Per 
- Spectrum
- The Paintings Burn a Crimson Red
- The Desert Sun shines a Cadmium Yellow
- The Hills of Adelanto are Covered in a Cinnabar Green
- The Library Cries in Ultramarine Blue
- The Final Days are Lit in Hues of Mauve
The crowbar smashes into the balloon-like head of what used to be the hotel bartender, scattering thick, purple sludge across the walls and roof of the abandoned bar. A figure in a white, hooded cloak, decorated with a set of metallic wings on the hood, lets out a sigh of relief after having been surprised by the now dead Strange. Circling the loudly breathing mouth on the floor, he walks over to the bar and vaults over it. A cloud of dust skitters away from the first boots they've seen in years and his cloak sends a lapel pin shaped like a pentagram clattering on the floor. He quickly pockets it.
"You don't mind if I borrow this, do you?" he asks the bartender while snatching a bottle of vodka from behind the bar. The corpse does not respond. He looks down at the bottle, the light of his eyes reflecting off the glass. 'Mirage, from the Spirit Co' reads the faded, green label. The man chuckles upon seeing his name.
"It's a match made in heaven," he says as he unscrews the bottle and chugs it down, only to be met with the all too familiar taste of iron.
"Fuck!" he spits, throwing the bottle on the floor. "Every time! Can a man not get a proper drink in the apocalypse?"
Stepping away from the pool of blood forming around shards of glass, Mirage goes and sits on the edge of a giant hole in the wall, setting his eyes on a familiar sight. Tall buildings with flickering neon signs, a purple sky, from which a giant, yellow eye stares down at the city, and a large sign in the distance that reads 'Welcome to LAS LOST VEGAS, Nevada'.
He leans forward and lets himself fall.
As soon as he detaches from the ledge, Mirage is met with a barrage of winds, their invisible, puny fists punching him in the face as he plummets. He grasps at the corners of the cloak fluttering behind him, and spreads it taut into one large wing. The punches turn into gentle grazes, and falling turns into a peaceful glide.
With trained hands, he constantly adjusts the cloak ever so slightly to adapt to the winds, and to reign them in his command.
The sky is peaceful. Safe. High in the air, Mirage feels detached from the city that sprawls underneath. That jungle of crumbling concrete and ash. An unsatiated graveyard of civilization, its fires still burning after a millennium. When the threads that support reality began to fray, Vegas, already sprawling with the anomalous, was one of the first to fall. The tumultuous expanse of magic was devastating, causing the city to shift and change in all sorts of terrible ways. Humans who weren't changed either died or fled, and now only the Strange remain.
As strange as the city is, a passing glance from up high might betray your eyes. Many of the lights are still on. There's music coming for the casinos, and cars on the street, though they no longer move. Once you train your eyes and look closer though, the nature of the city reveals itself. The ruby lights of eternal demonic revelries catch Mirage's eyes, beaming out of windows as they cast silhouettes of lost souls trapped in a never-ending dance. Drifting above, he can spot the tentacles of the Shifting Sands of Mandalay Bay peeking out of sewers in search of new things to add to its growing mass of sand and bone. The bloody graffiti drawn by the lions as prayers to their dark, golden gods, and the neon ghosts zapping in and around Neonopolis, the jewel of Fremont Street. Like the white spot in the center of an abscess, the huge shopping mall sticks out of the surrounding ruins in all of its multicolored glory.
Allowing himself into an increasing descent, Mirage pivots to the right, riding the current as he encircles the complex in a tightening spiral, until eventually tucking his feet in and rolling safely on to the roof.
Descending into the building itself, Mirage makes his way through maintenance corridors like he has a thousand times before. It doesn't take long before the dark, tight space emerges out into a hall of massive proportions, illuminated by dozens of signs, billboards and a large, swirling mass of stars and nebulae in the ceiling. Things have fallen mostly into disrepair, but the lights are still on, advertisements are still up, and operational screens still portray the same old messages that they did since this all started: "The Government has declared a State of Emergency. Make way to your local shelters", "All life in New York has mysteriously disappeared. Will you be next?", and "All is fine. Trust in Us. You have no need to worry. Just come up and touch the screen and we'll tell you everything you need to know. You know you want to. Then you can just sit back and relax. Trust in us." Mirage does his best to avoid eye contact with the latter.
Rest of the way has been permanently etched into his muscle memory. He goes past the axe throwing ground and ducks, a sharp gust of wind whipping his hood as a hatchet thrown by an angry poltergeist sails overhead. Then he quickly scampers past Heart Attack Grill. Trying to not be noticed by the rolling mass of fat and eyes and mouths serving an infinite wave of burgers to emaciated ghouls desperately trying to consume them, as muffled screams escape from a giant beating heart in the corner. Mirage is actively trying not to theorize where the meat in the patties comes from. Next is the Toy Shack, a vintage toy shop. A cymbal monkey sits in the display window, its round, unblinking marble eyes following him as he goes past. Now approaching his destination, he trains his ears, hiding every time he hears cycling accompanied by the hissing of a crocodile.
Lurking behind a corner, Mirage watches as a four-eyed lizard on a unicycle rolls past, long snout looking for prey. After making sure that the wheeled beast is within a safe distance, Mirage scampers towards a somewhat welcome sight. A pair of broken glass doors with a sign above them that reads "The Metropolitan Gallery of Las Vegas". Upon entry, Mirage lets out a long sigh of relief, which turns into a pronounced 'harumpf' of frustration near the end, as he sets his eyes on the same old, faded paintings for the who-knows-how-manyeth time. His rapid footsteps echo through the corridors, mixing with seething muttering.
"Physical paint, how arbitrary and boring… these are not even 3D. Where's the pizzazz? Where's the danger? Nowhere I can see, but here they are. In a gallery for all the world to see, and the world accepts it like a herd of sheep. Nobody appreciates real art anymore…" he says, unknowingly fondling the cracked crystal hanging off his belt.
Tucked in the most remote corner of the gallery is a sleeping bag, a small table, an assortment of water bottles and canned foods, and a cracked mirror. The reflection of his light bouncing off the silvery surface, Mirage catches a glimpse of his hooded face. The glowing eyes that constantly bleed a black ichor, the stretched mouth, the hooked nose. With a sharp inhale, he turns away. With forced intent, he refocuses on unloading the contents of his satchel, which are mostly comprised of even more food cans to add to his collection.
"Fuck," Mirage curses as he notices to have accidentally grabbed a can of tuna. "Not falling for that anymore. Almost drowned the last time". He rolls the can down a corridor, before collapsing on top of the sleeping bag. He closes his eyes, hoping for the elusive creature known as sleep to catch him. Waiting, he idly watches as the green and red shapes swirl within the darkness, pulsating and flowing, following the movements of his eyes. A while passes and the shapes begin to congregate and merge into new shapes and colors, like the pieces of a puzzle slowly coming together, until eventually, their form becomes recognizable. Soon the backs of his eyelids are plastered entirely with images of the paintings that taint the walls of the Metropolitan. The same old fucking paintings that he has had to look at for years, day after day. Those goddamn paintings that stupid idiots enjoy more than his art!
