Roman — Roleplayer Guild

Location: The House#2.05
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Featuring Special Guest @Stormyx as Emma Frost
𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊...𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖞 𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊? 𝕮𝖆𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖒𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝕴 𝖆𝖒?
𝖄𝖔𝖚...𝖜𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖆𝖞 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌? 𝕴 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖌𝖊𝖙 𝖒𝖞 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘...
𝕴'𝖒 𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖙...𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖘𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖘 𝖐𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖔𝖓 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖌.
𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝕴'𝖒 𝖍𝖆𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖉! 𝕭𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕴 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖉, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝕴 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖍𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉;
𝕴'𝖒 𝖍𝖆𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖉! 𝕭𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖜𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖇,
𝕴𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖍𝖆𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉.

New York was a sprawl in Emma Frost’s eyeline from the window of her apartment. A long and electric horizon of towers rising like teeth to a bright sky; angles of grey shattering the blue of it as steel bit into clouds. It was not the natural haven of Krakoa, but was still familiar. It was a home of another kind and in all of the shapes and patterns of the buildings, Emma could feel energetic frequencies and pulses of life from all around. Her trip had been useful, in more ways than one. There were the plans for the gala of course, but her rendezvous with Jessica Jones had proven to have been useful too; even if the information sat poorly.

She reached outward with her mind. Careful. Precise. Pressing not to see, but to feel whatever was out there; skimming through the psychic weather to trace the echoes of whatever hand had stirred the water. The skyline wavered and shimmered in response. Was it fatigue? She thought, a momentary lapse? But the glass that her hand pressed to softened and the skyscrapers began to run upwards like wet paint and smoke flowing against gravity. Blue and grey and shades in between unravelling to nothing as walls began to rise around her. 

They were dark, old, and bore the slow scars of time. Where she had been looking out upon avenues, corridors unfolded and a ceiling arched overhead with a thrum; ribbed like the inside of a cathedral or the belly of some long dead beast. Emma drew in a sharp breath, “what…?”. Her voice sounded thin and different in here, as if already swallowed. It wasn’t a projection or an illusion and she hadn’t been pulled sideways into some astral half-place. The pressure that was around her was total and enclosing; bruising up her spine and reverberating in her teeth and behind her eyes. She’d been taken.

It wasn’t falling. She felt no vertigo, no rush, but the pull of a steady and merciless insistence. Back, back, back, as if she were being rewound and in response the White Queen planted her will like iron and pushed. From such a push, followed a painful resonance so immensely cosmic, that it pulled her frozen into place as if she were held by a great and invisible hand. Every attempt to fight back against it with her mind only caused it to become heavier and louder until it screamed a pulsing cacophony in her skull. Emma released.

This was not a trap, she realised. No, traps were crude and easily bent to her will. This was something else entirely. This was a theft that had been performed exquisitely. Without the pressure, she straightened herself into something cold and composed and let her mind close in on itself, layer upon layer as a fortress. Whatever had brought her here would find no easy purchase to her thoughts and memories. As she walked, the rooms unfolded in sequence and she passed through three of them; each were almost identical in their shape and size. Furnished with antiques chosen not for comfort but for witness. Oil paintings watched from the walls. The furniture was something between living and dead, still and undisturbed. For how long? It was unclear. Yes, each room was different. A changed hour on the clock, a chair positioned differently, a change of colour on the walls. Emma noticed all of the differences, memorising them as if they may be clues to an exit from this place, this House. This strange and heavy House, the foreign current of its energy made her nervous and by the time she had reached the fourth door, her irritation had sharpened into something cold and purposeful. Whatever this game was, it was interfering with her work and Emma Frost did not tolerate interference. She opened the door.

Inside of this room stood a young man, alone and positioned near the centre. He was neither restrained nor cowering. Between the walls of room four the vague hum of energy deepened and she stopped, her gaze fixing on the man already, memorising the set of his shoulders and his stance, the way in which his hair sat, even the visual weight of the his clothing, searching for any tension in his posture and cataloging a psychic absence around him. He was not the source of the pressure.“Well now,” she began; her voice level as her eyes moved over him once more with a clinical interest. “For what purpose have I found you?”

The woman was new. John had experienced nearly all he thought he could experience within the walls of this never-ending House, the House that could be anything except an exit; but the woman was new. 

