The Kid had accepted the deal willingly, but it was natural instinct to struggle and gag against the marshy invaders and try to cough them back out. He held on tight to Zia’s hands until the last of it traveled to him, however, striving to endure the painful process for as long as it took.
The Kid soon let go after that, though, staggering back a few steps and clutching at his bandanna-covered throat, coughing and gagging. The Kid tried to keep a determined mindset over the expulsion of this unwanted being, but only found himself losing in the fight for control—and deep inside something like a water-less, muddy well.
Immediately he set to trying to scale and climb out of the pit, dragging his fingers into mud that displaced at his touch, running over his hands and obstructing him from being able to climb any higher.
He struggled for as long as a fit of energy would let him; and when that showed no progress he took a step back and squinted an eye at the hole’s mouth, panting. It was like looking through a straw. Mud dripped from his tired hands. He was concerned about the promise he’d made to Zia—and how having his physical hands let go from her offered one had ended up.
If she was still weak from however the Bog had attacked her, he was worried that he may not be able to regain control of himself before the Bog tried something drastic. Determined to never let that possibility even have a chance of happening, the Kid moved into action again and tried to get a hold of the side of the pit again. He’d never forgive himself if he hurt Zia.
Zia hadn’t realized she had regained control of herself; despite the Bog being in the Kid now, she still felt as if she was weighed down by the wretched mud. She suddenly yanked her hand out of his tight grip, stumbling backwards and falling back onto the green grass of the Bastion.
For a moment, she looked up at the Kid, coughing and sputtering nasty black ooze from his mouth; he seemed different already, and Gods, she had no idea what she was in for. How could she face the Bog, in the Kid’s body no less? He was strong thanks to his work on the walls, and even from everything he did during the calamity.
What should she say? Should she try to talk to him? Would he hear her? Of course he would, she could hear him when the same thing happened to her.
“Kid?” She called, getting to her feet and hesitating to step towards him. Zia knew she needed to find a way to get the Bog out of him, without making some kind of ‘deal’, or at least make it easier for him to get out. But what to do?
It was just her … The Bog … and Kid, trapped.
They tried to disguise their laughter with another barrage of self-induced coughs. They made the Kid double over, as if sharply bowing down.
Now kneel. Get on your knees, bow your head and shut your eyes tight. Now clutch your throat again. Yes, now cough some more.
“I’m-” A few more weak coughs now, yes, that’s it. “I think I’ve got it down,” they made his voice say, lying with it.
For added effect, they moved his hand from his throat to wipe residue mud off of his mouth, then placed both of his hands on the ground.
They even made him pant, for all it was worth.
He looked like he was almost worshipping Zia. They stopped there to draw Zia closer.
Were you in school long enough to know about something called the Pit of Despair? they patiently asked the Kid. Trap an animal in an inescapable pit, and only give it just enough food and water to survive.
Keep it there for days and weeks and years—then see how well it does when the poor creature breaks and there’s no other choice but to release it. But we wouldn’t dream of releasing you. No, just as much as you wouldn’t dream of breaking.
You thought you were being a hero in saving Zia, didn’t you? Would you like us to show you her face when we help you hurt her? Isn’t that what you really want, anyway? Not only hurt Zia, but see all those who wronged you in agony? It’s only fair, after all. Think about it.
Rucks never thanked you. All he wanted was a way to undo his mistake, and you were the gullible, easy target to do all the work that bastard wanted. Zulf betrayed you and hurt the ones you loved. Damn him. You could’ve left him to bleed dry, but instead you’re giving him another chance to hurt them again.
You might as well get him before he gets anyone else. Keeping him alive? You wouldn’t want to have that mistake happen again. Zia left the Bastion behind to join Zulf. She loves him more than she’ll ever love you. How could she even begin to love you? What could you possibly have?
She’s a traitor, too, isn’t she? All you did was care for her, and she left for Zulf without hesitating. You were the only one making the Bastion grow.
They all stood back and watched you tangle and struggle against death and fight tooth and nail for a single core while the next item on their dinner, the next puff of a pipe, the next chapter of Caelondian propaganda, was their biggest concern. You see, Kid, none of them want to help anyone else but themselves.
They all want the Bastion for their own selfishness.
And you’re just the stupid puppet they manipulate to meet those ends.
He’d stared into the darkness, and now it seemed that it was staring right back at him. The Siren’s soft hush and carefully chosen answer was like quick acting venom that held his body still but his mind clear.
