07 – i – The Art

What a mess.

First, The Castle and The Puppet. Now this?

The Art surveyed the subway utility tunnel with a vacant expression. The doll-like porcelain face she wore couldn’t emote. If it could, she imagined it would have been twisted in a disgusted snarl. At the very least, her nose would have wrinkled from the foul stench lingering in the air.

Like rancid sewer pipes.

The Art didn’t find it all that unpleasant, if she were being honest. It was almost… fragrant. Her senses and sensibilities didn’t align with those of humans or human-likes. The image of herself in her mind, however, was far more human than her current form.

It was a strange sensation. The Art didn’t know how she came into being. She simply was. There were vague memories, sensations like she could have been human at one point in time.

Or perhaps she had simply inhabited a human that she had since forgotten.

The worm-like tendrils woven through her doll-like suit flexed and bent, scraping her porcelain fingers against the wall. A thick, black grime came off, sticking to the tips of her fingers. One of the little worms stretched out, licking the substance.

The Art drew a large bellow of air into her body’s chest cavity before carefully squeezing it through a narrow tube, flexing a few worms that vibrated in precisely practiced movements. “It’s different than the previous incident. More… I don’t know. Just more.” She shook her head, miming confusion for the benefit of others, and turned.

The Art was not alone in the utility tunnel. To her immediate rear, The Adjustment stooped over the corpse of a young police officer. One of her spider-like legs prodded the officer, nudging him as if he were merely asleep. The rest of her legs were in their usual place, wrapped around her stomach and chest, giving a strange impression of glossy black ribs on display.

The Hierophant stood by near the door, wearing the mask of a fighter today. Clothed in nothing but boxing shorts, white hand wraps, and matching foot wraps, they loomed, arms crossed but ready. The Art was more than capable of defending herself, but she doubted she would have to with them on guard.

Finally, The Hermit had come out from her hovel. She was a rare sight. As one of the oldest beings that The Art knew of, there was a certain reverence with regard to her. Her extravagant red kimono, nine golden tails, and long smoking pipe held between purple-painted fingernails gave her a certain elegance that The Art felt shouldn’t be tainted by dank and grime-coated utility corridors.

The Hermit still stepped closer to The Art, crossing over a number of strange, maggot-like corpses while her sharp, vulpine eyes scanned over the creature half-splattered against the wall.

It looked like something from a horror movie. Black, shiny carapace, segmented like the maggots, coated a figure about a quarter of the size of an average human. Yet it hardly looked human at all. Long, elongated limbs with sharp claws on the ends, a rounded, bulbous head lacking in features like eyes or noses. Its sole defining trait was its mouth. A long cavity that seemed to stretch all the way from its smooth dome of a head down to its stomach in one wide passage covered in razor-sharp teeth.

The Hermit took a long draw on her pipe, held her breath for a moment, then breathed out slowly, curling whisps of smoke that sparkled with little flecks of violet. “I’ve seen something like this before,” she said, coloring her words with her smoke. “A long time ago. Around the time I possessed a mere three tails.”

The Art didn’t even bother asking how long that was in a timeframe that made sense for normal people. It was old enough that exact dates were likely irrelevant.

“The first incident was a mere dozen of these creatures,” The Art said, motioning back toward the more maggot-like monsters. “Then the humans started getting themselves infected, turning into vampire-like monsters that attack indiscriminately. Now these.”

It was getting far, far out of hand.

The Hermit said nothing as she drew on her pipe. She stretched out her hand, digging her long, sharp fingernails into the creature’s skull. A twist of her wrist wrenched the creature from the wall, its claws embedded within the cinderblocks left behind as its arms broke and tore. She held it up in front of her face, breathing out. The smoke curled around the smooth skull.

“I’m trying to recall,” The Hermit said slowly. “There was a seal. A vault. But not here. It was the lands now known as South America, if memory serves.” In a casual toss, the monster flew from her fingers.

The Adjustment turned, spreading her spider-legs wide enough to reveal the strange mass of joints where her abs should have been. Threads connected to the tips of her legs formed a net, catching the corpse. In a flurry of movement, she bound it up into a tight ball of webbing.

The officer’s body at her feet was wrapped up as well now, stacked in a large wheeled crate near The Hierophant. Several of the little maggots were secured similarly for later dissection.