She stood tall and proud and strong, and cast a shadow over John. He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in this room - the last thing he could remember was fleeing from that invisible writhing bulk in the darkness below, unseen yet burnt into his memory forever, a lingering anti-image of nothing that he knew would never leave his mind and haunt his nightmares - and then he was here, and she had opened the door and stepped through and regarded him with suspicion and superiority and demanded answers, answers he knew he could not provide. Was this the House? Was this some kind of honeytrap? In any other situation John thought he’d happily let this woman, in her statuesque physique and intelligent eyes and domineering presence, run rings around him and drain his meagre wallet dry in hollow pursuit, but in the House, all John could think was all the horrible ways her maw and flesh might split and tear and swallow him entirely, to become another absence like the hungry mouths of the black things had left behind. What purpose? What purpose indeed - what purpose had any of this? What purpose had the House in its continual torment, of all the fresh ways it sought to poke holes in his soul and his psyche? For what purpose have I found you? John was sure he didn’t know, and he didn’t want to find out. He didn’t answer - he just turned on his heels and fled through a door, quite happy to reject utterly whatever this new horror could be before it had chance to reveal itself.

He could flee at whatever speed he desired. He could take himself rooms away and she’d still reach him. Emma was not about to chase after him. Not in Manolo custom slingbacks. Not on this carpet. No, instead she peered forward in other ways; catching the static of his stray thoughts as they left a trail like breadcrumbs to wherever he thought he was going. All questions and no answers; shades and colours of a horrible and cloying darkness.

𝕀'𝕞 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕘𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦. 𝕀'𝕞 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕕 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕠, 𝕚𝕥 𝕤𝕖𝕖𝕞𝕤.

Her words travelled freely until she found him again. In that moment of eyeing him up and down she hadn’t expected him to be so eager to get away from someone and all that did was add a growing suspicion that he might be the cause of her being here - whether by malice or accident was what she sought to learn. 

John thought it was good she refused to chase him but incredibly unsettling that he could know her intent and her words without hearing her voice or even being in the same room as her; though the latter point was quickly made moot, as despite crashing through living rooms and dining halls and studies in a thoroughly straight line, he soon found himself pushing through a doorway and coming face-to-face with the woman once again. She looked over him with one eyebrow cocked and a distinct look of unimpressed impatience, dressing him down without a word. John merely bent over, resting against his own knees as he caught his breath and held up one hand to seize just a moment before he answered.

“If you’re not just another trick, then yes, you’re stuck.” He said, taking one last deep breath and standing upright, though still cowed somewhat by her demeanour. “John,” he offered, holding out a grubby hand to shake; she looked at it but did not take it, and John cleared his throat, pulling it back to his side. “Who’re you? And what’s with the, uh…” he trailed off, waggling a finger near his temple to try and indicate the voice he’d heard in his head without actually having to say such silly things as ‘psychic’ and ‘telepathy’, though he fumbled for any other explanation, and in the grand scheme of things, why did that seem an order of ridiculous above everything else he’d experienced?

“Emma. Emma Frost,” she said in response; watching him still, partway in her own thoughts and partway listening; present all the same. “Curious that you fell back through here. Has this happened to you so far?” she asked as she moved to the doorway that he had come back through and placed a hand against it as if searching for any pulse of life. It was evident to her that John may have been here for some time. “Yes, I’m a telepath,” she began as her hand ran slowly up the wall and found nothing. “Your instinct was correct with that. Unfortunately–” she sighed and brought her hand closer to herself and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in slow circles, “while there is energy here and lots of it, it is not a kind I’ve ever experienced.”

Once again her eyes traced slowly over the room to take in each detail as if to seek for a clue amidst it. “I am no trick of the light, but certainly suspicious of how I could have been summoned here from my New York apartment.” She met John again and stared deep at him. “How did you come to be here, John? Better still, do you want to get out?”

“The House puts you where it wants you.” John answered, shrugging, and left it at that. He didn’t have any better explanation to offer. He raised his eyebrows when Emma confirmed she was, indeed, psychic, but he caught himself before he managed to utter a word in protest or disbelief; who was he to deny the unusual, especially here? Still, it felt like another layer peeled back from the world. Sure, Hell and demons and sinister ancestral spirits of long-dead magicians was one thing, but that all seemed…congruent with itself. Telepaths? Emma Frost had waltzed in from a different genre entirely. 

