Will

Anathema melted into the ground, hilt and all, until nothing remained. A bubble of pure white expanded from the point where the sword had been, enveloping Will and blowing away the surrounding buildings like smoke; replaced by a barren landscape that went on forever in all directions.

Will got to his feet by some miracle. He took every care to move his torso as little as possible on account of the sword skewering his gut, but he could still feel it slide around inside him, slowly cutting him open wider. His right boot squelched with warm blood.

The ground about him was uniform and white, as though a light snowfall had recently fallen over it. The sky above was a sheet of gray so pale it was difficult to differentiate heaven and earth, the horizon an obscure blur somewhere in the distance. A black moon hung heavy and askew to his left, points facing downward in a great celestial frown.

Whenever he moved, his boots scuffed the thin white layer on the earth, exposing a dark, almost black soil beneath.

The place was entirely featureless. Featureless, except for the fresh-dug graves that lay some fifty feet ahead of him. Rectangles of upturned earth that lay in neat rows. There had been five of them when he had used his semblance for the first time. Now there were eleven. And in the middle of the graves, Anathema stuck out of the ground. Placed at the very center of the circle, to fulfill the symmetrical nature of the semblance.

Looking about him, Will found that he'd snagged more people than he'd hoped. Ordinary civilians, people in their nightclothes who had been plucked out of their homes because they'd been caught inside the radius of his expanding semblance. Some were just beginning to stand, woken out of their sleep, while others were turning around, blinking in confusion.

He counted eighteen, but he might have been off by a few since he wasn't in the clearest headspace at the moment.

Though these people would have been spread out all across the street when the semblance had snatched them up, they were now arrayed evenly across the edge of a wide circle, placed at an equal distance from the center point marked out by the sword. This was to ensure fairness to fulfill the symmetrical nature of the semblance. Not that there was anything particularly fair about Forget Me Not.

With all the haste he could muster—which wasn't much—Will began to shuffle toward Anathema. If he could get to it, this whole mess might still be resolved with minimal bloodshed.

"An impressive display!" Handsome called, surrounded by his men near the other end of the circle. "I'm almost jealous." The man with the punctured eye was on his feet again, while the man with the missing fingers was still on all fours, twitching.

Based on just a brief glance, Handsome's semblance appeared to be a regalia type. There was nothing different about the prune-faced man except a crown of polished jade on his head, its five points standing tall and knife-sharp.

Will kept moving. There was no time to worry about what its function might be.

"Yes, very impressive," Handsome went on, "but if I'm not mistaken, it doesn't seem to do anything without some added input from you. And since you seem to be in a hurry to get that sword there… The king says: 'Don't move.'"

Will came to a staggering halt, his muscles suddenly refusing to obey, and he gasped at a surge of pain in his stomach at the jolt of it. He fought against the influence, pushing against it with his mind and his body both, but it was like trying to topple a brick wall. He was well stuck.

All around him, the civilians came to an equally abrupt stop, posed like living dolls. Even Handsome and his people remained perfectly still.

Goddamn it, Will thought. His semblance has to be based on… Power Word. Peace? Maybe both. Sounds like he can give commands that everyone has to follow. Symmetrical, then, since he's following the command as well. Unless he's bluffing. Might as well assume he's not. Haven't got the time for mind games.

He was so tired. Didn't want to think about any of this shit. A big part of him would prefer to just lay down and die already.

"I'm sorry to be such a buzzkill," Handsome said with a distinctly unapologetic chuckle. "After all, it's not every day you get to pit one semblance against another. But, well… a man has to play his cards as they are dealt. I don't know what would happen if we were to kill you here, while your semblance is active. Most likely we'd be deposited outside safely, but I'm no expert on these things, so I will err on the side of caution. We will simply stand here and wait until your semblance runs out—a big flashy field type like this ought to burn out faster than my humble little thing. So, since we're stuck here together anyway, why not make some small talk to pass the time?"

"Thanks for the offer," Will growled through clenched teeth, "but I'm not feeling very chatty at the moment."

"That's a shame."

Around the circle, a few of the civilians had begun emitting strange noises; sucking and gurgling as though for lack of air, their eyes thrown wide in panic.

Handsome noticed it too. "Ah," the advisor said, "it appears their subconscious interpreted my order a bit too strictly. That looks rather unpleasant."

