annihilation. The physical embodiment of entropy is knocking at the door and man, how many bullets did I even bring?

I've been getting into fights with all kinds of people constantly for the past however long we've been here, and never bothered to buy any more ammo. That's easily a couple hundred rounds, maybe more. I know I don't have one of those infinite ammo things-they always were too expensive-so I bought one of the "arbitrarily large amount of ammo" things as well. Garunteed till the end times, it said.

So of course I'm down to my last few bullets. Of course.

They're not going to be much use, so I file the guns back away where I've been keeping the ammo. It'll show back up when I want it. Maybe for a sudden final shot into someone's face.

Anyways, current situation. Physical embodiment of entropy. Porg's having a crisis of faith, which I suppose is appropriate given all the stuff that's going down, but I've never been much of one to do that sort of thing.

"What do we do!?"

He mumbles something else, I don't quite get it, but my response feels appropriate.

"Spit in the face of god. It's what we do." I look around at everyone, and shrug. "Well, it's what I do."

Medusa's just a bit away, held back by Orion's Proboard shield. She's gotten a lot more ferocious since the carnival-Orion's field has a force, a weight to it that nothing I could ever form does. And it's getting eroded, bit by bit. Maybe she's manifesting more in full? Whatever the reason, the practical effect is we're all going to die.

Unless someone does something.

Looking at her means death. With this powerup, I don't know that closing my eyes is gonna count against that kind of stuff. I mean, I can practically feel where she is, on the "safe" side of the shield. Hmm...

Ah, feck. This is gonna suck. At least those knives that I got off of Ryker and his men can prove useful.

First, I fix where Medusa is in my mind. Then, I draw the knife, looking it over. Yep, it's sharp alright...Ugh, if I live through this I had better take, like, the longest vacation.

I draw the knife across my face. It hurts like hell, and a very un-manly scream...well, whimper of pain comes out of my mouth. A small voice in my head splits off and starts lecturing me. "Yes," it says, "This was a good plan. Cut open your own eyes. There's no possible way that can go wrong."

"Shut up," I think at it. "I can grow them back later."

"...Probably."

The world's dark now. I can hear what's going on somewhat well-it's confused, a cacophony of sound. Thank god for Neko senses, though. The thrumming of magic is still there and I can lock on to it.

Deep breaths. Focus. Picture the world where you are, the limitless void, the world where you wish to be...No, there's one more part. The taunt. Gotta have the taunt.

"Yo! Snake-bitch. Let's go."

I teleport, to the other side of the Proboard. And in the fraction of a second I spend on that other side, the force of Medusa whorling about me, I strike. Without even thinking about it, I strike. My hand, charged with the cosmic energy that burns through my veins, reaches into the nest of vipers

and

makes

contact.

This is how you discuss philosophy with cosmic forces of decay and heat death. By punching them in the face with an explosion.[/DASH]

 

[Hecatoncheires]

The Tower falls.

The City dies.

The Medusa rises.

The Story ends.

The Cycle falters.

And we remain.

"…As the Soulmate ensures the "child" of the future, so the Mentor channels the "voice" of the past. The Mentor is character from the tradition of passing on wisdom and granting gifts, a lesson in respecting the elder traditions. He is the father figure who understands that he must teach others to be greater than he ever was…"

Raife's shotgun, engraved with esoteric and arcane symbols, acts as my crutch as I hold up the Angel. My hand reaches up to tip down my hat, the leather sealing off the world from my sight and casting dark shadows all down my face, revealing lines and scars.

The face of an old man who has seen too much and yet survived, here still to impart his knowledge unto those who seek it.

I am the Mentor. The elderly sage, the wise figure cloaked in robes, a solitary rock that remains standing as a testament to ages long past.

"What I do…?" cries Porg, battering away the chunks of a dead world. Indecisive as always, even as the cogs of the Cycle turn around him. His potential stands poised, like a skier at the top of the slope, the skydiver at the doors of the plane, ready but uncertain. Doubts stay his hand.

But now is not a time for doubt.

Archy is of the same opinion, it seems, blasting herself out into the open to take the fight to the Medusa. 'Spitting in the face of god', she calls it, and I find it hard to argue with so apt a description. One of the final pieces of the puzzle slots into place as she becomes the grinning and defiant Trickster.

Yet there stands Porg still, caught by uncertainty, a rabbit in Medusa's headlights.

Twisting my head to face him, I call out in a gravely, ancient voice that booms across the din of a dying story.
"Stop questioning it, kid! This is no time for any of that shit! There's no-one to tell you what to do or how to do it, and the time for pondering and discussion has past! You know what to do! You can feel it in your bones, the pull of the Cycle dragging onwards!" More rocks blast across the remains of the Tower, and the sounds of Medusa's rising grow ever louder. I strain my voice across the gulf of sound and bellow out my words.

"You're the Ally, Porg! Stop fighting it and embrace your fate!"

 

[Jack Shade]

I never imagined myself here.

It's strange, isn't it Asmodeus? We who are so alike and different, who have shared countless paths...it never comes down to both of us, only one of us or none of us. Iwaku most often chooses you, it's dark savior, it's ever spurred antagonist who takes the crown of a hero and bends it into the weapon of a Shadow. I never noticed that before, how you always refused to hold the mantle long. I guess like me, you've always been looking for another way to end things...another path from this nightmare of repetition. Do you feel it? Do you feel the grand record of our existence constantly skipping in that old player?

Is that why we fight?

The Medusa rises before us, we...tiny survivors against her madness, against her stony gaze. I realize that it's always come to this in the end. The Medusa steals the life from all the gears that go silent, all the stories that never quite finish. She is the rhythm between our heartbeats, erasing at the last so the next can beat anew. This world is already dead and we, the last of them, stand atop this tower against a fight none of us have won before.

How is this different?

I was the hero of this story, but then you went and tore out the book, ravaged the divine manual for our stories and forced a rewrite. What kind of heroes are we, anyways? I pause, Kitti's hand on my skin, Piro's voice in my mind.

Father. Father, this story means more to you than your life. No...this was always your life.

I'm still, in a way, just playing in your shadow.

I reach forward, taking the sword by the handle and yanking it from the book. The storm rises around us both and I turn to Asmodeus in it. The thunder is the cracks of this world failing, the lightning is the worlds beyond.

I turn to hand you the sword.

"Take it." I say to him, daring him, mocking him, "And this will never end. You will drive our story into continuation and die a thousand more times. Neither you or I deserve to be the hero here and you know that. Take it and your fucking selfish dreams will kill us all."

I hold out the sword. I want him to take it. I want him to fail...gods help me, I want him to suffer.


"Sorry, boy, not in the cards." There is a flash of crimson energy and I see a Hijacker, some relic from the past n00b wars. He reaches out to me before I can react, touches me.

I am gone before I can open my mouth in protest, before I can swing my blade.

I am robbed.

We are robbed.

It's only a moment before Syracuse appears again in the rain. He holds a pen in one bandaged hand, a blood soaked one in the other. Somewhere beneath them, Tegan stares into nothing, her starlit eyes like coal. She won't need this pen, not now. But they always knew that it might come down to that.

"Here," Syracuse says, tossing it at the gore-slick Asmodeus, "With it, the Tyrant cannot touch you. Make a choice for once in your life and YOU decide how this story ends." He turns to the rest of them, rain slipping between the rents in his bandages, where energy swirls in mad patterns. "All of you! So long as the roles are not complete, you decide how the story ends. The Medusa isn't an invader, she's not the destroyer of worlds, she's not your enemy. A thousand stories and more have ended this way because no one asks the right questions, comes to the realization. I leave that to you."

He put a hand on Asmodeus' shoulder, staring Grant in the eye. If only there were more time...the things he might say to that old man, of the glories still wtihin him. "Remember. Writers never call the end of a plot 'the end'. They call it the Resolution."

And he was gone.

I can see Tegan. The neko cowers before me, bloody and standing in the cold throne room. I can feel Tegan by the sound her blood makes as it flows over her. I cannot hear her heartbeat. My sword cannot find a sheath in her heart.

I am robbed of my revenge...and yet, I cannot help but feel hot bitter tears collected at the corners of where my eyes should see. It all feels so wrong somehow. Stolen from the rooftop at the final battle, forced to play sentinel to Tegan's memorial.

I always thought she had more of a role to play...I always...