He stood frozen and tensed up as she took form and leaned in to hug him.
Her fingers dancing on the back of his neck brought more goosebumps than reassurance, which made the knot in his stomach tighten, and his conscience screamed for him to turn back now and flee to the Bastion before it was too late, or at least run until he fell down and could not run anymore.
And even terrifying yet, there was something heavy in his mind that made Zulf consider and even try to believe Zia’s words.
No, no, no, no, this was not Zia, but an impostor of the Zia he knew, a mere knock off. Just as the murky, wrathful clone of the Kid, the Doppelganger, was to the real Kid that Zulf knew from his previous visit.
The sudden physical closure just made Zulf feel even more distanced as he realized, disturbed, that her heart wasn’t where it should be.
It was as if the Siren was a sentient, sinister, sadistic doll reanimated for wicked purposes and pressed up against him as if she were merely playing the part she’d been ordered to do.
The gods only know what the puppeteer is like, Zulf managed to think through all his bewilderment.
His heart skipped a beat or two when she heaved that deep chuckle from within her empty body. He knew those crimson eyes of hers were hollow and hungry.
Yet despite being able to recognize all the red flags his mind frantically waved for him, there was still that something within that made Zulf want to agree with the Bog resident.
Her taunting words had given Zulf another wave of uncomfortable self-doubt, even making him feel like he was below the dignity of the girl in front of him.
But her words had dug deep into the emotional walls he had set up in preparation for this visit. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a mere visit anymore, a thought that scared him as soon as his troubled mind led himself to it.
Zulf was not going to back down or turn back, but knew that if he had even wanted to leave, he might not even have the chance nor choice to do so at this point.
He nodded at the false representation of the Singer, then swallowed hard. Zulf found that his mouth was dry with anxiety.
“Heal me, then,” he said. It was his way of trying to keep that brave front, but his nervous shaking and terrified expression had already betrayed that.
Her grin widened and her eyes narrowed at his minimal answer. They felt his fear like how a carnivorous predator becomes excited at the scent of blood.
Just a bit of an incentive for them to drive this little experience further.
She reached her right hand forward toward his chest, as if to reach for him and heal him right then and there.
But instead, her figure dissipated as if by a huge gust of wind blowing at her side erased her entire existence.
The dark shifted into a scene that would prove too familiar and too raw for their visitor. It was back at his late fiance’s home, leaving his feet right on the carpet that lined the floor of her room.
Deep within her eternal sleep, his wife-to-have-been was still inside her bed.
Kneeling at her bedside, back toward Zulf, was a crying man, his composure crumpled and mind shattered.
His crying was pitiful and more than loud enough to reach Zulf’s ears, but he did not seem to be aware of Zulf’s presence just yet.
Zulf let unease plague him like fever as he saw the world cover itself in complete darkness. He wasn’t sure exactly where to direct his request initially, but settled on looking at the complete void in front of him with a stern face.
He swallowed loudly, then cleared his throat.
“I’m—I wanted to know something. …Do you do nothing but hurt? This place had nearly driven me mad the last time I had visited, but that’s beside my question.”
He bowed his head slightly, feeling his face burn with shame, but continued in confession, like the Bog was able to cleanse him despite being so impure.
“I suppose I’ve wanted to know if you could heal. The ones back on the Bastion… I feel like I’m naught but a disappointment in their eyes. I’ve wanted, fiercely, to feel whole once again. I’ve longed to feel like how I did before the Calamity, especially just before it.”
He didn’t want to recall what had happened just after it, how he had found those above ground, but it always seemed inevitable.
“I’d like all this… This pain, this grief, this agony… To be removed. By normal means, there’s no cure-all to apply to emotional and psychological wounds, of course. But… What about you?”
The dark lightly traced their fingertips into the back of Zulf’s neck, trailing them in small circles. They wrapped their other hand around his waist from one side to the other, pulling him close to her body.
As she grew in form and filled in vivid color, the Siren looked up at his bowed head in this way, slowly moving the pale hand that danced upon his neck to gently, gently lift his chin up.
“Shhh…” she hushed him softly, though her red eyes were a giveaway to the vicious hunger just behind them.
“Zulf,” she whispered, moving to embrace him tight. Her chin going past his shoulder and resting on it, pressing her chest to his chest. The lack of a heartbeat.
The empty vacuum of the dark pressed against his bearing heart that they were sure to claim as their own. Her patronizing chuckle to his well intentioned questions rumbled from her chest to his.