Screaming, Mirage shoots up, grabbing his crowbar. With determined, large steps, he marches to up to the aisles. Tossing the weapon in his hands, he walks slowly down the corridor, staring at both walls from under his brow, like sizing up an opponent. Then, he stops, and with a swift blow to the side, decimates the frame of a painting. It flops front down onto the floor with a defeated thump. The rest of the paintings on the wall rattle from the impact, as if shivering in fear.
The relative peace the paintings have enjoyed for a millennium, quietly hanging and fading away, is broken as the fury of a pissed off artist turns into a whirlwind of metal and rage. Paintings, carefully crafted for weeks are shredded into slices and wooden frames brake into a hail of splinters and fragments. They stick in Mirages hands and face like pins and needles, but he is too distracted, too enveloped in his own screams to notice.
"Take that, Sean Scully! That's what you get for hogging the spotlight!"
Grabbing a storage container, Mirage hurls it across the room, paper and art supplies flying out as it does. A temporal anomaly causes some items to slow down, flying through the air at a cumbersome pace, while others stop entirely. Snatching a bottle of spray paint, Mirage rolls the striker of his lighter.
"It's all just physical!
Nothing but colors!
There is no effect,
no risk,
no reward.
Just a bunch of pretty pictures!"
He screams as a gout of flame bursts out of the can like the breath of a dragon. The fire catches on the remaining paintings and the debris in the air, turning the inside of the gallery into a roaring firestorm.
Pushing through smoke and flame, his white cloak coated in soot, Mirage grabs his crowbar again, as he sets his sights on a marble statue standing valiantly against the destruction. With large, powerful swings, he brings the quickly heating metal down again and again again, as more and more pieces of rebar crumble and collapse.
"You would think that when the Veil broke, us anartists would finally get the chance to shine but nOoOo!" he screams through the smoke starting to fill up the room and flood into his lungs.
"It was still just Picasso that, Monet this.
Well, Picasso!
Can!
Go!
Fuck!
HIMSELF!" he shouts, each word accompanied with a furious whack.
"And why on Earth is there a gift shop? Is that what art is to you people? A business? Just an advertisement for merchandise? Do you think you're cool yet? Do you think you're so fucking cool you little piss babies?" he asks, but only echoes answer. He lifts his crowbar high for a final blow.
"I am the coolest around here!" The crowbar comes crashing down on the head of the sculpture, exploding it like a melon. Pieces of stone fly outwards in every direction, a particularly sharp piece slicing into Mirage's cheek, a line of crimson trailing behind it. He leans back and lifts his foot up high. Everything slows down. Mirage sees the fire and the smoke dancing amidst one another, mixing and forming into shapes and scenes. The smoldering remains of canvases float in the air, like fireflies in the night. His foot, on a slow but unavoidable collision course, pierces through the ever-shifting visual cacophony of light and dark, as it presses against the statue with a force that nearly sends Mirage sprawling. The leverage force separates the statue from its pedestal, and it falls backwards. Displacing embers that escape around its sides it crashes down, like a meteor burning in the atmosphere. Finally, after being stuck in a descent for a short eternity, it hits the floor. It breaks into thousands of little pieces that slide across the surface, and disappears into the smoke.
Regaining some of his sensibility, or what was left of it in the first place, Mirage finally realizes that everything is not fine, that he is in danger, as his head begins to spin. Smoke and embers burning his eyes, he scampers to what he thinks is the direction of the exit. Through either muscle memory or sheer luck, or perhaps the decision of some entity with a sense of humor, Mirage forces his way through the heat, until his intake of breath no longer consists of fire and carbon monoxide. The air ripples, as he jumps out of the glass door and breaks through the time dilation. After getting within a relatively safe distance, his legs decide that they have done their work for the day, and refuse to move, while his upper body still attempts to push forwards, causing him to fall on his face, coughing his lungs out.
"We never were cool, were we?" he whispers from between cracked lips as some of the smoke clears from his brain. He drags himself across the floor to a wall, where he sits for a while, simply staring at the smoke pouring out of the gallery. Out of his home. The closest thing to it anyway. Too tired to think, too tired to speak. Time passes and the flames begin to die down, as he shakes his brain fog away.
"You know what? Fuck that. I am so damn cool. I am the coolest motherfucker alive!" He stands up, and begins to flail wildly as he points his crowbar at people who aren't there.
"And I am going to show all of you just how cool I am! I will show you how pathetic you all are by learning how to paint and painting the greatest painting anyone has ever seen! Then you'll see, then you'll all see!" He grabs his crystal and storms out of the gallery, as his maniacal laugh fills the halls of Neonopolis.
The wasteland of Lost Vegas spreads around Mirage, as he walks through the smoldering streets. Rusted cars lie on top of cracked concrete, and dark shapes move in the windows off the tall buildings that sway in the wind. Crawling on the sidewalk, a man is constantly shifting between solid, liquid and gas, screaming incomprehensibly.
"Tsk tsk. Poor chap, been drinking too much dead Elvis piss," Mirage says as he walks past, eyes set on the huge green building ahead, shining in the night like an emerald amidst a dark sea. The MGM Grand Hotel.
Upon reaching the courtyard, it does not take Mirage long to realize that he is not alone, as the shadows begin to growl.
"Come out, come out wherever you are!" he shouts, and as if on cue, a creature leaps from a ledge, landing in front of him. Its shape is like that of the lions of old, but it has no fur. Instead, it is covered by a thick grey hide. Its face has no eyes, but the whipping tentacles that make up its mane have plenty.
He hears another emerge behind him, and then another, and then another, and more, until he is completely surrounded by a growling and salivating crowd of Strange beasts. He spreads his hands as he turns to greet them all.
"What an absolutely stunning audience just for me. Can I say that you all look just magnificent today?" Compliments do not slow their approach, so Mirage opts for the opposite. "Shame you're all such arrogant little pricks who can't stop whining about their god though." If a lion could gasp, then a crowd of them would have just done that. There we go, Mirage thinks as the beasts halt.
"GOD IS GOOD. GOD TELLS US TO EAT YOU FOR YOUR BLASPHEMY!" one of them screams into his mind.
"He better come out and do it himself, then. I'm seeking an audience with the Golden."
"IF YOU WANT TO SEE GOD, YOU MUST CONVINCE YOU NOT FOOD," says another.
"Do I look like food to you? Do you see this?" Mirage asks, pointing at the continuous stream of liquid tar from his eyes. "Does this look appetizing to you?"