"Save your tears, boy," The hijacker again, pausing at the throne to gently caress Tegan's cheek. Once, a single motion...it was all it took to speak volumes of their relationship. He was tearing his bandages from his body, unstable energy lancing out, leaking, bouncing against the prism. "Your story isn't over yet. Take the sword and the Sheathe. Lay them on the throne. The elements of this world are assembled...we need to open the gate now."

"Gate?" I say, "What gate?"

Syracuse tears his bandages again, bouncing to Feral and thrusting her toward Tegan's body. "The story," He says, his voice garbling as warding bandages are town from him, "We're going to end it. Now. Move!"

I react without thinking. Above me, Amodeus and the other will handle the Medusa...but...will they prevail without the sword? The Sheath?

"Give them a little credit," Syracuse says, reading my thoughts with my hesitance, "They've done this a thousand times before...and now they have the choice whether to do it again."

I hesitate again, then step forward. I lay the sheath and sword on Tegan's lap, staring a moment into her blank eyes before turning to go.

"Not yet." Syracuse says, and bursts from his shell, lancing into the prism.

Tegan. The Shard. The sword. The sheath. They all glow a strange ethereal light. There's a flash of light and Feral has Tegan's bloodstained pen. Another and I'm holding a pen in my own hand. Three pens to thwart the Tyrant. Keys perhaps...and now we were being shown the door.

* Reality Bending- The shard from the Mirror of Insanity​

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* Soul Arts- The Sword of Iwaku which took the shape of the weilder's soul​

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* Dream Weaving- The Sheath that could become a tower in a moment, the defense against the strongest arsenal​

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*Confluence- The blood from Tegan's body, her own sacrifice of flesh and blood to lay the final stone.​

Syracuse threw himself into the Shard and energy lanced out from it, obliterating walls and stone in explosions of dust, drawing Tegan, the sword, and the sheath together into one blinding singularity. For a moment before he bound the elements together and became the door, Syracuse wondered if he would have done anything differently...if Tegan, suffering from too many and too few memories would have had it any other way.

No. No they wouldn't.

Fuck the plans of the story. Fuck the Tyrant. They had risen above their roles...and if death was the price to pay?

It was a cheap buy.

The light calmed, buffeted by the roaring above us, the creaking of the tower.Feral and I stand before it. It's a door, simple and unassuming...but it had taken so much planning, so much time to make it appear. This was the door of the Tyrant.

I do not turn to look at her. I know she feels it too. We've come so far and without knowing it, we play the roles that the Revisionists would have.

I reach out and turn the knob.

Feral and I enter into the realm of the Tyrant.

 

[Asmodeus]

...and from the realm of the Tyrant, his will is made manifest.

A dead writer's pen, turning orbits within me. As Jack Shade moves from this world I am left staring at the chasm of my chest, where the bloody instrument spins. It is centred in the celestial light and flecking stars of crimson through the cavity.

By the blood I come to know. Tegan is gone. And never till now have I felt so empty. It is not a grief of passion, for that kind is about to come...

Across the rooftop the mana-frenzied whirl of Archy ends. She freezes on the spot, her back in arch, and where her sternum was is now a bloody stump, an arm skewered through. It is golden wreathed and on its palm, as entrails slide from it, a crimson eye is blinking.

Paorou is behind her. He has impaled her with his limb.

The contending Trickster... the contending Soulmate... the contending Hero.... they have each been eliminated.

And the scream that comes... I know not if it is for the Neko or the woman dead beneath us. Perhaps it is for everyone and no one. But it breaks me. I buckle to the arms of Kitti and Grant, who hold me as I yell.

And as Archy drops onto the rooftop, her hands extinguished, Paorou holds aloft one bloodied fist and grins beneath his visor. "No better recipe than this, my friends. Now come at me."

He is the Shadow, slaughtered into perfect form.

"Kitti..." my voices sounds out as I hang against her. My head is lowered. "...don't look at Medusa.... use a mirror if you have to..." The words are sure as a drumbeat and we each hear it: the rhythm and punctuation of the end.

"Porg's faster than you," Grant whispers. "Paorou's left handed. Send the boy to his offhand and exploit the weakness."

"And remember..." Piro's angelic voice brings my head to lift. "In all this, we must find our other halves." It is his final, cryptic eulogy. The man spins, puts his back to us, and with the eyes of JackShade - the last piece of the contending Hero - gazes into the storm of Orion.

And the cosmic surfer's eyes look back. "I will guard you till the end, Bro."

The eyes shut, and Orion is ripped into a million fragments, a nova blast of pain and matter. The rooftop is eclipsed. Gravity is made maelstrom. The bloody water of the spire is turned to crystal.

And I launch myself forwards. Vengeance is in me, from the echoes of all the times Archy saved my life, of the dotted circle which I dreamed in her.

Piro is already petrifying, staring fully at the Medusa in the mist. He is holding her gaze, distracting her, daring her to freeze the eyes of Jack Shade that he bears. It is but a moment, a transience bought in his demise. Yet it is enough.

"POOOOORG!" my cry makes music with the dying star and I lock my gaze on the ally at the rooftop's edge. Porg is recovering from another meteor parry, but now he sees me. He reads the message in my eyes, as an Ally should. And with that we are joined in battle. He rolls to the left; I sprint to the right. We cross each others paths then circle to our target. Paorou's eyebeam strikes my wing, shattering bone, frying feathers, but I keep my momentum all the same.

Crystal pieces of the Cosmic Surfer rain between us. Porg leaps atop the spinning surfboard, vaulting off it, rolling beneath the second eyebeam. I use my good wing to barrel roll through equal debris then land in a sprint that takes me straight for the King.

He fires again. The eyebeam splits the rooftop, scars my foot and thigh. I stumble. Paorou pans his fire. Porg's shoulder is hit. I throw my momentum at the boy and knock him from the beam. We join back to back; we spin. Porg slips past his blindside. I swing up beneath Paorou's eyebeam and let it turn my other wing to vapour. The pieces of Orion crash down. We open our hands. Porg catches, snaps into position. I feel a weight upon my own hand as I roar in pain.

Then there is silence in the heavens. We are still. And there is but the feel of tearing meat... of bread being broken.

The eyebeams are gone. The visor has fallen. The eyes of Paorou-Sama blink and turn towards the roiling skies.

We are stood around him. Porg has a shard of crystal driven through the Mad King's shoulderblades. And, with my one and only hand, I have a second shard pushed up beneath his ribs to pierce his lungs. As one we have skewered him. With the bones of Orion we have ended the long duals that played between we three.

"It is..." In his words are elation, an ecstasy that pain cannot impede on. He trembles on the death strokes. "...It was..." His head tips back to stare at Porg. "...And it shall be."

"Reign no more..." I speak it sadly, not knowing why I do. His weight comes upon us. He gives a final smile, and like that the spell is broken. The Mad King drops onto the rooftop and we each stumble aside and feel the pieces of Orion tumble bloodily from our hands.

And as burning choirs and tortured children, the darkness cracks in half. And all the souls that he has kept here, beyond the membrane of the sky, pour out into the heavens. They are swirling and screaming, flooding from the bubble-realm of the Dark Reign and up into the metaverse. And what was palette-Noir is now empyrean and inferno.

I drop with Porg onto the rooftop, side-by-side, his shoulder scorched and my wings burned off. The killing has spent us. Perhaps the Mad King's passing has torn a part from all of us. We lie in mutual half-sleep as the souls swirl, as the Nexus of the omniverse glares through clouds and blood-storms.

Paorou's borders are crashing. Soon we will be atoms.

Across the rooftop, Grant and Kitti have huddled with their backs against the petrified statue of Piro. In death he shelters them. The Medusa is advancing, bearing down upon the two. They dare not turn. And in her hand Kitti holds a piece of mirrored glass.

I cannot help them. All strength has left me. I lie between the bodies of Paorou and Archy and hear Porg's rasping breaths. We are the last of all.

And in my chest, like clockwork gears, Tegan's pen is spinning.

 

[Porg]

Spoiler

"You're the Ally, Porg! Stop fighting it and embrace your fate!"