“Yes, we can heal. We can strengthen. We will fill what everything else cannot.”
And then, breaking away in a single motion, she winked and grinned at him.
“But you seem to sorta have your definitions all mixed up, for what they’re worth.” In the emptiness of the black void, the Siren’s grin grew ever wider, ever sinister.
“Healing isn’t the same thing as taking away pain, Zulf,” she sneered. “Have you never truly been healed before, or something? How tragic! You’re in a much more pitiful shape than I thought.
“Do you not know what healing is, you poor thing? The pleasure gained from enduring pain, that stuff’s healing. Hah, and we could remove it, don’t doubt that.
She shrugged helplessly and gave an embarrassed giggle, a wise teacher explaining something much too simple to an immature, ignorant student. “Pfffft, but what’d be the point of all that? You’d never learn anything, well, even less than you are now, and also keep running into more pain. It’d be as temporary to your wellbeing as your oh-so-welcoming ‘friends’ on that Bastion are to making you happy.
“Like they’d even care about you enough to try to make you happy. Heh, we both know that they don’t care, now don’t we, Zulf? That’s why you’ve come to us. Just removing your pain would be fleeting and unreliable, and it’d just bring you more pain.
“But you can ask to be helped the right way. If you want to actually be healed, then we’d be honored to offer you our services. Just say the word.
He wasn’t exactly sure he managed to struggle free of this place before. A nightmarish version of the Kid had impossibly torn him up, that was the last he remembered.
And again he found himself inexplicably wandering back to this dangerous, toxic swamp. It wasn’t mere curiosity this time, though.
There was a definite itch to be scratched, as if he felt the Bog would be able to do something to fill his missing holes, even if only temporarily.
He took a brave, deep breath of the noxious green cloud surrounding the area where the Bog’s Shard had long been since recovered by the Kid. Zulf had to admit that he did feel mildly jealous of the Kid, though.
If the Kid could pull through the fumes, swipe a Shard and fight his way through a Lungblossom and its minions, then Zulf aimed to prove himself just as able to withstand the trip to the Bog, however arrogant the idea appeared in hindsight.
“I’m ready for you this time,” he whispered aloud. His spoken word was more to boost his morale more than actually claim truth.
Despite the quiet declaration, it was evident that Zulf appeared troubled about the dangers he were to face.
Having the uncommon City-goer travel and purposely breathe their fumes in for test of bravery wasn’t rare. At least, before the Calamity had struck.
Now they were starving for human minds, and they found Zulf’s simply delectable.
Mouthwatering… And apparently the only item in their menu tonight. It was mildly disappointing to know that he had arrived alone.
Toying around with prey was in their nature, however, so they’d make sure to carefully treat Zulf like a dish, taking small and patient steps at a time to truly create a savory dish.
And if he was clever enough to see through that, well, fast food was always an option.
“What seems to be the matter, Zulf?” they asked him, pulling an opaque sheet of darkness over his surroundings.
Their voice like a concerned friend that knew him even before he had been born, their voice like someone who was devoted to having his love, their voice like someone able and willing to take care of his every need.
As if they were guardians who he had consulted for guidance.
“You seem troubled. Can we help you?”
Yes, what was it he wanted to see, today? They would be able to accommodate to whatever his heart desired.
To see the Bastion fall, to see the Ura accept him, to make the ambassador triumph over the Mason, to see Mancer Observatory in a smoldering flaming wreck with all its Mancer inhabitants trapped inside.
Or perhaps to make anyone he wished fall head over heels with him? His fiance, the Singer, the Kid… Or even just to let him feel how it was to be loved again.
Or perhaps let him watch them as they repaired the old world piece by piece for him, or cure his nightmares, or make him stronger and wiser than he’d ever dreamt of.
Anonymous said: They are not quite in the Real world, and not quite in the Dream world. They are colorless, yet colorful. Truthful, in a way--although that truth is more often than not twisted towards Their ends. A whole mass of contradictions and ugly hatred borne of noxious gas and undying bitterness, masked with a cruel smile. For They know They are not truly free. Not like the Survivors. They know They are trapped. It's jealousy that drives Them. And if it gets a little lonely in there afterwards, well...?
”..Even if I can’t stop you from messing with me like this, I’m not making it fun.”