"YES," comes the unanimous answer. "ALREADY MARINATED. LESS PREP WORK."
"…What?"
"NOT HEARING REASONS WHY YOU NOT FOOD." The circle of mouths tightens as the lions continue their advance. It is just now that Mirage realizes how many there actually are, as he notices the thousands of points of light, glittering in the surrounding dark. He feels something cold and coarse touch his hand. The crystal. Unknowingly, he has placed his hand on it.
I could use it, but it's been a while. Do I even know how to anymore?
A few of the nearest lions lower their front, preparing to pounce.
No time to think.
"Oh, for crying out loud. Fine. Would you fine gentlelions like to see a trick?" Mirage asks as he grabs the crystal off his belt, and jumps on the head of the nearest lion, using the momentum of his other leg to swing himself even further and higher, as he grabs on to a flickering light post.
Mirage lifts the stone in the air, and it stays put, though a little wobbly, as he lets go. Lifting his hand and focusing, his neurons alight. Becoming one with the crystal lattice, his mind shifts and molds to fit every curve, every edge and structure within the stone. He feels a fire he has not felt in a long time, as light enters the crystal. The movement of photons is mimicked in his head as they bounce around, like fireflies in a lantern. Like many times before, he attempts to align them, reigning them in his control, but they struggle against him. Damage and lack of practice has made them insolent.
Fuck it, let's just go with something simple then, he thinks as he arranges the photons in a single, thin line. A thin, red beam shoots out of the stone, landing in a red dot a dozen feet away.
"Look! What's over there?" Mirage shouts, pointing towards the dot. Turning their heads, the herd immediately bolts in the direction of the dot, nearly stumbling over each other. Mirage makes sure to keep it constantly moving, laughing as the dumb beasts chase after it. His laugh is short however, as a presence makes him choke on his own breath. Like a wave, it washes over him, causing the hairs and feathers on his back to rise and ruffle. He looses his grip on the post and falls.
Mirage turns, as the center of the MGM Hotel begins to shift and change. In a cascade, each floor slides to the side, as a giant face emerges in the opening. It is that of a gigantic lion made of pure, glistening gold. Immaculate and polished, its skin is like a mirror and its eyes burn with an intense, emerald flame. As the last floor slides out of its way, it steps out. A paw the size of a van lands on the courtyard with an elegant graze, nevertheless sending ripples through the ground. The air around the lion distorts and flows in unnatural ways, pulling on its surroundings like a black hole, drawing rocks and cars and trash into an orbit around the creature. Mirage feels a force tuck at his very soul, as it looks at him. With nothing but a glance, it negates his enchantment, causing the crystal to drop on the ground. The lions, upon losing the dot, notice their god and lay prone on the ground. The god opens its mouth and a deep, rumbling voice booms out, resonating with power.
"Bro. Not cool," it says. "Why you gotta put my acolytes panties in a twist like that, man?"
"I don't feel like getting eaten today." The god shrugs.
"Eh, fair. At least it wasn't a cucumber. So, what do you want my dude?"
"I want to be able to paint. You're a god, so I figured you could help," Mirage shouts up, hoping to not get smitten down.
"Yoo you want to paint, bro? That's siiick. Totally radical. Love a good painting. I used to originally be a piece of art myself and all. Still am, if you catch my drift." It lets out a series of short rumbles that Mirage assumes to be an attempt at a chuckle.
"Anyway, that's not really my expertise. Think I can paint with these mitts? Nah, bro. Nah. Sorry. But you can like, totally learn how to paint at the Wanderer's Library. You just gotta find the nearest Way and give a little knock, right?"
"The Wanderer's Library?" Mirage asks. "That still exists?"
"Sure, bro. Can't feel the Serpent no more, but his crib should still be around."
"Huh."
"Yeah man. There you'll find all the information in the damn world, including how you's can learn how to paint, my dude."
"But how do I get there? All the Ways I'm aware of are dead. That's why I assumed the Library was too."
"Oh yeah, the whole apocalypse thing did a number on the Ways. A lot of them collapsed or changed places, but there's some that remain. The closest Way to the Library that your homeboy here is aware of is the one in the middle of the city of Adelanto."
"What's the Knock?"
"I don't know, man. You're gonna have to figure that one out yourself." The Lions stretches its giant shoulders in an approximation of a shrug.
"Well, as much as I enjoy chit chatting with an over-sized cat, it sounds like I should get going. It's a long way to Adelanto," Mirage says and turns to walk away.
"Good luck, my dude."
“Stupid fucking water bottle. Piece of shit can’t even hold enough water to last me a fucking hour.” Mirage muttered to himself as he stumbled through the sands. Each step felt like he was walking through pudding.
The sand around Lost Vegas had turned a light pink, with small bubbles rising up and popping every 20 or so feet. God only knew what lay beneath the waves of grains that caused that. Mirage was careful to avoid them anyways.
The distant caws of the crows from the city could be heard from this far out. Of course they could. The Unveiling had caused the birds to be able to scream their wretched calls for miles. If you were close enough, sometimes it would cause your ears to bleed.
One of them was closer, though. Mirage could see the shadow on the ground in front of him as he trudged through the sand. He squinted his eyes to try and see what it was doing, looking up.
The bird was large. Obviously about 20 feet wingspan, with a large, fat, body. Its neck was twisted at an odd angle, with several bends in the throat. It was boney and missing quite a few feathers.
Not a crow.
Mirage quickened his pace, hoping the thing wasn’t following him. Unfortunately, the shadow moved with him, keeping pace and circling. He could see the shadow beginning to enlarge, meaning the thing was getting closer.
As the shadow began to close in, Mirage held his crowbar. Once he felt the wings flaps on his back, he bided his time. Finally, he felt the thing’s claws on his back, he quickly swung the crowbar around behind him, whacking the bird on the skull with sickening CLUNSHK. The bird quickly fell to the ground and began to spasm.
Mirage raised his crowbar up and slammed the end of it into the thing’s head, crushing it’s skull and splattering the sand with it’s brains. The inside of it’s skull was covered in maggots, each one a neon green color with red spikes on it. They gave out shrill shrieks as they were exposed to the air, quickly burrowing into what was left of the brain.
Mirage frowned slightly and backed up, turning his back to the dead animal and going to continue his trek. As he made a few steps, he heard the sand behind him bubble and growl, causing him to turn his head and look.
The ground around the bird shook and spat out sand, sprays of grains flying into the air before being reabsorbed into the sea of sand. The ground began to open up, the sand spilling into a large hole in the ground, dropping the bird’s corpse into the hole.
As soon as it had opened up, it closed, the ground shutting with a loud thud. A small red cloud of smoke rose through the sand and up into the sky, signifying it was over.
Mirage shook his head, somewhat disturbed by the sight that had just occurred in front of his face. He turned back in the direction of the Way and began walking again.