I press my hand against the stones of the tower and slowly push myself to my feet. There's an unsteady second as my fatigue causes my balance to waver. "Asmodeus." I begin as I lean down and pick up the soul blade that is my darker half. "I have always respected you, perhaps more than I should. I'm glad that I got to fight with you. Even if it was here. Even if that's all it was." I close my eyes, soul energy clustering before them to create a blindfold. I take a deep breath and turn towards Medusa. "But Grant is right. Now is not the time for doubt. I can feel what I have to do." As I begin towards Medusa I say one last thing, though it is to someone who cannot hear me. "Sorry Obskeree."

My pace quickens and my footsteps get steadier as I advance, the cycle's gears winding. Though I cannot see I can sense her, like a blot of nothing in the universe as obvious as anyone's presence. I grip the soulblade with both hands and jump at her, the blade aiming to stab though her chest. I'm taken off guard as I hit only air. She is next to me now, and she moves faster than I could ever have imagined. I swing sideways at her, but she steps back with such speed it's almost a blink. I shift my grip and bring the sword upwards, a blow she bats out of the way. She had never displayed these abilities before now, not that i'd seen. I find myself wondering if she changes for everyone, a manifestation of some deep-set weaknesses? She lunges briefly and I jump back, her response a scream. As the wave of painful sound washes over me I feel my clothes get heavier as parts begin to petrify. I take my left hand off the blade and a a second sword builds itself in my palm. I can feel her piercing gaze even though I cannot see it.

Again I round at her, swinging both blades, but again she deftly dodges like a sheet in the wind. The sword in my left hand becomes a tonfa and I swing down hard, hitting the stone where she had been and cracking it. She moves with such feminine grace and I cannot pinpoint her movements. There's a rush of air and I realise she is directly behind me. I spin on the spot, hoping to hit her now she is so close, but she catches my wrist. The blade is molecules from her neck but her grip is like a vice. I have one shot, a wicked rapier builds itself in my left hand and I thrust it into her belly.

Or I would have.

But she catches my other hand.

I can feel it, the second blade is so close to her, but not enough. I hang my head as I feel stone spread from her fingers. The blades drop out of my hands, the one I created falling to sparkling particles and fading from existence as the petrification creeps over my whole body. She screams again. The blindfold tears away under the sonic assault and I am stone. Caught forever as a statue, arms in the air where she holds them. I feel my being slipping away, the final seconds of existence before I fade from the world. The Medusa lets go of me and turns back to Kitti and Grant, continuing her excruciating march. And in those last seconds of existence I do the unthinkable and I realise, maybe it was leading up to this. I let out a small laugh to myself as I tear my own soul from my petrified body.

Looks like I'm definitely part of the cycle.

I stand up. Behind me is the husk of my body but I do not look at it. I lean down and clutch the soulblade of my other self, the only thing my transparent hands can now touch. But it will be enough. I move with an unnatural swiftness, the loss of my body making me unbound by many weights I had before, and this time the Medusa is not quick enough. The sword tears through her shin and embeds itself in the stone floor, pinning her leg in place. I cannot kill her, I know this, but I can do this much. I hold my arm out and roar in effort as I construct another soul blade. A long spear forms itself in my grip, building itself up from small shards of soul. As it does so my left arm and much of my incorporeal form around it fade away, the soul matter being used to create the weapon. As it completes itself I flip it in my grip and send it down through Medusa's shoulder, pinning her to the floor through it too.

She still stands, but cannot move from the spot, the blades holding her in place. She looks almost like some of the statues she had created. I fall to my knees, a transparent hand clutching at the missing parts of my soul. It is all I can do to keep my unbound soul in the world along with the spear that holds Medusa.


"FINISH IT."

 

[Kitti]

The winds whipping at the top of the tower from Orion's storm caused tendrils of hair to billow around Kitti's face, further obscuring her vision. From where she stood, her back to Medusa as she stood in solidarity with her unlikely companions, it felt as though this were the end of the world. And wasn't it, though? She bowed her head and saw the glimmer of the mirror beneath the skin forming trails now, wrathful and impatient bands around the arm that twisted with pent up energy and fury. ​

​

With Paorou gone, the last of the obstacles was Medusa, then, there could be no mistake. The reality of it seemed cold and foreign, something she didn't fully expect to happen and an event from which she felt entirely detached. Here they were, attempting to slay Medusa. She balled her hand into a fist and the silver pooled at the palm until one could almost distinguish it as a mirror once again. This was the one who had swept through the inhabitants of the city like a scourge, claiming victims from the most devout and powerful to the banal and helpless and yet. Was it possible that inside that monster beat the heart of the old soulmates? She'd sworn to divorce herself from the idea that, inside that monster, some shred of Fluffy remained intact. It was a fool's hope at best and a suicidal wish more realistically. But the act still gave her some pause.​

​

The sounds behind Kitti caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand at attention and she shivered though it had nothing to do with the storm. She almost turned to look but thought better of it just in time. Lifting her hand, palm facing upward at an angle, she could see behind her to Porg's grand act. He had pinned the Medusa, halting her grave march toward the remaining combatants. If there were ever a time to strike, it would have to be now, with an all-but-frozen foe working to free herself. Lifting her hand to look through the mirror instead of ahead, Kitti turned and advanced. ​

​

"We fear you, Medusa, but you are a mirror of the pain and transformation that we must all face. You are formed from the skeletons of our transgression and welded in the fires of desperation, as were we all tempered. But for us to remain, you must be driven out. And for that, I am sorry. You were our solution and it is our own lack of knowledge, our own wretchedness that summoned you, but we cannot let you take us all." ​

​

Kitti bit her lip, speaking to the twisted form before her as if hoping that the words might offer some consolation, some solace, but there was none to be found. The eyes reflected in her mirror were vacant and unforgiving as ever. There could be no reasoning with it, there was no excuse. ​

​

Each footfall over the tower left a pale, bare outline of a footprint against the filth and the gore that remained as the pads of Kitti's feet became dirtier and dirtier. The hem of her robe was nearly as sullied as she approached, a few seconds that felt like an eternity. Bowing her head once again, Kitti raised the hand that had held the mirror and wrapped it around the throat of the Medusa. ​

​

The hand of a soulmate to extinguish the perverted form of another, it was not so much poetic as tragic. The heart of a soulmate - shouldn't Medusa have been the purest of them? It didn't matter. Medusa fought back against Kitti, raking nails over her skin, but she did not let go. The mirror formed a blade from the palm to puncture the sewn-together flesh of the avatar which bore her. ​

 

[Hecatoncheires]

We fight like cornered predators, rabid dogs battling a final, desperate struggle. No illusions, no refusing to face facts. We know what this is, where we stand, and the fact that there really could be nothing coming next.

This is the final page. The fucked-up bastard of a celestial author penning this tragedy is dotting the I's and lining the T's.

A rapidly-petrifying Porg has driven the Medusa to a stand-still with a weapon forged from his very soul. Overhead the hands of Kitti wrap around her neck, the soft caress of a mother-figure choking the life out of her child. The Mad King has been toppled; he lies impaled, Asmodeus slumped before him in exhaustion. All of my allies, we final few, are spent, their dim lights in the darkness either extinguished or rapidly fading.

And what am I doing help them? What the fuck can I do? I'm an old man, crippled by his last victory. Murdering Raife took the final vestiges of my strength; I'm held up now by sheer will and the shattered weapon of my fallen foe. I have no soul blade to drive into the Medusa, no power to weather Her wrath as I choke the life from Her.

I have become the broken old man Raife predicted I would be. The only small satisfaction I can take is that he isn't around to see it.

Staring into the chaos, taking in what could be our final moments, my eyes fall upon an object lying discarded on the dusty floor. Heavy-set and stained, cast aside in a moment's desperation... a book belonging to the angel. The book he has carried with him all this time, through all our hardships, triumphs and failures, through torture chambers, dingy streets and subway stations to warzones and castles right to this moment, this spire.

Suddenly realisation dawns upon me, so sudden and so fast that I am reminded of Kurtz in Apocalypse Now, "shot with a diamond... a diamond bullet right through my forehead."

I know what must be done.

I know how we have to end this.

Reaching up to grasp my hat, I snap it down to keep my eyes away from the all-seeing, all-destroying gaze of the Medusa. With difficulty, my old bones straining from their age and the beating they've taken, I reach down and take up the book, tucking it tenderly under my free arm. Leaning against the symbol-encrusted shotgun as a crutch, I begin to limp across the spire towards the fallen angel. Time is not on my side; any second She might break free from the attempts of my comrades to slow her incessant advance, but my legs aren't what they used to be.

