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Mikaela’s hands and knees burned against the rocky ground, mud and dirt entering the wounds and stinging painfully. Blood dripped steadily from her now-broken nose, forming deep, red rivulets down her face. “Dammit,” she groaned, voice cracking as her eyes welled with tears. If the killer didn’t know where she was before, they definitely did now.
Mikaela hated being the newbie. She was sick of being treated like she was useless, even by the newer survivors. The pitying glances from Dwight as she blew up gen after gen were seared into her memory. Nea would curse at her in Swedish, telling her to get to her feet and stop fucking hiding. Yun-Jin would leave her for dead.
As she dragged her face from the mud, she looked up to see not the killer, but the face of a shadowy crow.
Milky white eyes reflected back into her own, lifeless, and its mouth hung open, tongue lolling to the side. As the creature breathed— or, more likely, pulsed— she was hit with the sickly-strong scent of decay. Ink dripped from the creature in streams, from its eyes, its beak. Wicked spines jutted out from the bird’s face, cutting bright lines through its inky depths. But more than anything, the crow looked so sad. It was a pitiful creation, a corruption of the fickle crows that Mikaela had become so fond of at the campfire. She looked the crow directly in the eyes, her mouth gaping open like a fish. She was frozen in place, uncertain of what she was supposed to do. Run?
It was all too much. Tears began to well from her eyes unbidden as the woman collapsed to the ground, heart racing. It wasn’t fucking fair. The crow suddenly gargled, spitting up a fountain of ink that fell to the mud below. It sizzled as it hit the cool earth, and black smoke trailed up from the ground in ashy trails. The witch shut her eyes tightly, willing the creature away, knowing that the effort was futile.
Soft footsteps approached, nearly imperceptible over the sound of her thundering heart. And then, silence, as they came to a stop before the witch. Mikaela dared to open her eyes, and was met with an unfamiliar face.
The killer couldn’t have been more than three feet away, towering over the witch and peering down at her ominously. Jet back strands of hair cascaded over her shoulders in long waves, and ink seeped slowly from the corners of her eyes and mouth. The stygian claws of her left hand were outstretched in front of her, fingers tensed, and her nails clacked together in anticipation as she cocked her head to inspect Mikaela. Mikaela had never seen this killer before, and judging by the woman’s reaction, she hadn’t seen many survivors yet either. The killer leaned forward, inspecting the girl on the ground with beady black eyes.
The witch crawled backward on her hands and knees, wincing as each movement aggravated the wounds on her limbs. The woman above gave her a long look as she writhed, brow furrowing. The killer raised her hand— shaping the ink into a sharp point as she stood above the witch. Mikaela braced for impact, holding her arms above her face and chest. She didn’t want to watch.
The killer let out a quiet croak, soft as a sigh. After several seconds, the crow disintegrated. Mikaela could feel the soft woosh of air made by the feathers as they disappeared, making her shudder from the chill.
Mikaela trembled as the killer stepped closer to her, grass crunching under her feet. Tears ran from her face in shallow rivers and snot dripped from her nose steadily— she really was pathetic, wasn’t she? Petrified, unable to even get to her feet and run. She could hardly breathe as her pulse raced. Mikaela was sure that the killer had already seriously maimed or killed more of her fellow survivors than Mikaela had on two hands. Maybe she was planning on killing her right then and there, slashing her in the chest and letting her crows feast upon her flesh as she screamed.
The woman placed the bird. And then, nothing. The killer let her inky hand fall limply to the ground, shaking her head as Mikaela sobbed.
“Please…” the witch cried, weakly. “Please, just leave me alone. I won’t blow up the generators anymore, I swear. Just…”
The Artist knelt down before her with a soft croak, cocking her head. Her right hand— once an ebony blade— collapsed under itself and transformed into an inky palm, reaching out towards Mikaela’s arms above her head. Mikaela opened her mouth to scream, tensing in anticipation of the blow, but it never came. She lowered her arms from her face.