As he walked, the dryness in his throat became worse and worse. There was little water left in his bottle, and the sun wouldn’t set for another few hours. He sighed softly and dragged his crowbar through the sand to clean the bird’s gorey mess off of the tool.
As he dragged his crowbar through the sand, it suddenly snagged on something, thus, it was ripped out of his hand at a quick speed, causing Mirage to let out a grunt. He turned his head and stared at the crowbar sitting straight up in the sand.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Mirage asked the crowbar. The crowbar gave no answer. He made his way over to it and began to pull on it. It didn’t budge.
He frowned and pulled harder, gritting his teeth and cursing. As he pulled as hard as he could, the crowbar gave way, except, something else came up with it.
The crowbar had snagged on a person’s shirt. And with said shirt, came a pile of broken bones. A Nokia phone fell out of the shirt and on top of the pile of bones, causing Mirage to frown. It’d been a long time since he’d seen one of those. He reached down and picked up the phone, shaking bits of bone and bone dust off of the device.
He pressed the power button and watched as the screen turned on. Not even a scratch or crack on the thing. These things really could survive anything. He looked over the phone to see how old it was. It looked to be the rerelease, seeing as it had a different feel and graphics screen than the original. It was on the notepad app as it opened up.
‘The folks over at Parawatch said this place had some kind of anomaly within it, but all I see is a pond and a palm tree. I’m gonna poke around the pond and see if I can find anything interesting.’ The notepad read. There wasn’t any date or time, thus, Mirage couldn’t see when this had happened.
Palm tree and a pond. Why did that sound familiar?
Suddenly, it clicked. His art. This was his art. The mirage. He quickly looked from side to side to see where it was. How far away had this poor sucker landed?
He finally saw it. A pond with several leafy green tufts of grass sticking out of it, with a large palm tree sticking out of the sand next to it. It was about 80 feet away, meaning he was in the safe zone. If he had stepped 5 feet closer, he would have been turned to dust. Or, at least, his bones would have.
Mirage stared down at the skeleton. He could see the cracks in the bones and where it had been hit. The impact had obviously been fatal as soon as the skeleton had been hit. There had been no chance to help whoever it was, even if someone had been around.
He dug through the sand until he felt a pair of jeans, pulling them out. They had blood stains on them, with the femur bone on the right leg poking a hole through the pant leg. He felt around for a wallet.
In the left pocket was a smashed smartphone and a wallet. He dropped the jeans then opened the leather folding container, seeing a picture of… some kid. He couldn’t have been older then 17. He had a bright smile on his pale face, with messy, golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He had freckles dotting his face with a gap between the two front teeth.
The photo was on a driver’s license, which Mirage pulled out to view in its entirety. Date of birth was 07/19/2096. Name was Michael Whitman. Organ donor.
Mirage turned his attention to the mirage. His art had killed someone. He was responsible for this. He shook his head. No. This was just a dumb kid who got himself killed by his art. It was the kid’s fault. Right. Right? No. Yes. It had to be.
He stared at the mirage for a moment, in awe at his sheer talent. God damn was he good. He then turned his attention back to the skeleton. This kid had seen the mirage and been fooled by it. He felt proud of himself… but something else was there. An emotion he hadn’t felt in a long, long while. He’d have to turn the art off.
Why? Why was he thinking about turning it off? It obviously worked. It drew people in and they were tricked by it. Not his fault people were tricked by it. Despite this, he found himself getting down on his stomach and crawling towards the monolith in the center.
As he crawled, he felt the wind on his back from the speed of the mirage above him. He tried to remember how many arms the thing had. 3? 5? 4. It was 4. They spun at a strong speed, one that he couldn’t remember. It was so quick that it would break the bones of anything that it touched, but not quick enough that it would dislodge from the monolith.
He soon got closer to the monolith, the mirage began to fade, and he was able to see what the mirage actually was. He could see the brown stone block which served as the base, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could see the prisms which made up the mirage as they spun quickly. He reached forward and touched the brown monolith, gritting his teeth as the warmth began to radiate into his hand.
The heat continued to increase, the prisms began to slow, their colors fading softly as the speed decreased. As the speed finally slowed to a stop, the prisms fell to the ground with a loud thud, burying themselves halfway into the pink sand.
Mirage let out a sigh of relief and stood up, sticking his hand into the sand for a moment to let it cool off. He watched as the sand bubbled before he pulled his hand out. He wiped the sand grains off of his hand using his cloak.
He then continued his trek towards the city of Adelanto.
The city had long since overgrown with vegetation, tall palm trees and mighty oaks, blooming birches and bristling pines. Vines roped along the outsides of the trees, intertwined with the bark, with bushes and saplings along the bottoms. The former buildings were barely visible through the plant life, but, it was clear it was still there. The sight was breathtaking.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Jungle was much better than the infinite grains of sand that covered every inch of the desert. Maybe he’d finally be able to get some shade and some water, considering the precipitation of the plants. That’s what it’s called, right? Mirage shrugged, not knowing, nor caring. He just wanted the greenery.
As Mirage made it to the road that connected into the city, he felt himself being forced down onto his knees, and the cold metal of a firearm be put to his head. His heart dropped.
The cold metal burns against Mirage's temple. Afraid to turn his head, he cannot determine the nature of his ambusher, as the edge of his hood blocks them from view. He flexes the hand grasping a crowbar.
"Don't even think about it," commands a gruff woman's voice. "I'll blow yer brains right out!"
"Look, just tell me what you want or shoot me. We ain't got time to stand here forever," he says, nervously glancing at the canopy above that shifts and rattles without wind.
"Tell me what you coming to Adelanto for? We ain't seen a stranger 'round here in… well, ever!"
"I'm just passing through. Not looking to cause any trouble."
"Hrm." A few seconds of silence pass in standstill. Only a low, distant humming echoes through the clearing. The woman pushes the barrel of her gun more strongly against his head. "Why am I even on the fence about this? I should kill ya just in case!"
A sharp click pierces Mirage's ear as the woman pulls the hammer of her gun back. The humming is now clearly audible.
"Wait, shit, wait! What is that sound?" he asks frantically, desperately trying to extend the prognosis of lethal lead poisoning.
"What sound?" A wave of shimmering air passes between a line of trees.
"That," Mirage says and points, as a flock of floating hot irons emerge from the treeline, their plugs whipping in the air and their metal sizzling aggressively.
"Fuck! It's the Wardens!" the woman shouts as she lowers her gun and takes off in a sprint in a direction opposite to the flying home appliances. Mirage swiftly follows.
Used to a steadier environment, Mirage finds navigating through the thick vegetation to be difficult. Constantly tripping on roots and barging into prickly bushes, he looks much like a seal out of water, stumbling through and swinging wildly with his crowbar. Meanwhile the woman has unsheathed a machete, cleaving her way into the forest as she jumps off rocks and strides through the wilderness.
