The land was becoming harder to navigate. What had started as uneven footing now buckled into a maze of miniature hills and mounds underfoot, hollows opening up between them like hungry mouths. Craters pocked the earth, and pits sprang up without warning, their depths lost to shadow and the haze that clung low to the ground.
It wasn't quite fog, not quite smoke. It caught in the throat and lingered with each breath, gritty and metallic. The haze pooled in the hollows and drifted in patches--sometimes visibility stretched to forty or fifty feet, other times it collapsed to barely ten. Shapes appeared and disappeared like ghosts that couldn't decide whether they wanted to be seen.
By now, any pretense of formation had dissolved entirely. Even Cruz Control was on her feet again, stamina apparently recovered enough to walk on her own.
They moved in loose clusters, picking their way through the haze until a chasm gaped open at the edge of visibility--gas hissing up from its depths in rhythmic bursts that pushed the haze back in waves, clusters of mushrooms clinging to its edges and glowing in shades of red and orange. Movement flickered on the far side.
Through the momentarily clearer air, shapes emerged--approaching the chasm from the opposite direction. Four red-skinned imps, the stronger variety, walked towards the same chasm. They spotted Hydrion's party at the same moment. For a heartbeat, both groups froze. Then the imps shrieked and cackled, fire sparking across their clawed hands--lighting themselves up like angry little lighthouses.
"Well," Hydrion muttered, eyeing the gap, "at least they're polite enough to stay on their side--"
The imps hurled their fireballs across the chasm. The flaming projectiles arced through the haze, falling short and splattering against the rocky edge on Hydrion's side, sending sparks skittering across the ash. The explosions were deafening--all roar and crackle and hiss.
Twang.
The sound cut through the noise like it didn't belong--quiet, crisp, mechanical. Wrong.
A crossbow bolt punched through Martha's back with a wet thunk, the tip erupting from her chest right where her heart should be. Her neon-blue headphones went dark. She stared down at the bloodied point protruding from her sternum, pink hair falling forward as her knees buckled.
"Huh," she said, almost conversationally. "That's--"
She collapsed face-first into the ash, the bolt's fletching jutting from her back like a morbid little flag.
For one frozen heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then the world erupted.
Twang-twang-twang-twang-CRACK-HISS-WHOOSH--
The ambushers opened fire in earnest from the hill behind them--the same ridge they'd passed not two minutes ago, now bristling with silhouettes above the low-hanging haze. Crossbow bolts screamed through the air. Arrows whistled. And between them came something else--shards of ice, jagged and crystalline, glittering as they hurtled forward like frozen knives.
The shots weren't aimed at them. Couldn't be--the system wouldn't allow it. Every bolt, every arrow, every shard of ice was technically targeted at the imps across the chasm--the ones currently lit up like beacons with fire dancing across their claws. Hydrion's party just happened to be standing in the way.
Very unfortunate, especially since all of them missed the imps. Very accidental.
An ice shard shattered against Don Espadón's massive sword as he yanked it from his shoulder, showering him with frozen fragments. Another bolt grazed Cruz Control's temple, drawing blood.
Jack threw himself sideways, tackling Cruz Control to the ground as three more bolts converged on where she'd been standing.
And from the sides—left and right, circling around the chasm's edges—came the deep, guttural howls of gogs moving to flank them. The trap was springing shut.
"FIGHT, YOU FOOLS!" Hydrion roared, his voice cracking between rage and something that might have been panic.
Sir Wpierdol was already moving, red-and-blue scarf snapping up over his nose and mouth as he spun to face the ambushers behind them. Nobody could understand his battle cry--something starting with a harsh "Beech" followed by what sounded like an angry snake having a seizure--but the brawler didn't seem to mind. He cut through the chaos like a bullet, charging back toward the hill, bat raised, dodging bolts and ice with terrifying agility.
From the ridge above, humanoid shapes descended through the swirls. Werewolves--but not the feral, mindless kind. These moved with purpose, coordination. Players. They were caught somewhere between worlds: modern sneakers beneath fur-covered legs, a torn band t-shirt stretched across one's broadening chest, another wearing what had once been office slacks now ripped at the seams to accommodate digitigrade legs. Weapons raised, magic crackling between clawed fingers, they used the imps as their cover story while their real prey died in the "crossfire."
