[STC] Dirty Business (Anton)

[Nira'lia]

The embedded right to her mind. It was a noise she couldn’t explain, grating and painful, laced with words that were both affection and horror. And when she felt a hand on her hair, she froze. Just couldn’t move. She was frozen in terror. And the pain that followed was excruciating. Teeth pierced her left shoulder. The blood spilled out and she struggled to get away from it, kicking and screaming. But its hold was so tight; he wouldn’t unhinge his jaw from her shoulder. It was so painful. Her left arm was going limp, and he was sinking his teeth deeper. A cold hand started to circle her throat. And she knew what would come next—the monster ripped his victims apart and feasted on their insides. She tightened her hand around the suvai’s grip again. He had been ignoring her other hand, the one wielding the weapon. Perhaps in his weakness, he wasn’t thinking straight as well? Nira’lia brought the blades down on his arm, the one that had been aiming to circle her neck. The suvai swiped at the bandages that she had placed herself. The bandages tore off his arm, and his skin followed. That at least caused the monster to stagger in pain, finally letting go of her shoulder. And he raised his hand again, ready to grab her by the neck a second time, but Nira’lia had enough insight to defend herself with her weapon. As he abruptly reached forward with his hand, she countered with her suvai, piercing his hand directly with its three blades. She pushed it further, cutting as deep as she could, and he pulled himself away from the weapon and threw himself back. And while he howled in pain, an action which shook Nira’lia’s eardrums, she ran. She couldn’t feel her left arm, and she almost tripped now and then, but she needed to get away from it.

[Anton]

I'm going back to the babies.

I know a song.

You can sing along.

P lease.

I need this.

-̙ ̜-̠ ̩-̬ ̯ ̳ ̺-̼ ͇-͉ ͍ ͎ ͓-͖ ͙ ͚ ͜

Please.

Hush little baby.

Don't say a word.

And nevermind that sound you heard.

You can sing along.
̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� � ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉IS̡̢̢̛otic̜̝̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ ̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩◊} ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕ ̚̕̚͡ ͡҉ ҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ~ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘Z̙̜̝̞̟̠�# ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉
̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎ ̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ ̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩◊

If you won't rest.

I'll chew out your throat.

Please.

I'm going back to the babies.

Wink.

They're hurting without their mother.

I want to make it stop.

I want you to know that.

Whatever happens to them.

P̙̜ͫ͊͡L̵̫̭͔͖̗͍̱͂͐̈́͟ͅE̔͛̽͋҉̼̩̱͕̠̰͢A͍̺͚̪̤̘̳̲̟ͮ͑ͨ̍̀S̵̝̳̣̆̓̀͐́̏ͤ̓ͫĚ̥̟ͧ͜͡ ̷̞̯̠̰̻̗̬͐̍̄̂͑͐ͪ̕͡ͅI̟̥͈͕̒͊ ̴̯̝̲̱̫͖̦̲̪͋ͧͩ̓͂̽̽̒̚A̰̗͔̪̻͓̜̒̋͗͟ͅM͉̥̭̥̊ͥ́̅ͯ̈ͣͮ ̜̮̜͖̫ͭ̅ͫͯ̀̓͘S̰̖͙͚͙̲͋̽̂ͨ̔̉͜ͅO͚̬͖͉̙̔͊ͭR̵͎͒ͮ̂R̼͚̺͌͢͞Y̴̑ͧͮ͏̯̥̺̗͙̖̳ͅ ̩̗̄ͨ͂ͪͬ́͆̽ͬŞ͕̝̦̝͎̯̈ͦ̔̓̾̐̌O͉̹̲̺͔ͯ̀͜ ̛̩̹̙͉̯̬̞ͫ̆̓͊ͨ̑ͯ̿ͭS͕͚̜͊͐̏̃̊̓͝Ơ̥̼̠̌ͭ̉͌͗̒̂R̯͕̭̻ͣR̵̷̨̰̞͙͚̖̟̯̖͛̔ͨͪ̓Y̴̘̥̗͍̓ͨ͛̓ͭ̂ͬͅͅ

Won't change a thing between us.

I love you.

Hurting me won't change that.