"Hey, wait for me!" shouts a frantic Mirage doing his best to keep up, the heat of the irons nearly singing the pin feathers at the back of his neck.
One of the metal abominations circles around and emerges from behind a tree, causing Mirage to nearly ram his face into the steaming metal plate. He backs up, but has to take another step forward as he finds himself surrounded. The air shimmers, and Mirage starts to feel much like an egg yolk on a frying pan. A fry, apt with the previous analogy, escapes his cloak and skin as an iron presses into his arm. The sizzling is drowned out by a scream as Mirage's skin bubbles and blackens.
Just as the machines are about to iron out the wrinkle in the world known as Mirage, the woman from before emerges from behind. She tic-tacs from the trunk of one tree to another, before sending herself flying forwards with a powerful kick, bringing her machete down on a hot iron as metal crumples and sparks fly. Another separates from the pack, set on avenging the expiration of its friend. The woman promptly thrusts the sword forwards and through the brave creature. Mirage flinches as the tip of a blade, dripping with oil, emerges from the other side, only inches from his face. The rest of the irons let out a high-pitched whir as they scatter, recognizing that they have been bested.
"You came… back?" Mirage says in a soft voice, eyes wide.
"Getting ironed out is an awful way to go. Couldn't let ya just be picked out like that. And maybe we survivors.. should be lookin' out for one 'nother. You better not make me regret this though, or you're next to get skewered." She points her blade at the metallic heap on the ground. Mirage gulps.
"C'mon now, we need to get going b'fore those things come back with their friends." The woman turns and dashes into the wilderness, intentionally slowing her pace to let Mirage follow her.
Traveling through the thicket is slow, progress hindered by tripping on roots, getting caught on branches and animated vines that attempt to sink their barbs into anything that passes by. Despite their pace, they make it through with relatively few problems. There is the occasional band of patrolling hot irons, a few walking trees, and a strange, glowing plant that uses it light to paralyze and devour still-living animals, but the pair manage to go unnoticed by hiding in the underbrush.
Eventually, a series of buildings, surrounded by a wooden makeshift fence, peak from behind trees. The pipe of a rifle sticks from between two logs.
"Who goes there?" shouts a muffled voice.
"It's me, Bertha. I found an outsider," the woman responds.
"Dangerous?"
"Highly unlikely." Bertha smiles, as Mirage narrows his eyes.
"Open the doors!" A crack appears in the wall, as the doors boom open, revealing a courtyard between buildings, on which people of all ages are walking about, going about their day as if the world had never ended.
"How many of you are there?" Mirage asks flabbergasted as he follows Bertha in.
"About 600. We're the biggest settlement in California. Or at least I think we are, I don't actually know." Bertha leads Mirage through the courtyard, past the various stalls and people, and into the heart of the city. "The place was founded long 'fore I arrived, so I can't tell ya too much 'bout it, but ask around and ya might find something."
"I see." Now that the adrenaline had worn off, Mirage took a look down at his singed arm. The burn had gone straight through his cloth wrappings and had taken a good chunk of his skin off. It was starting to sting, but didn't hurt as much as Mirage thought it should. Either he was still in shock, or the amount of times his body had been mutated by the anomalous meant that his pain receptors weren't quite what they once were. He did scream earlier, didn't he? Well, either way, he needed to get it treated.
"This way." Bertha's voiced pulled him out of his thoughts. He had kept going down the path they were following, completely missing that she had turned into an alleyway. He swung himself around and followed her, eventually ending up in one of the buildings.
It was cool and dark inside the warehouse, a welcome relief from the hot desert sun that had been searing down on them all afternoon. It smelled damp, and Mirage could see water dripping from the ceiling. Along the walls were makeshift beds, some occupied, some not, and in the various corners were piles of medical supplies. This must be their hospital. Bertha lead him to one of the unoccupied beds, sitting him down before beginning to address his injury.
"You're uh. One of the doctors here?" Mirage asked, trying his best to make small talk. He assumed that the nicer he was, the better treatment he would hopefully get, especially since he didn't know these folks too well.
"Sure am. Was a doctor 'fore all this happened too. Worked at one of the big hospitals over in NorCal." She pulled off Mirage's glove, then began unwrapping his arm. "Not that the knowledge means much anymore, y'know, anomalous injuries don't behave the same. Never were taught how to deal with those sorts of things."
"Guess I'm lucky I got a normal ol' burn then." Mirage winced slightly as the last of the cloth wrappings were pulled off his arm. He felt Bertha pause, not saying or doing anything, so he looked over to see what the problem was. Ah. Right. Even he had forgot. The hair follicles on his arms had stopped producing hair, and now produced what could best be compared to as pin feathers. A few near his elbow were closer to becoming fully fledged feathers, but they were an ugly off-white color, so Mirage had opted to wrap them up and keep them hidden.
"Hrm. Yer uh, feathers here, probably aren't gonna grow back." There wasn't any judgement in Bertha's tone, but there was a slight hesitance. While it was true that regular old humans weren't the norm anymore, getting used to that fact was a different story altogether. Mirage pulled his hood tighter across his face.
"That's fine." His tone was curt. Bertha shifted awkwardly before going to grab some ointment.
"You said you were just passing through?" She asked as she came back, gingerly applying whatever the ointment was to Mirage's arm. Mirage nodded.
"I heard there was a Way here - a portal to the Wanderers' Library. I don't mean to stay any longer than I need to, I have business to attend to there. That's all." Mirage debated over whether or not he wanted to talk about his grand plan to paint the world's best painting, but ended up deciding not to. The world would know of his art once again, but not yet. Share his ideas too soon with his audience and someone may take said ideas from him.
"You're going to the Library?" Bertha opened her mouth to say more, but hesitated. "Could - could yah do me a favor? Look - I'm sorry about earlier, y'know, the whole gun thing is just a precaution. We don't get many visitors as I said - and look! I'm treating the wound yah got here. For free. No charge. I just-"
"What's the favor?" Mirage cut in, not wanting to owe Bertha anything. He knew how deals work. The sooner he could get this sorted out, the better.
"Could yah look for my son while you're there?"
"Your son? He's not with you here?"
"No. I - I came here to look for him." Bertha paused again, wrapping up Mirage's arm with a cool compress and pulling it tight. "He loved to travel, go on road-trips and hiking and just generally explore the unknown. Last I heard from him he was around here, looking for something strange that had been spotted out in the desert."
"What's he look like?" Mirage asked, a sinking feeling beginning to form within his chest.