“So we’ve got some South American infestation here?” The Art asked. “Where’d they come from?”

“South America,” The Adjustment said, her voice full of haughty snark. “Idiot.”

The Art wished she could send a more withering glare to her cohort. Her porcelain mask remained stubbornly impassive. “Brilliant, Sherlock. Why even send all of us to investigate when we’ve got your talents at our disposal?”

Legs wrapping around her stomach again, The Adjustment stood with a grin, flexing her muscular arm as if The Art had complimented her gymrat tendencies. “Why indeed? With my brawn and my brains, I make an excellent team.”

The Art would have rolled her eyes, but, again, porcelain. She really knew better than to give even sarcastic compliments to The Adjustment, but she couldn’t help it.

She liked watching The Adjustment get all full of herself.

“But seriously, why here?” The Art asked the room. “You’d think we would have heard something from one of the other cities between here and there.”

“Maybe they bought into the tourism ads. Deep dish pizzas and ‘middle of everything’ and all that.”

“Alright, alright. You’re cute when you aren’t trying,” The Art said.

The Adjustment deflated a bit, chittering in annoyance. The smooth plates of her face warbled a little as her chelicerae moved in the hidden area beneath her chin.

Joker dealt with, The Art turned back to The Hermit and waited.

The Hermit was in no rush to answer. The Art wasn’t sure if she was deep in thought or simply had no real concept of time. Perhaps a bit of both. Once something lived as long as The Hermit had, time probably lost all meaning.

Realizing she wasn’t going to get an answer anytime soon, The Art went back to her investigations. Tonight’s incident seemed to have stemmed from this room. There was no sign of how the creatures arrived here. Given their maggot-like appearance, it could be that someone walked by a week ago, dropped off a rotten piece of meat, and left it to nature. If the scenario went something like that, it would be difficult to track down. The Art had already asked The Hanged Man to source as much security camera footage as possible from everywhere nearby, but most businesses and institutions didn’t keep their recordings for that long. The city had a policy of thirty days, but even then, The Art wasn’t expecting much.

There had been nothing on camera at any of the other incident sites.

“They can’t be here,” The Hermit said with a sudden snap of her fingers. “Not just here, but everywhere. South America included. The seal put in place won’t allow these creatures to see the light of day ever again, banished from this world.”

The Adjustment, wiggling a hand behind The Hermit’s back, caught The Art’s eye before pointing over to the crate of webbed-up bodies. She then weaved her and around the room before raising a stiff eyebrow in The Art’s direction.

The Art didn’t need The Adjustment pointing that out. Clearly, the seal had failed. “Do you have any books or notes on how to seal them back up again?” she asked.

“I was not involved with the sealing,” The Hermit said after another moment. “The one who was is… no longer available.”

That also wasn’t much of a surprise. Given how long The Hermit had lived, most people she had ever known were dead.

“Maybe they left some notes?” The Adjustment asked before immediately shaking her head. “Ah, who am I kidding? Old people always think they’ve solved their problems and never leave their methodology for when their problems come right back in the next generation… Uh…” She shied away, mandibles twitching behind the mask of her face. “No offense about that old people thing…”

“If there ever were, I doubt they exist now,” The Hermit said. With a small shake of her head and one final glance around the room, she turned toward the door. Her tall, single-stilted sandals clopped against the floor as she crossed the utility tunnel. “I am returning to my abode to ruminate. Inform The Emperor that I will be in contact if I recall anything of value.”

Without further discussion, she left, leaving nothing but the echo of her fading footsteps.

The Art watched her go, frowning all the while. The Emperor’s instincts had been correct in that The Hermit knew something, but what she knew wasn’t all that helpful in actually resolving the situation.

The creatures weren’t particularly deadly or difficult to deal with. At least not for anyone living on this side of the coin. The threat they posed to regular humans was greater, but even then, it wasn’t the true concern. They were a threat. The kind of threat that got people nervous.

Most agreed that the hidden nature of unnaturals was desirable. It wasn’t hard to convince a vampire of the need to avoid public feedings or a morgue-walker that they were better off not inflicting their affliction on people from their previous lives. Such things would only bring trouble. It kept everyone safe and ensured that life on both sides of the coin could continue. There were those who disagreed, of course, and others who just wanted to cause trouble. They were dealt with in a variety of ways.

