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Haze

Summary:

A retry of my last attempt at Wormfic.
An amnesiac, a daimon, a demon, and a daemon walk into Hell. The thing that walks out has many questions, not the least of which is "what the fuck?"

Notes:

✦ = Music recommendation hyperlink.

Chapter 1: Introduction

Summary:

Or: Waiting for [AGREEMENT]

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Four feminine entities rest within a small space. There is no real floor or walls, with fine ferrous chains which can be stood upon, or perhaps become too entangled in to fall further, as they slightly shift when blown by winds. In every direction, there are as many mirrors as there are chains, at various apertures and degrees of distortion. There is a statue of a mixture of wolf and woman, formed of steel and copper. Below, acting as an anchor point for and audibly straining the chains under its weight, there is a mass of well manicured Caucasian hands, enacting a scene akin to Sun Yuan & Peng Yu’s “Can’t help myself” in which the fluid has been replaced with a mass of chittering cockroaches. Occasionally, a cockroach flies out to land on one of the women, staining their skin where they land. There are the sounds of machinery, both analog and digital, from beyond the chains from further areas hidden by a heat haze.

The first woman has short red hair, cut in a bob. Her resting expression is a mix of annoyance, disgust, and curiosity, as she sits in an intersection of chains most resembling a good vantage point to rest, albeit with her being quite tied up, or even pierced by them. She wears a black blouse as she gazes upon the rest.

The second girl appears as a younger, more dishelved version of the first, not the least of all because of the large, visible crack in her skull framed by lighter and longer hair. Rather than brain matter or blood, it opens to reveal a scattered mass of small monsters, while something ochrous and pus-like spills down her rather pretty, but visibly concussed, face. Occasionally, a roach lands within, causing such violence within the monsters that they maim each other in their attempts to clean the space, causing more pus to spill from within. In her bleary state has attempted to use the wolf as a man at sea would use a life preserver, but it is both too smooth and too jagged to be truly comfortable, leaving her arms covered in bleeding scratches as she clings.

The third woman does not so closely resemble the initial duo, nor necessarily a human to begin with. She is closer to a sandy blonde mass of bloodied hands that perversely resemble the wings of a seraphs, though if one were to engage in sufficient amputation, there would be a feminine, if quite tall body below. She weaves jointlessly through the chains, evidently quite comfortable in them as she works to make a marriage of the cockroaches and the crack in the seconds skull.

The fourth is furthest from the form of a woman, and in fact anything recognizably human. It is as if someone made relatively successful abstract statue of the first out of metal, plastic and fiberglass, but then realized that they lacked storage for a collection of exotic tumors, before in turn filling the tumors with broken crystal and dubious mechanical parts. She has wings of red hot wireframe and burning paper. The result is somewhat gigeresque, if one were to increase the dose of LSD and have both Shinya Tsukamoto and Kim Ji-hoon transition to fill the relevant roles within a certain apocryphal event. They seep into the chains, flesh like putty, contempt to observe the second beginning to stir into any real awareness.

Many spectators gaze through their chains. There is a strong smell of rust, as well as the occasional hot, vicious wind rattling the area.

[As the FIRST, THIRD, and FOURTH scrutinize each other, the SECOND begins to scream at the top of her lungs, to varying responses of a sigh, a smile, and the beginning of the conversation.]

THE FOURTH: Excuse me, but I don’t think that this is necessarily going to help fulfill your contract?

THE FIRST: If my vague impressions are right, I’m pretty sure she would lead a very different life if she was prone to doing things that helped herself, or anyone at all for that matter.

THE THIRD: How many are particularly inclined do what helps themselves? I think most men will just do what they think they want, making themselves miserable the whole way.

THE FOURTH: To my knowledge, she’s a woman. Or a girl. A female human.

THE THIRD: It was in the sense of mankind, you insufferable pedant. Human feels a bit off, looking at the state of the world. There are many beasts that are human, but not of mankind.

THE FIRST: I honestly agree with that, but I don’t want to call myself a man. Even if there are dolls with a human brain inside acting like blenders.

[THE THIRD laughs sharply at this, her many hands scratching at eachother.]

THE THIRD: Oh, Horatio. There are more things in heaven and Earth, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

[THE FIRST crosses her arms, irritated, the movement somewhat unseating her from her semi-comfortable position.]

THE FIRST: Well, I'm not Horatio, or a philosopher. Or scientist, I'm aware of it meaning that before you feel the need to be even more of a dick. I’m just trying to have a discussion here.

THE THIRD: Well, who and what are you then? I think if we’re to have any real talks, that would be the groundwork.

[At this, THE FIRST becomes somewhat sheepish, scratching the side of her head, where THE SECONDS gap would lay.]

THE FIRST: I’m afraid I don’t know.

THE THIRD: You don’t know? How are you to leave this place if we can’t even establish who you are?

[THE FIRST sighs, and gestures to her seeping counterpart, then to THE FOURTH]

THE FIRST: I am her, and she is me. I'm afraid that whatever contract she sold her memories through affects my mind just as much.

[THE THIRD cackles briefly, before returning to the conversation at hand.]

THE THIRD: Ah, of course. But if you are the same, are you not equally culpable?

THE FIRST: I would be, if she were to ever listen. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m her conscience, but I am her guide forward on her own terms. Does she seem the type to listen to her better judgment?