The Artist’s jet-black hair fell in waves over her strong cheekbones and shoulders as she leaned down towards the cowering witch. Now only a hairs-width away from Mikaela’s face, the woman blinked at her slowly. Mikaela never thought something as simple as blinking could seem so human.
God, is she beautiful, came to the forefront of Mikaela's mind entirely unbidden. Which was definitely not the thought that she was supposed to be having, but it came to her nonetheless.
Carefully, as if she was scared she would break her, the Artist extended her inky palm to rest on Mikaela’s pale shoulder. It wasn’t warm, exactly, but it wasn’t cold either. It gave the impression of fluidity, like sticking your hand under a lukewarm faucet. Mikaela winced away from her— she'd never seen a friendly killer before— but after meeting her gaze, the witch leaned forwards into the woman’s touch unbidden. Looking up at the killer, Mikaela sat up on her haunches, wiping the blood from her weeping nose on the sleeve of her glove.
She wrapped her arms around the tall woman, bringing her in for what could almost be called a hug. Mikaela wasn’t sure what she should say— if she could say anything at all. The woman stiffened under her embrace, clearly unused to the contact. Mikaela nearly let go before the killer leaned in closer, tucking Mikaela’s head under her chin and loosely gripping the fabric of her shirt.
Mikaela couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hugged, if she was being truthful. Claudette was always kind and would lend an ear if she felt like she was lost, but it was far from the same.
The two jolted as the last generator came to life on the main building. The shrill tone of the exit gates tore through the forest, loud enough to make Mikaela wince. After a beat, the killer let go of Mikaela and sat back on her haunches, pensive. She shook her head, before meeting Mikaela’s eyes. The killer looked between Mikaela and the far exit gate, an unspoken question.
"It's okay," said Mikaela. "You can go."
The Artist nodded, solemn. She got to her feet, leaving Mikaela reeling on the ground as the killer launched a single crow at her target, letting out a shriek. The gate opened.
The Artist let out a cry of annoyance, turning towards her quarry. She shook her head as several more rivulets of ink cascaded down from an invisible cut on her head. Mikaela took the opportunity to get to her feet— legs shaky after so long holding herself up on the ground— before spying the structure to the left of the killer.
As soon as she vaulted the window, the Artist cocked her head towards her with a slight frown but did not pursue. Instead, she kept launching birds at the far gate, aiming at nothing.
Dwight and Zarina were waiting for her at the closest gate, with Dwight pulling down on the latch while Zarina protected him with her body. The leader nursed an injury on his right forearm, but it didn’t seem to be severe.
“Where the hell have you been?” joked Zarina, putting a hand on her hip. “I haven’t seen you all trial.”
Mikaela blushed. “The killer was… she was chasing me the whole trial,” she lied. “I barely had time to think.”
Dwight and Zarina shared a look. Dwight shrugged.
“Really?” Zarina asked.
Mikaela nodded, perhaps a little too fast. “Yep. Lots of pallets. And, er, windows.”
Zarina grinned, smacking her on the shoulder fondly. “And not even a scratch! Meg and David are gonna have some competition now. You know how much they love chases.”
As Mikaela looked at the two, she got the impression that Dwight definitely didn’t buy it. But since the killer was unaccounted for, he didn’t exactly have any information to dispute it. As he pushed down on the lever, the last warning siren blared through the forest, before the door slid open with a shutter.
The others ran through the gate immediately, satisfied with their escape. Mikaela watched the two run into the distance. Nea, evidently, had gone to the other gate. However, with the rest of her teammates gone, the killer approached her once again. She lingered at the edge of the gate near the door, away from Mikaela.
The killer did not come any closer, this time, but she didn’t seem angry. Instead, she simply watched the witch, black eyes blinking slowly.
“Why?” she asked slowly.
The Artist sighed, bowing her head towards the forest floor, as she made another choked clicking noise. She gestured towards the gate and nodded, a single strand of raven-toned hair falling in front of her eyes. Another crow materialized in her palm, and she ruffled the feathers on the back of its neck. The bird squawked happily, but the Artist looked at it with an exasperated fondness as it leaned into the gesture.
