Of Wounds Of The Spirit Inflicted By Teeth - SCP Foundation

You're on your way home from the Sobeys on 33rd Street when this all starts. You work there. You are a produce clerk. It wasn't exactly your first choice, but it's alright. Your favourite thing is 'facing' the product. You like to stack up the apples and oranges into perfect, beautiful little pyramids. That is the only thing you like about the job.

As you're about to clock out today, after your usual eight and a half hours of occasionally interrupted daydreaming, someone calls your name. A fellow clerk, a little older than you. His name is Raj. You think it's short for something, but don't remember what.

"Ah," you reply, turning to face him. "What is it?"

"I dunno man, are you okay lately?" He gives you a broad smile, attempting to soften the question.

"Same as usual," you say, smiling back. You turn back toward the timecard puncher.

"Right." He reaches out and grabs your shoulder. His hand is warm and firm.

You turn back and meet his eyes. They are dark and kind and glittering with reflected fluorescent light. You stand still for a prolonged moment, suddenly transfixed with an unnameable feeling.

He lets go without saying anything else.

You turn over the memory of that conversation in your mind as you watch the bleary fall scenery pass by through the train window on your way home. The train enters a tunnel. You watch the concrete rush by beyond the train window, mere feet from your face.

You imagine those eyes again. For that one moment, you wanted so badly for him to say something else. You're not sure what, exactly. Something like "Yeah, but are you okay?" or "Man, what are you even doing here?" or "Sometimes when you're sweeping the produce area during off hours you just keep pushing the broom around in the same circle for like twenty minutes at a time and I can't tell if you're awake or asleep and it's weird and I think you should talk to someone about … something."

You are seized by the clear knowledge that if at that moment, if he had said anything like that, you would have broken down crying on the spot and maybe things would have been different. It's too late now, though. The moment has passed, and the feeling retreated back to the dark corner of your heart where it resides.

A few minutes later you reach your stop, the second to last on the line. You file off the train almost robotically, your mind still occupied with the mysteries of human communication, until you're suddenly roused by the shouts and gasps of the other passengers. Following their gaze, you spot a small… person? sprinting across the parking lot, pursued by what look like armed security guards. It's heading directly for the train; you squint your eyes to get a closer look. It's … not human, that's for sure. It's wearing something like a smock, grey but mostly stained red. It's moving faster than any human can run, but it's not going to reach the train on time at this rate.

It's not unusual to see strange things in this town. It is a cold and haunted place where unnatural things walk openly in the daylight, but usually they're not quite so… wild. One of the guards fires a handgun; the sound echoes eerily in the otherwise quiet evening. The creature stumbles but does not slow down. It's getting closer. The other passengers have largely fled the train platform.

You turn, walk back to the train you just left, and press the door button. It opens. A recorded voice politely requests that you stand clear of the doors, as this train is trying to depart. You ignore it and hold the door open.

The creature grows closer; you can see it a bit better now. Its mouth is open, panting with exertion, and that mouth contains a very large number of very strangely shaped teeth. What I am doing does not seem like a very good idea, you think to yourself, as if commenting on the actions of a character in a movie.

The creature barrels past you, through the train doors and directly into the wall on the other side of the train car, from which it rebounds to land sprawled out on the floor.

You let the door close and calmly return to your seat as the train pulls away, the shouts of the pursuing guards fading into the distance.

You watch the humanoid figure drag itself up from the floor into the seat across from you. It's smaller than you thought, and very thin. Its head is that of an animal you can't identify, with a little black nose and tall pointed ears on top of its head, and brownish fur that ends at the base of the neck. The rest of its body that you can see is that of an unusually thin human. Its eyes are not eyes, but merely indistinct swirling darkness where eyes should be. It is difficult to look directly at them.

It makes sudden, twitching, blurring movements. Blood drips from a large hole in its right ear, and a great deal more blood covers the strange grey smock it is wearing. The smell is remarkable. The other passengers have all retreated to the extreme far end of the train car; someone has pulled the passenger emergency alarm. You make uncomfortable eye contact with the strange creature, smiling and wondering how much longer you will live.

"Why did you do that?" Its voice is harsh, accusing. Not just inhuman but inorganic, like the twisting and scraping of metal on metal. Its mouth does not move.

"It looked like you needed some help?"

It looks down at the blood now staining the train floor, then up at you. "Your assistance is… appreciated," it says. It does not appreciate your assistance. You did not realize it was possible for spoken language to contain so much contempt. The extent of the bad decision you have made is slowly beginning to sink in.

