| “Ya’ think so, oynon? Well... I still can’t believe you went and got yourself arrested by a bunch of thirteen year olds when I wasn’t looking!” |
| The mountain of a man sitting across from him laughs even harder at his own remark. Its booming reverberations fill the filthy, rundown factory room around them. |
| “Hmph, unless my memory has failed me,” Dankovsky counters, “I, most assuredly, do not recollect seeing any badges on those lupine, little gang members who, may I remind you, violently assaulted me and dragged my unconscious being to these damned warehouses.” |
| “Hardly the point.” |
| Burakh takes another swig from the bottle of twyrine and raises an unsteady finger at him. His words slur greater than before. |
| “Badge or no, I had to waste good time going to spring your dumb ass out of child jail.” |
| Scoffing, the smaller doctor swings his arm out to punch his colleague jovially in the shoulder. |
| “Ow! Shudkher, emshen, didn’t know you actually had some bite behind your bark!” |
| Warm laughter continues to spill forth from the two men. All their pain and exhaustion had strung them so thin that any emotional inhibitions remaining felt truly fried. Just a bit of the local drink and they found themselves dropping any lingering pretenses of formality between them. |
| The sense of finality was a welcomed relief, regardless of its cruel cost. Relishing in the simple knowledge that their trial was over - decision made, orders given, plague defeated, the sick soon to be healed, ad astra per aspera - allows them to take the weight of the world off their shoulders. If only for the night. |
| Dankovsky knows the bile will rise up again tomorrow. When he returns to his temporary accommodations and sees the sky above the Stone Yard empty and clear. He will mourn the loss of a miracle for many, many days to come. |
| He also knows, bitterly, that the Haruspex was right. Where he had failed, the strange and courageous menkhu succeeded. His colleague found not just the cause of the Pest, but it’s cure. And he argued his case better than any professional debater Dankovsky had previously gone up against. |
| ‘Hats off to you, dear Burakh.’ |
| Bloodshot, brown eyes steal a glance at the grandfather clock behind his drinking partner. It is nearly midnight. |
| He clears his throat before speaking, “How about a toast?” |
| “Eh?” The surgeon blinks as he processes the abrupt proposal. “A toast? To what did you have in mind?” |
| The corners of Dankovsky’s mouth soften upwards into an unpracticed, yet genuine smile. |
| “To new beginnings.” |
| “I’ll happily drink to that, Daniil.” |
| Glass bottles clink awkwardly together. |
| Distantly, the bell tower tolls. |
| The day is over. |
| ... |
| Uproarious applause assaults Dankovsky so suddenly and harshly that he has to throw his hands over his ears. Cheering quickly follows. |
| He’s standing now, his body seemingly to have moved without his will. His head swivels in all directions, trying to take in where in the hell he is, eyes fighting to adjust to the sudden darkness. |
| The building is large, the horrendous sound of smacking hands echoes deafeningly off it’s high ceiling. There’s rows and rows of seats taking up most of the room like locusts. All facing away from him and descending down toward the gaudily lit, bright stage at the opposite end of the room. |
| Ah. The Theater. |
| (And it’s a full house). |
| Every seat is occupied by those disturbing, black suited performers whose singular defining feature are the wooden, contrastingly white faces they wear. The only thing breaking up their horde is the occasional bird costumed thespian, intermingled throughout the crowd. Whereas the thinner, plain-faced performers are standing and enthusiastically clapping with rapturous vigor, the bird’s outfits do not appear to allow for such upper body movement. Instead choosing to sway eerily back and forth in place, more phantom than man. |
| Dankovsky hastily searches his pockets for his revolver, his scalpel, any means of protection against the looming sense of dread gripping his bones. The feeling sinks deeper when he finds his jacket and trousers to be inexplicably empty. Not so much as a sewing needle on his person. |
| He notices Burakh to his right doing similar. Grimacing as he watches those surgeon’s hands still on his pouches, having reached the same conclusion. |
| Their eyes meet, stubborn defiance carved into Burakh’s expression. In spite of whatever omnipotent force is playing games with them and their surroundings, he’s thankful to have his colleague by his side. |
| As if reading his mind, the menkhu takes his hand, interlacing their fingers and holding onto him firmly. |
| Dankovsky gives a sharp nod. |
| They turn to the stage, ear-splitting applause still carrying on all around them. Rather than the expected scene of dramatic actors cavorting about in the limelight though, there’s what looks to be a large, white backdrop hung behind the pulled open stage curtains. |