She looked back at her expectantly, cocking her head towards the gate.
"Thank you," said Mikaela. "It meant a lot to me, you know."
Out of all the possible responses she could have prepared himself for, she certainly wasn’t expecting the small, albeit tender, smile that the Artist gave her in return, eyes lowered in embarrassment.
Since when can killers smile? Or better yet, since when can they express human emotion? Something about the gesture made heat rise to Mikaela’s cheeks.
“Right, uhh,” she said, hesitating dumbly. "Right. Goodbye, then."
Mikaela took a single step backwards outside the gate, before turning back and smiling softly in gratitude. The Artist trained her inky gaze on Mikaela once again, before blinking slowly. The crow in her hand pecked her finger, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
The Artist nodded before turning her back to the witch, petting her bird once again. Mikaela watched her disappear into the depths of the forest, black and red robes trailing behind her in long streaks. Mikaela took one last look into the forest before beginning the long jog back to the campfire, with much to ponder.
Mikaela didn’t know what to think about the new killer.
After the first couple of trials, the other survivors finally coined a nickname for the woman. The Artist. It was nice to finally have something to call her, Mikaela thought. She was surprised that her teammates hadn’t chosen something crueler, considering how universally disliked she was— herself excluded. The pained yelps of her teammates as crows pecked at their hair, scratched at their faces and eyes, lingered over the Erie like a sickly fog. Her crows acted strange, as if possessed, betraying the elegant and towering figure who commanded them.
The woman was skilled, especially for one of the newer killers, and it was rare that a trial concluded without her taking someone with her. But it was never Mikaela.
She wasn’t sure how she should feel about someone who was biologically programmed to rip out her entrails and peck her to death. But the Artist was also the only killer to spare Mikaela’s life.
Mikaela spared a quick glance behind her at the Erie’s sandy entranceway. She was certain that the Artist was here with her— the cawing was enough to give away her presence immediately— but she hadn’t seen her yet. After a brief pause, the crowkeeper released a swarm of crows frighteningly close to her flank. Her pulse thundered throughout her veins in an autonomic response, hard-wired into her genome through months-worth of trials.
She’d gotten better at the generators, thankfully. If Mikaela hid now, she might escape her notice, and would be able to finish it before the woman was any the wiser. Careful to walk both slowly and softly, Mikaela made her way up to the Erie’s second story to spectate the scene below.
She was pleasantly surprised by the view of the Boneyard, sands shifting ominously as the sun set over the graves and the decrepit tomb. It was enough to distract Mikaela from the killer entering the room below, scrabbling about looking for wherever she had gone. It really was beautiful, in a haunting kind of way. She could see the other survivors on generators below, Jake and Elodie chatting freely while occasionally glancing around for signs of the killer. However, in Mikaela’s musing, she failed to notice the hefty stack of artwork under her right hand before promptly knocking it over.
Crash!
Mikaela swore as she knocked over the towering pile, causing a mountain of scribbled-on parchment, notebooks, and hastily-finished canvasses to fall to the sandy stone at her feet. There was no way that the Artist didn’t hear the noise. Even to Mikaela’s ears, the sound was deafening over the thrum of her heartbeat. A killer would have no trouble picking up the landslide of paper products.
Beneath her feet, the Artist made a small croak, curious. Shit, shit, put it back, put it back—
Mikaela had no idea what the Artist would do if she found her artwork disturbed. Even if Mikaela stuck to the shadows, other survivors could testify in excruciating detail about the woman’s primal, bestial anger in a chase. She’s like an animal, said Jonah, cold and calculating. There’s nothing human in there, at least not anymore. She’s a predator.
Mikaela tried to avoid pissing the killers off, as a rule, even if the other survivors gained some level of amusement from it. The Artist may have been benevolent in the past, but that did not mean that her generosity was indefinite. Mikaela hastily moved to return the pile to its former state, not wanting to test the extent of the woman’s relative mercifulness.