"In repayment for this favour," it goes on, "I will not kill and eat you. I was otherwise going to. Is this acceptable?"

"Yes!" you reply. Your voice cracks embarrassingly; you are deeply frightened.

"Good. Now, may I have your name?"

"Oliver. Oliver Levenson," you reply, without hesitation. The creature's mouth opens for the first time since it entered the train. There's a movement your eyes can't follow, then a twisting, rending flash of teeth and an overwhelming surge of pain from somewhere deep inside your body. You fall sideways from your chair, collapsing onto the train floor as the world goes dark.

several hours later

Oliver Levenson stands on the front porch of a townhouse unit, hesitating for a moment before ringing the doorbell. There's something about this place that makes his fur stand on end. Simple warding spells, of the type any human with a degree of spiritual or religious education could produce, guard the perimeter. He can sense an above average amount of iron for a human dwelling. Not enough information to draw conclusions. He will continue with this course of action. He double checks the address on his newly acquired cell phone one more time.

This is his second stop since the incident on the train. The first was that unfortunate and nameless human's apartment. He spent a solid hour and a half in the shower there, getting the last of the blood out of his fur.

Oliver's former captors won't be able to track or identify him until they learn his new name, but, regrettably, a certain human is still alive. It's only a matter of time before he wakes up and tells them. Killing him would have been tidier, but it goes against Oliver's principles to owe favours to the dead.

There was very little of use to him in that apartment, and he finished his search with the impression that his latest victim was a very boring person. More pressingly, there was the issue of attire.

Oliver is a less than imposing four foot eight, counting ears, with a fairly thin frame even when he's been eating well. The previous owner of that apartment was … not four foot eight, and furthermore his fashion sense left much to be desired. After a thorough search, the most acceptable outfit he could put together involved wearing a band-logo t-shirt as a dress. This was the point that he started searching through photos and contacts on the phone in search of better prospects, and that is what brought him here, to the doorstep of this house. He rings the doorbell.

A woman answers the door. Short, stocky build, physically fit but not remarkably so. White. Unbleached dark brown hair and pale skin — not someone who goes outside often. Wearing a striped collar shirt over a differently-striped t-shirt, and loose blue jeans with deliberate rips in the knee. Dubious sense, even for staying home alone. She smiles at Oliver.

"Ah, Ollie! It's been a while, huh? Did you need something? I'm kinda busy, but…"

"I need to borrow some clothes," Oliver says.

She frowns. "That's not going to work out anymore, Ollie. You're too big! Have been for ages. You'd have to go and… buy your… own…"

She looks down at the small not-quite-human creature in front of her with confusion. Oliver tenses. There's always a minute chance for a mind to break through the naming magic over this kind of contradiction. He needs to be ready to act decisively.

"I guess that's… not an issue right now!" The confusion fades and she beckons him inside. "Okay, sure. Uh, bedroom's that way, just like, go through the drawers and pick out whatever I guess? Try not to make a mess. I've got to get back to work." She waves him toward a door, then promptly vanishes into a different one.

Oliver scans his surroundings automatically as he moves. The apartment consists of a short hallway, two rooms, a bathroom, and tiny kitchen jutting off the main hallway. Kitchen surfaces are covered in dirty dishes. The rest of the place is surprisingly neat. No decorations. A carved ward is mounted on the bedroom door. No, it's just a wood-cutting with an abstract pattern that happens to have mild warding properties. The design adds at least a tiny bit of character to an otherwise nearly soulless space. He enters the bedroom.

It's pretty plain. No posters, no photos, no decorations. Just a bed, a wardrobe and a closet, both full of clothes. She doesn't seem to spend much waking time in this room. Unusual, for someone who doesn't go outside much and has only two rooms in their home.

He starts going through clothes. There's a real lack of variety, but the minimum standard for a woman's wardrobe is much higher than a man's, and with a little creativity these will at least fit. He picks out a long skirt, simple sleeveless top and denim jacket. Acceptable for now. Her shoes won't fit him, he'll need to find some elsewhere. He's used to going barefoot, but humans tend to find it suspicious.

There is a large mirror on the inside of one of the closest doors. He indulges, for a moment, in admiring his own reflection. The absence of the curse that's weighed on him for so long is immediately apparent. His fur is smooth and healthy, his ears stand up straight, his body moves with grace and lightness. All that's left is to shake off the jailors, and he'll finally be able to … move on. He's not sure what to, exactly.

There's a knock at the door. "Hey Ollie, you done in there? Can I come in?"