[THE THIRD looks upon the girl screaming herself hoarse. Her eyes are as rubies and red stars, beautiful in contrast to the mass of fearful hands and a jeering face. There is an almost childish curiosity within.]

THE THIRD: I suppose not. She gives much more the impression of one who would be ruined by strong men and gods, and ignore any trace of intelligence within herself for some fleeting sense of safety.

[THE FIRST gives another sigh]

THE FIRST: That would check with the impressions I have. We may not have memories of ourselves, but I do feel some sort of tie in that vein.

THE THIRD: The idol gives it away, really.

THE FIRST: Well, what about you? You expect us to know who we are, but do we have any reason to think you're not in the same boat?

THE THIRD: I know who I am, and in a way, I know who you are. I am not of you, but of the world above.

[THE FIRST looks her up and down, and laughs.]

THE FIRST: You want me to think you’re from heaven? I guess maybe the same heaven as the Simurgh.

THE THIRD: No. Even if your view is clearer than your worse half, you don’t know much at all. Not that I would expect you to. I try to be fair in my indictments, and you would never have the chance to know before now. No, I am some kind of demon, but in the way a hurricane resembles an angel, as this is not any hell of mans imagination, but certainly a hell of sorts.

THE FIRST: O…kay, I guess.

[It is clear that she does not necessarily understand, but also has no desire to follow up on that. To distract from this, she points to THE FOURTH, whose neon lights blink in a way that could be construed as owlish.]

THE FIRST: And what’s your deal? Do I even want to know?

THE FOURTH: I suppose I’m what’s between you and power. Not in the way of a wall, but more of a teacher, or a screen in front of flipping transistors. I hope that we’ll work well together.

[The bizarre creatures tone is a dull synth as she offers a hand to shake, only to lower it when THE FIRST actively falls off her seat trying to pull away. They look upon their tumorous palm, and shrug.]

THE FOURTH: I suppose that’s fair. We’ve only just met, and here I am making offers when the only other point of contact is a demon and a crying child. Would a joke help?

THE FOURTH looks upon THE SECOND, the lights across their form dimming somewhat.

THE THIRD: Of course it will, comedy is a great icebreaker!

THE FIRST: I somehow doubt it, but I can't really stop you, can I?

THE FOURTH: A Daimon, a Demon, and a Daemon walk into hell. The host screams out for THREE MINUTES. PLEASE. PLEASE, SHUT UP. WE’RE TRYING TO TALK HERE.

[Despite being no less monotonous, their voice is much louder, rattling the chains. Perhaps let loose by the shaking, there is a short rain of knives, qian, and spraypaint cans that are caught by the chains above. This causes the creatures within THE SECOND’s head to quiet, and what passes for a room to be covered in assorted colors as the cans burst or rupture. This creates an effect that would somewhat resemble the festival of Holi, if not for the paints being of much darker hues. It instead looks like the scene of a grotesque snuff film, splatters of blood red accented by ammoniac yellows and cerebral pinks. All eyes turn to her, including the until now all but catatonic SECOND, though she quickly looks back away again as she begins to vomit from the smell of that which most likely is not paint, while THE FIRST covers her nose and mouth with her arm, herself looking quite terrified. THE THIRD, meanwhile, does find this joke quite nice. After about ten seconds of this hail, the room calms]

THE FOURTH: That’s better. So. Titles. I think we should all have things to call each other, even if they can’t necessarily be true. I’ll call myself Šanta, if that’s fine with you all.

[This leads to yet more staring. Everyone visibly wants to question her choice of moniker, but nobody wants a repeat of the self professed Daemons wrath. So, when she points to THE THIRD, she rolls her eyes, but quickly complies.]

THE THIRD: You can call me Eva. It is not my name, but I also don’t think either of you necessarily deserve my name. Besides, if you are to become Warlocks, the first thing to know is that ones real name should only be shared when it has to be, and certainly not in such uncertain conditions.

[Seeing confusion on the faces of THE FIRST and SECOND, ŠANTA helpfully interjects.]

THE FOURTH: A Warlock is a type of Mage, which you are to be. I’m afraid that under these circumstances, it isn’t to be a choice: You will be here until you’re able to chase the truth.

THE FIRST: So, under other circumstances, would there be?

ŠANTA: Yes and no.

THE FIRST: How helpful.

ŠANTA: I do try. Anyways, I’d imagine you two should agree on a name, since you’re her and she’s you. Though if you have separate names, that might have its own benefits. Either way, we have nothing to call you aside from feature nicknames.

EVA: Personally I think Bob and Headwound are lovely names.

THE FIRST: Bob…? Well, I’d rather fucking not go with that. I’ll say Delilah. It’s a pretty name. And my counterpart can be Emily.

EMILY: Wait, why don’t I get to pick my name?

DELILAH: You’re dysfunctional enough to have gotten us into this mess. We might not remember anything, but I know enough of you to know that this is most likely your fault.

EMILY: That’s not fair!

EVA: Is anything?

DELILAH: No, it isn’t! We’re both in what seems to be hell for things you did, ignoring any better judgment. Even now, you’re going against what I say, and I am your better judgment!

EMILY: Well, why should I believe you! I’m pretty sure that the actual demons are more trustworthy here. At least they just come out and say that!

DELILAH: That’s retarded, which I suppose is appropriate. “Oh, at least they admit it.” I don’t admit it, because I’m not. I’m trying my best to help you, because I’m a part of you.

EVA: I’m not a part of you, but I’m also trying to help. It’s in my nature as a demon.

