Spanksgiving.
Destiny’s lungs drew in the crisp air, each breath a reminder that she was still here, still moving, still
unclaimed. She slipped through the maze of stalls and winding streets, letting her telepathy skim the edges of the crowd like a careful tide, sensing minds without letting any anchor to herself form. Latoya’s presence still lingered at the edges of her awareness, a distant pull she refused to answer.
A sharp twist down an alley offered momentary cover. Destiny pressed herself against the shadowed brick, letting the chaos of the festival roll past like a river she didn’t belong to. Destiny’s eyes flicked across the crowd, noting who might glance her way. She wove the illusion in the gaps between thoughts, tugging at their expectations, pressing her mental fingerprints into the edges of perception. When someone looked directly at where she had been, their eyes caught only a flicker of movement—a shadow offset by a heartbeat, a shimmer that made them think she’d stepped aside, bent light around her, or simply vanished for an instant.
To the crowd, it was as if Destiny had teleported from one space to the next. A vendor turned, swearing she’d been standing right there a second ago. A child spun in place, eyes wide, convinced she had passed through the other side of a stall. But in reality, Destiny had barely shifted, letting their minds fill in the motion. Every corner she passed, every neon reflection, every flicker of her aura amplified the effect—she didn’t move so much as displace their certainty. Her heart still hammered, but a small, private thrill ran through her. This was control, hers alone. Latoya couldn’t reach her here, not through the crowd, not through the illusions. The world itself obeyed her enough to make her invisible without leaving a trace.
Her mind replayed the alley, the net, the weight of being claimed. Latoya had been there, yanking her free, tipping the balance of the night. She clenched her jaw. She owed her life to that hand, but she didn’t owe Latoya herself. Not here. Not now. A clatter echoed from a stack of crates ahead, and she flinched. She allowed a flicker of illusion to ripple across her silhouette—her form splitting briefly into three faint afterimages, each wavering, each slightly offset—before snapping back into one. If someone looked for her, they’d see motion, but not the real movement; the real Destiny was already two alleyways over, unseen and untouchable.
Her steps were quiet, deliberate. Every shadow became an ally, every neon reflection on the wet cobblestone a smokescreen. She wasn’t running blindly—she was threading herself through the festival like a needle through cloth, invisible to both eyes and minds that might track her. By the time she dared to glance back, the crowd had swallowed the faint shimmer of Latoya’s aura. Destiny allowed herself a small, bitter exhale. She was free—for the moment.
And yet, the echo of the word vessel lingered, oil on her skin, a reminder that escape was only temporary. She turned a corner, letting the festival fade behind her, and for the first time in hours, she allowed her pace to ease, letting herself breathe without the press of expectation at her back.
Space. Air. Distance. For now, that was enough.
Destiny’s fingers flexed, and the faint shimmer of her aura bent perception around her, making her presence blur. One heartbeat later, she was there—perched just beyond the circle of Paloma and Vin, a shadow among shadows that had somehow coalesced into form. The shift wasn’t violent, but it carried weight. Her eyes swept over them, sharp and calculating, as her mental reach extended. She didn’t pry indiscriminately, but she allowed her telepathy to skim their surface thoughts, brushing against intentions, strategies, and habits like a hand moving over braille.
Destiny’s lips curved slightly. This was worth her time. Not just their words, but the way they thought, the automatic reflexes of mind and body intertwined. She cataloged it, prioritizing what could be absorbed, what she could test on herself, and what might keep her alive if she trained under them.
Destiny appeared fully beside them, the shimmer of her aura fading into the mundane, yet carrying the faint hum of otherness that made the hairs on the back of the neck of anyone sensitive to it stand on end. She tilted her head slightly, letting her gaze sweep once more over Vin, Paloma, and the children, taking in the subtle movements, the tics, the unspoken language that marked years of experience.