Oliver responds in the affirmative. The woman enters the room and looks him up and down, smiling. "Looking pretty good, bro! Turn around so I can see the back maybe?"

This strikes Oliver as an odd request, but if it's being asked it's probably something she expects 'Oliver' to oblige her with. It's better not to produce another contradiction. He turns around.

Something hard presses against the back of his head. It burns. Carbon steel, 99% iron. The barrel of a gun.

"So," says Annalise Levenson, her voice cool and calm, "what did you do to my baby brother?"

the following day

When you wake up, you are lying in a cot in a grey and distressingly square little room. A cell of some sort, judging from the heavy door and lack of windows. You are alive, despite the clear memory of some essential component being wrenched from the core of your fleshy mass by terrible gnashing teeth. Your left arm is mildly bruised where you fell on it, but other than that there is no physical pain.

You try to sit up. It is difficult, and when you finish you find yourself uncertain what position your limbs are in. There's something wrong with your body. Indistinct. You try to count your fingers. You are able to confirm that you definitely have some number of fingers. Something else is missing.

You think back to the encounter on the train and realize it immediately: you know longer know your own name. It's not memory loss, the name Oliver Theodore Krause Levenson is as clear in your mind as it ever was, but you are keenly aware that it no longer applies to you. There are ragged, fraying patches in your identity around where it was torn away. You are not unfamiliar with this kind of injury, but you did not realize it could be inflicted with teeth.

You shift on the bed. Movement is strange and uncomfortable. There is an uncertainty about the location and state of your various appendages as they traverse this sterile space. Some parts are numb, and others contain unfamiliar sharpness and pressure.

The door produces a series of clicks and thunks as various locks are disengaged. It swings open to admit a tall man in a white coat. He winces involuntarily upon getting a clear look at you. You are not troubled by this; if anything, it's oddly reassuring.

"Greetings," he says. "Now, let me save you some time. This is a one-sided interrogation. I won't be answering any of your questions, and I won't fall for any tricks. And you will not survive a physical confrontation in that state, so please behave." His voice is firm and steady, not overtly aggressive but demanding obedience.

You try to speak and produce a noise like waves crashing against rocks in the dead of night. After several more tries, you manage to say: "I, I don't understand. Where am I?" Your voice sounds small and scared and far away. "What ha—"

"Stop," he commands. You are silent. "As I said, I will not answer your questions. In turn, by asking me something, you ensure I will not provide that information. Do you understand?"

"Understood," you say, making an indistinct head movement you intend to be a nod.

"Alright. I represent an organization in pursuit of a particular entity. You … appear to be this being, however — no sudden movements!" He warns, as you jerk upward in your seat. You do your best to hold very still.

"You appear to be the aforementioned, however we are aware this is unlikely to be true in a physical sense. Yesterday evening, on the train, were you attacked?"

"Yes."

"What is the current name of the being which attacked you?"

"I don't understand the question," you say. You are lying. The man frowns.

"You should be aware that something was taken from you yesterday. What was it?"

"U-umm," you mutter, stalling awkward. "An identity?"

He wants the name itself. Oliver Theodore Krause Levenson. First name, middle name, mother's maiden name, last name. A cumbersome, ill-fitting mess of nomenclature.

"What identity?" The man's eyes narrow a little. He is growing impatient.

"I don't remember," you lie. Why are you not answering the question? Your mind feels indistinct, full of ragged edges and the imprints of teeth. Are you protecting that strange creature? That can't be right. It hurt you quite badly.

The man reaches forward and touches you on the shoulder. He is gentle, but his hand feels heavy and almost unbearably hot. A firm squeeze might cause your body to cave in. "Listen," he says. "You're clearly not involved in this. Something important has been taken from you, and you can still get it back if you cooperate. Answer my questions properly."

You stare into the man's eyes. His expression is stern, but wavers slightly under your gaze. You wonder what he sees, looking at you right now. Your true self, perhaps; thin, wretched and slimy, pouring out slowly onto the floor through the hole in your identity. The new Oliver can have that name. The thought of taking it back makes you want to puke up whatever guts still exist in your withering form. You smile at the man in pure terror; you tell him over and over that you do not know the name. He shouts at you and touches you in painful ways, but you do not relent. Eventually he gives up, deciding the new Oliver must have you under some kind of spell. He leaves you alone in the square, grey room.