DELILAH: Helping is in your nature as a demon? That seems a bit… contrary. Also contrary to your picking at her scabs.

DELILAH gestures to the cockroaches, as EVA reaches out to toss another at EMILY.

EVA: Ah, but picking at scabs is how a demon helps. How is a man to walk his own path if he never faces his fear? Just look at her. If someone like me, isn’t here, she’ll just become an animal to avoid having to be anyone of her own.

ŠANTA: I’m a part of her, but also not. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know I’m also here to help though. Do you recall enough to know what a parahuman is?

EMILY: Yes? I guess it’s the kind of amnesia where I only forget myself.

EVA: I think that’s called thirty years working in an office.

ŠANTA: I am a power of sorts.

As EMILY hears this, she perks up.

ŠANTA: Not necessarily the same kind of power as a Parahuman, though it acts as a vector of sorts. Think of what I represent as, well, a competitor on the cape market. A special kind of power.

EMILY: A special power…

DELILAH: Emily, can you not just…

ŠANTA: Delilah, is there something you want to share?

DELILAH: Obviously. Why should we trust you? Can you not just think for yourself, Emily? Is that so impossible?

ŠANTA: Oh, that’s easy. Trust doesn’t factor in. You aren’t going to be able to leave until you sign off.

DELILAH: And what’s to stop us from going out that door without that?

DELILAH points to one of the mirrors, which upon closer inspection, bears a knob. sprouting from a crack. To this, ŠANTA gives a “so-so” gesture. It highlights that the left hand used to do so bears wicked claws, still dripping with the gore of her earlier show, as well as some kind of hot orange ichor that smells of citrus and third degree burns.

DELILAH: Fair point.

ŠANTA: I’m not asking much here. At least, not much I didn't already take as payment from our earlier agreement. Emily, just sign your name in the guestbook on the way out, and you’ll be back to the world of the living, powers in hand.

DELILAH: And what do you get out of this?

ŠANTA: Emily using her powers.

DELILAH: And if she doesn’t?

At this, EVA begins laughing hysterically, while ŠANTA just shrugs. EMILIES eyes glisten with clear desire for power.

ŠANTA: Unfortunate for me, I guess. I’m afraid I need you as much as you need me. I don’t necessarily have more than one window. Metaphorically. Litera-metaphorically, I have no shortage of windows.

ŠANTA leans on one of the mirrors closest to the door, reflecting a scene of a younger EMILY walking into an alley in the space not covered. Upon looking at it, EMILY recoils, despite a lack of anything worse than the room she’s already in, the beasts in her skull beginning to raise a fuss again.

ŠANTA: Do feel free to consider though. We do have time. All of the time, really, it's Hell.

[The audience behind the chains bristles at this, the chains beginning to rattle. The smell of rust becomes almost overpowering, DELILAH puts her face into her arms crook again, attempting to escape the scent.]

ŠANTA: Though that time might not be as enjoyable as this has been. I only have so much control.

DELILAH sighs, while EMILY begins to extricate herself from her lupine statue-anchor. It’s slow, and there are cuts from its sharp edges.

DELILAH: Where is this guestbook, then?

EVA laughs, and makes a theatrical gesture towards the room, the paint having left everything but the four of them bone dry.

EVA: I think the Daemon of ours has let you bypass most of the work. You're actually at the endpoint. How generous of her. You’ll just need to sign your name in any way that lasts.

EMILY: Alright, I guess!

[With a certain gluttonous enthusiasm and one of the a knives from the floor, EMILY attempts to carve her signature into a mirror, only to find about the same, to yet more laughter from EVA as it gives way like putty. EMILY looks at the deformed knife, stunned. The heat rises within the “room”, the hot winds beginning to truly howl.]

EMILY: Stop laughing! Christ, stupid fake knife.

ŠANTA: Well, it's more that it's infinitely less real than the room around you. Semantics, but that's all this place really is.

[She lashes out, kicking at the window to the same lack of avail. She beats and wails on the mirrors and chains until she is panting. EVA, despite the request, only cackles harder]

EVA: Do you want some help?

EMILY: Well, when I think about it, SHUT. UP. SHUT. THE FUCK UP. ACTUALLY.

[She continues punching at the mirrors, her bones audibly cracking, as the heat haze visibly intensifies, chains furthest from the group beginning to glow a cherry red. EVA, still laughing, comes closer.]

EVA: You know, this is why demons are actually quite kind.

[She drapes herself over EMILY’s form like a scarf made of human hands, to whisper in her ear, whilst grabbing one of the chains, skin sizzling on contact. DELILAH looks uncomfortable, but doesn't do anything to stop this.]

EVA: We’re always willing to lend a hand, even when people don’t realize they need it. They almost never do, you know.

[As she says the words, she snaps the chain as it begins to glow hotter, and slowly wraps it around her arm. EMILY’s body shakes and shudders, but she cannot scream as the air burns at her lungs, any tears boiling into a crust of salt before they can fall. Instead, she continues desperately attempting to break the mirror, hands quickly becoming scorched masses of char and bone.]

EVA: Don’t cry. You’re the only one who can do this, even if I can help a bit. I'm just here to see how it plays out, really.

[EVA’s voice is strangely tender, as she takes EMILY’s other hand, and tightens it around the loose end of the chain, before pulling away to watch her. As she said, she can't do it for her.