"His name is Michael." Bertha continued speaking, but Mirage had tuned her out, thinking about the corpse he had found in the desert near his art piece. He had killed this woman's son. He had destroyed this person's family. She would never learn what happened to her child. Well, she could, Mirage could tell her right now, as she helped him. Helped the murderer of her son. No. No no no. He'd been over this. The son got himself killed, he was stupid enough to fall for Mirage's art piece. That's all this was.
It wasn't his fault.
"That should be everything." Bertha lightly patted Mirage's arm. It did feel better. Mirage couldn't meet her gaze.
"I'll uhm. Keep an eye out for him. Tell him you're here." Mirage stared at the floor, watching the drops of water fall from the ceiling and collect into a large puddle in the middle of the floor.
"Thank you so much. I was such a stupid mother - trusting him to be alone like that - but how was I supposed to know the world would go to shit? Funny how long it's been since then, y'know? But I guess that's what happens when all of the West Coast is put under a time anomaly."
"Right. Yeah. Haha." Mirage cleared his throat, ready to get out of here. "Where is uh, where is the Way?"
"The Way? Hrm. It's on the North side of town, at the end of the main road. Can't miss it, as it's in the oldest building in town. We don't know much about it, as folks stopped trying to use it awhile ago, but we're pretty sure it has somethin' to do with time." Bertha watched as Mirage stood, brushing off his cloak and covering the bandages with his old cloth wrappings.
"Thanks for uh, everything."
"No, thank you." Mirage caught Bertha's gaze as he walked out, and his heart broke as she smiled at him. He pulled his cloak closer and rushed out, ready to forget about this town and all its inhabitants.
Despite the decrepit appearance of the building, it was still standing, sheltered between two large redwood trees on either side. Well, maybe standing wasn't quite the right term. The building had half sunk into the pink desert sands, making what was once a tall skyscraper nothing more than a short stub sticking out of the dirt. Mirage carefully stepped through the gaping hole that was once a window, watching to make sure his cloak didn't snag on any remaining shards of glass. He'd have to be wary in order to not disturb whatever was still living here, if anything, as the welcome he was given upon arriving to Adelanto was not the kindest.
Upon entering the building, Mirage was hit with the smell of dry-rot and animal feces. He pulled his hood tight around his face, stepping over the mysterious piles of goo that were scattered among the floor. The air felt heavy, and incredibly still, as Mirage's footsteps disturbing the piles of dust were probably the first action this building had scene in years. That was odd - a sheltered building like this, despite the mold and the mess, would be a perfect home for the Strange or a desperate survivor. What had stopped something from living here?
Mirage pushed his way past boxes with faded fragile and handle with care stickers. Whatever room he had stepped into appeared to be an apartment, or perhaps a dorm room of some kind. The moving boxes laid scattered about, as if someone had started to move in, but had never finished. Answers to where the Way was were not here, there was only a heavy sadness that came with abandonment. He made his way out of the room, and into the hall.
Mirage could feel himself being gently tugged at, as he saw a light flickering from down the hallway. It was calling him over, asking him to come examine it. He did so, but pulled out his crowbar to be ready for whatever may face him. The hallway opened up into a main lobby, and the shimmering light revealed itself to be the interior light of an elevator car. Mirage slowly lowered his crowbar as he examined the lift.
The elevator door was open, and on the floor of the lift were various piles of stuff. A set of candles, hourglasses, and pocket-watches, alongside things such as gold coins, a bucket of sand, and a dead mouse. The elevator itself only had one button on its panel, and neatly printed onto said button was an inscription of an hourglass shape, or perhaps a very stylized and pointy eight. Well, this must be the Way, as the locals did say it had to do something with time.
Upon looking closer at the piles of stuff, Mirage realized most were in sets of eight, or had something to do with the passage of time. Well, given the button, that would be the obvious answer. Mirage gingerly stepped into the elevator and pressed the button.
Nothing.
Okay, well, yeah, maybe that would be a bit too easy. Mirage let out a sigh of frustration. So what the hell could the Knock be then?
Mirage stepped out of the elevator and looked at the piles of stuff again, then at the button. An hourglass. Time. If not a literal representation of time, perhaps maybe the passage of time instead? Mirage knelt down and flipped all the hourglasses over, before taking out his lighter and lighting the candles. He picked up one of the watches and tried to wind it, only to find it's batteries were dead. Oh well, hopefully the other two would be enough. He stood up again, stepped in the elevator, and pressed the button.
Nothing.
Okay. What about the other odd items? Gold coins to what, bribe the elevator with? Sand to refill the hourglasses? And a dead mouse. The mouse might've just died in the elevator from other causes, so Mirage scratched that off his mental list. He instead knelt down and stuck his hand in the sand, digging around to see if it had anything in it. Nope. That just left the coins, which Mirage grabbed and flipped over in his hands. They appeared new compared to the other stuff in the elevator, and the year printed on them confirmed that -2100. Who was still making coins, Mirage had no idea, but here they were, younger than he was.
Hmm. Another thing about gold was that it didn't tarnish - Mirage could recall the lion god talking about that once, how his golden pelt would never rust. So maybe if the Knock wasn't about the literal passage of time, or the effects time had on an object, perhaps it was more metaphorical? Something that could withstand the sands of time? Wouldn't the coins have done that though - no, perhaps they weren't old enough. Hell, that meant Mirage wasn't old enough, either. What about-
The Nokia phone he took from that kid. That thing had to be ancient, pre 21st century. It was in his pocket, right? Mirage dug around and pulled it out, turning it on. Damn thing still worked. Wait, if it had been in his pocket all this time, why hadn't the Way worked? Did he have to offer it to the elevator? Mirage set the phone down in the center of the room.
"Hey. Elevator. Way. Knock Knock. Here's an old phone." Hell, he was going to look like such a fool if this didn't work. "Has withstood the passage of time for who knows how long, but a long time for sure, yeah?" He tapped the phone with his foot. "You can uh, have it."
Great, was that it? Mirage took a breath before pressing the the hourglass button. After a tense second, the button lit up, and the elevator chimed at him.
"Doors are now closing. Heading to: the Library floor." A mechanical voice chirped at him before the door began to slide shut. Mirage let out a sigh of relief.
"Time to go check out some books."
Mirage's first steps into the Library were akin to stepping into the belly of a dying god. Each groan of the wood, creaking of the shelves, reminded Mirage of shuddering final breaths. And hell, the smell. The familiar scent of old papers and wood varnish had been replaced with the heavy, sickly sweet stench of decay. It loomed in the air, and if there had been any magic left in the place, it probably would have materialized into some great beast.
All of this meant though that lifetimes worth of knowledge, of adventures, of things meant to be said, were crumbling to a halt in the depths of an unreachable pit. The Library had slunk away, the love of its patrons forgotten, and that primal instinct to be alone during death had taken over, even if the Library had no apex predators to hunt it anymore.