“... Hi,” She said, her voice quiet but deliberate, threading through the room like a whisper that carried a weight far beyond its volume. Not a greeting, exactly, but a declaration:
I am here. I am aware. I am watching.Her eyes flicked from Vin to Paloma, tracing the flow of their thoughts again—strategies, assessments, the way they measured risk and reaction. She noted the tension, the control, the instinctive readiness. Every surface thought was a map; every fragment of attention a guide.
“I... want to learn,” She added, carefully, letting the words settle. There was no pleading, no flourish—just a statement, clean and sharp. She didn’t elaborate, didn’t explain her presence or the shimmer of displacement she carried. That was unnecessary.
If they were worth their salt, they would understand why someone like her might step in like this.
Princess' Apartment.
Interactions: None.
W̵̪̘͙͌̔̋h̶̲̊ŷ̶͖̥̿̈́͛ ̶͖̰͗̏͌d̸̡̕o̶̢̹̔̄͋͝ ̵̘̙̽ỳ̵̨̯o̴͍̤̪͗̀͌u̸̪͒ ̵̞͍͇̙̓f̸̘͓̞̅͘i̷̟̘͚̓̄̎̕͜g̵̳̓̇͛͘ẖ̷̡͚͉́̽t̸͍̞̃̓͒́?̵̭͒͛͛
̵̦̞͇͋̎
̶͕̫͖̖͘
̴̟͍̼̖̐͋
̸̹͐̈́̓̉
̸̛͈̻̀̂̈́I̷͇̝̾̋ť̸̻̱̼̾̒ ̸̹͌̑͌̚b̷̤̖̪̫͑̍̈́̈́e̶͈͚̤͐̂̅͝g̷̲̥͉͍͛͛͊͝ḯ̷̟̠̇̋ͅn̸̙̱͓̆͜s̷̥̫̈ ̴̨̫̅́a̷̛͇͑̑̄n̶̻͒̌d̶̛̙͎̘̺̆́ ̷̠̫͈̽̃ḙ̸̟̍ͅn̸̺̽d̵̦̭̾̍͜s̵͎̟̝͇̎ ̷̻̽̌͠w̸̛͙̞̔̄̔i̸̡̧͋̈́̒͂t̷̛̛̟͆͊h̷̛̹͚̓͠ ̸̱̰̾̀m̵͓̘̠̖͋̾̃e̴̪͆.̷̖̘̮͙̃
̵̳̄̈́̉̒
̷͕̺͂́̆̚
̵̰̤͙̯͒
̶̗̤̜̘͋̒̾
̴̪̈́̿̈́
I̶͇͇̳̻̰̲̝̥͙̞̯̟̮͎̘͇̼̦͂̂ ̸̨̙͚̺͚̟̞̫͓͖̜̹͈̳͙̆̇̈̏a̶̝̥̝̜̠͚̦͖̦̟̩̠̳̠͉͗̏̕m̵̨͉͔̾̎̈́͋̓͗͝ ̵̝̜̙͎͇͕̲̜̽̇̅͛̄̒̿̈́̌͠i̷̡͙̼̯̬̱̳̙̦͕͚͈̟͇̎̈̉͗̋̈́́͂͂̌̒̒́͊̈́̽̾̈́͝n̷̢̧̡̙͙͚̱͖͕͙͕͔͂̅̀͌ͅe̴̢̛̥̩̣̬̱̬͕͐̆̈́͒̉̑̎̕͜v̶̧͚̯̟̰̲̼̦̝͇͍̞͎̉̃́̀̈́̈̽͘̚̕͠i̶̞͚̯̊̈́͐̀̒̾̈̈́̓̈̾͊̍t̶̤͈̲̥̩̳̖̩̱̝̘̠̙̙̝͉͘ặ̵̢͈͉̮́̆̆b̷̨̢̗̬̥̝͎̉̔͂͛̑ḷ̶̡̧̻̯̳͙̠̲̦̦̻̰͎̠͙͚͕̺̱̈́̃̒̾̈́́̔̌̉͆͑̓̔́͆̕̚͝ḙ̵̛͚̙̭̯̯̹̮̌́̈́̀̈̂̐̑̏̅̀̒̔͆̍͗̀͘͘.̶̧̧̲̼̼̥̭̫̺͎̪͉͔̬̩͚͛̒̈́̓͑̑̄́̇̔̈́̓
........”... SHUT UP!”