EMILY looks down upon the chain, and a glimmer of some kind sharp recognition appears in her eyes, even as her chin is caked in caking bile. Around her, the room becomes hot enough for even the statue to begin melting. She rises to her feet, bracing one foot against the mirror, and makes sure that the chain is diagonal across her arms. Then, she closes her eyes to take a breath and pull back as viciously as she can.

There is a sickening, sizzling crack.

DELILAH’s eyes bear a mixture of concern and hunger as she looks on, the audience cheering wildly at EMILY's show of self destruction, or perhaps self-sharpening. DELILAH's own mouth is too dry to speak, but her eyes are drawn to the half a forearm's tip, blackened and charred into a fine point. EMILY kneels again, and begin scratching the lines into the mirror, even as her hair burns, as her skin peels.

She is smiling, as EVA opens the carved door for her to fall through.]

Notes:

After five years training in a cave with no real posts, I was forced to emerge by Lone Valkyrie’s Chase the Lightning, which reminded me of the most important thing of all. I will not share what that was. However, I have now rebooted The Natural Flow of Things. As before, it is a crossover with the now renamed Chronicles of Darkness, with the main character being a Mage, with chapter one being the torment nexus. Bonus points for spotting the assorted dumb references.

Chapter 2: Fog 1.1

Summary:

or: No Exit. Like, literally. This room doesn't have doors.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Scentless, Sterile, and White. I would not say I was fond of this room, but I didn’t hate it. At least relative to what I had seen before I woke up, bleary and hungry, it could be described as “not hell”. I couldn’t even honestly say I thought it was a dream. Or at least, that it wasn’t real even if it was a dream.

Not only did I feel a phantom burning in my arm, but while the holes in my mind hadn’t gone away, I was well aware that my sight should not be this weirdly fleshy-digital. The magic revealed hairline scars on the skin world all around this room with no doors, while the holes in my memory felt stark. It was as if their edges had been painted for safety. Looking down, I saw the echoes of Eva’s chains burnt into my skin (magically) like a cattle brand. I could understand that they were weakening my body, but also shoring up my mind, making me less of a little weenie baby spiritually. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that, particularly given how frail I felt at the moment in both senses.

I thought about what there really was there to think about now. Everything was a mystery, which was both horrifying and alluring. I knew my name, at least as assigned by my doppelgänger. Even if she seemed like a bitch, unfortunately Emily resonated pretty well. Presumably due to her being some stupid voice of reason. I did wonder if this counted as self loathing, briefly, before deciding that it was a dumb question. I also knew that I was in some kind of hospital, unless someone was just harvesting my kidneys. I hoped not. I was fairly certain I liked those being inside me.

The room didn’t look dingy enough, though. Maybe it was my own bias, and illicit organ harvesting centers tended to be this snow-white, but I think what truly sold me on it was the pair of white cloth chairs. It was just too much for practicality, they had to be going for something. The only thing breaking it up was an iron ring on my hand. Pulling it out to see took just enough effort to pull out from under the sheets for me to not be a bit irritated, Eva’s smug grim almost visible in the evident degradation of my body, in the corners of my eyes where her mark sharpened my focus. I glared towards the sky she professed to be in, though I doubted she was being literal about that.

However, the (minimal, pathetic, downright sad) effort to lift it into my sight was really, really worth it. I learned several things: That the ring was quite magical. That it was warmer than the room, even when not under the hot covers. And, of course, and most importantly, that I could both see magic… and know magic. It was as if a switch was pulled behind my eyes, and the surface of the ring, with its whorling circuit patterns, peeled away to reveal its truth, like a patient opened on a table before her. It was scratching an itch that made me understand the Daemons surety: I could not bring myself not to look, once I knew I could. It made me wonder if this sort of thing was always there, beautiful in its horror and oddity. Somehow, I doubted this was normal for a cape. Not only because of Šanta’s explanations, but because I’d imagine this feeling of revelation would be a major feature of what makes up a Parahuman.

As I watched it, I attempted to turn it around, only to feel a sharp spike of pain, as well as resistance. Of course, I thought. I should not be surprised that the ring from some kind of devil had spikes pointing inwards. It was more of a reminder than a gift, a reminder that we had some kind of deal, something I was only reaffirmed in once I actually parsed what it did. I could figure out that had some kind of material effect, but was closer to a mix of brochure and phone: Something to explain and communicate. A kind of brand. I wasn’t necessarily happy to learn that my new toy was a leash, to be honest, but I was at least quickly distracted.

I felt it an instant before I saw it, the tearing of space into a neat octagon, leading into a white corridor. It seemed to go on forever, white doors in a white corridor that confirmed that this was either a bit, or another metaphor. The medical equipment said bit, to me. Unless it was a metaphor for recovering from whatever the fuck just happened.

Through it came a woman I was tempted to mentally describe as an African American doctor. I say tempted, because my last conversation was in hell, with Demons. For all I knew she was an angel, and this was part of the process. Or she could have just been African. It was a tossup, though through the undulating colors beneath her dark flesh, she seemed fairly normal.

“Ms. Holt?”

“To be clear, is this a metaphor for my mind repairing itself, or am I in a literal hospital”?

“This is literal, though you’d be surprised how often I get that. Or maybe not. I did mention a vision quest.”

The fact that I had apparently been doing things prone to causing vision quests cast certain doubts on recent events. Doubts almost instantly compartmentalized by the searing pain in my left ring finger. If I were to be a Parahuman, I would be a parahuman using the framework of magic, or I would be a Parahuman having a very bad time. I simply nodded, as if I knew what she was talking about, leading to awkward staring from both parties.