Even then, they were often dealt with using light-handed measures. Coming down too hard, backing someone into a corner, risked revealing more than allowing them to continue.

Then there were events. The kinds of things more like a force of nature—a hurricane or earthquake. Something where there was nobody to stop, nobody to punish. Those were the things that got everyone feeling on edge.

“Comes out of her hovel once every ten years just to be unhelpful,” The Adjustment said, still looking down the tunnel where The Hermit had gone. “Welp! These bodies ain’t getting any deader. Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

Everyone was on edge except The Adjustment, it seemed. “We still don’t know where they’re coming from. And they’re evolving,” The Art added, scowling at the wrapped-up monster in the cart.

She felt on edge. When it had been just one or two, she hadn’t thought much of the situation. Every time they appeared, they brought with them something new. Escalation. Next time, they might not be so easy to handle. Next time, they might appear in the middle of a crowded football game. Next time…

“I can’t do anything about it. So, no sense worrying. Either the situation resolves itself, someone else resolves it, or something I can do pops up. Until then, I’m kicking back and relaxing.” The Adjustment stepped closer, resting a spindly limb on The Art’s porcelain shoulder. “You need to destress. Have you painted lately?”

“There hasn’t been time,” The Art sighed.

“Why don’t we stop at the crafts store on the way back? Pick up some of those nice metallic acrylics you like.”

“More paint doesn’t get me more time.”

“No, but a little shopping therapy can go a long—”

The Adjustment cut herself off as a thin black whir blurred past The Art’s face. In the blink of an eye, a spider leg jammed into the wall, puncturing straight through a white, bloated maggot that had been crawling up its side.

“Missed one,” The Adjustment said, pulling it off the wall. She tilted it back and forth, limb twisting from the joint on her abdomen.

“That wasn’t there a moment ago,” The Art said, stepping away from the black bile now running along The Adjustment’s leg. “The Hierophant was quite thorough.”

Though unable to speak with today’s mask donned, The Hierophant stepped forward, uncrossing their arms as they approached. They moved straight past The Art and The Adjustment, stopping at the wall. Kneeling, they examined a small drainage grate on the floor, gesturing toward it.

“Too small,” The Art said. “Even if the grate wasn’t in the way, I don’t think it could have fit.”

The Adjustment pulled the bloated maggot closer, holding it between her human hands, and gave it a firm squeeze around its middle. “They’re surprisingly firm. Not much give to squeeze somewhere too tight.”

“Please don’t do that. If that thing explodes in your grip and you get it all over me, I am going to be pissed,” The Art hissed, her vocals especially stringy for emphasis.

“What do you care? Just toss your body into a bathtub.”

“You are so… Ugh. If you were just a little more—”

The Art felt a splattering of black tar hit her all up her front and face; the droplets were like miniature pebbles striking her. She flinched back, then turned to level her best rendition of a glare at The Adjustment.

Except the maggot in The Adjustment’s hands was fully intact. She, with her more expressive face, looked just as surprised as The Art felt.

Movement from The Hierophant drew The Art’s attention. One of the clawed, limbed variants of the monsters slumped to the ground in front of The Hierophant, its entire skull caved in. Already, another of the creatures was worming its way through a narrow crack in the wall just above the drain. It was a crack not even a finger could fit through, yet the hard, rigid carapace of the creature squeezed right through.

“You were saying something about being too large to fit?” The Adjustment said, backing away to give The Hierophant more room.

The Art didn’t bother with a response, choosing instead to move away.

The Hierophant took the latest creature’s head clean off. As its body slumped, blocking off the crack in the wall, they took a step back, adjusted their center of balance, then kicked. Their bare heel, protected by nothing more than those thin cloth wraps, shattered the cinderblock wall around the cracks.

The Art expected some cavern filled with the creatures. Instead, she found nothing but a thin, dusty space between the wall and the raw stone of the Earth.

The crack was still there, still hovering just a bit off the floor. Another creature was trying to push past the body of the first, except it wasn’t making it. Although the crack hung for a moment, either the wall being gone or The Hierophant’s actions destabilized it to the point where it wavered and pinched shut, slicing off a claw before it collapsed completely.

Silence hung between the three as they watched the spot, waiting to see if anything else clawed its way out of thin air.

Nothing moved. Nothing changed. The Art did a quick scan around, looking for any other intrusion points. That seemed to be the only one.