His wandering eyes shot up as she addressed him directly, commanding attention and meeting his gaze with intensity that made him uncomfortable. 
“Uuh…not sure. Think I walked in, truth be told? Can’t remember quite right. House has a way of stealing time from you. Obviously I’d like to leave but it’s trickier than all that.”
He walked over to the front door, carefully brushing past Emma and then wrapping a hand around the doorknob. He rattled it, the sound of the wood and brass knocking back and forth in the frame now a very familiar tune to his ears. The door did not open.
“You’re welcome to try but the damn thing is shut fast and has been ever since I arrived. As for other ways out - I’ve been all over, and through some places a house has no business containing. The one thing the House doesn’t seem to have is an exit.”

“Then we have to make one, John,” Emma said as her irritability increased beneath the surface at the man’s efforts to open the door, and his inability to speak with clarity. “Tell me everything you remember so far,” she added with a curt breath. She would get her information either way, perhaps it was some kind of spell of the House that was causing him confusion. Emma let her arm flash with transformation into a clean and merciless form; her previously soft musculature enhanced then with the cruel brilliance of her diamond mutation and she swung and drove a clenched fist forward in a single and decisive motion. It was less of an act of rage than punishment, her impatience ran through the impact. The door shuddered under the cold and unyielding force, but it didn’t break. It bent; the wood at the point of impact folded around Emma’s fist, a small divot forming before bouncing back, snapping into place like rubber. If John was shocked or astounded by either the door’s strange properties or the marvel of Emma’s sparkling diamond skin, he didn’t show it. Instead, he enjoyed his own small moment of smugness. 

“We could go upstairs? I haven’t gone upstairs yet.” He offered. Emma just looked at him. He shrugged. “I don’t remember much. The House takes things away. I woke up in my flat this morning, had some brekky, and then by all memory walked out of my front door and in through this one, not a single step between. I had a book with me, not sure where that came from. Or where it’s gone, come to think of it…” he trailed off, peeling away from the door to investigate the rest of the antechamber in search of the book that he’d seen under his double’s arm before being pushed down the hole. He spoke as he wandered, in a bored tone like he was recounting the day’s errands, tapping each of his fingers in sequence as he ran back through the course of events thusfar. “Explored for a bit, looking for a way out. Found a monster, and a girl. Monster disappeared, girl came with me, came back here only it was a hole now, another me appeared, pushed us in the hole, woke up without the girl, found the girl again but she didn’t recognize me, more monsters ate her then started eating everything else, ran away, ended up back here and found you. Say, the name ‘Astra’ mean anything to you?” He gave up looking for the book and crept close again, squinting through his eyes at Emma’s expression, trying to make her striking features and crisp blonde hair match Astra’s mousey face and wild dirty waves, to no avail. “No, I suppose not.”

“Astra,” Emma repeated slowly. No, this name did not hold personal resonance to her but the thought of a girl being eaten by monsters twisted unpleasantly in her mind as if it was that which struck something personal. He was correct to keep moving in directions they had not and still impatience and frustration was gnawing at her. John’s half-remembered and fragmented thoughts. There had to be something he had not seen and something beneath the surface. As he squinted at her she seized her opportunity to let her own consciousness reach for him, a tendril of her own mind brushing against the edges of his memories of the House and she did so with a precision that was delicate and unwilling to tear away at the fabric of him. Flickers came first in visions of the strange, and of the image of Astra and shifting shadows from within the walls of the House that then became windows and let some slivers of things creep through before that were buried but made up the core of him. 

Behind the fragments of the House and from beyond the shifting glass panes was another place from a deeper journey where there was a reek of mud and despair. A landscape of complexity and a desperate choice made to save another that lingered at the fringes, but screamed through him too. The temptation to dig deeper rang through Emma; made up from the desire to escape first and then a curiosity second. Moving through the current of his mind it was clear to her that he was in fact the key to this mystery and the centre of which it all moved. John was a survivor, she was gentler still as she withdrew from him. “Not bad, John Constantine,” she said - his whole name said with respect. “Most would have lost themselves by now, you’re holding together.”

John’s face creased together as he furrowed his brows. He’d felt that same lingering brush against the forefront of his mind again, but suspected Emma had peered deeper this time; he hoped, bitter and sarcastic, that she’d enjoyed whatever she’d found lurking in there. He certainly didn’t, and he wasn’t overly keen on the pity either.
“Sure. Don’t really have time for another meltdown at the mo.” He answered, and then moved to go upstairs, only half-caring if she followed.