I'm ̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎̏ going back to the babies.
s ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̚ ̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠ ̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̔̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉ ̵̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋ ̌̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉ ҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞ ̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑ ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̚ ̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠ ̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎̏ ̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̔̕̚̕̚ ̠̊̋̌̍̎̏̚ ̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠ ̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎̏ ̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̔̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉ ̵̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋ ̌̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉ ҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞ ̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑ ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̚ ̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠ ̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎̏ ̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̔̕̚̕̚ ̠̊̋̌̍̎̏̚ ̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠ ̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎̏ ̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̔̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉ ̵̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋ ̌̍̎̏̿̿̿̚TH ҉ ̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑ ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̚ ̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠ ̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎̏ ̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̔̕̚̕̚

You can sing along.

You can sing along.

Please.

Stop hurting. ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ͡҉҉G̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉
̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� � ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎ ̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ ̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩

The Babies. ͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎ ̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ ̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩◊

Now.

In my dreams.

I worship you.

Ha. Dreams.

Goodbye. ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎ ̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚
I'll come for you.

Chirping.

Lots of chirping.

Like a flock of songbirds, the thing was chirping. Not singing, mind you, for wailers hated the things bards brought to life. Just chirping, then. Without melody. Without any genuine emotion

And yet..

it still managed to capture the shadow of what a happy sound it should have been, reminding the world that spring was never that far. That joy, no matter how faint, was within the grasp of a little winged friend who asked for nothing and offered so much. That life will eventually find a way.

The chirping continued even as the screams started.

And then, were forever silenced. In more ways than one.

And that sickening crunch...

That brought to mind that, for all it's tensile strength, a wailer's set of teeth is very, very human.

Not enough edge to it.

Not enough edge to it at all.

But the screams disagreed.

And no matter how loud it got.

The chirping was never overshadowed, never overcome by what should have been noise far louder than it.

Spring is coming.

Rejoice.

And die.

[Nira'lia]

She made her way through the dark, all the while trying to ignore the pain from the nasty, deep-set puncture wounds brought about by the creature’s teeth. Blood followed in her trail, pooling from her shoulder and staining her clothes, and it dripped along the course of her arm and to the floor. Then she heard it… the sounds of spring. Of all the noises he could find, he managed to pick one that was so in contrast with the terror that he was providing. It overshadowed the morose music of the hospital. And it accompanied the faint screams from the patient that she had left behind. Nira’lia turned around, absolute horror in her panic-stricken eyes. Gaping, she was frozen in place, her two feet planted on the ground. The patients were still there, unarmed and injured. She had forgotten about the patients, and they were paying the price. “I’m so sorry…” she whispered, mimicking the wailer’s own phrases. Staggering, she went back, going as fast as her feet could take her. She could hear the screaming, and how they were drowned out by their own gurgling, and then their voices would be gone, and the monster would choose his next victim and the cycle would repeat itself. Was he really this hungry? Or was he doing this as revenge? Nira’lia found him in one of the rooms. His teeth were crimson, and the nasty liquid ran down his chin. She saw him right before he swallowed the last bits of a victim’s lungs. And a body lain by the side, dead and ripped to shreds. The Konti was frightened, but she was also furious. When it lunged at her, she swiped at it blindly with her weapon. Her other arm lay limply by her side, and as such she had to put as much strength as she could without the use of it. The suvai was heavy, and added with her wounds and fatigue, it seemed even more difficult to wield. The monster evaded her swing, and when it laughed, there was the strange chirping sound again—and she realized that it was laughing, mocking her. Since the suvai had previously wounded him, he was slower and more sluggish, but he was still much stronger than her. Nira’lia continued to swing at it, but it evaded, almost too easily. She was lucky enough to be able to strike back every time it reached forward. But the suvai wouldn’t hit his skin anymore. They were both locked in a fight that she knew it would win in the long-run. She just hoped someone else would arrive soon, because she couldn’t see herself defeating the horrifying creature. At least she was stopping it from hunting for the other patients, but that would mean that she was just another obstacle to it. And it killed its obstacles.

[Anton]

I have a theory.

Stop me if you've heard it.

Oh wait.

You can't.

It goes like this.

You're edible.

In your own crude, messy way, you can achieve some semblance of what we consider reproduction.

So you can reproduce.

You can reproduce.