In that moment, I weighed my options, and tried to figure out what I knew here. I realized that I knew about Cauldron, an organization that grants powers in exchange for money and favors. Knowing about this as a part of getting powers didn’t necessarily gel well with the hands I saw, and general face, height, and general selfhood I feel about my body, and combined with the fact that I was in a medical bed, I’d imagine that I just bought powers. I had just bought powers, from a woman who only referred to herself as Doctor. I nodded, somewhat proud of the connections.

“Is that a ring?”

I thought on an answer, before deciding that being cagey didn’t help either of us.

“Yeah. Is that a vision quest thing? Does it mean something about the… uh. Power, I got?”

An odd expression crossed her face. If I were to name it, it would probably be thinking about if I was accidentally on painkillers, and maybe how that would factor into powers. Not necessarily concerned so much as curious, her eyes locked onto the ring.

“Not really, no. Not to my knowledge, at least.”

“Does it happen often?”

“No.”

A spot of slight heat circled the ring, it’s revolution almost smug. I considered where Šanta actually was. Was she in the ring? My head? Still in that hell? I supposed it didn’t matter: For whatever reason, I did prefer her presence to a missing finger. At least for now. The heat rolled again, this time more akin to an eye rolling.

“Is going unconscious part of the vision quest?”

“Generally, not for half a day, no. Generally not at all, actually.”

“Huh. I guess…”

The half-formed thought was, of course, that someone is probably concerned. If not parents, then some kind of orphanage staff. Bring up any lack of memories seemed like a poor idea though.

I could tell that if I tried to use amnesia to excuse debts, this woman would tell me to go fuck myself, if maybe not in those words. Mostly because I was pretty sure she wanted to, passively. She had her veneer of professionalism, but she walked into this room one line away from telling me to go fuck myself. It wasn’t on her face, but even without my weird magic mind filter, I could see it in her eyes. Aching to jump out. Moreover, a blank slate is someone to be manipulated, and I could feel that little part of me that had given me a name bristling at making that any easier than it had to be.

“Do you have any idea what it is, by the way?”

“What?”

“Your power.”

“Oh. I think I… can see things?”

“What kinds of things.”

There was a moment of careful pause. What could I actually see? I stared at the ring in a way that might be misconstrued as contemplation, or considering my words, when I was actually just checking my instruction manual. I felt like this would be a feature of the conversation, as I felt my eyes start to glaze over. It wasn’t for magical reasons, the depths of reality revealed, so much as the Daemon’s instructions swinging between dry technicality and the product of heavy drugs every five seconds. If she was to be believed, I was to

“First understand that there is no true separation between things, and that the higher world you must reach in you is everywhere, separated only by the lie. Secondly, understand that you’re not liable to be very good actually internalizing this as one step up from entirely unaware, and thus follow the following visualization steps using the instruments available.”

if I wanted to

“For something important to your early study based on my albeit limited knowledge of your world, see the connections between things.”

Which was quickly amended with a burst of painful heat, followed by frantic editing.

“Do not admit you can do this. Your conversational partner will not appreciate having it pointed out that you’re particularly suited to working your way through conspiracies, as a member of a conspiracy. What you should do is pull upon the Mind Arcanum to as described under “mind reading”, going for hearing her thoughts and understanding her mood. And then not say you did that. Mention that you can see distortions in space, and that you’ll get back to her on how it actually works when you figure it out. This is Mage Sight, which is separate from spellcasting, easier, and you were already doing it because developing it is part of the awakening process.”

To be honest, I was a bit offended at the idea that I would fuck myself that easily. Almost as offended as I was immediately wanting to do magic. Because it was magic. Thinking on it, I’m fairly certain that “Ms. Holt” was an alias pulled from some young adult books about wizards, the thought causing a very slight burst of irritated heat from the jolliest daemon for whatever reason. And so, I focused.

I was to imagine a brilliant star, hanging above me. Maybe many, but only one, shining above, was actually important. Each a spell, or a shard of the supernal, the world of ideas that magic pulled from, the scourging hell being one way of looking at it. Between me and the star is thick, ugly smog. It was a barrier between me and the supernal, and what keeps most people from being able to understand magic, and sometimes tainting it on the way to the Mage.

There was a note there, that it’d be kind of fucking hard to have problems with that here, as for a “sleeper” to taint it outside of particularly blatant spells, they’d need to know it as ‘magic’, or ‘impossible’ or 'happening in the first place'. Given that there are laser nazis flying about, suspension of disbelief is a bit higher than it would have been before that was a fucking thing. Exact words, actually.

Anyways, I had to imagine a spell within my means, and pull it down to earth, ideally using some symbols to make it easier, because god had seen fit to give me the most convoluted power imaginable. That was a framing I quickly came to regret, as I think I heard a bit of sizzling from the reaction, though thinking back on it that was probably just me flashing back to the time slightly before, given that the Doctor only reacted to my dry heaving. Not necessarily helpfully, mind you! It was more a “take some steps back in case she explodes” deal, combined with watching more carefully. But I got myself back in line, almost feeling myself lean on Eva’s chains to not, say, pass out.