Hell, I'm not what I used to be.

But I've faced gods and unwinnable causes before, and here I still stand. Bent and beaten, but unbroken. The Medusa cannot say the same.

Slowly, I drag my tired old form to stand before the beaten and broken angel. Slowly, I allow it to crumple before him, my lined and weather-beaten face on a level with his. He's still the same man I can remember meeting all those years ago, after I made the choice to remain behind as a warden to the horrors that could come to pass. His face has not changed, even as mine faded away. Such is the role we play. And I have become the Mentor, the ancient repository of the hidden past ready to help steer the path to the future.

I untuck the book from under my arm and offer it out to Asmodeus.

"Tonight the Saviour's Page must be written."

 

[Tegan]

The midnight city sprawl of chrome and neon is rended by tropical plants; roots splitting the pavement, wall, street. The jungle wants the midnight city back and the jungle is winning. Laurel clutches the wheel, Watcher is beside her in the passenger seat, he is turned from her; he's talking to Child who sits in the back. Laurel's weaving in and out of traffic, as they banter, while the brakes occasionally fail, or the clutch disappears, or a car appears from nowhere. Typical for a dream.
To look at them is to look at someone through a dirty window. They are sentient mists; painted shadows assembled by uncanny subconscious. Watcher's crowned with ruddy hair; dialect vaguely Corinthian. Child's cloaked with a black wool coat; indigo glows from behind his sunglasses.
Laurel turns hard to the right. Watcher and Child don't notice the impending crash through a travel agency advertisement painted on a brick wall.
The countryside is tall grass and shrubs grooved with a serpentine road. Laurel eases along slow; in the distance, shaggy kangasheep graze. Though it is calm, it takes all of Laurel's concentration to maneuver with the unstable instruments. She cannot adjust the dial on the radio as it projects her thoughts back to her.
...at once regard and disregard. Regarding her face immobilizes, fills with such fear to react that we disreact. Her regard distracts, dissuades, disintegrates the will to pursue. Perseus had to sack, ravage, lay waste to counter the fear she inspires. This fear of losing a past dubious as the future...
Laurel guides around sharp turns as they ascend gray cliffs that overlook a mercury beach. Hundreds of snowy owls roost with black bats on the rocks, air is dripping with screeches and sonar.
A kangasheep manifests in the road; it takes all of Laurel's strength to veer. And sound the horn...
The sound of centuries momentarily mutes the crash of reality.
They're falling in slow-motion. Laurel pulls up on the wheel until they're is soaring clumsily, skimming the water as they propel forward into the horizon. Whatever it is Watcher and Child are talking about she won't know until she wakes. Or sleeps again. She's not certain whom is dreaming whom.
From her nest of statues a girl stirs, her thin body clambering to see from the mouth of her cave the Argos ships that approach from the bronze sea. The serpents that are her hair blink into the light.
...her yearning for regard is deep as our own. If we stare long enough into her terrible eyes, will we one day see one another face to face? Perhaps then we might ask her what it is we feared to lose in the first place.

 

[Jack Shade]

"We're here for an ending."

Before it was a car, they were a spark, the very essence of thought. Now they tore along the backroads of someone's subconcious, hurtling nowhere as fast as Laurel could drive. Lights passed the window like half-hollow faces, peering in for moments before yanked away and replaced by another. Serpents, Children, Kings, Peasants, gods.

The Watcher was not looking at him, not at first. He looked past them all, out the back windshield in the past that was and wasn't, half folded ideas along their rampage leaving wisps of smoke where crumbled mortar and stone should be.

"The world tires. Let us rest...rest yourself."

"You think I control the will alone?" Watcher asked, his fingers biting into the headrest. "They want the story to continue. So many worlds, so many ideas. This story is eternal because it has no ending." His face looked like it was melting for a moment, than chiseled of stone, "You're wasting your time."

"They look to you," the Child answered coldly, adjusting his sunglasses as shreds of bill board swept by them, was gone, "You pull their strings and I'm here to cut them."

"You? We'll all be saved by the returning hero, hmm? Old cliche, and besides...you may have been important, once, but you lost that right."

Silent, the Child was still, almost consumed by the thick black coat around him. The Watcher smiled, but it was not victorious nor leering, simply disappointed "We make choices, we build reputations, character, expectation. Do you remember when I gave you the power of Administration? I believed-"

Holding up a hand, the Child shook his head, "Enough. I know. But your story has been more than told, more than recounted, it's been a legacy that all have followed...but their souls are tired, Watcher, their souls have had enough. Write them an end."

Snakes coiled and writhed in the darkness between them, the shadows themselves were alive with the words both said and unsaid. They were speaking over cliffs, they were falling to their deaths, they soared on the backs of butterfly wings painted with a thousand thousand scenes...and they were in the car that Laurel drove.

Always to the beach. He remembered.

They said they would meet on a beach.

"You don't understand. There is no end. Life isn't just a story it's a collection of tales, an anthology of works with greater archetypes. I cannot simply will the tale to end, the characters have to decide that the ending IS the ending. We only continue because someone can't decide on the ending."

The Child was blue eyed and dark haired for a moment, chubby and flattened in the back of the seat. Then he was Jack Shade, then Syracuse, then the Child again. Watcher simply observed the transformations as if it were a normal occurrence. Perhaps it was. Devoured by one mind, they were strangers in all three.

No one controlled anything here. There was only the sea, the sky, and the car that skimmed over the waves like a skipping stone.

"Are you satisfied with this ending?" Child asked, "Can you be?"

 

[Asmodeus]

Hey...

Is there any chance we can undertake a mass upheaval and start the original timeline for Iwaku world?

Whenever I'm goofing off in conversations, I try to mention the rich and sacred history and it just... doesn't feel the same if the newuns don't experience that kind of brings-the-whole-site-together thing!

I know a lot of people didn't help out much and you had to carry the entire plot, but even for people who weren't actively involved, it was definitely a "community" thing.

I want the new kids to have that feeling! I don't know how to describe to them why I've been in Iwaku for so many years and the Mythos epitomizes everything that makes Iwaku better than any other place.

It was just a thought. I might be slightly emotional, too, being sick.

Please ignore this if it's too much.​

​

​

A butterfly, beautiful and deathly sick, gave whisper to those words amid the red forest of the Watcher's hair. Her voice was threshold, between girl and woman, trailing gossamer threads of purest innocence.

And when a tear rolled from Watcher's eye, brilliant blue like the coming ocean, it was hers. It was Sakura's. She was keeping them all from the petrification... from the end.

The other eye was desert rage. Each blink brought sandstorm and extinction to the fields that passed them. He held the gaze of black-coat Child. And not till that butterfly had spake its longing sighs did the Tyrant answer.

"How can souls grow tired, when they are instruments of eternity?" His voice was a quantum above Sakura's sadness... a quantum above her crippling nostalgia. "They never tire. And their voices echo, in Cycle after Cycle."

The butterfly took flight on cancerous wings and broke into dust and flame. The ceiling of the roof caught fire and insects dropped in ashen rain. Watcher looked to Laurel as she slithered, Ouroboros, around the wheel. Beyond her the window looked out to pilgrim cliffs, where monks and seagulls fought for nooks.

"The call is strong as it ever was. The merest mention of another chance, another Mythos tale, and we are aflame. We dream and see the arcs before us like angel wings. We crave the Meta like no drug or lover hence. Now, as ever.. as ever... as ever..."

"It is addiction," Child answered, with coat two-fold now for insect husks. Through the carapace he kept the Tyrant's gaze. "With all its ravages. Why call it scrapings of the divine, when it is only a failure in moderation?"

"Moderators..." Watcher's eyes drifted to the footwell. Scone crumbs... thrown books... Kraken rum... a ship inside the bottle where kittens screamed. "....so pale a colour...."

"Then you are trapped." Watcher was a cockroach, man-sized, shedding tiny Jack Shade faces. "Waiting for what will not come as you are torn and torn again."

"For a chance... always a chance..." Watcher closed his eyes, in rapture and elation. His voice was hymn to the dreamland, a Gaia voice of every fold and creature. "Iwaku! The perfect. story. Which is exceeded by no other."









"There is one thing."



Laurel was looking at him. He at her. Hair of owl feather and ancient wood cut jagged fringe across her brow. And freeze-frame flame became her face, as if she ever-burned or was mere memory of the fire. The eyes, wet and dark, like creatures of their own merely nesting in the hollows of a skull, to skitter away at any moment into deeper darkness.