Upstairs was neither different nor identical to the rest of the House John had trekked through thusfar; truly, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Bedrooms were the word of the day up here, with airing cupboards bigger than the rooms they were attached to and bathrooms that stretched into pipe-lined depths with the echoing sound of trickling water down unseen drains. One bedroom was utterly literal, the floor itself a stretched-out mattress and the opposite wall a headboard that splayed up to the ceiling, chesterfield pleating laid out all the way up to the coving; the adjoining en-suite was simply a shower cubicle of ten metres square, a hundred nozzles and knobs lining the walls, and a stately ceramic sink for a central supporting pillar. None of it fazed John, but Emma was on-guard; the impossibilities of the architecture never ceased. 

The entire repeated architecture was a lesson in bad taste. A vulgar devotion to symmetry that continued to insist. Emma did not feel the need to explain herself for what she did least of all to apologise for what she saw; that didn’t mean that her actions didn’t also leave room for further bad taste in her mouth. She didn’t know this man, only now she knew him all too well from the corners that were his and his alone and she’d peered into them. His sacrifice and what he did in the depths of an elsewhere and below; his Katabasis. Gods, she’d have done the same given the chance. The bad taste felt like copper in its permeating sharpness and it was the colour of a bitter kind of jealousy; the truth she’d bitten down too hard on and hadn’t intended to claim. That was truly the worst of it. It wasn’t a small or mean jealousy, but reverent and aching with a bitter admiration. 

“This place,” Emma said at last in her deliberate and pedagogical calmness. “It's indulgent. This House is a living thing. I know that much,” Her gaze traced the walls again without her needing to touch them, only half-caring if John listened. “It has a mind, but does it have a conscience? I don’t want to romanticise it but I know it remembers things and I know that it knows what hurts.” Then, she moved forward with the muscle memory that brought her closer to John in the same way she’d stand in front of any of her students in such a wretched and unknown place. Feet firmly planted, heels and all and she closed her eyes to let that well constructed wall start to move away and make room for all that she was holding to keep out; and all of her power she was holding in. Brick by brick it moved and the pressure changed in the room as if the House was inhaling with anticipation. “I’m not interested in more tricks,” she said, her eyes still shut. “I’m not interested in whatever narrative it thinks it’s telling. Like I said, John Constantine, we have to make an exit.”

And then she reached.

ₐcₜ dₑcᵢₛᵢᵥₑₗy ₐₙd ₛₒₒₙₑᵣ; ₜₕₑ ₐcₐdₑₘy ₒf ₘₑdᵢcₐₗ ᵣₒyₐₗ Cₒₗₗₑgₑₛ fₒᵣgₒₜ ₜₕₑ ₛₐᵤcₑ. ₜₕₑy ₕₐᵥₑ ₜₒ ₛₕᵢₚ ᵢₙₜₑᵣₙₐₜᵢₒₙₐₗₗy ₐₙd ᵤₙdₑᵣgₒ ₐ ₛₚₑcᵢₐₗᵢₛₑd bᵣₐᵢₙ ₛcₐₙ. ₜₕₑ ᵢₙₜₑᵣₙₑₜ ᵢₛ ₐ ₗᵢfₑₗᵢₙₑ cₐₗₗᵢₙg ₒₙ ₜₕₑ ₚᵣᵢₘₑ ₘᵢₙᵢₛₜₑᵣ ₜₒ "dₒ ₜₕₑ ᵣᵢgₕₜ ₜₕᵢₙg" ₋ ₚᵤₜ ₜₕₑₘ ₜₒgₑₜₕₑᵣ ₐₙd ₜₕₑy ₘₐₖₑ ₐ ₛcₑₙₑ. ₐ ₚₐₚₑᵣ dᵢₛₚₗₐy ₑₐₛₑₗ ₛₕₒwₛ ₜₕₑ bₑgᵢₙₙᵢₙg ₒf ₐ ₚᵤbₗᵢc ₕₑₐₗₜₕ ₑₘₑᵣgₑₙcy ₋ cₕₑₐₚₑᵣ, ₛcₐₗₐbₗₑ, ₘₒᵣₑ ₐccₑₛₛᵢbₗₑ ₋ ₜₕₑ ₜᵣᵢₐₗ ᵢₛ ₑₓₚₑcₜₑd ₜₒ ₑₙd, ₐₙd ₛₒₘₑ dᵢᵣₜ ₒₙ ₜₕₑ ₛᵢdₑ, ₚₗₑₐₛₑ.

ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬 𝔈𝔪𝔪𝔞
𝒜𝓉 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝟥𝟫 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹. 𝐼𝓉'𝓈 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝒶𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 - 𝒶𝓃 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐸𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒽. 𝒜 𝒽𝒾𝑔𝒽-𝓈𝓅𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓁𝒾𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝒹𝑔𝑒: 𝒾𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓁 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒷𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓀𝓈. 𝒯𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝑒𝒾𝓇𝒹, 𝒻𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓀𝓁𝓎, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒'𝓈 𝒶 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓃 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈, 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓃𝓊𝒸𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝒻𝓊𝑒𝓁 𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝑒. 𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝒶 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒻𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓁𝒾𝒶𝓇 𝑜𝒷𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓌 𝓊𝓅 𝒶 𝓃𝑒𝓌 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓈𝑒.

ᴀ ꜱɪᴍɪʟᴀʀʟʏ ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟʏ ɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴏᴄᴄᴜʀʀᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴛ ᴇɴʜᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴀʀᴇᴀ ᴠᴇʟᴏᴄɪᴛʏ ᴇxᴘʟᴏʀᴇʀ, ᴀ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴘᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴇʟʟ-ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ɴᴇʙᴜʟᴀ, ᴀ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅ ᴏꜰ ɪʀᴏɴ ᴀᴛᴏᴍꜱ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴜᴢᴢʟɪɴɢ ꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴛᴜʀᴇ. ɪ'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜ ᴍʏ ᴄᴜᴘ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇᴀ ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀꜱᴛ, ᴏʀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇꜱ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀɴɪɢʜᴛ - ɪɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇ - ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴇꜱ! ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴠᴇꜱᴛɪɢᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ʀᴇᴘᴏʀᴛ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇᴅ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴇʀʀᴏʀ ᴀꜱ ᴡᴇʟʟ ᴀꜱ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ ꜱᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴇ, ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴠᴏᴜʀɪᴛᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛɪɴɢꜱ ᴏɴ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ʀᴀɪɴ - ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇꜱ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ ʙᴇ ᴡɪꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ!
𝔄𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔬 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔢𝔫𝔡? 𝔐𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔡𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔪𝔶 𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔶?
ᴳᵒᵛᵉʳⁿᵐᵉⁿᵗ ᵖʳᵉᵖᵃʳᵉˢ ᵗᵒ ᵃⁿⁿᵒᵘⁿᶜᵉ ᵖˡᵃⁿˢ; ʸᵉˢᵗᵉʳᵈᵃʸ ᵍᵃᵛᵉ ʰⁱᵐ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᶜʰᵃⁿᶜᵉ, ᵇᵘᵗ ˡᵉᵗ ᵐᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ⁱᶠ ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ ʰᵉˡᵖ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃⁿʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ. ᴵᵐᵃᵍⁱⁿᵉ ᵇᵉⁱⁿᵍ ᵈᵉᵃᵈ⁻ˢᵉᵗ ᵒⁿ ᵇᵉⁱᵍᵉ! ᴳʳᵒʷⁱⁿᵍ ᵉᵛⁱᵈᵉⁿᶜᵉ ᵒᶠ "ʰᵉᵃˡᵗʰ ʰᵃʳᵐˢ" ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗᵉᶜʰ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵈᵉᵛⁱᶜᵉˢ ʳᵉᵛᵉᵃˡ ˢᵘᶜᶜᵉˢˢⁱᵛᵉ ˢʰᵒʳᵗᶜᵒᵐⁱⁿᵍˢ ᵒᶠ ᴹᵉˢˢⁱᵉʳ ⁵⁷. ᴵᵗ'ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵃˡˡ ˢʰᵃʳᵏˢ ʰᵉ ʰᵃᵗᵉˢ, ᵃ ᵇˡᵘⁿᵗ ʳᵉˢᵖᵒⁿˢᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᶠᵃⁱˡˢ ᵗᵒ ᵃᵈᵈʳᵉˢˢ ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ ⁿᵒ ᶜᵒᵍⁿⁱᵗⁱᵛᵉ ⁱˢˢᵘᵉˢ. ᴵ ᵗᵒˡᵈ ᵐʸˢᵉˡᶠ ʸᵉˢᵗᵉʳᵈᵃʸ ᴵ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵉˢᵘˡᵗˢ ʷⁱˡˡ ᵇᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵖᵃʳᵉᵈ; ᵗʰᵉ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵒᵖᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᵃᵛᵃⁱˡᵃᵇˡᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵘˢ ⁱˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᵛᵃᵖᵒʳⁱˢᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᵒᶠ ᵃ ᵖˡᵃⁿᵉᵗ ⁽ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵘⁿ ᵍᵒᵉˢ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵃ ˢⁱᵐⁱˡᵃʳ ᵖʳᵒᶜᵉˢˢ⁾, ᵃ ᵐⁱⁿⁱᵐᵃˡˡʸ ⁱⁿᵛᵃˢⁱᵛᵉ, ᶜᵒˢᵗ⁻ᵉᶠᶠᵉᶜᵗⁱᵛᵉ ᵐᵉᵗʰᵒᵈ, ᵇᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ ᵃʳᵉ ʰⁱᵈᵈᵉⁿ ʳⁱˢᵏˢ ᵒᶠ ᵘⁿʳᵉˢᵗʳⁱᶜᵗᵉᵈ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ʷⁱᵗʰ ˡⁱᵐⁱᵗᵉᵈ ⁱⁿᵗᵉʳᵛᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ. ᵂᵉ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ⁿᵒ ʳᵉᵃᵈʸ ᵉˣᵖˡᵃⁿᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᶠᵒʳ ⁱᵗ ʸᵉᵗ.