A considerable amount of time passes. Your condition worsens quickly; within a few hours you are lying on the bed in a thoughtless fugue, suspended between existence and non-existence. Overlaid on the walls of the grey room you see a landscape of flat, white snow stretching forever in all directions to meet a flat, white sky at a barely perceptible horizon. Snow is falling. People occasionally come in and out of the room. You catch tiny snatches of conversation. Phrases like 'nomenclative shock response' and 'phenomenological damage' are being thrown around. You do not understand. You are injected with various unknown substances. The snow continues to pile up upon your prone body. At some point it will cover you and no trace will remain, you imagine. At some point…

Instead, after an uncertain number of hours, your eyes open and the world unexpectedly shifts into focus. The snowy landscape fades until you can just barely see it. You try to move your arms and legs, just a little, and they shift according to your instructions. There is something profoundly wrong with the way they move, but the blurry frailness is fading. You remember how insects, during metamorphosis, first melt completely into a sort of amorphous goo before beginning to assume their adult forms. You do not think you have become any sort of a butterfly.

You should kill the next human you meet. Just a thought that slides nonchalantly into your head through the hole in your soul. It seems reasonable enough. You don't know what's up with these white-coat people, but they haven't been very nice to you, and it seems unlikely they'll let you out of this cell any time soon. It'll be easy. Just don't move, pretend to still be lying here half dead, and the next time one of them gets close…

You're not sure what the next step is, from there. When you try to picture it, there are a lot of teeth and sharp angles and things intersecting other things. It's probably best not to think about it that much. You lie still. Your body feels better, now. Strong, sharp, full of tension. You are a bear-trap, lying flat on the ground waiting for an unsuspecting creature to make a wrong step. Completely still, not moving a finger.

You haven't checked on your fingers in a while. They feel different. It occurs to you that anyone who sees you may realize something has changed. You'll have to go for them the instant the door opens, before they have a chance to react. It'll be good to stretch your legs.

You wait. The anticipation is electric. You picture the smooth arc you will carve through the air, a single graceful shift from prone on the bed to gouging out the throat of one of your captors. The door, however, does not open. You continue to wait.

You become aware that you do not have forever to wait. There is a limit to this transformation, this strange second wind. You are slowly but steadily fading. Do they have cameras monitoring you? You do not see any, but it seems likely. You accept for the third or so time since yesterday that you are almost certainly doomed. Oh well.

The door clicks, beginning its unlocking sequence. Your senses flare into high alert. You have somewhat more senses than usual; you are keenly aware, for example, of the exact amount of iron in the heavy metal door. No time to think about that now. The last locking mechanism clunks into the open position; the door swings open.

You vault into the air faster than you've ever moved before, your whole body stretching and distorting, your arms whipping forward toward the estimated position of your target's neck. Blades — no, teeth — protrude from all over your body, eager to tear flesh from bone. You are overcome with this radical freedom of movement and this heady, unrestrained bloodlust. You want to howl.

Your vicious attack has not even crossed a third of the distance to the door when a small humanoid collides with the center of your torso, sending you tumbling to the floor where it lands atop you. This hurts a very great deal in ways that are unfamiliar and currently impossible to describe. You retract your limbs and whimper.

"Hey," says Oliver. You are not an expert in the facial expressions of animal-headed beings, but you do not think that he is pleased with you.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," you repeat, over and over, cringing at the sound of your own voice. It's screeching, strained, inhuman, and incredibly whiney. The feeling of strength you briefly attained has vanished like smoke; you are a pathetic slug-thing trembling under a child's curious finger, praying not to be squished. "I-it hurts…"

Oliver blinks. Rather, the twin light-consuming voids on his face contract momentarily to narrow lines and then revert. It's reassuring somehow, to know this unreadable face can still blink. He stands and takes a few steps back. The pain in your core fades a little.

"My apologies," he says. "I may have overdone things. You are still fragile. Keep it together, it'd be a problem for you to die now. Can you see the snow?"

You squint. The endless plain of gently falling snow remains very faintly visible, when you focus. "Only very faintly," you rasp out. "S-sorry. Didn't know it was you, wouldn't have—"

"Obviously," he cuts you off. "You were trying to take a jailor's head off. Not a wise idea but a very understandable sentiment. If the Winter Court is faint that means you're at least dying slowly."

Your vision successfully focuses on Oliver for the first time since he arrived. He's very different from last time. The fur on his head is clean and healthy, the wound on his ear closed. He's wearing actual clothes. Girl clothes, for that matter? It occurs to you that you do not know this creature's gender. You do not particularly want to ask.

His voice retains a strangely metallic quality, but is much softer and less frightening than before. Overall he looks … cool? Strangely stylish? There's an alien but potent charisma to the way he moves.