Princess let out the blood-curdling scream... into seemingly an empty apartment as the dim glow of the bathroom light barely cast enough light overhead. Here was the smell of metal and cleaning solutions as Princess desperately tried to wrap up the mutated appendage with some cheap bandages she had gotten from the Dollar Store—or Walmart, or maybe Elodie had gifted them to her; sometimes the days blended together, unfortunately. It was a sloppy job, but at the very least, it didn't look like she was half lizard.
Then she remembered that the Aware cannot see mutations.
Damn it.
Princess dragged her feet over to the couch and slumped down before taking a deep breath. In and out. In and out. In and out. She took one final deep breath and then rolled onto her side. Her hair is a mess; well, her whole life is a mess. Princess clutched a pillow to her chest and buried her face into it, muffling the sound of her breathing. She hated how shallow it was, each inhale ragged, each exhale trembling.
The apartment groaned around her. Pipes knocked. A car passed outside, bass rattling the glass. Somewhere, a neighbor’s baby cried. All of it was real, all of it was normal. She tried to hold onto that, to anchor herself in the small, ordinary noises.
But her arm itched beneath the bandages. Worse than itch—it
pulsed, a crawling heat, like something alive was writhing under her skin, waiting.
"̸̣͗.̸̘̈.̷̨͂.̷̼̉ ̷̫̿Y̷̿͜o̷̤͗ụ̸̂ ̶͖̐c̷̫̎ā̵̲n̶͖͂’̸͚͐t̵̨͆ ̵͓̈́ĥ̷̟i̵̜̐d̷̦͒e̸͉̋ ̸̻̈m̴̘̆ȇ̵͜ ̷͙̓w̵͈̿i̴͔̐t̴̹͊h̶̙̏ ̵̌͜f̵͖̓a̵͛͜b̷̤̒r̶̤̃i̴͕͘c̸̥͊,̵̰̈"̷͈̀ Nyrah whispered, the words brushing her mind like smoke through a crack. "̷̺͆Y̶̢̆o̶̜͐ù̷̩ ̴̧̔c̵̢̏ą̵̛ṋ̸̔’̵̻̀t̵̳̑ ̵̞̿ḏ̵͒i̵̝͑s̶̱͆g̵̺̓ü̸̫ì̴̦s̶̲͗e̵̗͒ ̸̢̓i̵̺̾n̷͖͒ē̶̢v̵̳̍ị̵́t̷̥͑a̶̟͛b̴̹͒ḭ̵̿l̶̩̂î̷͉t̶̢̒y̴̜͗.̷̪͠"̶̳͊
Princess pressed the pillow harder into her face until she was almost smothering herself. Just for a second, she thought about letting it happen—just one long exhale, then nothing. Peace. Quiet. No more whispers, no more stares, no more Elodie’s gentle lectures about
“containment.” (
... That bitch.)
Her hand slipped, and the pillow tumbled to the floor. She let it lie there.
”Pathetic,” she muttered, though it wasn’t clear if she meant herself or the thing inside her.
The itch crawled up her arm again, and she sat up sharply, pressing her palm against the wall as though she could push the mutation back down by force. She could almost feel the scales pressing against the inside of her skin, begging to surface.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. The sound made her flinch.
A message.
Elodie.Checking in. Are you stable? Do you need me to come over?
Stable.
What a word. Like she was a nuclear reactor instead of a person.
Princess typed out a reply—deleted it. Tried again. Deleted it. In the end, she just shut the phone off and tossed it face down.
The silence afterward was heavy. Too heavy.