{With a flick of his wrist, the shank embedded itself in the hallucinatory image of a relic of Pyth’s worship. He didn’t fully stand up, instead seating himself on the pew he was huddled behind. He started talking but he didn’t turn his head to look.}
“And you’re half right. I am scared. Not of death, though, just — just the bits that come right before it. I’d be insane not to be cowering. Then again, with — those things you did — I’m not sure that’s an inaccurate descriptor for myself.”
{He squirmed in his seat a bit.}
“As far as me being trash, you’re preaching to the choir, you know.”
He rolled his eyes, more than a hint of contempt evident in them.
“Oh, Percy… Don’t you love me?” he asked quietly, taking a step forward.
They wanted to play around and toy with him until the man broke, and see how long he’d last until then.
Plague his mind full of sick visions until they could do no more to him.
So that the only words that dribbled out of his damned cocky mouth were nothing more than psychobabble. They wanted to see the fright on his face.
They wanted to see nothing but absolute hysteria where a clear headed expression would normally be. Where there was neither dignity nor composure left.
Then they’d simply consume him.
It wasn’t anything personal, of course. It was just the simple fact that, after the Calamity, there had been a dull lack of surviving humans to hunt.
Sure, they had had a thriving amount of animals and writhing plants, but they weren’t as fun to inflict cruel torment too, no, not nearly.
Animals and sentient plants were too boring, too simple.
So, naturally, after hearing the Snitch’s claims that he wouldn’t let the torture be fun, the bog-beings became mildly upset.
“I love you, Percy, I really, r e a l l y do.”
Another step forward, still composed, still collected, and now he was full on walking toward the pew.
His voice was the eerie calm in the eye of the maelstrom.
“You’re a coward,” he said nearly wistfully, “You won’t even look me in the eyes. You won’t even say you love me back.
“And if you won’t love me back… Oh, dear. I wouldn’t even want to go over the consequences.
“I wouldn’t want to frighten you,” he sneered.
He reached forward for the overturned pew in front of the Snitch, shoving it out of the way with brute strength that made a heavy noise of it colliding with an adjacent pew, rotten wood on rotten wood.
A few insects scuttled out from underneath the spot where it was, some toward Percy’s feet, some scuttling back onto Nordy’s shoes and crawling up the sides of his being.
He did not flinch.
With nothing between the two, Nordy’s posture suddenly changed from that of being furious to one who’d realized that they’d made a petty mistake and was now wanting to meekly rectify their actions.
“I know!” Nordy abruptly chirped, dangerously cheerful, “If you’re not gonna let me have any fun, anymore, why not have someone else?
“You must have someone else out there.
“I know there’s more,” he whispered, leaning in close, both hands on either side of the Snitch’s shoulders and pinned to the pew.
The wood creaked under his grip.
“So, who else do you have up there, Percy?” the Bird Boy asked, voice back to incongruous, saccharine glee to his iron hold.
He knew about the Bastion. He knew about its passengers.
They just wanted to torment him for a while longer.
He found the voice extremely uncomfortable to hear out of Zia’s mouth like that, especially the laughter. It made him break into a cold sweat as the… thing inside her used her body as it it were a puppet; and he fought down a shiver at its proposition. Had to be strong in the face of evil, even if that face was temporarily his crush’s.
It would be tempting the being’s temper if he were to ask it to clarify about it “having” him. He knew what they really meant, after all, given what they’d done to Zia. The Kid felt a sense of vengeance fill him once his imagination filled the gaps in over what Zia had to suffer. But what other choice was there?
“Zia. If you can hear me, listen close, now;” he said as calmly as he could in the situation, “I’m gonna accept the deal. When it… Happens, either knock me out or get me moving toward the Shrine. I’ve dealt with the Bog before,” though never like this, he’d left out on purpose, “so it’s probably best for this to happen. I don’t know how badly you’re hurt—But I can’t let this happen to you for any longer. I know at least enough of how that place is torture, but…” He paused, trying again.
“If worst cones to worst, you strip my City Crest off and shove me off the Bastion. I know it sounds desperate, but I don’t want Zulf or Rucks to get hurt—N’I ‘specially don’t want you getting hurt, either.” That was it.
Talking any more than that to Zia would probably be fruitless, he supposed; assuming she was still fighting back at the Bog, she might be too exhausted to respond. The Mason grit his teeth and looked up at the possessed Singer, putting a hand out.
“We have a deal, demon. But only if you completely leave Zia.”