𝗗𝗮𝗿𝗸, 𝘂𝗻𝗿𝗲𝗴𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗮 𝗻𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄 𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗽𝗲. 𝗔𝘁𝗼𝗺𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲-𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗻𝘁-𝘀𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻-𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘀. 𝗘𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘆 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗱. 𝗣𝗮𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗲𝗳 𝗘𝘅𝗲𝗰𝘂𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗜𝗻𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘂𝘁𝗲. 𝗧𝘄𝗼 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗰𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗻𝗮𝗻𝘁𝘀, 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗶𝗻𝘀 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗴𝗴 𝗵𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁. 𝗔𝗻 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁; 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗺 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿-𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗴𝗼.

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔢𝔫.

𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐬, 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 - 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝟑𝟎𝟎𝟎 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐇𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐮𝐦: 𝐰𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲, 𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞 - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞! 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐁𝐢𝐨-𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐬-𝟎𝟎𝟐 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥; 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐤, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖙𝖞 𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖉𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖊𝖓.

Ｇｏｔ　ａ　ｌｉｇｈｔ？

ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢!

All of the noise collapsed inside of her mind, asyndetic layers of words stacked together; glued into sentences. Conjunctions in conjunction with nothing left to connect, 𝔄𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 and and until the meaning wore 𝔰𝔬 thin. Somewhere inside the words, something 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔫 waited. Syntax, interrupted. Thickened and slowed; pressed inward until the words were no longer saying and were only occupying space. And and and, but but but, joining what had already joined binding noise 𝔱𝔬 noise. Voices. Pressure. Heat. Words. Sound without sound. Colour without light. Names, numbers, fragments, echoes, wrong. The inside of her mind splintered with it as thoughts tore loose from sequence and the words collapsed before they could finish themselves; six and seven and eight voices all of them in the dark and all turning her minds eye to 𝔰𝔢𝔢 into colours and pull her down with them but! Think think think think stop 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 thinking listen think burning through her and dragging. She latched to the one that spoke to her. The growling thrum behind the door that lived within the layers at the 𝔢𝔫𝔡?.

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔢𝔫.

Outside of the mindscape and back in the House Emma's body turned slowly to diamond as her mutation responded to her distress. A thin  and elongated rasp from her lips and wide and glass-bright eyes. Pupils pinpricked tight from strain. The reverberation did not stay contained and instead swept her as an agonising, encompassing resonance burning through her limbs like a curse; forcing her body to harden against what her mind could no longer hold. The sheen crept her skin as she hardened to diamond and when it was completed Emma stood sculpted in full luminous perfection. She was left half-maddened at the feeling of defeat it brought her and half-shaken still even then at the severity. She turned her head slowly to John. 

Behind him now was 𝕸𝖞 𝕲𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖞 something that stood too close to the wall as if it had grown from it, or, out of it. It was occupying a corner and bent where there should have been no bend. Thin and tall. A body of narrow black stone and all featureless save for a single unblinking and reflective eye that appeared like polished obsidian offset against the matte of its skin. A mouth yawned open; a horizontal rupture that extended far beyond where it should have and it revealed nothing inside of itself but an absence shaped like hunger. No noise came, only the feeling of a heavy pressure that dimmed the light of the room. If such a thing frightened her, she did not, and would not show it. Not yet. Not now.