So the commands were subject to personal interpretation. And in the case of the four or five people gaping uselessly for air, they evidently considered their pulmonary action 'movement'. Not exactly useful information, but good to take note of. Will tried not to think about it further, lest it begin to affect him in that way as well.

Guess I have no choice, he thought. He had run all the way through his bag of tricks. Exactly one remained. Innocent people were probably going to die, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

Pulse, he thought, aiming the skill away from himself, right on top of the enemy.

The Cancel effect imbued into the fabric of Forget Me Not muted the skill cast so it was almost imperceptible. Even so, the earth began to stir, and there was a murmur of tortured whispers that seemed to come from every direction at once.

<Did you hear that?>

<I hear it.>

<I do too.>

<What's that noise?>

<Someone's talking.>

<Someone's talking over the service.>

<Again?>

<How dare they?>

<What gives them the right?>

<There's no excuse.>

<Noisy.>

<Disrespectful.>

<Unforgivable.>

[Unforgivable.]

All at once, the fresh graves burst open with sprays of black soil, and a crowd of gray-green, death-pale things emerged. First hands, then arms, then heads. In some twisted unbirthing, a whole host of wailing, rotting dead dragged themselves free. Some staggered upright while others crawled along the ground. Missing limbs, trailing guts, exposed bones jutting out. Faces distorted by rictus grins—ones Will recognized, and ones he could not recall.

Shoving and tripping, tumbling and rising again, they headed straight for the source of the skill effect with frantic urgency. Despite the advanced decomposition, they were frighteningly quick.

"You know," Will said with a tired chuckle, "I do wonder about the targeting of your semblance. These things matter, you know. See, I think it's based on Power Word. Power Word only targets living beings—and my friends? They're not alive."

"The king says: 'You can move again!'" Handsome cried, and Will felt the hold on his body lift. Handsome and his commandos began to retreat in a loose formation, leaving their incapacitated comrade to fend for himself, and the soldiers trained their rifles on the dead.

They opened fire. The bullets went straight through, rippling the gray-green flesh like raindrops on a puddle, but produced no lasting effect, and did not slow them at all. Three of the dead leapt on top of the kneeling commando, screaming and howling as their black nails tore pieces off his armor, their brown-rotted teeth scraping skin off his cheeks and scalp. They laughed at his screams, and moaned with pleasure as they bit and tore chunks out of him and feasted on the red gore.

Others made a circle around the first victim and headed for the remaining enemies.

"The king says: 'Stop fighting!'" Handsome said, but it did nothing except give his own men pause while the dead remained unaffected, quickly closing the distance. Quickly realizing his mistake, Handsome amended himself. "The king says: Ignore my last order!'"

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But it was already too late. Some of the commandos tried to use skills of their own to escape, but found their effects greatly diminished by the permanent skill dampening woven into the semblance, and their attempts only served to further enrage the dead into a mindless frenzy.

<SHHHHHHHHHHHH>

<QUIETQUIETQUIETQUIETQUIET>

[Please be quiet.]

<NO TALKING AT A FUNERAL>

<NO TALKINGGGGGGGG>

[Please shut the fuck up.]

One by one, the commandos were dragged to the ground, all their desperate efforts to fight back against the wraiths proving ineffectual as their flailing weapons and fists and boots simply phased right through the pale corpse flesh, while the dead, in turn, had no trouble tearing into the living.

Soon, even Handsome was taken down. Wynn was the last, having given up on Dashing and settled into a hard sprint away from the dead when a particularly fast runner caught up and tackled her, bringing both of them prone with the captain struggling uselessly to get back up.

But not all the dead had stayed on task. Some of them had veered away, and were now headed for civilians who were trying to escape in a mad panic, many using skills of their own in an attempt to make some distance, not realizing that they were only making targets of themselves in the process.

The terrible wailing of the dead continued, growing in intensity, a paralyzing assault on the senses.

<How rude!>

<No respect!>

<The only punishment for trampling on the dead… is to join us.>

<YESYESYES>

<Let's see how you like it!>

<JOIN US>

[Join us.]

Will could not stop the dead—he had no direct control over them. But it might still be possible to save a few of the civilians. The dead would not touch anyone holding Anathema. He hurried for the sword, wincing with every labored step, enduring the terrible feeling of his organs chafing against the blade.