"There is one thing."

Child muttered agreement and echo, then looked from the others, to dwell upon himself.





Watcher heard the ocean. The windscreen came aflood with bronze. They plunged into the ocean. The car was puzzle box, turning and unfolding, peeling them to ether.



"There is one thing."



*smile*

​

No more framing. I won't waste time telling you how Paorou lays dead beside me, or how I watched Porg give his life, or how Kitti chokes Medusa in the mirror's image, or how Grant stands over me with the book. You know what happened. I don't need to retell these things.

This one is for me.

I wonder if kindness would have killed all this. If I had been a gentle soul, and smiled on my fellow Iwakuans, helped and cherished them. If I had come down from the Silent Hill with a message of joy and walked with Gabriel and the Knights of Iwaku. If it was my tyranny that set all things motion, might not my grace have petrified that paradise, brought Razilin to terms and Paorou to contentment, and stopped the bloody course of a too too long history?

Was this all that was ever asked of me? The one thing I never asked of myself.

Kindness.

What's to be done when one is given a love that drives them mad? How else can one act but endeavour to possess it, consume it, make the object of your love a part of your very self? Penetrator and penetrated. I was Iwaku's lover and cannibal.

And now my story ends as it began.... with falling.


The rooftop of Nerf Castle collapses. I see Grant's footing give out and the book leap high from his hands and he plummets into darkness. And across the roof Kitti is slammed by the statue of Pirogeth, colliding once with Medusa then rolling away as the floor disintegrates. Paorou's body slides past me. I see Medusa's hands go up and her fall as one with Porg's light upon her.

Then I am scattered with the rest.

​

So there we are. The scraps of Asmodeus, Grant, Porg, Kitti and Medusa falling through the Abyss at the end of all things. We are mixed among the billion souls which the Mad King held inside the bosom of the Dark Reign - now all free and howling in the night of nights. We are loosed to nothing but the omnicosmic ending. We fall through cracks in the sky and out into star-snuffed nothingness where Medusa has slain all other worlds. Our fate, as theirs, was inevitable, our fugitive story but a blip before the pattern held. A dramatic pause, no more, in the scripture of apocalypse.

My bones crack. I feel it is the end. But the air still roars. Opening bleeding eyes I see that I have landed on a spinning shard of stone... an asteroid fragment of the city lost. It is smooth and sculpted, a marble scape where once was flesh. The Warmaster. His eight foot form is island in the storm. My friend from the first and to the last.

The scene is maddening: so many souls screaming up into the firmament that I can do no more than weep.

Another impact. Something slams beside me then topples over the edge of the platform. A brief glimpse is all I have... Tegan's eyes meeting mine, before her body tips off and is gone forever. My one remaining hand twitches. I might have reached for her. But she is lost...

...leaving only a memory.

Something comes into my grasping hand... small and sleek, rolling there across the plane of the Warmaster's chest.

I know it.

My fingers curl around the golden pen, and with it I rise, ragged and charred-winged, a one-armed bag of broken bones animated upon my final breaths. I stand upon the Warmaster and behold the roiling nothingness. One eye has exploded from depressurization; the other seeks, through madness and despair, shadow and inferno.


"Tonight," Grant had said, in a mangled voice mixing blood with Coffee, Gabriel, Shadowform and Lamord. "The Saviour's Page must be written."


It is not a fall this time. It is a jump. I dive into the maelstrom and spiral toward my target.



It was what Rory planned for all those years, and what Ozryel had tried to tell me. It's what Myrn understood and Diana channeled. It's why Torsty died with remorse and why I tormented Artemis. It's what drove Gabriel mad. It was told in angeltongue by Aimi and Piro. It was written in the inverted genders of Archy, Feral and Zypher. It drummed in the heart of Celcius, which formed the bloody core of Medusa's avatar. It sung amid the magic of the arrays and Roberta's alchemical dance. And in the whisper of the night I shared with Tegan.

In every corner of the Dark Reign, the echo of a Woman.

Not just the inverse of towers and cities; not just the bane of kings and warlords. But the thing beyond. The other in the womb of night, from chaos and uncreation. The untold part. The untellable part.

The thing beyond stories.


The Saviour.

​

My feet crash down, shinbones impaling knees and thighs. It is perfect mirror to the creature before me. Medusa is but feet away. We perch in counterpoise on edges of the Mad King's throne, spinning in the slaughter, I a king of dust and she a queen of entropy. She presides amid the cracking heavens, conductor to the waves of terror and extinction.

And the one and only thought that pulses through my nexus agony is the elusive, uninvited answer to all of this.






I wish I had had more time... to be with Tegan.





My feet are fused. I come down on one knee that wreathes itself in stone. My thighs and stomach go next. Then my flanks and shoulders, my sword arm and the bleeding stump becoming crystal, then dust. If feel the ice upon my neck. My throat becomes granite. My neck seizes up. The stone fills my mouth, entombs my cheeks, and slides across my eyes. A final shuddering cry is locked in hewn halls of marble cavity. There is only the ether-light in my chest, casting glow upon my single arm that petrifies with its grip upon the book.

The book outstretched.... offered up towards her.... with the golden pen at rest upon the last page.


Offered to Medusa.




My last eye becomes amethyst. I am ice and stone. My vision closes upon the panorama of chaos and in its foreground the Medusa, robed in suffering and beauty, her hand hovering over the pen.

 

[Asmodeus]

EPILOGUE: THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY




It wasn't like waking up. It wasn't like remembering. Those things were simply part of us. And we had emerged, as if from a long tunnel.

Nor was this place the city we had fought for. No gothic towers or ISAF batteries; no Rift Storm sky or gaping Abyss. It was simply a city, its extremities in fog and its palette in gray. No one was here. But it might have been the hour. Perhaps the citizens had not yet woken. Perhaps they were ghosts who watched behind the murk-glint windows. We could not tell.





I change gears and keep the car steady in the centre-lane. It is featureless, sleek and silent-running. It's only adornment is the silver Pegasus mounted on the hood. The trinket cuts a path for us through the fog.

Kitti has the passenger seat, her head turned and propped on one hand. She watches the streets roll by.

Behind us, in the back seats, an old man and a young. Porg and Grant are lost in thoughts.

In silence we slip beyond the city limits, from out the shadow of high rise and overpass. We follow slender roads into hills that flank the city, a quarter mile out - enough to walk back if we choose.

A curve in the road ahead. It is sharp on the hillside, a verge beyond where steel barrier juts on gentle grass. The view looks out across a valley stretching into orchard and silver streams, forest verdant and mountains snowcapped. Two others lean there, as if lost on their way, puzzled by the sights before and behind them. Yet they seem to settle as our car approaches.

Feral sits on the railing, while Jack Shade steps forward to greet the car.





I park up on the verge and pop the door. The air is warm and sweet, a breeze bringing blossoms to a serenade of birdsong.

My son and I embrace, the long seconds that we hold each other our best and only language. And in time we turn as the others disembark. A handshake for Grant, a shoulder-slap Porg, a kiss placed on Kitti's cheek. Perhaps it is only ritual. Yet it feels correct. Like everything else.

The city looms behind us, the valley beyond, and the road continuing ever onwards.

We are at peace.

And yet we know this as our parting. We each must go our separate ways, and end it as we choose. No more tyranny, no more suffering. Only the things beyond stories.

I scratch my chest, the skin there soft, the heart beating gently.

I wonder who will be the first to say goodbye.​

 

[Hecatoncheires]

I lean upon a walking stick now, not a shotgun.

The battered duster and blood-stained Stetson have been traded for a charcoal-grey suit and sandy brown fedora.

Beard's still there, though, just trimmed and maintained instead of wild and untamed.

I pull myself out of the car with but a little difficulty, doing my best to disguise my troubles. The pride of an old man. Many things are different now, but that sure as hell isn't one of them. Asmodeus has already greeted his son by the time I've concluded my struggles and has turned to greet me with a warm handshake. I grip his hand tightly and smile at him underneath the shade of my cap. Slowly I begin to make my way around the others, greeting them and conversing. We few who remain. Brave souls all, comrades in arms, in ends and new beginnings.

The conversations are warm, the greetings warmer. We are as old friends now, reminiscing of the good old days.