Something deep within Mirage's gut stirred as he began stepping through the muck of papers and sawdust. The anguished screams of the Library, while silent, rattled him to the bone. What did he care about this place? He was not a staff member, nor a patron, he simply wanted to obtain knowledge and then leave. He had no love for the place, it meant little to him other than that it was useful, but the Library seemed hellbent on proving otherwise.
I contain the works of thousands of artists that came before you. I am the collected embodiment of something grand, something whole, a complete work that is open for interpretation and perspective. I am a work of the people, for the people. Acknowledge me for what I am and what I provide for you, even in the short time we have left together.
Oh. Great. So now he was hearing things too. Mirage shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts from his mind. Focus. He had a job to do. Make the best goddamn painting in existence. Fuck the Library's mourning hours, he'd get his shit and then get out.
A loud crunch interrupted Mirage's thoughts. He looked down to see a yellow orange hand beneath his foot. His boot had gone right through it, as if it was simply a peeled shell. The hand was attached to an arm, which was attached to a body, which was - oh fuck. There were hundreds of corpses surrounding him.
They looked human at first, but no, they were giant insect carcasses, with multiple limbs that just happened to end in human hands. Their exoskeletons had shattered, and they laid on their backs in a contorted, crumpled slumber. The ground around them was disturbed, with a ring of dust around the bodies and papers strewn everywhere. Wait, had they fallen? Mirage looked up the towering shelves to see hundreds more of the mutant insects clinging to the walls, unmoving with their gazes peered upwards.
"Found one of the Pages, did you?"
"Fuck!" Mirage whipped around to face the voice. Sitting behind him was a ghastly looking creature. A canine with long gangly limbs, a neck that seemed to stretch on forever, and once again human hands at the end of its paws. On its face was not a typical dog snout, but instead an incredibly detailed, white, smiling, humanoid mask. Fluffy ears sprung up from either side, and they twitched as Mirage stared at them.
"I would recommend getting away from the wall, bird boy, before another one falls." The creature stood, craning its impossibly long neck down to look at Mirage. The beast had to be at least two shelves tall, if not larger. "Did no one teach you its rude to stare? I can hardly be the weirdest thing you've seen today. No matter!" The beast cut Mirage off with a clap of its hands. It stood and turned swiftly on its feet, not waiting for Mirage as it took off down the hall. "Come along now. You're here for a book, yes?"
"I am, yes." Mirage held his tongue and followed the beast. Considering the journey it took to get here, he didn't want to bicker with the one entity that had agreed to help him. "Are you one of the staff?"
"Oh. No. Hardly. I hate this disgusting place. No one was ever fond of me - can you believe that?"
"I-"
"I'm kidding. I was an asshole. I still am! Proud of it too. No one deserves my attention. Specially not in this rotten place."
"So why are you helping me then? Rather than whoever runs this place?"
"You saw the Pages, did you not? Are you blind under that hood? The Archivist don't have eyes yet they can see better than you. Unbelievable."
"Okay smart ass if it's so much fucking trouble-" Mirage reached for his crowbar that was strapped to his back under his cloak. He didn't have time to be toyed with, and wanted to get out of this sad muck of a building as soon as he could.
"Put it down." The creature replied, not even bothering to look back at him. It sighed quietly while Mirage slowly put his crowbar back. "Since you're blind, I'll narrate for you. The Library is dying. It'll be dead in maybe a decade or so. You realize that's nothing in the grand scheme of something as old as the Library, yes?"
"I do. Which is why it'd be great if you could shut your yapper and I could get my book and get out of here."
"The Library itself is a sentient thing." The creature continued, ignoring Mirage's irritated sigh. Seemed like the thing was lonely and wanted to chat. Might as well entertain it if they still had a ways to walk. "It does not have the strength nor energy to keep itself alive anymore, especially now that its Caretaker is, for lack of a better term, dead or nearly dying as well." The creature lead Mirage down through the halls, gesturing with its tail to various bodies that were scattered about. And hell, there were a lot. Mirage covered his face with the spare part of his hood to block out the smell. "The staff were some of the first to die off, and they've died out in the largest numbers, due to being bound to this place and thus they were unable to leave. But, it's not just the staff corpses you'll find here." It pointed upwards at what appeared to be the skulls of a goblin and a large bird, sitting in the dust atop a fallen shelf. Then to a humanoid skeleton under a cloak with a notepad beside it. Mirage caught a glance of musical notes written on the page. "Some of these corpses were at one point close friends of the Library. They wanted to be here in its final moments, or didn't heed the warnings to leave while they still could. Regardless of who's dead though, it's a bloody mess, and the guy we had who liked cleaning up the dead bodies fucking dipped."
"So why are you still here then?" Mirage asked, as he stepped over the rotting pelt of some fox creature. He misjudged how far to step though, as there was a loud squish as his foot went through one of the many eyes that had been surrounding the creature. Gross.
"This retched place was loved by many. Which is why I'm here. My Creator is among the fools to admire this place, and it sent me on a few errands here to take care of some unfinished business."
"Okay. That's great. Really fucking spectacular. Is the expository history lesson over now? You yourself said time is short so can we please get my book-"
"We're getting there. Believe me if I could just give you the book so you could run along, that'd be great. But my Creator is a manifestation of laws and tradition, so I have to be too. Despite the Library's state, it still has its primary rule - do not take what is not yours - so you'll need a library card before you plan on taking anything from here. Though, just between you and me Birdie, I wouldn't worry too much about any late fees, if you catch the vibe going on here - know what I mean?"
"Sure."
The shelves started to fall away as the Library opened up into a large clearing. Sitting in the center was a round information center, made up of a ring of wooden desks. A sign that said "Main Desks" had fallen, and had gone straight through where someone probably once sat. A tarp had been thrown over that area as well.
"Listen, Birdie." The beast had stopped walking, and was blocking Mirage's path with its tail. "We're going to go speak with the Owlpede Archivist. He is one of the last remaining Archivists here. He sits right there, next to the tarp. You're smart, so, I'll tell you. Under that tarp is the body of his partner Ayman. They had worked together for the past, hell, who knows how long actually. A very long time perhaps? Yeah. Let's just say that. He's going to ask you where his partner is - tell him that he's gone to get paperwork. If the Archivist gets upset, we'll never get your card. Understand?"
Mirage thought back to the corpse he had found in the desert, then to the corpse's mother, and how she had helped him because she had no idea he was the one who had killed her son. This- This was different. He wasn't lying to a mother. He didn't kill this creature's life long partner. It wasn't his fault. He slowly nodded and the beast pulled its tail away, continuing to walk.
"Owlpede." The beast sat down on its haunches, still towering over Mirage. It lightly tapped the top of the desk. "A visitor in need of a card is here."