He Dashed the last bit of the way, and a few dead who had turned their foggy, unseeing eyes on him reluctantly looked elsewhere as his fingers curled around Anathema's hilt. He plucked the weapon from the earth, and spun stumbling on his heel, looking for someone, anyone, that he might be able to reach in time.

The closest was an old Artisan woman in a nightgown who had frozen in place instead of running. Will Dashed for her, sliding a far shorter distance than he was used to because of Forget Me Not's built-in dampening effect, using up four casts by the time he made it to her just as one of the crawlers was closing in on her.

Luckily, the old woman was not afraid of Will, but clung desperately to his coat as he put himself between her and the dead, the point of his blade extended toward the thing with its chomping jaws and dragging entrails.

"What's happening?" she asked in a thin, shaky voice.

"Listen to me," Will said in as calm a voice as he could produce, "this is important. Be still, be quiet, and don't use any skills. This is not a dream. If you don't do as I say, you'll die."

The woman did not reply. He took that as agreement.

The crawling dead clawed itself closer until its forehead was almost pressed against the point of Will's saber. Though withered and paled, the thing had the face of Philly Upnorth, still twisted in that terrible expression of horror and pain Will had left on him.

<What is that thing you're hiding behind your back?> it asked, turning its head this way and that.

<Is she tasty?>

<She looks nice and ripe…>

<Practically one of us already.>

<Smells so good.>

<I want to taste her.>

<Just a little taste.>

Will didn't move. He struggled to keep Anathema's point raised, and it gradually fell until it rested on the ground.

<Go away!> the wraith hissed, teeth chattering and gnashing in ravenous fury.

<I can't eat with you watching.>

<Go away so I can eat.>

<So hungry.>

<So lonely…>

"You can't have this one," Will said. "Away with you. Find another meal."

The wraith of Philly Upnorth snarled and chomped its teeth, but eventually gave way, reluctantly dragging itself around and keening in the air; looking for noises. Looking for skill effects. They were blind to all else.

Will scanned the once pristine white field, now ruined by an abstract painting black scuffs and overlapping footprints. A good number of the civilians had already fallen as more of the dead disengaged from the dead and dying commandos to seek more prey, never able to sate their hunger for the living. Even those not using any skills at all were sometimes caught out as they ended up in the path of one wraith or another, torn apart almost in passing before the wraith moved on to somebody else.

Will didn't think there could be more than a half dozen still alive. If he could have ended the semblance early, he would have. But as he had no direct control over it, even that much was beyond his power.

Looking over, Will noticed that Handsome was not quite dead yet, still kicking and flailing as he was slowly shredded and devoured from the legs up by two hungry wraiths.

The advisor opened his mouth to speak.

"The king says: 'Kill yourself!'" came Handsome's hateful cry over the wailing of the dead, just before a pale hand clamped down over his face and pushed him into the dirt.

Will's gut went cold. He looked down at himself, gritting his teeth as he found his hand slowly rising, bringing Anathema up to his own throat. Behind him, he felt the old woman let go of his clothes, heard her fall to her knees and begin banging her head against the ground.

"No," Will hissed, but no amount of willpower could halt the inexorable motion of his hand.

The blade pressed against his throat, keen edge drawing blood…

* * *

Will was spat back out into the darkened night of that same side street, toppling to his knees with a breathless gasp at the jolt in his side.

The old woman appeared somewhere on his right, whimpering softly as she caught herself against the wall, hand shaking against the woodwork. He had managed to throw himself backward inside the semblance, knocking them both to the ground and buying just enough time for Handsome to die and the effect of his Royal Authority to expire.

He didn't think anyone else had made it.

Will tried to stand up, but collapsed back down almost immediately. His eyelids fluttered; heavy, wanting to close. He wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to stay awake. So tired…

There was a terrible clattering and rattling above, and a moment later a body came tumbling off the roof of the nearest building, landing in the middle of the street. Captain Wynn groaned and writhed weakly on her belly. Looking back to see Will, her eyes widened, and she began to crawl toward the main thoroughfare, one leg torn clean off from the knee down and the other badly mangled.

Realizing that his work was not quite finished yet, Will went after, hand and foot, eventually managing to get his feet under him in a shambling, tottering gait. He fell on top of the commando, ignoring the sharp twang of agony it sent through him, and grabbed her armored collar to flop her around on her back.