But we all know what this is.

This scenic little site, centred amidst such beauty, is to be the last place we all see each other. Once we step through that gateway and out into the great, wide world, we shall not be seeing each other again. This is to be our swansong. Our epilogue.

A silence begins to fall now. We know what's coming next, and thoughts now lie on who shall get the ball rolling. Fortunately for any present who are worried about being the first, I've never been one for lingering on goodbyes. Slowly, I make my way around to the back of Asmodeus's car and pop the trunk, reaching in to retrieve a satchel bag that I sling over my shoulder. Slowly, I walk to each of my companions to shake their hands one final time. Slowly, I make a start towards the gateway.

Suddenly, I stop. Turning, I face the assembled group.

"Don't forget the past," I tell them, a rumbling bass-line of a Scottish accent even now, "but don't get lost in it either. Remembrance is a balancing act."

A small smile plays across my lips.

"I wish only the best for all of you. Whatever that may be."

There are no more words left for me to say. For how can words truly express what we have all experienced together? The stories, the terrors, the misery and the final peace that we have now achieved? My smile does not break as I begin to trek out through the gateway.

For some of us, this is the end of the line. The game's over, the castle stormed, the day saved, the credits rolling. The great celestial author has punched in the words 'THE END' for these guys with the finality of the grave. And they deserve it. They have walked fire with me, charged the gates of hell and now they've earned the chance to call it a day, to put their feet up and live the quiet life.

But that's not the life for me.

There's a pistol tucked into the back of my trousers and a bag full of medical supplies at my side. I can feel the weight, as ancient and reassuring as an old friend, as I start down the path back towards the city. I made an oath, long ago, in a story I sometimes think only I can remember. And though all those involved are now lost, the plotlines sprung from it concluded, the villains who fled from it defeated, here I still remain.

Which means I'm not done yet.

I'm a Knight of Iwaku. I remember that now.

And we do not stop until we're dead.

It's a lovely beach, this.

Picturesque in that real, untarnished way, the sort of landscape that looks as if it has yet to be tainted by the presence of things like me. I can feel the sand flowing between my toes as I walk down towards the surf. A suit and tie is perhaps not the correct attire for such a locale, but such is the place my life is at right now, and at least I can still take my loafers off and get my feet wet.

Out before me the ocean meets the sky in a symbiotic merging, stretching up into the heavens and quite possibly even beyond. The setting sun beats down upon it, casting a sheen across the tip of the waves. A postcard photographer's wet dream.

But this is not just an ocean, friend. This is an M&S ocean.

An extended fucking metaphor.

The beauty of these waters are legendary; what many would not give for the chance to dive into them, to lose themselves in their liquid embrace and explore the wonders they have to offer. I can't blame them, either, for I'm a sucker for them as well. I'm standing right on this shoreline, aren't I? Poised on the edge of possibility, wondering whether I should take the plunge again?

But I've been here before. And I know that there's a nasty little hidden shade of blue to those picturesque waters expanding out before me. Here be monsters, friends, lurking just underneath the surface and ready to tug you down to their level. Stagnation. Repetition. The watering down of something incredible, something unique, until everything that made it so beautiful in the first place is gone.

Like ripping the horn from a unicorn, then coating it in dull grey paint.

Those of us who've been coming here for years, since the beginning? We know about those monsters. We know how to avoid them, how to keep them at bay, a knowledge garnered through years of trial and error, of failed plans and glorious fuck-ups. And for years, it has just been us coming here. There was a time when it was all hustle and bustle, but lately it's just been us. This has been our own little secret world, our hidden treasure we spoke of in hushed tones around others.

Why's that, I wonder? Did we like that it was ours and ours alone? Are we that selfish and arrogant? Are we worried what others might do to it? That they might force their way in and turn this untarnished beauty into Blackpool? Maybe we're just plain worried that they won't get it? That they'll take one look at it and go, "this beach is shit, the fuck are you wasting your time with it when there's better things to be doing?"

Perhaps it's all of these things. Perhaps it's none of them.

I think we're all in agreement that it's time for a chance, though. What that change might be is anyone's guess. Maybe this place will go full tourist town. Get some big old high-rise hotel buildings and bury everything it once was under boardwalk and shallow allure. Could be that's just the way these things go. Maybe we can preserve what this place once was but expand upon it, develop it and allow it to grow. Let the beach stretch further, the waters seep deeper and deeper. That's the ideal of this situation.

And what of us? The veterans, those who have been coming to this stretch of sand for years and years? How are we to preserve the legacy of everything that we've achieved here? Our triumphs and failures, grand narratives and fantastical adventures out in that ocean blue. Are we to be this place's custodians? The guardians at the gate, the bouncers at the door? "Sorry sir, but you must be this deep to enter?" Or are we gonna wind up as a herd of dejected old beggars sifting amidst the beach-turned-tourist town, pissed on cheap wine and old memories? Are we going to be proactive about it? Get in amongst the new arrivals and teach by example? Or are we to just leave some signs and warnings of our presence and let them work it out themselves? "Hey, watch out for the fucking sea-monsters"?

I don't know. I really don't.

Some of the others have made up their minds already. Out in that beautiful water there's a car crafted from thoughts and hopes and memories, slowly dissolving and becoming one with it all. My friends have merged with the ocean they helped to discover, just as the ocean merges with the sky. A suitable conclusion to their story, and I cannot help but think that following in their wake is just a tad tempting.

Maybe I will. Maybe I'll lose the suit, throw off my earthly bindings and swim out into the sea to be a part of it all, leave the beach for someone new to discover. Or perhaps I'll stay and welcome others to this magical place, share with them the wonders it holds and warn them of the hidden dangers. And then there's always the option of leaving this place; throwing my shoes back on and heading to the car, letting this beach forever remain as it is now.

But like I said, I don't know. And right now, I'm pretty content not to. Right now, I'm just going to enjoy the feeling of the water running between my toes, and watch the sun-set to end all sun-sets.

We always said it was going to end on a beach.

And hell, I can think of worse ways for this to come to a close.

 

[Porg]

I step out of the car, breathing in deep. My torn and ripped clothing has been replaced with a loose shirt, the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up just below the elbows, my boots replaced with sneakers which are in turn mostly covered by some neat denims. I think this is the cleanest air i've ever breathed in and by god the view is incredible. I take a second to just enjoy the new landscape, leaning against the car, staring down the road, across the fields to the distant hills and glades. If I'm honest with myself though I'm merely hesitating, buying some more precious seconds before the inevitable. It's weird to see everyone talking so happily and casually but it doesn't feel wrong, not even a little bit. I push myself away from the car stepping towards the others and joining in. the conversation is, all truth be told, a little awkward, but it's nice. I wish I could come up with a better word for it, but I guess that covers it well enough for now at least.

Asmodeus approaches me and slaps my shoulder. It's an alien gesture from the man but I can't help but grin at him, my chest swelling a little with pride. I briefly and somewhat-awkwardly hug Kitti and we smile mutually at one another. Jack Shade goes to shake my hand, which I bat out of the way before opening my arms for a hug. We were after all, good friends.

It's not long before Grant approaches for some final words. We share a handshake to which I find myself clasping both my hands around his and shaking it perhaps more vigorously than he, or even I, had expected. We share a pause and a slight chuckle at this as I rub the back of my head in embarrassment. He's taken his things out of the trunk almost before I notice and with a few choice words of wisdom he walks away. It's not sudden or fast and it takes a long time for him to really be out of sight. Remembrance is a balancing act eh? I'll keep that in mind. As the old man disappears off towards the city I gulp, knowing I can't very well put it off much longer.

I move to the back of the vehicle, leaning backwards against the vehicle briefly and crossing my arms. "Guess it's my turn eh?" I mumble, though loud enough so they all hear it. I turn to see what is in the trunk, though I instinctively know. I grab the messenger bag from the car, slinging it over my head in a fluid motion so it rests naturally just round to the right side of my back. There's a couple of pens sticking out of the pockets and I have no doubt that the majority of it's contents are various pieces of paper and sketch-pads. I reach my hand back into the car but hesitate and withdraw it without picking anything up. I look to the group and shrug lightly. I wave a hand lazily in a goodbye as I walk through them "It was a fun journey guys" I say, not stopping for a beat. I place my hand on the gate and hesitate a second. "Like.. that fight outside the tower with that demon."