Deep breaths, in and out. It wasn’t unintuitive, weirdly enough. Convoluted FOR REASONS UNRELATED TO GOD, but it was just visualization using what I had: The ring as an anchor of sorts, a grounding for possible, and the chains working as… chains. To pull the spell down with, the glimmering that would let me see into someone’s heart. It was pretty direct, when I wrapped my head around it, and wasn’t in blinding pain.

And so, I did, a digital halo of irritated imagery forming behind her head, while the occasional thought arose from a quiet static. It’s amazing how simple miracles are, honestly. I think more people should do them. Very satisfying on a personal level, very useful.

“Ms. Holt?”

She deigned to comment, despite not wanting to be here. The mood ring part of the magic ring showing imagery of her in traffic, or a waiting room, the occasional thought of [I just want to go to bed] ringing out through the noise of a busy mind, as scheduling details. Personally, I could relate. I was craving kebab, after this, so in all my kindness, I decided to kill the conversation.

“Oh, yeah. I can see where the portal thing was, I think? I think I’ll need time to figure it out. Would you mind if I take some time on it? I’m really hungry…”

I scratch the back of my head, faux-sheepish. I knew what she was going to say before she said it, not just because of the direct access and the cars disappearing from the road, but because of the fact that she couldn’t hide the desire of get rid of me from her face.

“Of course. We’ll be in touch.” [Thank god. I think I actually prefer her with whatever brain damage is going on here. At least now she’ll shut up.]

And with that, a portal opened to a room I have to assume is mine, which I passed through, taking only the time to change into clothes that turned out to be on the chair facing away. I have to admit, I wasn’t not sure how to take that last thought before it closed behind me. As it turned out, the ideal way was probably “as an omen.”

Notes:

Fun fact: Chapter 1 & 2 are being posted here on my birthday.

Chapter 3: Fog 1.2

Summary:

Or: Emma’s House and other Plays

Chapter Text

I think, more than any manipulation, what I feared as an amnesiac was imposition.  Which I suppose would be a kind of manipulation, but it’d be even worse for the theoretical good intentions of it. If I weren’t to lie, I would become a hollow vessel for other people to push their idea of Emma Barnes into. A container for “you used to’s”, at best, and something to resent for falling short at worst. Any change would become a deviation, instead of a sign of change that she would, if I were to be her and not Emily, possibly go through with time.

There were changes that had nothing to do with time, though. Or, at least, had much to do with a very specific period of time in which any memories had evidently been sold to a dead-voiced statue for god knows (ow) what. I imagined it was power. I certainly found myself hungry for it, and Emma seemed like a much more desperate person, for reasons I no longer remembered.

No matter what caused her to sign herself away, though, there was a gap for me to deal with. A gap currently personified in a fifteen-year-old girl who I was much more confident calling African American. After all, we were currently verifiably in America, and I was much more certain this Panera bread wasn't a metaphor. It was more the choice of teenage girls trying to maintain relative health, but not wanting to fully tie themselves to kale, pop music coming over the low quality a fast food chain in Brockton Bay.

“I’m just saying, there are better uses of our time.”

Across from me, looking pretty alarmingly annoyed, was Sophia Hess. The bestie, by all appearances. Otherwise known as Shadow Stalker, something I wasn’t sure if she knew I knew. Emma’s lack of diary, or just general notetaking was something I (hypocritically, I’d never write down anything personal in a way anyone could ever find) hated more than a bit. It was the kind of lack of consideration of others and then also herself at the same time I’d expect from her, really.

Anyways, Sophia-Stalker was irate. Something I didn’t like, because she had a crossbow, the ability to go through walls, mental illness, and knowledge of where I sleep. A terrible combination, I think. Should be illegal, and quite possibly was? It seemed likely there was something there, given her working for the government despite her whole… everything.

“You know that it was your idea, right?”

I didn’t, really, a failure of imagination on my part. I had supposed it was a coinflip, but a weighted one. She seemed much more gung ho about the whole “Taylor” business than I could really see myself, even through what little I knew of Emma, being. To be fair, that might just have been because unlike Sophia, I was incredibly aware of Ms. Hebert’s ability to control bugs. Her cobwebs of connections decorated Winslow in a way I found kind of interesting between stretches of looking at the ring to read guides to magic and cheat sheets for math homework, something I alternated between finding nice enough (something to stare at with my exciting new wizard vision-toy), and discomforting (remembering that she had very reasonable seeming motive to go with means of to hurting me, on top of presumable mental illness. Possibly in my sleep after using her bugs to follow me home. She could have already, really! I doubt Emma would notice, with her pitiful lack of both self awareness and wizard vision.)

Either way, I realized I should probably answer instead of getting lost in my thoughts.

“Um. Well, I’ve come to a r… I’ve come to a thought?”

“What’s that?”

“Well, it was like. How much of our time are we spending on something that doesn’t really benefit us?”

Annoyingly enough, that didn’t seem to help much (at least with Sophia. Madison seemed at least somewhat interested). If anything, this seemed to actually be more annoying and confusing, as opposed to her ideal reaction of “wow, Emma who definitely doesn’t have amnesia or other things wrong with her! You’re right. We should just start doing something else instead of aggravating the bug girl who I don’t know is bug girl, reducing my, and more importantly your own, risk of swallowing bees in your sleep.” I was aware of the gaping holes in that ideal, but something close would be fine.