You can reproduce.

YOU CAN REPRODUCE.

I don't see any need to continue beyond that.

Alas.

We shall return to the point of edibility then.

Let me put it as nicely as possible.

I am going to eat your sire.

I am going to eat your dam.

I am going to eat your broodmates.

I am going to scream your name into their ears and hearts and minds until you are the only thing that gets to be in their world.

Rejoice. I am an instrument of bonding. With your...

What's the term?

Family.

You say it like it means something.

And it does.

That was a joke.

It's funny.

Because it's not true.

I want to let you watch.

But you will have to imagine it.

Because.

The part where you survive.

Is also not true.

Laugh.

It's rude not to.

No?

That is fine.

You're slow.

Let us try one more time.

LAUGH

LAUGH

LAUGH

LAUGH

L̸̛̛͓͈͇͚̝̘̼̉ͨ̒̇͑̇̈ͪ̃ͨ̇̅̑̉̓͂̀̚͠a͌ͨͦ͑̃͗͂ͥ҉͕͈̭͇̞̯͕͍̫̰͓̙̖͇͢u̵̘̰̙̥̦̮̮͙͉̩͇͈̦̍͒̊ͯͬ̏ͮͪ͆̈́̏̒̌́͘͠͞g̶͙̣͍͍̘͍̲͕̟͎͉͖͈̺͙̪̼̗̾́̋̀ͩ̿̓̂ͫ̎ͪ̈ͮ͑ͣ̀ͬ̚̕͢͟͝h̛̲̪̻̳̺͚͕̹͔̞͍͋̔̾̇͒̉͑͒͆̈ͦ̐̉͛ͮ̎̓̍̕͟

L̴̵̛̩̜̪̲̙̞͔̣̲͉̼̟̣͓ͨ͋̀̀̽̽̑̏̿ͣͦ̌a̻̺͕̖̭̯̱̙͖̰͓̱̝̣̼͊̋̃̌ͥ̾̈́ͮ̐͂̓̅̂̽͛ͩ̈́̓͂̀͢ͅͅu̡̘̟̣̲͍͎̳̲̠̭̼̝͕̅͊̉ͮͪͭ̈́̂ͭͯ̉ͭ̓́͘͠ͅg̗̦̘̩̦̖̲͕̓ͩ̓͒̒̓̉̓̇͌̒̃̉͑ͧ͒́̀͠h̴̢̢̖̻̺͙̜̤͕̮͋̉̋ͩ̓ͭ̃͑̋̋̈́͛̏̈́̑̆ͩ̿͜ͅ





And then it came all at once.

The chirping.

The demands.

The ear-grating static that came with emotion.

And the screams.

The best kind.

The screams of those who never were, and those who could have been: Of mewling cries that started and then stopped all too quickly and too suddenly; of mother's lasting warmth falling to something cold and harsh and needlessly cruel.

And the last detail was a woman's sobbing, or maybe a man's, and the hope that smothering a baby to death should have been the easiest thing in the world.

Physically, anyway.

But we move on.

Never looking back.

Until the loop begins anew.

Sound is a gallery, after all, and there are potraits for every image of shrieking pain.

And maybe a wailer, meticulous monster that it should have been, had learned to be interested in art. Had learned that burning little tidbits of sound-pain into it's memories was, perhaps, the best thing that could ever happen to it. Maybe it was tired of being merely a predator, merely one of the many unwanted childen from the Valterrian's great womb.

Maybe it wanted to have some fun beyond the boundaries of it's diet.

Maybe it wanted to be reckless, for a change.

And maybe he he decided that the Konti before him was beautiful, but only in an abstract sense. An incomprehensible, flesh-bound sense. Maybe he found her voice that much more beautiful.

But there was no maybe's over whether he wanted it.

The wailer threw himself into a sudden lightning lunge, and for but just that moment, it seemed as if the suvai's poison had never afflicted him at all. A hand came at the arm holding the suvai, seeking to pin it down. Jaws, stained red, came...

We missed a maybe.

Let's try again.

Maybe...

A concussive water ball to the face would ruin anyone's day.

And send them recoiling back.