She hurriedly picked up several shreds of parchments, all hastily scribbled in black ink. Mikaela remembered excruciatingly little from Julian’s art rants, and even less from high school art class, but Mikaela could tell that the raven-haired woman’s strokes were skilled, even if twisted by anguish. They showed abstract shapes— dark scribbles drawn with the intent of capturing raw emotion rather than subject. Anger, elation, grief. Hunger. And above all else, she saw the woman’s loss. Mikaela felt a wave of sadness wash over her as she stacked the sheets on top of the remaining pile, hoping that their maker didn’t look at them too closely.
The small canvasses, however, seemed much more developed. Instead of scattered glimpses of automation and pain, they depicted scenes from the other realms the Artist had traveled to, paint shimmering with vibrant shades of green, blue, and black. Mikaela recognized the tall trees and shining moon over the MacMillan estate, with abandoned mining equipment casting long shadows on the loamy soil. There was a balding, quivering rat painted inside a rusted locker in the halls of Midwich Elementary, hands stained with blood and gore. The dusty amber skies of Grave of Glenvale— and, of course, the Erie of Crows— added vast ranges of orange and yellow to the portfolio. And all the paintings were signed in a loopy cursive script: Carmina Mora.
Mikaela was fascinated. She had heard from the other survivors about the woman’s drawings, secondhand, but she hadn’t imagined that they would be this advanced. There were at least several dozen scattered around the killer’s domain. Mikaela wished that she had time to look at them all.
She touched the parchment with a shaky palm. However, her staring was interrupted as the killer’s bird-like claws scraped against the stairwell. Now was not the time for goofing around.
The notebooks remained closed even as they fell from their pile, so Mikaela simply returned them to their original position. She had no desire to pry any further into the Artist’s thoughts. And as long as she didn’t look closely, she probably wouldn’t know they had been disturbed at all— that is, if Mikaela managed to get away unseen and unheard, which was unlikely. However, underneath the notebooks, there was one tarpaulin that had migrated away from its siblings. This one was fresh, the oil paint drying but still not completely settled. A patch of cornflower blue clung to Mikaela’s thumb as her skin made contact with the oils, smudging slightly.
Intrigued, Mikaela moved the last of the notebooks out of the way. However, she was shocked to see her own face reflected on the canvas.
Her hair was swept slightly backwards, and she wore the silvery-blue t-shirt she’d received as a gift from Claudette— a personal favorite after the blood stopped washing out of the crop top and leggings she’d taken with her into the realm. A floppy walnut sunhat kept her hair tidy, and turquoise earrings peeked out from behind her red curls. The Mikaela from the painting’s eyes were trained forwards, pale blue staring into her own. Blood trailed from her nose in a small smear, but the bulk of it had been swiped to the right towards the side of her face. Her lip curled upwards in a faint smile, relieved, bringing to light the dimple on her left cheek. It was a beautiful portrait. It felt natural, even, like the Artist put a piece of herself into the work rather than simply storing a moment on canvas.
Mikaela briefly wondered if the bloody nose was simply an aesthetic choice, but it felt more familiar than that. Suddenly, the memory washed over her. She’d broken her nose in her first trial against the Artist.
She’d been hiding in a corner of the Red Forest. She had been wary of the woman as she heard more of her teammates fall victim to her inky claws, with the shriek of crows high in the air. Her heart pounded in her ears as she heard the Artist's approach, until she tripped on a stump. Pain blossomed from her nose, dripping down her face in warm red rivulets. And then…
Holy shit, though Mikaela. She drew me.
Mikaela held the portrait— her portrait— lightly by the edges of its frame, careful not to smudge any of the still-setting oil paint. What was she supposed to do with this information now? She scrambled to put the rest of the artwork back in its stack, wiping the smudge of blue paint on her pants— God, she hoped she could get the stain out.
Mikaela reached down to grab a sheet of parchment on the sandy floor— a messy pencil sketch that she couldn’t quite make out— before it was pulled out from under her. The Artist’s inky hand extended outward to pull the sheet close, to her chest.
“Shit, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it,” said Mikaela. “I had no idea this stuff was up here.”