As it was, I found myself pulling the star of other people’s thoughts down yet again. Madison gave a weird look to my odd hand gestures as I wrapped the imaginary chain around my wrist for leverage, hiding that with the same scratching and going back down as the last time. Not particularly concern, I think, at least about the fidgeting. I could see visions of Sophia attacking us in Madison’s eyes, both literally and metaphorically. Though turning back, I was happy to know that she had less thoughts of murder rattling around in her skull.

More confusing, really. Mostly because apparently, Emma, and by proxy her, had…

[…it was… own good… stronger… according … what the fuck is she talking about…?]

Clearly had a very interesting point of view on the goals of bullying. Though, it occurred, possibly not incorrect. But if I were to go with that train of thought, we had presumably achieved our goals when she obtained the means to have bot-fly eggs airdropped onto us. More metaphorically, I think she actually had a pretty sturdy mind from all my staring at it, albeit in the sense that the resulting lump of coal would be stronger than a loaf of bread after you left it in the oven overnight. All in all, if we were going for making her strong, I think we could pretty (un)safely call that a success and move on to bigger and almost by default better things.

Well, it was around then that I realized an important truth of my life, which would be important for a long time. It was one of those things most intelligent people learn as children, but in this second bonus youth of mine, I had yet to get around to it until this shining moment, the great divorce.

“Emma? You’re staring off a lot here, are you-“

“Uh. Yeah. I’m fine. Anyways. It turns out that when I was younger, I was honestly just fucking stupid, like pretty much every thirteen-year-old, I think. I’ll admit that it was ill considered and I’m sorry that I somehow tricked not just myself but you that it could have worked out well. I think we should probably just pretend it never happened instead of somehow thinking that thirteen-year-old me had good ideas.”

Looking around the table, I realized that it was probably a bit easier for me to think that what they had done had been, at best, a colossal waste of time, since I wasn’t really Emma, now was I? The other two were much more uncomfortable with the idea. uncomfortable (and angry) enough for me to follow up very quickly!

“You know, I just think that it’s probably better if we just find something else, now that we’re a bit older. I think that if we just keep doing what we’re doing because we’re already doing it, that’s kind of… well, boring, isn’t it? It’s just acting like some wagies or gambling addicts, I think. Letting schedules decide what we do instead of the other way around, if that makes sense.”

This, for the first time in the little exchange we had going on, seemed to at least not make Sophia angrier or more confused (and angry about being confused). She took a minute chew on like a mountain lion might a bloody piece of meat marinaded in horse tranquilizers, left out after she had mauled a few too many campers on the trails. A good thing for my heart rate, and lack of bolts in it in the long term.

“I mean, I guess that isn’t… wrong?”

She wasn’t happy about the train of thought, more “annoyed and trying to think of a counterargument”, though my mind reading was petering out. It was just that that was hard, because I was objectively right about everything as usual, as was my daemon-given right. I decided to check in with the third person at the table, having almost forgotten she was there in all honesty.

“Madison?”

She looked up from her game of Frogger that she had been using to distract herself while kind of half paying attention, a skill that I had no doubt would serve her well as a future child of divorce. I don’t think I had met her parents at that point, at least as myself, but it just rolled off of her. Almost literally, mind you, I could in fact half-hear her parents’ arguments bouncing around her skull.

“What? Oh, uh.”

Much like her parents’ arguments, she’d rather not be here.

“I think, uh. Yeah. Emma’s right. I think there’s a word for that.”

Historically, at least within our dynamic, I think that word would be miracle, though her follow up of “the sunk cost something or whatever, right?” was also not incorrect. Unfortunately, Sophia took the time to capitalize on Madison’s helpful opening.

“Do you have any thoughts on what we should actually do, then?” Was a question I had answers for! I really did. However, most of them involved some tint of ‘probably not with you though’ that I was worried would come across as a bit too boltable for my liking. It wasn’t her fault, really. It’s just that they all involved either expressing any amount of vulnerability or admission to her, or seemed like she’d find them very boring due to lack of shooting, assaulting, or otherwise inconveniencing people. I still had some ideas, just not… a lot.

“Well, maybe we can try photography. I mean, I have contacts for that.”

There was an odd look from both involved. I choose to believe that I wasn’t particularly defensive.

“I mean, its, you know. At least more practical. Unless we want to get into toxic waste management.”

That was accented with a shrug, as Madison remembered the problem with filling a locker with used tampons. For reasons only known to her and anyone with eyes she pushed her chicken salad away, deciding she was full.

“Well, I considered cooking, but it seems a bit… gross, for that to be a girl groups thing, right? Kind of get in the kitchen.”

A brief scoff from Sophia, as you’d expect from the conversational sacrificial lamb, dying on the cross to make other hobbies look better. A train which distinctly didn’t trigger my shock collar of a ring, raising at least two theological questions.

“Anyways. Maybe we could learn, like. Some kind of nature survival cooking, I think you’d be kind of into that, right? But generally, it seems like taking pictures of weird shit would be more interesting. And you like shooting stuff, right?”

The proper comedic beat for a slight glare, and then then-

“We went to that gun range for your birthday last year and all that.”

-following up with a rare piece of useful notetaking on Emma’s end, because even if she didn’t have a diary, she at least had a fairly well-kept calendar. She was, after all, more employed than the average fifteen-year-old child of wealth, even if I was considering quitting to pursue my passion of photography. If by photography you mean staring at capes to study their brain parasites with my fucked-up wizard sight. But photography would let me also get positive attention for posting them online, feeding my endless teenage need for validation.

“Anyways, I think Madison would be into it?”