And then looking quite hurriedly around, before settling his gaze on the dooryway...

Anton, arm bleeding more than ever, rasping breath that all could hear, his face stricken with pain and fatigue and more ashen than a Symmestran's...

Readied his killing blow.

But as a master of sound, the wailer found weapons in everything.

Even yours.

And the slicing gust of wind he had managed to conjured suddenly turned into an unbearable maelstrom of ceaseless droning that blocked out the world, and with it, concentration.

And then he felt a foot smash his face against the wall.

And something wet and hurting...

Reflexively, he scratched and plyed at the man's foot.

And more importantly, he touched him.

He touched him because it should have been over.

It would have been over.

He just needed to think...

[Nira'lia]

What was it saying? It was telling her to laugh, but all she could do was stop herself from breaking down. Its words hurt her, they were laden with meaning that she didn’t want to understand. The creature knew how to torment its victims, in its noise and in its words as well. It was so painful. The noise grated to her being, as if slicing up her brain, and she only had the vague image of a boy coming in to save her. It took her a while to comprehend, but when she did, she didn’t even have the time to be startled that the innocent looking kid was her savior. “Anton…!” she called out in panic. Then the wailer was upon the kid. She was safe, but not for long, and he definitely wasn’t safe. At least the wailer had his back to her. Limping, she used all her strength and adrenaline to drag her body to the wailer and to the child. Nira’lia could feel that she wasn’t moving fast enough. The painful noise continued to grate through her, and she felt as if she wasn’t even moving, everything was a blur to her. But the boy… she had to save him. The Konti practically threw herself forward, the suvai gripped in her one good hand. The monster was much too focused on Anton to notice her, and that allowed her to sink the three blades into his back, piercing meat and skin. And with as much force that she could muster, she sunk it deeper, gyrating the blades against the monstrous creature’s bones. And it screamed. As expected, its shriek was torturous. That’s when it let go of the child as it proceeded to spasm and get a hold of itself. Nira’lia was thrown away by it yet again, and she fell to a heap. With wild eyes, she tried to get a look at the boy. She wanted to know if he was safe, though she doubted it.

[Anton]

And then Anton thought, in the brief moments where the Wailer lifted it's boot, pulling back for another world-blackening stomp...

Well, that didn't work.

What went wrong?

Of broken, bleeding noses and eardrums and an arm that should have been fine and a head that wouldn't stop ringing, of every small bruise and cut and short huff of breath that weighed him down where adrenaline should normally have lifted him, made him soar into something that was beyond his little body...

What went wrong?

And it wasn't even completely rhetorical.

So he flipped it upside down.

What went right?

What ever went right?

Huntell was angry. The Wailer was angry. He was angry, angrier than he could have admitted to himself at the time, and he took that anger in with him. And now...Now he wasn't sure what he was feeling. Still angry? Angry at the bruises on Nira'lia and the blood that ran from the leeking gap in her shoulder? Angry at the freshly mangled corspe he had found along the way? Undoubtedly Afraid? Struck with mortal terror? Having that teensey tiny vocie in his head whisper you're gonna die? For sure. But there was something else working away at him, something that should have been trivial yet somehow seemed so important right now...

He was, above all else, puzzled.

Again, what went wrong?

Futile, futile, futile, futile, futile, futile. We are the Wailers. You will not-

And the answer came from Nira'lia.

Came from the way she gathered her energy for a rush that would make too much noise in too much time...

And then he remembered that he touched her too.

One at a time?

Huh.

ever, ever, ever, ever-

"Shut up."

You dar-

"Yes, I dare." He summoned up the meanest thing he could from his admittedly small mean section of his vocabulary. "Bad person. Shut up. Pa-Patch you? Your mother was a moneky! Bite me!"

Gladly.

The boot came up, and the Wailer started to lean down...

And...

And he looked up into the Wailer's eyes.

And blew a raspberry that was as much blood as it was spittle, that hurt more than it looked.

Worth it.

And as the wailer launched forward, he reached out with his hand, grasping for something, as if he could simply steal victory out of thin air by simply trying hard enough.

And then he did try hard enough.

And for the first time, he tugged.