I open the gate a fraction before stopping again "Or. the car ride… that was pretty epic. Good stories huh?" I can't bring myself to open the gate any more, Grant was so much better at this, he could do a cool goodbye. "Or.. or before that.. how about that little tussle int he laundrette? Or the final collapse of the tower..?" I sigh a little frustrated at myself. "I guess it wasn't all that much fun at the time huh?" I say in response to the various mixture of silences that greets me. I stay to the sky a second, my hand still on the gate, the veins showing as I squeeze the wood. "Hey Asmo you remember when we fought at the mirror? Like.. we went toe-to-toe.. Or How about the train to Shapeshift town?" I shake a little and hope they don't all notice "Does anyone else remember when the time got re-written? I do.. Asmo was pretending he was Lamord, and I fought Grant as one of the Iwaku Knights. What about the battle at Nerf.. I really showed Paorou.. well, kinda." I chuckle a little but it's got the tell-tale watery sound of someone trying with all his might not to cry. "Or the battle at history isle, or the fight at sci-fi tow-" I kinda lose it and before I know it I'm not saying words, just making awful wet noises as the tears pour down my face. My hand reaches up and clasps over as much of my face as it can but doesn't really accomplish much. The tears are thick and goopy, pouring between my fingers and making my face and hand lightly sticky. The noises I'm making as hardly graceful but I manage to subside them enough to speak, even if my voice is choked with fluid and my pitch is wavering wildly and it's all being punctuated with a symphony of sniffs and hics and the odd snort. "I know it's dumb, I know this is what we've been fighting for.. but I.. I'm sad it's ending, I don't want to leave! I don't want to have to say goodbye to all of you! Not forever.."

The words ease a weight on me though and I manage to wipe away sone of the stuff pouring out of my eyes. I take a deep breathe, and then another one just to make sure. I turn to face the group, though I keep my head down. "Guess I just wrecked my attempt at a cool goodbye huh?" I stammer with a shaky voice. Taking another breath I look up and smile. It's an honest smile, not a thinly veiled attempt to look happy, but one of gratitude and genuine joy for the experiences we have all shared. "But yeah.. I'd better go.." I push the gate open without looking away "Goodbye guys, and thanks for everything. It was awesome. You.. were all awesome." Not the best last words, but they feel about right for me.

I take a different path to Grant, taking a little dirt path down towards a copse. I feel much lighter and I let some of the tears linger, the light sting they leave on my cheeks oddly pleasant. I wonder if I'll ever see them again, and my thought drift to the trunk of the car, where right now there lies a small knife in a thick leather sheathe. The handle made of light wood and antler with some darker wood thrown in to break up the colours, the whole thing beautifully smoothed down to make a comfortable grip. Inside the sheathe the blade glows with a very subtle green light. The last soul blade in Iwaku. The thought prompts a wide grin and I pick up the pace soon moving into the trees where to all onlookers I'd soon fade away in the mix of early morning mists and foliage.

---------

I emerge in a small clearing, a familiar thatch-roof cottage lies in the centre of the meadow. I see a small blue figure flit up by a window before the door explodes open and the fairy Obskeree comes rushing out towards me. I take a moment to wipe the tears from my face before she gets too close. "Mr Jack!! You're back!! Where did you go? Tell me! Tell me it all! What happened!?" she chimes with a level of excitement that makes it surprising she hasn't just popped where she floats.


"Oh man.. Where to start?"

 

[Neko Archy]

[DASH=Blue]I...really don't get everything that's gone on.

Like all the medusa things, or Paorou being whatever he was, or why writing was so important...I just don't get it.

Maybe that's my role, to be the outsider, the fool. The Gilligan of our motley crew.

How fitting. I'm not even with the rest now. While they have their goodbyes and reunions and whatnot out in the scenic little clearing, I'm standing on a tree limb in the woods nearby, leaning up against the trunk. They're probably not gonna notice me, but that's fine. These people, as much as I've fought alongside some of them, aren't really my people. I'm a world jumper, through and through, a vagabond in the stars. Home is wherever I am.

Silently, my hand goes to where Paorou hit me in the chest. He tore out some of my organs or something, and it's left a mark, even after the whole rewriting of reality. It looks hella cool, a kind of X-shape in the middle of my chest, but it's still a bit sore and makes me wonder if I'll have heart problems in the future. Should probably take it easy for a bit just to be sure.

I guess that's my thing, huh? Not dying. Not the worst superpower to have. Doesn't exactly make life easier though-the past couple days or...however long we were dealing with this medusa shit were really, really tiring. Felt almost like a year of work, of darkness and depression every day.

Right, that was what I said when I got here-in the present timeline-for the first time. "First thing tomorrow morning, I'm leaving this place in the dust." But of course, I get caught up trying to fix things, and then there's a goddess wandering around, and next thing you know I'm putting my fist through a ringmaster's face.

My ears perk up as Grant and Porg say their goodbyes, and-aw, hell, of course the kid's crying. I should track him down someday, give him a pat on the back or something. Goodbyes, for people like us, are often temporary.

My tail swishes back and forth as the others do their thing. I'm pretty sure I know how this will go; they'll have heartfelt goodbyes, leave one by one, until only Asmo is left, and then he will depart on his own.

I guess the party's over now, with everyone leaving. I glance up at the sky over the clearing, blue and clear. There's a thousand million other worlds out there, new places to explore, new adventures to have...

...So why are you still here?

The thought occurs to me all of a sudden. After all, If I'm such an outsider and have no real attachments to this world, why bother sticking around and watching the goodbyes, waiting until everyone else leaves?

Silently, I smile. Guess I'm not as cool as I think.

***​

Before I finally do leave, I start singing an old song softly, just above a whisper. Maybe they catch it, maybe they don't. Once I get to the end, I give a slight wave towards Asmodeus, close my eyes, and I'm gone.[/dash]

 

[Kitti]

We did it.​

​

The words were not spoken, they were nothing more than the soaring feeling in your chest when you look at how far you've come. The person that I used to be feels so far away now, a person from another time and a different life. I can't help but stare out the window and struggle to grasp the enormity of the beauty laid out before me. This is the world that I helped create. Despite how powerful this might seem, I feel weak. Weak at the sight of such peace, it feels like it could be a dream. Perhaps I died. Maybe this is one of those, what do they call them? Death dreams.​

​

The car stops and one by one, the others climb out. I follow, wondering if this is a sign that I will always follow them. I remind myself not to look too deeply into coincidences. The others are preparing to leave while I stand quietly, not awkwardly - there is a familiar peace in these people - and my fingers go idly to my neck. I smile. The fingers brush over smooth skin. ​

​

The first to leave is Grant, the wisest of the group. He will never rest, not with his ancient wisdom. Still, he has traded in his weapon for balance, support. For Kitti, he has no special words, but he does not seem in the mood for farewells and the others do not get any either. She turned her head, nevertheless, to watch his departure and continued to stare where he had been, even after he had gone. ​

​

The pensive expression was broken, she was startled back to attention by Porg. Indulgently, she gave him a hug whose execution left something to be desired, though it was not unpleasant. They parted with an encouraging smile and a wave as he began his own journey. He was venturing on his own now, though one with so many allies could never truly be alone. ​

​

In the last, Kitti stands all but alone with Asmodeus. The world has gone quiet, save the sound of the breeze in the trees that rustles the leaves. This is what peace looks like. The sound of a bird here and there, that is the victory cry. The encouraging smile given to Porg fades into a serene expression on Kitti's face. The wings once spread over her shoulders are, at first glance, gone with her scars... but there are feathers in her hair.​

​

"It's been an honor, Asmodeus. If you ever need me, find me."​

​

Kitti does not look at him while she speaks, her head held high and gazing off into the distance. Before she leaves, though, she turns to him and takes one of his hands into her own. She gives it a gentle squeeze, peaceful expression still in place.​

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"This is a new day."​

​

She turned to the forest and disappeared into the trees. The first tree she passed, her fingertips skimmed over the bark. Those who were lost could be found again. This was not an ending. She resisted the urge to turn and look back. And then she was gone. ​

 

[Jack Shade]