There was a rustle, and from under the desk shot out a huge creature. Its body was divided into segments, like a centipede, but it was covered in thick brown fur. Tiny stubs were on either side of each segment, as if the creature once had arms but had since lost them. It rose out from under the desk, rearing up and turning to face them. Once fully stretched out, it was about the same height as the canine creature that had lead Mirage here. It lowered what was presumably its head to be eye level with Mirage and made a guttural clacking noise. Suddenly the face split in two, revealing a huge mouth and long tongue.
"Still making your rounds, Uncy? How goes the quota? Wasn't your most recent deal to find a lost pet?" The voice that came out of the mouth was surprisingly light and sweet, almost as if it was singing.
"My name isn't-" The beast, apparently with the nickname Uncy, paused, seeming to remember its own rule about not upsetting the Archivist. "The quota is going fine, Owlpede. I found the lost pet - you met it, it was the one who always stole your crayons. I am happy to say it won't be taking your crayons again anytime soon."
"Lovely! Lovely. I see you brought a friend to visit. Who are you?" Owlpede still was staring at Mirage, or rather, as close to staring as a creature without eyes could do.
"My name is Mirage, I'm here to check out some books."
"Mirage! Miragey. A pleasure. I am Owlpede. I run this desk station with Ayman. We are the two most productive Archivists in the Library! Let's get you a Library card."
Owlpede turned away. Apparently some lower segment still had arms, as loud rustling and searching through desk drawers could be heard. Mirage looked over at the beast - Uncy, he assumed he'd need to call it Uncy to please the Archivist - and saw it was just fiddling with its hands, not too happy to be there. Mirage looked closer at its mask, realizing the same plastered smile hadn't changed at all since the time he arrived. A small shudder went down his spine.
"One card! Library rule is as follows - do not take what is not yours! From books to lives to time, the same rule applies. Just fill out the info - your true name and a watchword to identify you with - and the card is yours. When you want to take a book, just tap your card thrice against the cover. It'll mark your name in and tell you when to return it."
Sitting on the desk was a green card and a pen. Mirage took the pen and filled out his info. He hesitated, almost forgetting what his true name was - he had been Mirage for so long now. The burn on his arm itched slightly, reminding him of his altered form. Whatever. He'd only use this card once, it didn't matter.
"All done, Mirage? Fabulous. You'll appear in the records.. right now!" Owlpede turned to look at the tarp that his partner was under. "Or. Well. Whenever Ayman gets back. You haven't seen him, have you?"
Mirage stared at the tarp, opening his mouth to say something, when Uncy's tail slapped him on the back. He closed his mouth and shook his head no instead.
"Hm. A shame. Well! Enjoy your time in the Library! Come back if you have any questions!"
Mirage and Uncy waved their goodbyes as they turned away from the desk, Mirage pocketing his card and Uncy following behind him. Once they were out of earshot, Mirage stopped, letting Uncy take the lead, but paused to ask a question as it passed him.
"Is that really what the Archivists were like? I wasn't expecting such a friendly and human disposition."
"They had a wide range of personalities. Owlpede was certainly one of the more eccentric types though, you're right about that."
"But the Library was run by creatures so naïve? How has he not realized there is a body right there. I mean, now that I think of it, I don't actually remember smelling decay but the whole place reeks so much it'd be hard to tell."
"Hmm." Uncy stopped walking, its tail twitching behind him. Mirage couldn't tell exactly, but it seemed the topic brought the creature discomfort.
"What, preparing for another rant about how this place is horrid because of the stupid staff?"
"No. I told you my creator is an entity of law. I have respect for those who uphold the law, as it was law that brought me into creation and law that governs how I operate. Though, laws can be unethical. I exploit them regularly to creatures, especially humans, who put too much trust in them. What happened in the Library was exploit. Clever, clever exploit. But now it's all tumbling down as the veil was lifted."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Are you aware of how the staff were created?"
Uncy looked up as it spoke. Mirage followed its gaze upwards to find they were standing in the shadow of a colossal corpse. It was another centipede creature, similar to Owlpede, but now it was multiple buildings tall, wound around the shelves in a protective spiral. Large chunks of it were missing, but enough of the arms remained that it still clung to the wall, refusing to physically fall just yet.
Mirage brought his gaze down again, only to find Uncy staring at him, its lifeless mask piercing straight through him and directly into his core.
"The Library has a second rule they don't tell you - an eye for an eye. Take what is not yours and the Library takes you."
Mirage stared at the beast. There was no malice or pain in its voice, rather, pure adoration and respect. It continued.
"Owlpede was once some creature, maybe a human like you, maybe something else, that broke a rule and was mutated into what he is now. He became a part of a huge hivemind that all the staff operated under, forced to leave and forget his past and embrace his new role." Uncy finally looked away from Mirage, instead sitting on its haunches and clasping its hands together. Its tail was still twitching- no, it was wagging its tail in excitement, not discomfort. "It's such a beautiful art, isn't it? That kind of dealmaking and deception? So clean and simple yet so effective! And with the definition of taking and property never fully defined - who broke the rules could totally be up to staff discretion!" The creature let out a small chuckle.
"But, to answer your question, Owlpede was once a much smarter beast. Now that the hivemind has fallen, what operated him has disappeared, and now he is free to remember and operate on his own. Unfortunately for him, too much time has passed since he was mutated, and those memories have vanished. He is but a fragile empty shell, operating on years of muscle memory rather than his own thinking. If he had more sentience, I would've expected him to have offed himself like Ayman did."
"Ayman- what? Killed himself?"
"Guess Ayman had memories of being a selfish creature." Uncy shrugged, standing again. "No matter! Let's go get you your book, yes? Time is short. What section do you need to head towards?"
Mirage didn't respond, looking down at his gloves instead. The fresh bandages caught his eye, and his gaze drifted over to them. His mind wandered back to Adelato and to the mother with her dead child. His art had killed. It was his fault. And here he was on his own selfish quest to make more selfish art. Was the mother now some empty shell like Owlpede was, used to being apart of a family and now operating on vague memories of how things once were? Uncy had compared the Library to a great artist, able to manipulate its viewers into a calm façade of order while darker operations ran behind the scenes. Mirage was truly no better than that.
"Snap out of it Birdie, I don't have all time in the world to sit here and watch you think."
He had come here to make a painting. All he knew how to do was to create art. That's what he had done back before - wait, he was also an empty shell, wasn't he? Operating on his notion of how things once were? No. He couldn't stand this. He did not want to be some mindless sad husk driven by the past. He resented his form for being altered. He resented his past as a killer now. He resented everything. He had to make this right.
"What section, Birdie? I may be obligated to help you but I still have a life, y'know."
He would make a painting. The world's best fucking painting. Learn a new art and rebrand himself as something new. Something wonderful. Something full of life and color to make up for all the lives lost. A spectrum of possibilities awaited him.
"Bring me to the art section, it's time I learned how to paint."
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.