I was beginning to think she wasn’t used to actually being involved in conversations, having already gone back to Frogger, and needing to be elbowed back into the dialogue.

“Uh, well. I think it sounds like a nice idea?”

“See, Madison likes it. Anyways, want to see some pictures of dead animals I saw on the road?”

Unfortunately for Madison, she was not the one who, instability aside, I should probably network with as a would-be cape. She also wasn’t the one whose interests aligned with mine, at least in terms of extreme seeking. Even if I probably liked her more as a person, she was the little vanilla baby amongst concerning bitches, so her honestly just seeming resigned while Sophia being a bit more interested was one of those little acceptable trades we make.

I did have the manners to not show her them, at least. Truth be told, I wasn’t personally interested in the gore of animals. Well, not pictures of it. My interest in photography was more in the realm of reminding myself of the actual things I stare at with my fucked-up wizard vision, or pairing with my notes. The pictures themselves weren’t useful for much more than that.

As it turns, a picture is worth a thousand words, but it’s still just a representation that mage sight doesn’t really work on, and I couldn’t poke its intestines with a stick I found. A series of pixels or ink stains… I thought. I didn’t necessarily know how analogue photography worked. Anyways, this is not a pipe, and this is not a bird that got hit by a car, and thus won’t let me learn anything about how connections fade upon being fatally hit by a semi, or try to initiate myself into the mysteries of life and death. I just thought it’d be a good habit to document my findings.

Though, it wasn’t like those findings were particularly useful. Which was a good chunk of the reason I wanted to keep Sophia around, as opposed to just not wanting to kill me in my sleep, and some cape networking. To stare at her power as for whatever reason I doubted Ms. Hebert would put on a show for me no matter how nicely I asked. At least as Emma Barnes. I did have thoughts on hiding my identity, but those didn’t solve my short-term desire to see if I stuck my tongue out a little, I could taste the power like a snake tasting air.

“You know Emma, you’ve been spacing out a lot. Are you sure you’re alright?”

I suppose there was also the fact that I did feel bad for her, what with the effectively being a separate person wearing an Emma skinsuit. Even if she wasn’t necessarily a good person, there were pity points there.

“Oh, yeah. I mean, a lot of headaches lately, but I think that’s just life. A series of headaches occasionally broken up stuff that’s actually worth paying attention to.”

There was a nod, and recollections of recent Wards Work.

“You don’t need to tell me.”

“Of course not. Anyways, I did get you two cameras. Because I’m just that nice. If by nice you mean shoving my new hobby down your throats.”

Madison looked as uncomfortable (as she usually did at the time) at this.

“Do I have to-“

“I mean, you don’t have to do anything. Technically we can all just kill ourselves, and then we won't have to do anything, ever.”

This didn’t necessarily comfort her.

“But to be clear, I don’t care what you take pictures of. Or maybe I do, but I think that it should be what you’re interested in? I dunno, this is because I’m bored.”

I briefly wound my hair around my finger, giving both of them a glance. I didn’t have as much reason to keep Madison around, honestly. She didn’t have a power with which to threaten or entice, nor as much reason to pity her. If anything, she kind of wanted to leave after all the biological waste management and that kind of thing. I suppose it’d be sheer inertia, keeping her around. A desire not to be alone with Sophia without someone to deflect onto. A human shield, if I wanted to be blunt.

“So just like. Do what you want?”

Though with all that aside, I did want to be a good person, at least as good as I could be when most of the cornerstones of my self were demonic contracts. Demonic contracts from ones who say they have humanities best interests in mind, but I wasn’t under the impression I should trust whatever they say on the face of it, what with them being demons. I wasn’t Maggie (or Mags, after she lost her name. Which, I guess I’d admit there was a fair bit of overlap there?) Holt, and I had no reason to think my demons couldn’t, in fact lie through their teeth, or lack of face. They also (probably) weren’t child bone cancer elementals, so trade offs were probably for the best there.

Which is to say that even if she was, in all honesty, social ablative armor, I did feel like being rude about it wouldn’t help anyone. I liked her more than Sophia at least, even if that wasn’t a high bar. Or maybe I was just lonely. Surely, I could make other friends, but Madison had the problematic benefit of already being tarred with the same brush, perversely popular yet fabulously disputable. Worse off, even. Though she may have been, to one extent or another, the least wicked of the three (in which I did not include myself as the blank slate I was), she was also the one with the most to lose, the easiest scapegoat.

She brought to mind some kind of small, scavenging bird. Maybe a magpie, picking away at meat some larger animals killed, and maybe helping out a bit, but only too late realizing that the poison that might give a cougar a light stomach ache is enough to kill someone as socially unimposing as stone dead. So now she was just kind of stuck, maintaining the proximity to petty power she wanted in the first place, to lawyers and star athletes, but now out of fear of falling instead of the desire to climb the ladder. I supposed that was a kind of closeness, really. Friends come and go, but an accomplice would always be an accomplice, especially if everyone saw the act.

“Anyways, I think we should probably like. Sit on that. Sorry for springing this on you, I know it’s a lot.”

As was becoming habit, I scratched the back of my head awkwardly. It wasn’t a magical gesture, this time, even if it was disingenuous.

As Madison played Frogger and Sophia fidgeted awkwardly, I shrugged, and got up to get another smoothie. Amnesia was, as is surprisingly usual, thirsty business, but all in all I think I handled it about as normally as I could.