"̸̩̉.̴̺̑.̴̤̋.̶͑ͅ ̴̌͜Y̸̨̛o̷͍̐ǘ̴̘ ̵̜̏w̵̺̌o̴͚̒n̷̜͒’̸̧̃ẗ̸͇́ ̴̲̇l̶͙̀å̴̞s̶̠̈́t̸̡̉ ̴̭̽t̴̩̓h̸̤̍e̵̳͆ ̴̭͑ǹ̶̼i̶͉̚g̴̡̈́ḩ̴̇t̸̯́,̷͂͜ ̵̥̈́y̴͍͑o̶̰͋u̴͑ͅ ̴͇̕k̸̯̀ṉ̶͠ọ̵̾w̷̪̋ ̸̪̚i̸͎̋t̵̪̽,̷̝͌"̸̦͋ Nyrah annoyingly murmured again. ̵̫͠"̴̦͌L̸͔̍e̶̫̒t̷̩̀ ̴̩̋m̷̡͌ĕ̸̡ ̷̳̂c̷̝̕a̵̩͘r̸̭͂r̵͔̾y̴̜̎ ̷̰̕t̶̪́ȟ̴̫ẻ̶̩ ̸̤̈w̵̖̒e̶͙͒ỉ̴͔g̵̩̊h̷̲̅ṫ̶̗.̸̨̑"̴͈͌
Princess sighed...
”... Over my dead body.”̷͇͝"̷̣͝E̴͔͘x̷̰̀ḁ̶̐c̸̰͝t̶̘͋l̶̪̓y̶͓̓.̵͖̕"̵̟̿
Princess sat there for a long while, staring at the black mirror of her phone screen. She could almost see Nyrah’s reflection in it—slitted eyes, scales curling around the edges of her own face. She blinked, and it was only her. Just her. Just a girl who needed to keep it together for one more day. And then the day after that.
Her stomach growled. Loud, pitiful.
Of course. It was Thanksgiving. Cloverfield’s streets would already be flooding with people, lanterns strung up across storefronts, food stalls crowding the square. The annual Thanksgiving Festival—loud, garish, nostalgic. Something that everyday folks looked forward to every year, a piece of tradition that made them feel safe and whole.
She groaned and pressed her face into her hands. The last place she wanted to be was out there, weaving between smiling families, pretending she wasn’t a walking curse wrapped in bandages. But... it was either that, or stay here alone in the dark with Nyrah.
"̸̻͌C̶̨̀h̶̪̄o̴̘͐ȯ̵͕s̸̯̈e̴̙͂ ̴̹̍y̸̜͝ò̸̰u̵͇̓r̶̨͊ ̵͉̈́p̶̘̓ŕ̴͎i̷͎͛s̸̩͌o̶͍͛n̵̝̅,̸̥̔"̴͕̅ The voice purred. "̶̰̿C̵͈̊r̸̘̅ö̶̯́w̸̱͒d̷͎̑s̴̟͘… ̶̫͆o̷̞͑r̸͎̀ ̵̝̉
m̴̠̔e̸̞͒.̸͍̎"̷̫̇
Princess shoved herself upright.
”Shut up, will ya'?” She said, punctuated with a roll of her eyes. Jacket. Keys. Wallet. Facemask. She grabbed them with mechanical precision—the rituals of pretending to be
human.When she opened the apartment door, the cold air hit her, sharp enough to make her eyes sting. From down the street, she could already hear it—the hum of music, the chatter of dozens of voices, the faint smell of roasted meat carried on the wind.
SpanksgivingThanksgiving Festival.
Cloverfield pulsed with life. Strings of warm lights stretched overhead, paper lanterns bobbing in the night breeze. Food stalls spilled their smoke and spice into the air—turkey legs, roasted chestnuts, steaming cider. Children ran past in clumps, their laughter a chaotic chorus against the backdrop of fiddles and tambourines.
Princess wove through it all like a ghost. Hood up, facemask on, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, she kept her head down, hoping the crowd would swallow her whole. The bandages under her sleeve itched, burned. Every brush of fabric against her arm made her teeth clench.