From the ridge above, humanoid shapes descended through the swirls. Hulking figures, fur bristling along hunched shoulders, elongated muzzles filled with teeth that caught the dim light. Pointed ears swept back against their skulls, and yellow eyes gleamed with predatory focus. Werewolves--but not the feral, mindless kind. These moved with purpose, coordination. And they were unmistakably players. Modern sneakers peeked out beneath fur-covered legs. A torn band t-shirt stretched across one's broadening chest, the logo warped beyond recognition. Another wore what had once been office slacks, now ripped at the seams to accommodate digitigrade legs. One still had a lanyard around his neck, the ID badge flapping against matted fur. Weapons raised, magic crackling between clawed fingers, they used the imps as their cover story while their real prey died in the "crossfire."
Hydrion's form rippled.
For an instant he remained human, hammer poised. Then his body ruptured—flesh pulled thin, bones snapping, muscles bulging as five twisting necks shot skyward. The hydra of the swamp screamed through every maw, a savage chorus that shook the soot from the burned forest.
"Balladin!" one of the heads bellowed, even as another snapped at an incoming ice shard, catching it mid-air. A third head twisted to watch the gogs circling left. A fourth tracked the ones coming right. The fifth kept its eyes locked on the werewolf ambushers.
The bard's fingers were already flying across his guitar strings, the opening chords of something heavy and driving cutting through the pandemonium. His expression was resigned, but his voice rose steady and strong:
"We're not gonna take it! No, we ain't gonna take it!"
The magic thrummed outward, a pulse of protective energy that settled over the party like armor. Constitution buffs. Endurance. The ability to withstand what was coming.
Don Espadón planted his massive sword point-first into the ground, one hand on the pommel, the other raised dramatically toward the sky. Blood trickled down his arm from a grazing hit, but his voice rang out clear and theatrical:
"Heroes are forged in fire, tempered by betrayal, and proven in blood!" He ripped the sword free, swinging it over his shoulder in a gleaming arc. "Today, we show these cowards what it means to face true warriors!"
Then he charged toward the ambushers, roaring, straight into the teeth of the attack.
The gogs were circling left and right, closing in.
The werewolves pressed, coming down the hill.
The imps hurled fire from across the chasm--arcing higher now, fireballs crashing into the ground between the party, scattering rocks and ash with every explosion.
And Martha—
Martha sat up.
The bolt still jutted from her chest. Her headphones flickered once, twice, then blazed back to life in pulsing neon blue. She reached up, gripped the shaft with both hands, and yanked it free with a wet squelch that should have been accompanied by arterial spray.
There was none.
Her eyes blazed crimson, the pupils dilating until they swallowed the whites entirely. Dark smoke curled from the corners of her mouth as she grinned—wide, manic, delighted.
"Oh," she purred, her voice carrying over the chaos like funeral incense drifting through a graveyard, "you shouldn't have done that." Her rope uncoiled from her arm as if it had a mind of its own, writhing like a serpent tasting the air.
The panic was delicious.
She could taste it everywhere--thick and sweet in the air. The werewolves had seen their target sprout four extra heads and grow into something that made their wolf forms look like puppies. That alone had been enough to make two of them stumble to a halt, one backpedaling toward the hilltop. Then their opening kill shot sat up and started talking.
Confusion. Dawning horror. Beautiful, beautiful hysteria blooming in their ranks. One werewolf broke entirely, scrambling back up the hill on all fours. Others froze mid-charge, caught between fight and flight.
And her own team--oh, that was a lovely bonus. Cruz Control's shock, Jack's confusion, the spike of fear from those who'd thought her dead moments ago. Martha didn't discriminate. Panic was panic, and it all tasted wonderful.
Martha rose to her feet in one fluid motion, still grinning, blood from the heart that didn’t need to pump anymore anymore staining the front of her pink hoodie.
"Let's see what other fun surprises you brought for me," she said, and skipped toward the werewolf position, rope trailing behind her like a pet eager for its walk.