Shining brightly like the stars above, wreathed in the power of the divine, so thin and so fine that that they could almost be defined solely by the light they gave out, a light, he found, that only he could see and no one else could share...

The puppet strings of Cordas, Sagallius's gift to his faithful, never looked more beautiful.

And with an awkward, cutting motion, he brought his hand up.

...And Nira'lia and her suvai followed suit, scraping just past the wailer's back and plunging into the back of his head, the bloodied suvai emerging from it's mouth.

What would have been a grievous blow turned fatal, fueled by a venom that his Konti caretaker just truly didn't have...

But he did.

He did.

He did...

World was darkening again.

And the last thing he saw was the Wailer flinging Nira'lia away in it's death throes.

[Nira'lia]

She was confused as her hands moved on their own accord. Nira’lia was confident that she hadn’t told them to do that—though she was fully aware that it was just logical. And a few feet away, she saw the child making odd gestures, and the blades cut through the creature, piercing through him to finally send him to his death. With a painful thud, she was thrown aside, but she did realize that the painful sounds were finally gone. After the last violent spasms of the creature’s body, it fell to a bloody mess into the floor. The Konti just lay back for a while, regaining her breath. Her suvai was still buried into the wailer. She had lost so much blood, and everything around her was a blur. Now that the threat was gone, her adrenaline rush was dissipating as well, and reality was catching up. The fatigue and the pain amplified, and she felt like she was going to pass out any second. The Konti forced herself to sit up straight. She crawled to the boy, refusing to look at the body of the wailer. From the corner of her eyes, she could see her suvai resting in a pool of blood and ripped innards. It was gruesome. Anton was on the ground as well, unmoving. Nira’lia had to know if he was still alive. Tired, she placed her bloodied hand on his cheek. Her gift only worked on the living. The moment her fingers touched his skin, her surroundings materialized to a past memory of his. It was Anton’s room, and he staring into the… void? She was almost sure that was what it was called. And right behind him, hung up on the wall but attracting her attention fully, was a strange uniform. A uniform that her mind somehow recognized in its subconscious. The memory surprised her. The boy was a mage! Other than that, he worked for the Womiyu… a child like him! As confusing as it was, it gave her all the explanation she needed as to why she was still alive. And that the boy had probably known about the creature all along. With what was remaining of her strength, she started to pull the boy towards the main hall of the hospital. She was lucky to see the rest of the hospital’s able doctors finally catch up with them. Why it took them that long, she would never know. They brought with them the dead patients, the wailer’s victims, as well. The victims had been torn up to shreds, and there was a heavy feeling of guilt inside Nira’lia. They helped her patch her wound up and gave her something to drink to keep the pain away. The fatigue had to be chased away as well, but she refused to not help patch Anton up. They put the unconscious boy in one of the beds, and she fell asleep by the foot of his bed. She still refused to get the real rest that she needed, because she was adamant in getting answers from the boy. And when the boy finally stirred, after how many hours she didn’t know, she was waiting for him. “Hey…” she said to him softly. “Do you need anything?” And she didn’t hold back, she went straight to the questions. “Who are you?”

[Anton]

And in his dreams, drifting through sequence after sequence of what if's and what shouldn't be's, he could do no wrong.

Because there was comfort in imagined power, and the possibilities offered by them.

Anton's auristics plows through the Wailer's pathetic excuse of a seeming, and he takes action immediately. Night rips through into reality, and with the void comes a hurricane gale that sweeps the Wailer right off it's feet and snares it within it's currents as they retreat into the void with it's prize, dragging it into a grave that knew no start or end. That knew no escape beyond a God's power.

Nobody dies.

Anton wastes no time with chatter. The blade comes down onto the seemingly human patient's neck, and the deed was done. No fuss. No fanfare. No curiosity needing to be sated or some karmic need to see that the worst of the worst got what was coming to them. Nira'lia stood by, clearly unhappy, clearly uncomfortable, but understanding what needed to be done.

Nobody dies.

Anton touches the wailer, and lays upon him the strings of his destruction.

And the power of Cordas does the rest.