"̸̈́͋ͅÝ̶̻ō̶͕͆ù̸̗ ̸̢̇l̵̩̚ō̸͖o̷̝̍k̸̘͐ ̷̛͜r̶̎ͅi̴̫͘ḏ̵̽i̴͖̕c̴̡̓u̵͙̍l̴͔̂ơ̵͙u̸̙̇s̴̻̚.̵̡̎"̴̰̀ Nyrah’s voice purred in her skull. "̶͉͝Ả̸̟ ̵͇͐p̶͓̔r̸̡̎e̸͖̿t̶͇̄e̶̤͊n̵̡̑d̵͖͛e̷̞̍r̸̖̓,̵̯̍ ̴̪͊h̶̻̽i̷̱̅d̵̛͍ï̷̦n̴̜̓g̸̼͘ ̵̱͝ä̶̫́m̴̤͛o̷͔͛n̷͚̋g̶͇͊ ̴̝͘ś̴̨ḧ̴̝́e̴̖͐e̵͎̐ṕ̴̟.̷͈͐ ̷̞̎L̶̠̀è̴̠t̶͖̚ ̴͍̈́m̸̰̓ë̶̩́ ̷̂ͅo̶̯̐u̵̲͆t̴̡̅.̵͙̓"̵̻̃
Princess grabbed a paper cup of cider from a stall, more to occupy her shaking hands than out of thirst. She forced herself to take a sip. Sweet. Too sweet. She swallowed hard, willing it to anchor her.
“Not here,” she muttered under her breath.
“Not ever.”The crowd surged around her, faces blurring together. Someone bumped her shoulder and apologized, but the words barely landed. The world was too loud—colors
too bright, voices
too sharp.
Nyrah pressed harder, her whispers curling like smoke between Princess’s thoughts.
"̷͓̈́T̵̪̽h̶̰̋e̴̛͖ ̵͖͂s̴̡͋ḿ̴̫e̶̦͐l̶̠̔l̶̫͗ ̶͍̕ô̵̩f̷͚̐ ̴̤̀t̷̞͊h̴̦̎ḛ̵̓i̵̡͑r̶̞̅ ̸̪̓b̷͍̅ĺ̷̡o̷͚̍ò̷̝d̴͎͠ ̶̡̈́i̷͔͆s̸̞͝ ̸͓͗s̸̯̄o̵̜͝ ̷͔̏c̶̛͖l̸͕͝o̷̦̍s̷̼̅ė̸̱.̵̤͆ ̴͖̓Ÿ̴̟́o̵͇͊u̷̘͊ ̵͉̓c̴̞̕ȃ̵͇n̶̫͛ ̸̙̅h̵̳̀è̷̮ā̸̡r̵̨͌ ̷͕̏i̴̞̇t̶̡́,̷̦̈́ ̸̝̑c̴̎ͅa̴̰̕n̵͉͊’̴̩͗t̶̀ͅ ̶͓̽y̷̨͊o̵̡̓ǘ̴̦?̶͈͝"̸̖͂
Her grip tightened on the cup until the paper buckled and hot cider sloshed onto her fingers. She hissed and nearly dropped it. People glanced her way—too many eyes, too much notice.
“Leave me alone,” She whispered, teeth clenched, but she knew it was useless.
The music swelled in the square. A group of children began a choreographed dance, their families cheering. Princess watched, rigid, her breath shallow. She wanted to believe in the normalcy of it, to lose herself in the noise and the warmth of the crowd.
But Nyrah was still there, a shadow coiled in her veins.
"̷͉̇̎S̸͓͛̅ỡ̴̖ŏ̴͍̅n̸̨͆̀,̷̰͒̀ ̶̹͛̎y̸̝̏ò̵͎ũ̶̩͑’̷͔͠l̶͎̇̍l̴͈͂͝ ̸̲͌̕h̴̼͑̽a̸̢̋v̵͔͂e̵̲͝ ̵̤̂t̶̡̀͐o̵͔͊͘ ̸̼̑̅s̶̤̅t̷̨͗̄o̷̟̐͠p̸͘͠ͅ ̵̪̒p̶̨͊r̷͎̄̕è̷͓̿t̶̢̚ȇ̷̘̔n̴̖͘d̷̲̍͌i̵͖̎n̷̺̄g̷̦̏.̶̢͐̓"̸͇͌
Princess looked down at her hand—the scales were threatening to push through again, prickling under her skin. She shoved both fists deep into her pockets and forced herself to keep walking, deeper into the Festival lights, deeper into the noise.