The whispers of her own name in such terrible harmony made her ears feel as if they would bleed at any moment, and she was quick to crumple onto the ground, covering her ears and closing her eyes.
It’ll be over soon. Just hold on, you can do this.
She heard Kid’s voice say her name through the whispers, the sound giving her strength as she uncovered her ears. She listened to his words … but they surprised her.
Why was he talking like that? No, he wasn’t going to …
“No,” She found herself whispering, before her voice raised, louder and louder as if he’d hear her. “No, no, no, no, not this, no! Kid—-“
Her voice cracked, as if reality suddenly hit her: he couldn’t hear her.
She’d never be able to do what he was asking of her … Push him off the Bastion?
If only she hadn’t gone to the Bog again … Then this never would have happened. Would it?
What an absolute idiot. The Bog simply snickered at his stoic vow, not caring in the slightest whether or not Zia was actually able to hear him.
A forced, stretched grin flashed on Zia’s face as the Bog pulled the corners of her lips back. He’d accepted the trade! For every time their vessel mumbled a protest to no avail, they’d answered back with yes. Yes, yes, yes.
Oh, they were so pleased. Now they could damage the other inhabitants of the Bastion without worrying about causing damage to their physical carrier.
Yes, yes, with the Kid as their new toy, things would be a lot more fun, wouldn’t they? For the longest time, the Kid was their desired host, and this was much too satisfying, for him to accept the exchange that easily.
You were right, Zia, they chuckled to her, We’ll be gone before too long. Farewell, child.
The vessel in her nose burst and Zia’s nose ran a thick, black rivulet. The mud pushed itself from her mouth as well, sliding from the back of the tongue and through the gaps between her teeth.
As it clambered out of her mouth, as they batted at the Kid with her eyelashes, as their gaze never left his eyes, as the mud ran down thick and dripped in viscous globs down her chin to her forearm, the Bog took his offered hand with both of Zia’s pale hands.
The near-black mud was a jarring contrast to Zia’s borrowed skin, the substance sloshing down her fabric-covered arms. The Singer’s arms were like guide rails for the mud to drip down.
A smell of peat, like decomposed arethusa and a dreadful, sinister smell of something like iron followed the mud as it took its pilgrimage toward the Kid.
Unlike actual mud, however, the sentient beings comprised of the gunk were impossibly able to move, to slide from her forearm to his gloved hand and mysteriously climb up his own face in mere seconds.
Their Walls crumbled down from Zia’s head as the transaction took place. In retribution, the Kid would find himself in a deep pit, a hole they had dug for him with muddy sides so that he couldn’t grip it properly and climb out.
The last of the mud left Zia, leaving her body and mind as her own again. They wouldn’t be surprised if her physical self toppled over in exhaustion. In fact, they wanted for that to happen, so that their new Kid would be faced with as little resistance as possible.
In return, they’d successfully invaded the Kid’s mind and body, trying to test out their limits of control by flexing a few fingers, or moving his tongue to push residue mud down his throat.
It’s been quite a while, Kid. We trust that you’ve been well?
“Alright, now that just ain’t fair,” he grumbled in ann ill-natured growl. The Cael narrowed his eyes, just enough to make that glint from before reappear, and held his ground. “I ain’t refusin’ cause of pride, understand.” And it was true, to an extent.
At this point, she was not doing much more than bullying him. And he could deal with being bullied—it wasn’t exactly something new. “Why am I here?” he decided to ask, voice carefully levelled to her as if he were handling his question like a Dueling Pistol, ready to pull the trigger at any time. “What do you want from me?”
They heard the threat in his voice, and the Siren’s previous taunts faltered along with her expression. If they had to play nice to get what they wanted, then so be it.
“Don’t leave,” she whispered back, red eyes uncharacteristically threatening to spill tears. Her green-stained boots dragged back to where she stood so that her posture was proper from before.
A white-haired Kid stepped out from behind the Siren’s back, glaring at the real one with accusatory red eyes. Angered over the other’s words, his tone held a deeper threat than what the other Kid had.
“You’ll stay here and wait for the others,” the Doppleganger ordered his double, “You’re going to stay here until we’ve finished with you.”
“And it… Isn’t like you have a choice,” the Surrender lamented, stepping out from the other side of the Siren.
“You deserve what’s coming to you,” the three said to the Kid in unison, each with their own individual tone yet somehow blended in a single-voiced, auditory collection.