Behind her, Balladin's guitar work intensified, and through it all, his resigned accountant's voice delivered the chorus with perfect, ironic timing:
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"We're not gonna take it! Anymore!"
The bards's protective magic settled over the party just as Sir Wpierdol's bat connected with something in the haze on the hill. Flash of gold follow.
And then system's protection against player harm detonated like a flashbang, the brilliance searing through the gray haze. When the glare faded, Tadzio was gone—launched across the battlefield and chasm like a missile, his body arcing through the air in a perfect, physics-defying trajectory that carried him to the far side where he tumbled into the ash among the startled imps.
Unperturbed, Sir Wpierdol stood up, staring at the space where his target had been, bat still in hand. That it didn't break--or that he didn't let go after being launched like that--was a true miracle.
From the midst of the werewolves stepped something that made the gogs look like house pets.
The rougarou moved with predatory grace, elongated limbs draped in patchy fur and taut sinew. Its feral skull gleamed--jaw slack, eyes pulsing with primal hunger. Beast-born legs seemed to glide across the land, each step ghostlike. Serrated claws flexed with slow, deliberate menace. Standing nine feet tall, it was a terrifying sight.
Hydrion's five heads snapped toward the creature in perfect synchronization.
One voice rumbled from all five throats at once: "Jean Roux!"
Then the swamp hydra roared—a sound that started deep in his massive chest and erupted from all throats with enough force to send ripples through the ash around his feet. He charged, all bulk and fury, necks weaving as he thundered toward his ancient enemy.
Two of his heads dipped, jaws clamping onto a dead tree trunk. Roots tore from the earth with a sound like splitting bone as he wrenched it free, the massive timber rising as both heads coordinated the throw toward the rougarou—
Another head darted in, mouth opening wide to clamp onto the tree mid-swing.
"—WAIT, I GOT THIS—"
The trajectory changed violently. The tree spun sideways, branches whipping through the air as it hurtled not toward Jean--Hydrion's old nemesis--but toward the werewolf ambushers still visible through the haze.
The impact was sickening. Wood met flesh and bone, and something snapped with the finality of a branch breaking in winter.
"OOPS!" one of Hydrion's heads shouted with entirely unconvincing innocence. "ACCIDENT!"
He spared no glance for the damage as his body crashed into the rougarou.
The collision shook the ground. Jaws snapped at exposed sinew. Claws raked across armored scales. Both creatures tried and failed to inflict real damage and golden light erupted in staccato bursts—the system screaming its protests with their every attempt.
They tumbled, a ball of fury and teeth and claws, crashing through the haze and over the hillside the ambushers had used for cover. A blackened tree exploded into splinters as Hydrion's bulk smashed through it. Another toppled as the rougarou used it for leverage, both combatants roaring—one with five voices, one with a sound that would make even a hellhound hesitate.
The battlefield fractured into chaos.
Sir Wpierdol didn't waste time staring after the departed titans. His scarf was up, his bat was ready, and the imps were disoriented.
With a shout he launched himself at them.
The bat caught it under the jaw with a crack that sent it spinning. It hit the ground, scrambled upright, and Sir Wpierdol was already there, following up with a precision strike to the side of the head that dropped the creature like a sack of potatoes.
The second imp spat fire. Tadzio dodged left, came in low, and swept its legs. When it hit the ground, he brought the bat down in a brutal overhead swing.
The third imp made the mistake of running, trying to gain distance.
Sir Wpierdol gave chase with the single-minded focus, closing the distance in seconds. One swing. The imp went down. Where he was from they would say
He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, scanning for more targets.
Then he heard them—the guttural howls of gogs, more of them joining the fight.
His grin was visible even through the scarf. He charged toward the left flank, bat raised.
Cruz Control nocked another arrow, her hands shaking. Blood trickled down the side of her face from where the bolt had grazed her temple, warm and sticky against her skin.
She couldn't process what she was seeing. Couldn't.
Jack wasn't human anymore. He was a bear. An actual goddamn bear, taking crossbow bolts like they were mosquito bites, roaring challenges that shook her chest. He'd mentioned being a panda shifter back in the fort--she'd filed it under "more bullshit from the peanut gallery" along with dragons having PR specialists and amazon jungle bikinis.