Mikaela spared a glance upward at the killer before her, wincing in anticipation of her fury. After their eyes met, the Artist quickly averted them. She pursed her lips, before pointing toward the other survivors. Mikaela shook her head.
“I…I can help,” the witch offered. “Here.”
She reached down to grab at a painting but the Artist shook her head, sending rivulets of ink flying. The Artist huffed. She let out a small croak, pointing again to the other survivors, and then gesturing between herself and the artwork.
“Okay,” Mikaela agreed, standing up from the floor as the Artist knelt down to organize the last bits of artwork that had made their way onto the floor, taking care not to bend or crumple them. A generator sprung to life in the distance, but the woman paid it no heed. Mikaela’s brow furrowed, but she conceded. “I’ll go.”
The killer nodded, mouth a thin line. Mikaela took a cautious step towards the open doorway but kept her eyes glued to the scene before her.
“I see why we call you the Artist, now,” Mikaela joked, cracking a smile.
The Artist raised a brow, but she continued organizing the pile back into its original state. Set oil canvases, followed by paintings— acrylic, maybe?— and oil pastels, then charcoal, pencil, and then the still-setting oil pastels. Notably, the portrait of herself.
The killer lingered over the portrait, hesitating. Her mouth opened slightly to gape as she spared a glance up at Mikaela. Mikaela’s grin widened. Then, as if a switch had flipped, immediately began scrambling with other pieces to cover up the painting, attempting to mask it from Mikaela’s view.
“It’s okay!” soothed Mikaela, her smile dissipating as the Artist let out a frustrated croak. “You don’t have to hide it. No one has ever painted me before! It’s so sweet of you.”
A faint red blush was beginning to rise to the Artist’s cheeks as she floundered, which made the ginger’s heart ache. Two generators popped in the distance, almost simultaneously. This was definitely not helping Mikaela get over her little crush. At all. God, and now Mikaela had just humiliated her, hadn’t she? Not exactly smooth.
The Artist raised both arms to gesture at the rest of the map, in a gesture that Mikaela very clearly understood as please go. Mikaela nodded frantically.
“Okay,” stammered Mikaela. She turned away and rounded the corner, wringing her clammy hands.
She nearly made it to the stairwell. Really, she should have at least made it down the first step. But something compelled her to turn back to the killer, peeking her head out through the doorway to look at the Artist once again.
Mikaela bowed her head. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I wasn’t thinking. It was beautiful. You’re— uh— beautiful.”
Smooth.
The Artist, still kneeling on her knees on the sandy floor, rolled her eyes before burying her face in her inky hands in embarrassment. Though, Mikaela noted, the killer wasn’t attacking her, even as Mikaela continued to let the repressed lesbian equivalent literal word garbage spew from her mouth.
“Shit, that made it worse, didn’t it?”
The killer nodded, face still in her not-hands.
“Right,” said Mikaela, breathy.
Another generator popped in the distance. Fortunately, it seemed like everyone was going to make it out safe and sound this trial— maybe not so fortunately for the Artist, but she had the feeling that the woman wouldn't really mind in the end.
She took one last look at the Artist as she let her inky palms fall from her face. Her Stygian eyes resembled a roiling, midnight sea as she peered up at the witch, setting an intriguing contrast against the solid blush of her cheeks. Coal-black strands of her hair fell in front of her face as she cocked her head.
Mikaela beamed. "Thank you, Carmina."
Satisfied, the witch rounded the corner and sped down the stairs. She vaulted the window and began a mad dash towards the shack, pulse racing, with the shrill cry of the exit gate blaring to life heralding her escape. Feng Min raised an eyebrow as Mikaela skidded to a stop in front of the gate, hands shaking. But as Mikaela pulled down on the lever to open the gate, she shrugged it off. The witch spared a glance behind her back to the Erie, towering high above her as it spiraled into the sky, and could just make out Carmina still on the ledge. The Artist made no move to stop her.
Perhaps being the newbie wasn't so bad, Mikaela thought, as long as she had someone to share it with.