It was not the only one. Another appeared in the centre of the room and it seemed as if the room could no longer agree on its shape and form. From one angle it appeared squat and compact yet from another it was impossibly tall and the head of it pressed to the ceiling at an uncomfortable angle. It had that same awful mouth that did not stretch the body; the body simply failed to account for it as if it were a miscalculation. "If you have a weapon, John, then it is time to get that ready. I will not ask twice and you should know I will not protect you if you act recklessly."

John saw Emma looking past him and knew there was another thing behind him but he could not tear his gaze from the one in front. He tried to control his breathing and calm his heart rate but it was of no use; having seen what the last pack had reduced the House to with their hungry, all-devouring appetites, he had discovered a new fear within himself, a fear of an oblivion so complete it could not be named or reckoned with. The House had removed the memories it deemed unnecessary from him; he had no doubt that these creatures would similarly remove him from the memory of the world, an absence so definitive that there would be no trace of him ever having presence at all. Weapon? No, not by half - but he wasn’t going to go without a fight. He’d smash and demolish and tear the place down plank by plank, brick by brick, raze it to the ground before he let it subsume him into the living absence that lurked beneath the House, or was the House, or hid within it, or a hundred other terrible secrets. As if on cue the House rumbled so subtly as to be near-imperceptible, and there was suddenly a door to John’s side that hadn’t been there before, a closet that creaked open and revealed a large fire-axe leaning against the frame. There was a vague sense of daring, mocking, like the House was making fun of his internal rage. John swept the axe up in both hands, liking the feel of the heft of it in his grasp, and decided not to care about the intention behind its sudden appearance. 
“Ready when you are, love.” He growled, bracing himself to meet the monsters head-on.

The monsters made the first move; the one John was facing moved without moving, its form snapping into an agreed-upon shape as it seemed to impart itself on the dubious ‘reality’ of the House; it slid through the air across the carpet and stretched gnarled fingers with too many joints out toward him, softly slowly creeping across the space between them until John, suddenly unrooted from his fixating fear, ducked out of the way of the grasping limbs and brought the fire axe up above his head and down in a singular motion; the blade of the axe-head chopped cleanly through the forearm of the monster like a knife through smoke. Black spattered out from the severed hand, the fingers embedded in the wall behind where John had been stood mere moments ago and already transforming back into simply part of the House, the spackled paint crawling out and up the digits as the hand melted into the architecture; spawned from and returned hence. The monster reeled back, its mannerisms made in slow-motion, the cut limb folding in on itself at the stump. It seemed to stumble, as if surprised by the resistance. The eye swivelled in its socket, looking at everything except John, looking like a child seeking reassurance. There was none. John raised the axe again and advanced forward, emboldened by the discovery that these creatures could be felled.

Satisfied that John could handle himself, Emma didn’t swing or throw a punch, but braced. As the Gentry drew back a limb, or whatever it was from its shape that pretended to be a limb, Emma waited until it was flung forwards and then stepped into the attack. Upon impact a great peal rang out, sharp enough to bite the air itself and cathedral-loud. Stone on diamond. She shifted against her heel under the weight with a disdainful countenance; as if this kind of mindless brute force was vulgar and exploiting the weakness of it was what she did best. Emma did not yield to the weight of the attack. The force was returned straight back to the sender; a shockwave that sheared at the surface of the Gentry while cracks spiderwebbed it.

The thing recoiled and staggered as the limb crumbled away, the loss pulling it immediately off balance; inertia carrying and dragging its bulk forward into Emma’s path where she finally deigned to move. She turned at the shoulder and let her hips follow as she sent a clean and surgical blow into the exposed fault line of the Gentry. It staggered again – backwards this time, enough of an opening for Emma to look back over her shoulder. She observed John then, in his fight against his own Gentry and she understood it was no match for the will the man possessed. It was traced in the hell-corridors of his mind and the memories of his battles survived not by strength, but the simple and ferocious decision to keep going. That spark that was relentlessly human. 

The duo’s shared success against their opponents renewed the flicker of hope within John, and in response he drew the axe up again, down again, hacking and hacking and advancing on the creature as it thrashed back at him but felt the blows of the blade nonetheless, the reaching arms and gnashing mouth never finding purchase against John as the axe tore its form to ribbons. Every fragment absorbed back into the House, bloodless carnage until there simply wasn’t enough left of the thing to act under its own power, and the scraps left simply melted away. John didn’t stop there; lungs screaming, arms aching, he turned the axe on the House itself, chopping away at the floors and walls and furniture, reducing the décor to firewood and splinters. When he finally reached the end of his rage, his shoulders heaving as he gasped for air, the room was a wreck, shards and slivers littering the floor, holes torn in the walls, the axe itself lodged in the floor at a sharp angle.