Like if she kept moving fast enough, maybe no one would notice she was unraveling.
The Brotherhood Outpost.
Interactions: None, but Varnan better warm up his bootyhole.
The chamber glowed faintly under the frost-kissed light of the magical sigils carved along the walls. Holographic Councilors shimmered into existence, translucent robes swaying as though caught in an unseen wind. Élodie stepped forward, shoulders squared, Rose Petal sheathed at her hip, boots crunching softly against the frost-dusted floor.
“...
Élodie Baptiste,” intoned the lead holographic Councilor, “Report on the situation in Cloverfield. Speak.”
Elodie sighed,
”Councilors, I have to report on a new threat I've identified. I... don't know what to call them, but they appear to be mimicking us in a vague manner. That's not all, but last night, they attacked an adolescent girl, marking her as a 'vessel'. She only survived because I was passing through on my patrols, but those creatures are a threat to the city itself.”The Councilors were quiet. The lead Councilor’s gaze flickered—thinly veiled disinterest. “The Council’s concern is with the Hunters. Their recovery is our primary objective. These beings are...
incidental.”
Élodie’s jaw tightened.
”'Incidental'? These creatures could be the sign of something far worse! If you refuse to act...”A shadowed Councilor’s eyes glimmered in frost-blue light. “The artifacts are irreplaceable. Their power defines the Brotherhood’s operations. Your concern is irrelevant unless it affects their recovery. That is your priority.”
A third Councilor leaned forward, voice dry and precise. “Élodie Baptiste, you lost the Undead Hunter previously. If you do not recover them...”
There was a pregnant pause as the Councilors looked at each other. "... Then we will have to decide if you truly have a place within the Brotherhood."
Elodie’s fingers curled into fists at her sides; she had to fight back
teares, but her voice remained steady.
”I understand the stakes, Councilors. I do. But I will not ignore threats that endanger the innocent just to chase artifacts. That is not the Brotherhood I swore to serve.”The lead Councilor’s holographic form flickered, robes rippling as if stirred by an impatient wind. “Your sentiment is noted, Élodie Baptiste. Emotion will not recover the Hunters. Facts and results will. You were entrusted with these artifacts. Their retrieval is non-negotiable.”
”I have made no claim otherwise,” Elodie said,
”But these creatures... what use will the Hunters be if the city falls to them?!”A murmur rippled through the Council’s holographic forms, voices overlapping like wind through shattered glass. The shadowed Councilor’s frost-blue gaze pierced her. “... Élodie, the Council will not divert resources to chase shadows. Focus on the artifacts. That is your only mandate. Everything else—collateral.”
”'Collateral'? That girl only survived because I was there!”The lead Councilor’s hand raised slightly, cutting her off. “Enough. Your objections are recorded. They will not alter the Council’s decision. You are dismissed.”
Elodie sighed.
”Understood.”As the holograms flickered and dissolved, leaving the chamber bathed in quiet frost-light once more, Elodie’s mind raced. The Council would not act. They would prioritize the artifacts above the people, above the danger. She straightened, sliding Rose Petal back into its sheath, and turned toward the door. The sound of distant laughter and celebration drifted faintly through the corridors. Elodie stepped into the night, the cold biting at her skin, and her gaze settled on the festive streets below. Somewhere among the crowds, the girl—the vessel—had survived. She did not know her name, but she would find her. The Council’s priorities would not dictate her actions.
”Tonight,” Elodie whispered to herself, voice lost among the wind,
“I find her. I find out what they are, and I make sure she survives.”Those were the last words she said before she shifted into a crow and soared the night skies.
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