| A projector screen, he realizes, after a moment. And displayed upon it there’s an almost entirely beige, painted image of parchment paper. Sporadic, small drawings of bottles, keys, blood, et cetera, dot the screen. However the main focus rests solely on the long list of red hued names scrolling past. |
| He recognizes none of them. If they’re townsfolk, it’s no one that he’s come across. |
| Guilt gnaws in his throat as his thoughts coalesce into one hollow conclusion: |
| It must be a list of the dead. |
| His attention diverts abruptly to the sound of a familiar voice. Somehow speaking at a casual, conversational volume and yet perfectly clear, as if the only sound in the room. |
| “Huh, twenty-two hours and thirty-eight minutes? Not the worst I’ve seen, but definitely could use some improvement.” |
| The Changeling is lounging leisurely in the theater chair just a few seats over from where the men are standing in the aisle, her legs propped up on the seat ahead of her. She dips a hand into the small paper bag on her lap, retrieving a handful of pretzels and shoves them into her mouth before continuing talking. |
| “Don’t think I’m not pissed at you though, Ripper,” she chews around the words. “Leaving my Bound to die like that? Shameful! Oh sure, you’ll save the dandy boy’s precious frigging Kains to score him a seat at the table, but my poor and downtrodden lot? You couldn’t even spare a single, measly shmowder. I’ll remember this when it’s my turn. Just you wait.” |
| Burakh’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly, searching for an appropriate response. Seemingly just as baffled by the so-called miracle girl’s commentary as Dankovsky is. |
| They are interrupted by an impromptu hush of darkness falling over the Theater. The projector screen remains lit, yet showing only black. No applause to be heard. Every seat (save for Clara’s) now empty and not a mask in sight. The only sounds the thanatologist can hear are his own thundering heartbeat in his ears and the impudent chewing from the girl. |
| There’s quick flickering over the screen, a film reel being reset, and then stark white words plastered across the black background. |
| |
| Ice-Pick Lodge |
| game development |
| |
| The strange words are positioned next to a stitched doll figure, made giant from being projected onto the wall. Looking not dissimilar from the God children’s dolls he bore witness to, in all their horror, not twelve hours prior. |
| He cries out suddenly. Stabbing pain shooting behind his eyes, straight through his skull. Like when he had tried in vain to approach the Steppe albino creature, the more he looked, the worse the agony throbbed, until he was forced to turn away, abandon the effort. |
| He squeezes his hand tight in the menkhu’s but feels- |
| Nothing. |
| His hand empty. |
| Dankovsky looks down disoriented at his two open palms. It can’t be! He whips his head around anxiously. Despite having been steadfast at his side throughout this apparent nightmare, Burakh is nowhere to be found. |
| “Pretty dumb to do his route first, not gonna lie. Everyone knows he’s the harder of the two of you idiots. But man, you’ll be an absolute breeze to play now,” Clara snickers from her chair. |
| He’s about to demand her to explain what the bloody hell she is going on about when he sees the screen has changed. Three faces are displayed upon it. Their three faces. The healers as depicted in harsh shadows of black and white. With Burakh’s in the center, somewhat dimmed by comparison. And there, right below- there on the stage, sits the man himself! |
| A held breath escapes Dankovsky’s chest. |
| Burakh’s seated square on a three-legged, rather frugal looking, wooden stool at the opposite end of the room. Two sister stools on either side of him, empty. All the dirt and blood and grim which had clung to his smock seemingly washed away clean. Like it was never there. His solid feet flat on the floor, healing hands placed evenly on his thighs, shoulders straight, and head pointed directly forward. His face- |
| “Artemy!” Dankovsky shouts, panic-stricken. |
| Over the man’s face rests a pale white, theatrical mask with two, drilled holes for eyes and a final one for a mouth. There’s no reaction from the Haruspex. |
| He breaks into a mad sprint, running down the length of the aisle toward the stage amidst the rows upon rows of abandoned seats. |
| Clara calls after him. “Hey, don’t forget about my Bound this time, brainy!” |
| Her words don’t register over the ringing in his ears. He must get to Burakh. Must save him. Must get them out of here. He’ll drag the man kicking and screaming out of this cursed town himself if that’s what it takes! His vision is fixed on Burakh and he still hasn’t moved. |
| Tears prick at the doctor’s eyes as he runs. |
| He can’t- It was finally over. They were safe. They were safe goddamnit! No more. No more no more no more please!
|
| “ARTEMY!” |
| The spotlight over the stage cuts out. |
| He can’t see Burakh. |
| For one last time… |
| the screen changes. |