It didn't matter what he knew or didn't knew about the constraints and limitations of his new power - right here, it could do anything. He made a mental note to test and prod at it, although it seemed such an absurd thing to do. Was it not the power to shift the world around on a whim, to bend man and beast alike to his little song? Redundant premises, redundant thoughts...

But again, nobody dies.

The wailer lurches forward, it's gait slow and lumbering, seeking sweet brains...

And an arrow finds it's way through the wailer's own.

Anton, wearing a black getup with too many belts and zippers, somersaults some 50 metres down and kicks the-

Not important.

He must have cycled through a dozen other weird scenarios, each one escalating in both style and improbability, but that one constant remains the same:

Nobody Dies.

And because nobody dies in this world, he would never, ever have nightmares here.

The nightmares, instead, tended to happen when he was wide and unambiguously awake.

...

Anton spent a large portion of time after waking up trying to pretend to sleep, and when he couldn't bear to keep his eyes shut any longer, he endeavoured to sneak out of his covers and escape the hospital.

And like a Chino, Nira'lia, sleeping at the foot, was on to him the second he moved.

He wasn't sure how much she saw, and he dreaded to find out. Being a mage was one thing, but a Cordas...He hadn't really possessed the mark long enough to form a real opinion on it, and it was more or less forced on him by a God who insisted that no, it was his choice...but he reckoned the general opinion about it wasn't quite pleasant...

So many years worshipping one trickster...

And another one answers the call.

He never met her eyes once; just nods and shakes and...

Blame, blame, blame.

So much to go about.

And the one question he just didn't want to hear, that confirmed that she had, in fact, saw something.

“Who are you?”

He let out a little 'eep!", threw the blanket over himself completely and tried to look as small as possible.

[Nira'lia]

She wanted to ask about so many things. How did he make her pierce the Wailer? Why did he know magic? Was he part of the Womiyu? For some reason, something inside her raged. She felt annoyed, as if a part of her blamed this child, as if it had been his fault that the terrifying creature had showed up at the doors of Ionu’s Mercy. And deep within her, she truly believed this –that this innocent looking boy had caused the death of those patients. She blamed herself too, of course. There was still the image of the creature ripping its victims apart. The sound of its painful voice still echoed in her mind, and the way it had looked at her with its menacing eyes before it clamped its horrifying teeth in skin and bone. The Konti wanted to scream at him, but instead, she forced a smile. And then she chose to believe him. It wasn’t that hard. He was an innocent looking child hiding beneath covers that didn’t really make him disappear. The boy looked adorable, naïve, and it was hard to have the impression that any of this was his fault. Nira’lia looked at him with curiosity. Then she pat his head affectionately. “Get some rest… don’t strain yourself out too much, it wouldn’t be safe…uhm… just take care of yourself.” She didn’t really know what she could say. It was difficult not to ask the questions that needed to be asked.

[Anton]

The blanket gave Anton his own little world, one that made a clear divide with the other world, the one where he had to suffer through the unbearable silences that came between Nira'lia's questions and the chill that clung to the air. Above all else, he didn't need to see her face. Didn't need to fear it's perceived fragility and the notion that her smiles would suddenly crumble apart and give way to screams, or worse, tears. Or perhaps both. They weren't mutually exclusive.

Blanket World was his world now.

He buried his face into the pillow. Perhaps he couldn't even bear the sight of Blanket World too.

He wanted to ask Nira'lia about the monster, ask about what it was and how it died and what happened to the body and a dozen of other questions that, if answered, would make this day a little less blurry. But asking her about ther monster meant acknowledging, to each other at least, that today happened, and acknowledging today meant making it real, and making it real meant bursting the little bubble of post-battle peace that kept it all together. That kept it as just a healer and her patient in a room. Talking about hurt. Pure, mundane, non-supernatural hurt.

Denial, it seemed, worked on every level.

And then it dawned on him how truly and utterly tired he felt, and how he yearned for the dim depths of the Womiyu.

"I wanna go home." he mumbled, his soft voice further muffled by the pillow. He didn't really care that he could have heard him. He just needed to voice it out. To hear a sound that wasn't hers or the Wailer's screeching rants. "I wanna go home." That sounded okay, so he ventured further. "I am a silencer of Alvadas. And I wanna go home."