“—!?” The sudden snatch of the Harp Guitar surprised him—hadn’t she just offered it to him a minute or two ago? What could she possibly want it back for—Oh. The Kid blinked in astonishment at her pale hands absolutely crushing the Harp Guitar to shreds, his mouth slightly opening at the unexpected feat.
The Mason’s brow furrowed in confusion when she proceeded to swear a mile a minute, and then in alarm when she begged him to hold her. “You’re—You’re not Zia,” he whispered, and it was almost child-like, as if he were telling her a secret. Even his own voice at that surprised himself.
But what? What could he possibly do to help? He gave Zia a helpless, uneasy look. This obviously wasn’t the Zia he knew—her actions and words were too confused to let him know that. But it was the contradiction the two had; breaking her Harp Guitar into pieces, screaming and crying and begging to hold her—that made him unsure of what to actually do next.
He hesitated at her asking to simply hold her, because he found that no matter how much the words tugged at his heartstrings there was something very, very wrong with them—and instead of going for a full on embrace he half-heartedly reached forward and grabbed her by the wrist as if he were a preschooler doing the same to another preschooler he’d had a crush on, trying to lead her to the Shrine.
He let his grasp be gentle. If Zia were in pain, which she appeared to be, he didn’t want to add to it. Perhaps there was a member of the Pantheon that could help purify Zia; and force what evil possessed her body out.
It was startling— no, terrifying to feel bugs all over her arms that she couldn’t see or even get rid of, no matter how hard she shook her arms and dusted them off, it just wouldn’t go away. This invisible swarm was eating her alive and oh Gods why wouldn’t it stop.
But it would stop soon, after she had collapsed onto her knees and felt silent tears run down her cheeks in frustration, exhaustion— … everything. In that moment, she thought she had heard something; something from Kid.
“You’re not Zia.”
A breath she had been holding in escaped her in the form of a sigh, one that she hadn’t even known she was holding in. Finally, her prayers to the Gods had been answered! He’d noticed, and thank the Gods for that.
The sensation of the insects upon her arms had subsided as a weak smile formed across her face.
“You don’t need to worry about me anymore,” She told the voice of the Siren, moving to rest her tired self against the wall she had been fighting so hard to break through. “You’ll be gone before too long, anyway.”
She could only hope— and pray some more that he could actually get the Bog out. That would be a completely different problem, wouldn’t it?
Well, Mother only knows “there ain’t nothin’ a Kid can do”.
They had faced her resistance with fear and with anger, and now they tried yet another approach with the Singer after seeing her rest against their Walls.
They crooned to her, pleased with her, a Siren song in a thousand different whispers. Zia zia zia zia zia zia zia zia zia zia zia.
Not even demands or threats, just melodious yet monotonous utterances of her name.
As if it were a charm of some sort, a mantra, or a benediction to ward off the Singer’s next attempts of fighting their Walls.
As if repeating her name would be enough to crumble her walls, or what was left of them after their retaliation. Or even as if repeating her name long enough would make it their own.
Would make Zia give in, finally finallyfinally, and be theirs.
Oh, but that would be too much, too much. The Bog that invaded Zia’s being wanted her to resist again, wanted her to fight back and entertain before they cut the strings on this pitiful puppet.
Wanted to try something different to make the Ura girl suffer.
They planted the heels of her boots into the ground, easily resisting the Kid’s half-hearted tug.
They made Zia’s throat shudder, a low and terrible moan climbing from deep deep deep deep in her throat. The animalistic moan bubbled and crawled up so that it soon lay humming in her teeth.
An abruptly ended in a wild burst of laughter.
They forced her to look back up at the Kid, quickly now, though still doubled over.
The corners of her mouth twitched up into a sneer of condescension, of fear, and above all malice. Madness lit a fire in her eyes, let it flicker and fan with utter hatred toward the Kid.
The Kid. The hammer-smasher, defeater of the worlds-end, the child of man that had defied their hold before, nearly annihilated them, their Shardswiper.
They despised him and his strength, but they saw their opportunity.
“We could make you better,” they offered the Kid in a voice not entirely their own. Sure, it had been their words, but they needed Zia’s teeth and tongue and precious precious vulnerable throat to speak.
They ran her tongue over her lips slowly, sizing him up as if he were their next meal. An eerie silence briefly hung during that, and the being within Zia planned its next verbal gambit.
“We could leave her,” they said, then paused to laugh again, the sound unnatural from Zia’s mouth, “We could leave her. But only if we have you.”