“That’s weird, right?” The Adjustment asked. “I realize I’m not as old as Foxy, but I’ve been around a bit. Never seen something like that… that’s not normal, is it?”

“The Hanged Man got caught in a repeating hotel a month ago,” The Art said, still swiveling her head around. “We speculated that the cause was due to the reality-well effect caused by that clockwork angel.”

“Reality well?”

“Like large masses curve spacetime, exceptionally powerful beings can curve fundamental constants of reality,” The Art answered absently. She didn’t really understand it herself. She wasn’t great at regular math, and the symbols The Hierophant had drawn while wearing the mask of a scholar actively made her head hurt. She didn’t even have a real head. What even was a de Broglie wavelength? “I don’t know if this is the same. We might have to wait until tomorrow when they can don a different mask,” The Art continued, gesturing to The Hierophant.

“How powerful is exceptionally powerful?”

The Art shrugged. She had never seen anything like that angel before. She didn’t know what it was, where it came from, or what it was doing that night, only that it left the moment all fighting between The Eclipse and The Puppet stopped. The Art still felt a twinge of phantom pain in a few of her missing worm-like tendrils. They had since regrown, but it hadn’t been pleasant.

All she knew was that she had never experienced anything like that anywhere else in Chicago. Even The Hermit, for all her age, didn’t create strange pockets of reality.

“We should inform The Hermit,” The Art said. “This might help her figure something out.”

“Eh. I wouldn’t count on it. Old people, you know? So unreliable. I mean, just look at…” The Adjustment trailed off, staring over The Art’s shoulder.

Turning, readying herself to fight off more of those creatures, she stared down the utility tunnel.

Instead of a monster, she found a stooping figure dressed to the nines with a squirming duffel bag thrown over one shoulder, stepping out of a side door in the tunnel. She stared at a phone in her hands, scowling at it like it was malfunctioning. Tilting it left, she looked down the tunnel away from The Eclipse group, looked at her phone, then tilted it to the right.

Only then did she finally look up, locking eyes with the group.

“The Butler,” The Art hissed.

“Oh… dang,” The Butler said, her shoulders slumping. “I just… took a wrong turn. Sorry for intruding,” she said, backing through the door she had come from.

The Hierophant kicked off the ground, cracking the floor from the force, as they bolted after The Butler. The Adjustment wasn’t far behind, unfurling her extra limbs to climb along the wall, keeping out of The Hierophant’s path. The Art didn’t bother following.

Her porcelain body did not lend itself to rapid movements. She could fit herself into spaces others would cringe in empathetic pain at, folding herself into tight bundles of woven worms and stiff ceramics, but chasing someone like The Butler?

Everyone had their specialties. Let The Adjustment and The Hierophant have at it.

The Art turned back to the crumbling remnants of the wall, leaning in close to where that sliver had been torn from the rest of reality. After The Hanged Man got stuck in that fragment of broken space, he had been researching such effects. That was the only reason she knew what she knew about it.

Extremely powerful individuals bent reality. But there was nobody here who fit the bill. Although nobody knew where that clockwork being had come from, it had not been subtle. If it had been here, people would have noticed.

The idea that there were two such beings roaming Chicago at the same time was as absurd as it was horrifying. Beings like that couldn’t exactly be controlled, intimidated, or otherwise compelled. The best anyone could hope for was to contain the damage they caused and hope they moved on to being someone else’s problem.

But as The Art stared at the rest of the old tunnel’s dead end, she started to wonder if that was really true. The Art wasn’t intelligent like many of The Hierophant’s masks were, nor did she possess wisdom from living centuries. She was just a bundle of parasitic worms, currently inhabiting the body of a doll. But she could still see.

And she had not seen this crack in the wall—or reality—earlier. Unless she, The Adjustment, The Hermit, and The Hierophant had all missed the crack, unlikely, then it hadn’t been there before. It must have opened while they were all here, gabbing about, none the wiser.

If powerful beings fractured reality and yet none had been in the area… what if the powerful being had been on the other side.

Like something trying to escape.

With a shudder at the thought of some maggot-like being trying to get into Chicago, The Art backed away. She suddenly decided that she didn’t want to be here alone anymore.

Hopefully, The Hermit and The Hierophant, with their wisdom and intelligence combined, could figure out a way to keep it out.