​

Sometimes I wonder where it all began. A whisper tells me it was seventh grade when a girl with night hair, soft as moth wings caught my heart. In those days I wrote the strangled meter of a drunken poet, always too stilted to be anything but jagged. But she smiled and it was all worthwhile. Another says it was when I took the book from a friend's desk. I sacrificed a soccer game to curl into the shade of church firs to treasure it with my eyes. The truth is that I found this place in the gloomy corner of a Resource room in highschool. Rather than paddling table tennis, I unloaded shrapnel posts with each chicken-peck of a key.​

​

In some ways, that hasn't changed. I balk when I'm not invited, even when my presence is the shadow of a shadow. It became about the reputation, about the scrabbling war for respect in a craft that begins and ends with me. Did anyone else need reassurance at some point? I wonder if they all have a tiny ember in them that kicks when someone seeks them out to write. There is a joy in being sought, I suppose, a kind of validation that I had always craved. This place was sanctuary and hell for me at the same time, too worried about status to remember, sometimes, why I picked this forum in the first place…and that was my lesson to learn, among others.​

​

I am alone in this sea, the alien that crashed into an idea and burrowed through its skin. Like a virus I injected myself into a story older than myself and made it mine around me. I was Death, destroyer of worlds and the apathy that turned bright sparks to hollow flecks of granite. But then, we all make mistakes along the way. All the kindling relationships, short lived matchsticks that burned brilliant and were discarded twisted, all the tantrums and the gull cries…the mantle of the moderator, the administrator.​

​

I struggle with endings, the poignant bits always tend to wax long. Unlike Greg tried to teach me, I never quite got the hang of saying things tersely. I think it's all been a giant lesson, the awkward arts film about a coming of age and then a coming of age again. I spent so much time here, on the beach, pointing at the diagrams for sandcastles that I forgot that no one really remembers plans, they remember the monuments, the accomplishments.​

​

The water around me feels like grooved palms, each gently buoying me to the surface.​

​

Maybe I was wrong all this time. I might have wanted the dream to go on and on and on. That dream of the city on the hill, the Emerald city, Iwaku…it always seemed so far away. But swimming in the ether of a story lends a little perspective. Maybe all stories should be like this, aged like fine wine, or cheese. All the divorces of players, the messy plot mangling, the moments of glory followed by months of silence…it all seems so necessary now. We needed this to last as long as it has, not all of us are ready to let it go. We grip onto our sand citadels and defy the tide, kick at the waves, scream at the moon but we're holding onto something that is ready to be sand again.​

​

Others may come after us, build on the bones of what we built before, but damnit, they'll have the best sand to work with. I may have stolen my way into the story, but no one can say it isn't mine now, it isn't all of ours. We all own this moment, this legacy…everyone mentioned, everyone written. We're a family and more, we're all soulmates that devour sorrow and patiently support the person next to us. For me, I think this is about letting go and standing.​

​

Fuck this. I defy the lasting peace at the end of the tale. Our minds are the writhing Charybdis, a vortex that pulls others into our ideas, our machinations. We write because we must, not because we can.​

​

The tide has washed the slate, but someone must begin to build again. So I welcome those who venture here, who find the sea and the soft beach…those who will squat next to me and risk the chafe of sand to build something fucking magnificent.​

​

And to you, my friends, my patient friends. I ask you all to join me again someday, building wonders here. In the end, we are all gods with golden pens, writers of worlds.​

​

Jack, Feral, and Asmodeus are the last. He has his eyes back, sea-blue, but they are closed. Leaning against the side door, the warmth of their embrace dissipates from his skin. Here, at the edge of story, the angel expects them to walk off the turned page and into other books, or perhaps into memory. Every reality has come down to this, the ending so desperately sought.

"Looks like you have something on your mind."

Feral is talking to him, crossing her arms across her narrow chest. Asmodeus is watching Kitti fade into the background. With her, a shadow of love followed. Possibility left open-ended, a cast away connection.


"I can't believe that it's over," Jack mused, "I keep expecting Paorou to appear or Towers to rise in the background…or maybe Rory to chuckle and send everything back into the chaos that was."


"Isn't this what you wanted?" Asmodeus asked him with a smile. He looked so peaceful here, more whole than that bitter, hollow thing he'd fought across the city. "A true ending."


"It feels final," Jack agreed, "But almost too final. Some of them…we won't see them again."


"Maybe, maybe not," Feral shrugged, "That's an ending for you. Isn't it up to the readers to figure that shit out?"


Jack opened his eyes and almost glared at her, caught himself, and laughed, running a hand through his hair. "You're right, I suppose. But what a journey it was."


Asmodeus crossed his arms and nodded, thoughtful and they all stared into the distance till the last of those that left had faded. No one needed to say anything, Jack knew it was his turn. Feral had something to say to his father privately. He pushed off the car with his shoulders, turning around to face the last of them. "Look, I know you want us all to walk off into the sunset and make our own adventures, but there's a lot to be done at Iwaku. There's rebuilding, there's leading there's-"


Asmodues held up a hand and shook his head. "An ending isn't about laying new plans, it's about what we make of the vague 'what's next'. You want some commitment that we'll all be here, ready to pick up again…but that isn't how this works. The point of an ending is to suggest the stories that will come after, we leave on the notion of continuation." He was smiling and for the first time, Jack could see peace on his lined face, the dawn after a bloody battle. "Deep in all our hearts, no story really ends, it just changes tone, chapter. There are no guarantees in life, Jack, you know that. It takes the fun out of it if we know everything."

Feral nodded solemnly and stuck her tongue out at Jack. "Get going already, do we need to break up with you first?"

He laughed, shaking his head. "I'll miss you both. Holler if you need me."


"Jack," his father said quietly, "You don't need to keep trying. You won our respect, our friendship. If you'd commit a little more, maybe you wouldn't have to win everyone else as well."


"The Medusa is in all of us," Feral said gravely, "You're never alone, Jack, so don't act like it."

Jack nodded, no other words needed be said. The wind came down from that high place, and lived in his skin for a time, kicking up the dust around his feet and tugging at the ends of his clothes. Jack looked out to where Grant had vanished, a solitary dot on the hill already fading out of sight. "Another day," he said to them without turning, raising a hand over his shoulder as he followed that speck, "Another story."


And the farther he went, the more his footfalls lengthened, the more his heart soared from that dark place of miserable finality. Nothing was ever over, nothing was forgotten. He had fought so long and hard for an ending…when all he needed to do was start another story.


"Grant!" He called to the figure fading on the horizon, and it paused. The wind had caught them both and it whispered with the scribblings of golden pens, of new ideas. "Iwaku is in ruins. Someone has to rebuild it. There's bound to be danger and adventure...room enough for relics like us to do some good." He stood beneath the old knight on the hill, holding up a hand to him. Once, an eternity ago, an angel had said something similar to him. It was the beginning of all this. "What do you say? Still have some fight left in you?

Endings are illusions.​

​

 

[Tegan]

​

"One...last..."

Tegan raises her head, eyes burning bright as stars, the light reflects from the prism above Feral who looks up at it and Feral sees eternity coming at her with arms outstretched. They embrace. Go black. Gone.

Feral stares at her open palms, her fingers flex, gripping a phantom steering wheel.

Syracuse is dead. Dispersed throughout the universe, charged to collide with new atoms, become something else. So it goes. The Purger... Jack Shade. Revised. He's off to write his own story, at last. They all are. The few who kept their names are tasked to fashion new ones from the typographic infinite.

She could have let herself die then and there, had the final ending she longed for. Instead, this one last try. Who is she? She's Feral: cat girl, Negative Legion commander, Zirkus performer, newb, vampire organ trafficker... They're all gone; the newbs, the Zirkus, Syracuse, D-A, Shinpa, the Luna Ashe, the Convent, the nekos. Yes, these are her memories, too. Now. What now?

There's an awkward silence between the angel and neko that's almost painful. In all of their interactions, Asmodeus had shown her nothing but mocking disdain for her race and sexuality; dealt her, and her friends, brutal violence on more than one occasion. How do you say goodbye to the person who had been such an enormous dick to you for so long?

The angel's staring at her hard, as if he's about to say something. Hesitant, gentle, he extends his hand to her. Oh God...
Feral wordlessly tango steps around Asmodeus, before his fingers can brush her.
"Where will you go?" He inquires to her retreating form. He doesn't turn around to watch her go.
"I'm going to see if Iwaku's got a beach." Some place she can see the stars in the sky. She glides on the tips of her toes as if walking along a tightrope that leads back into the city.

​

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Will we ever be OK?​

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