Turns out he wasn't kidding.
And Martha—
Martha had been dead. Cruz had seen the bolt punch through her chest, seen her drop, seen the light go out of those stupid neon headphones. And then she'd just... gotten back up. With those eyes. Those burning red eyes and that smile that was all wrong, too wide, too delighted.
And suddenly, the conversation back at the fort--Pierre joking about being damned, Martha laughing that it "sounds way better than it actually is"--had a completely different meaning.
Pierre. He'd been right next to her when Martha fell. She'd looked away for a second--just a second--and when she looked back, he was gone. Not running, not hiding. Just... not there anymore. Like he'd never been solid to begin with.
And Hydrion—
Oh fuck, Hydrion.
Five necks. Five heads, each one the size of a full-grown mastiff, moving with terrible coordination like fingers on a hand. Teeth like kitchen knives. That thing—that hydra. She'd jabbed her finger at him so many times. She'd even told him she would murder him in his sleep." A hysteric giggle escaped her mouth.
The gogs were closing on their position to the left and right, circling around the edges of the chasm. She could see them now—bulkier than imps, scaled skin gleaming dully in the firelight, those barbed tails lashing as they moved with disturbing speed.
Monsters. Those were monsters. That's what monsters were supposed to look like. And her party members were supposed to be human--should be human. Monsters weren't real outside of this game, just things the system spawned to fight. But people weren't supposed to turn into them--
But they did. They had. They were.
Maybe it was part of the game as well. Had to be the game, right? The system gave them... options? Transformations? Like character creation, except instead of picking "human" or "elf" you could pick "fucking hydra"? That made sense. That was logical. The game did this to them when they got pulled in.
She hadn't gotten any options like that. But maybe she'd missed something? Maybe different people got different choices?
Except--
Except Hydrion had known Jean Roux. Had recognized him on sight--not just recognized, but reacted. That wasn't "hey, weren't you in orientation?" That was old grudges and bad blood. You didn't look at someone like that unless you knew them from before.
From Earth.
From back when they were all supposedly human.
Her hands were shaking so badly she nearly dropped her bow.
She drew anyway, because what the hell else was she supposed to do? The gogs were getting closer, and frozen or not, shellshocked or not, existential crisis or not, she was still standing in the middle of a goddamn battlefield. Quite possibly the only human representative around, armed with nothing but a bow and arrows.
Who knew at this point? Maybe Balladin was secretly a lizard man. Maybe Don Espadón was a-- her brain fizzled, grasping for something suitably ridiculous-- Godzilla? A sentient cactus? The Loch Ness Monster in a sombrero?
She aimed—not at the werewolves weaving through the haze by the hill, because her brain finally caught up to what Jack had shouted about the system not letting them target players directly. But at the gog on the right flank. At center mass, because her hands were shaking too much for anything fancier.
She released.
The arrow took it in the shoulder. It roared, stumbled, but kept coming.
Another arrow. This one hit closer to center. The creature staggered but its thick hide absorbed most of the impact.
"Tough bastards," she muttered, nocking again. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, like it was coming from someone else. Someone who wasn't having a complete mental breakdown in the middle of a monster ambush. Monsters on all sides, really--gogs, werewolves, and apparently her own party. Ha.
Focus on the gogs. Don't think about what Jack is. Don't think about what Martha is. Don't think about the fact that you've been living on Earth--on Earth--with monsters walking around in human skin. She'd been serving them beer. Cutting them off when they'd had too many. Kicking them out at last call. Had she ever 86'd a hydra?
An arrow struck the ground near her foot, snapping her back to the present.
Right. Existential crisis later. Survival now.
She kept shooting.
Cruz Control reached for another arrow, trembling fingers finding the fletching by instinct. Nock. Draw. Aim at the gog circling from the right. Release. She wasn't thinking about accuracy anymore--just the mechanical process. Nock, draw, aim, release. Nock, draw, aim, release. If she stopped moving, she'd have to think, and if she thought too hard about what she'd seen, she'd probably just curl up in a ball and wait for something to eat her.
So she kept shooting.