Wynn glared up at him, her eyes looking almost impossibly round with the whites starkly outlined against the red ruin that had been made of her face.

"Not such an honor anymore?" Will said, a thin strand of bloody drool extending from his bottom lip to land on the woman's cheek.

"Fuck… you…" Wynn worked out.

Will pressed his sword against her throat, leveraging his full weight against the blade until he'd cut halfway into her spine and she was choking on her own blood. He tried to roll free, failed, managed it on the third try and used the momentum to yank his sword loose.

He came to a rest on his back, panting, the sword still burning a hole in him. He knew he couldn't stay like that. He had to go… somewhere. Get patched up. But somehow, it just didn't feel that important anymore. All he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep, and wake up with Sam in his arms. Wake up from this terrible night.

Sam… I'm sorry…

The pale half-moon above was going blurry. His eye drifted shut, and there was blessed oblivion at last.

"Sir?"

Something annoying was buzzing in his ear. Trying to get his attention. He didn't want to hear it.

"Sir, are you alive?"

He was jostled by the shoulder. Softly, at first, then more firmly. He growled at the burning pain that bloomed in his side, and reluctantly opened his eye again.

The old woman was standing over him, nervously fussing with his clothes.

"Go away…" he muttered. "I'm fine…"

"I can't just let you bleed out in the street," she replied. The Level 8 Artisan stood up straight to wipe bloody hands on her nightgown before tying her gray hair back in a hard knot, then stooped back to her task. "You saved my life, after all."

Will chuckled, and hissed at the pain it caused him. "I didn't save your life," he said faintly, unable to catch his breath. "You survived me, that's all. So go. It should be safe now."

But the woman didn't listen. While he drifted in and out, she dragged him over to the nearest wall and got him sitting with his back against it. She had found a knife somewhere, and was cutting away his coat and undershirt to get a better look at his wounds.

"My name is Jannike," she said in a nervous, fluttery voice. "I'm no doctor, but I know a thing or two about sewing. Maybe I could…"

"Fine," Will said. "If you want to help so bad… fine." With a tired wave, he motioned to the medicine bag sitting some distance off that he'd taken out before using his semblance, and had her fetch it. "Sutures won't do much good now. Bleeding inside. Just open that, and… and give me what I tell you."

Jannike complied without fuss, feeding him two full bottles of analgesic, a healing tincture, a stimulant, and finally injected a shot of adrenaline into his thigh. Will soon found himself gasping with new strength, the pain reduced to a dull thumping at the edges of his awareness.

"All right, just one more," he said. "Fill up the syringe one more time. That should get me… get me far enough." He wasn't actually sure where he was going yet. What was closest? The Academy? Joe Crag's? Would Joe even be at the tavern at this hour? He didn't know. Couldn't quite figure the time.

But maybe he could make it before he bled out. Maybe.

"Will?" echoed a new voice—raspy and thick—from the end of the street. A voice that was equally familiar, unexpected, and chilling. "What's going on here?"

Will looked up, and saw a figure at the mouth of the side street; a bald man in brown rags faintly backlit by the nearest thoroughfare street lamp.

Brimstone.

For some reason that Will could not quite reckon himself, he snorted out a laugh. Doubled over, he laughed until he was lightheaded, feeling a squirt of blood squeeze through the blade-plugged hole with every contraction of his abdominal muscles. If not for Jannike holding a hand to his chest, he would have tipped over on his face.

"What… the fuck… are you doing here?" Will worked out through his laughter, drool trailing down his chin. "Wait, let me guess—you were finding a parking spot for the clown car? Who's next, Crow? The goddess herself?"

"I don't understand," Brimstone said, and started a few uncertain steps onto the narrow street. "Will, please explain what's going on."

Will finally managed to catch himself, breaths coming in wet, rattling wheezes. The old lady was staring at the lord. He snatched the refilled adrenaline shot out of her limp hand, shoved her away, and said: "Go. Run. Not safe after all."

Luckily, she listened this time, and went shuffling westward as quick as her old bones would carry, away from Will and the lord.

"If I said this isn't what it looks like…" Will worked out with a grunt as he got a leg under him and caught himself against the wall by his shoulder to slowly push upright. "...would you believe me?"

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