Exactly the kind of recklessness she advised against, and exactly the kind of recklessness she couldn’t help but enjoy. As her own Gentry staggered and dragged to find a balance centre again, Emma swung her fist forward at the point of motion its bulk held the most weight. Once again as it met her diamond-fist straight on it crumbled and let out a soundless shriek; a gasping from its abyssal maw that trembled in silence. Emma didn’t hesitate then; already moving fast with the intent to end it. She leapt and raised her leg high to bring down a swift kick – brutal and efficient, that stopped it dead. There wasn’t enough time to celebrate or find a breath; in her head, the voice of the House boomed loud enough and force-hit her hard enough to bring her to her knees, her hands clutching to her temples as it penetrated past her diamond form and the pain detonated behind her eyes. 

An impossible trespass in her reality that hurt precisely because it should not, and could not exist and in it all the House opened itself to her. A stream of images, sounds, voices and stretching lines of flourishing binary all at once existing and dying. Emma’s eyes shut tight as she curled further into herself, the agonising volume of words and symbols and feelings of something other; an invader in every corner of her own mind. Behind her eyes she watched as every door opened and every corridor lengthened and every room stacked itself on another and another all inside of itself. A merciless sequence that kept her rooted to the floor as past, present, and future all tangled within.

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔢𝔫.

Too much. Far too much. This House fed and she felt its hunger. A seismic tremor inside of her own chest. It was a starving and endless and ancient thing. Finally, she forced up her head through the agony and drew air deep into her lungs that felt crushed by a gravity unknown and her gaze found John. “John,” she wheezed out, her voice splintered but steady. “Keep that book. Keep it close.” The house tightened its grip. “It hasn’t…” she broke midway to draw both hands to the ground and clench them against the floorboards, “consumed enough. This House is not yet finished with you. It will keep you here until-” Amidst the ringing pain she felt a deep shame that the House had brought her down so easily, and a fear at its cosmic strength. She also knew that were she a lesser thing it would have killed her outright and if it was consuming her then she would be sure to choke it and be the last word that would die in its throat. The defeat burned hot in her chest as the pressure surged until another door opened in her mind's eye and beyond it was her own apartment. Her window, her view of New York at night glittering like the light you were told never to run toward. “No.” The pull returned, that same violent thing that had brought her here was dragging her back and separating her from itself. “Not now.”

She didn’t want to leave; not to leave John alone in his wreckage, not after seeing the bones of the house and not after seeing its every dimension. Joohhhnnnn she tried to call for him again. Reaching a hand up toward him with everything she had to reach with, even as she felt herself dragging and tearing away. Even broken and even shamed, she had something remaining for the man and as she was torn and sundered through this plane to the next and back to her own, with every focus she had, she gave to John. For that one moment of quiet to reach back to his mind; as she dissolved away from him, words echoed out and echoed out in sequence and broken and through the dissolve until they were no more.

𝕆𝕜𝕒𝕪 𝕘𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘. 𝕁𝕠𝕙𝕟 𝕓𝕖. ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖 𝕥𝕠. 𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕐𝕠𝕦’𝕣𝕖 𝕠𝕜𝕒𝕪, 𝕁𝕠𝕙𝕟 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖, 
𝕘𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕓𝕖 𝔾𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠…. 𝕆𝕜𝕒𝕪, 𝕪𝕠𝕦’𝕣𝕖 𝕁𝕠𝕙𝕟 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖, 𝕓𝕖. 
𝕁𝕠𝕙𝕟, 𝕪𝕠𝕦’𝕣𝕖 𝕠𝕜𝕒𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕓𝕖 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖 𝕘𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘 
ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖, 𝕥𝕠 𝕓𝕖 𝕁𝕠𝕙𝕟. 𝕐𝕠𝕦’𝕣𝕖 𝕘𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘 
𝕠𝕜𝕒𝕪. 𝕋𝕠 𝕓𝕖 𝕁𝕠𝕙𝕟, 𝕠𝕜𝕒𝕪 𝕘𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘. 𝕐𝕠𝕦’𝕣𝕖 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖. 

𝔾𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕓𝕖 𝕠𝕜𝕒𝕪, 𝕪𝕠𝕦’𝕣𝕖 𝕁𝕠𝕙𝕟 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖.

”Goddamn fucking right I am.” John said, wrenching the axe out of the ground; and then he was alone again.
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