The inside of his mouth is as terrifying as ever. You realize he is still talking. You hope you didn't miss anything important.

"Can you walk? We have a limited window to leave this place before the jailors return."

You attempt to stand. Your point of view moves upward considerably to a point several feet above Oliver's head. You are unsure of the details. You're trying to keep your own body parts out of your own line of sight, so as to remain unsure. "I… think so."

"Alright, follow me. Walk and talk, assuming you can manage that. First question: What is that supposed to be?" He gestures to your general existence as you slink toward the door.

You are confused. Both now, at the question, and in general as a continuous reaction to your experience of the world since you were about twelve. "I'm sorry," you say, "I don't get it."

"You are showing symptoms of weirding syndrome: a kind of magical infection which sometimes develops in open wounds of the identity. It creates external distortions of form which match one's internal state," Oliver says. "This kind of … transformation, however, is extremely rare. What is up with you, exactly?"

You are a little taken aback by how genuinely curious he sounds. You spend maybe six or seven seconds saying things like "well," and "uh, like," and "I guess maybe," to stall for time while you rummage in the depths of your being for an answer.

"I don't really know," you eventually say. "Something's wrong that I don't really understand and I've been ignoring it for a long time and maybe … I mean I haven't even looked at myself. What… What do I look like to you?"

"Your arms and legs appear stretched and lack obvious joints. You're at least six and a half feet tall." Oliver doesn't turn around as he describes you; he continues ahead down the sterile corridors. "Your skin, or maybe hide, is mottled dark blue as if your entire body was heavily bruised. Your neck is long and arcs forward so your head hangs at shoulder level. Your head is an irregular half-sphere, with a chaotic mass of mismatched teeth protruding from the bottom. I am unable to determine the location of your eyes or mouth. Your arms dangle limply from your shoulders when not in use. You seem to be able to protrude additional teeth from them at will, possibly also from other parts of your body. Your legs are short and end in wide stumps. The way you move when you walk is slow, awkward and nauseating to watch. There was some hint of grace to your movements earlier, though, when you tried to kill me."

You nod; that is, you raise and lower your head on its dangling stalk. Each fact slides neatly into your self image. You were dreading this information, expecting a fresh tide of disgust over your own existence, but instead it feels very… neutral. On some fundamental level, you feel like this is where you already were as a person. Now that other people can see it, maybe it will become possible to acknowledge that something is wrong. Maybe.

You realize you have not responded for several seconds and that this is extremely awkward. You are unable to come up with anything of note to say. The awkward silence continues to stretch. You wonder if your new body has any cool powers, like maybe the ability to melt into the floor.

"Okay, here's the real question." He turns to look at you this time. His 'eyes' narrow. "Why did you give me your name?"

This is not a question you were expecting. "I mean, it's normal to introduce yourself when someone—"

"No. You understood exactly what I was asking. It isn't possible to separate someone so cleanly from their name with a cheap trick. If you'd really thought I was asking for an introduction, both of us would be in considerably worse shape right now."

"Oh," you say. Oliver waits for a few seconds for a further response. As you do not provide one, he eventually continues.

"And you didn't tell the jailors what the name was. So they still haven't come after me. So I'm here to pay back yet another unwanted favour. Please, stop doing favours for me."

Oliver's injured ear twitches, almost imperceptibly. If you knew him a little better you might recognize this as a tell for a blatant lie. He is here because a frightening woman held a gun to his head and threatened to mount it on her wall if he did not come here. (His head, that is.) His convictions about debts are not strong enough to justify breaking back into a facility like this so soon after escaping it.

Far from noticing any tells, you barely parse anything Oliver is saying. Bubbles of fetid gas rise to the surface from the shifting of ancient things within the oceanic chasms of your psyche. You knew exactly what "May I have your name?" meant. Of course you did. You knew the fairy stories. You knew this town is host to more than its share of supernatural creatures. You even knew, specifically, that animal-headed beings are known for engaging in nomenclative theft.

You knew. You gave your name willingly, and you immediately settled in to never acknowledge that fact to anyone. Least of all yourself. It was so plausible. Such an easy trick to fall for, nobody would doubt it was an accident. You were so sure you could live to the end of whatever your existence would become next without having to acknowledge what you did. How can this strange animal-person just throw it back in your face and expecting you to carry on a conversation?

He's asked you several more questions since you started on this little episode and you haven't said anything. You can't understand anything he's saying and haven't even answered the original question. Why did you do that? Didn't your mother give you that name? Doesn't it mean something to you? Try to consider how other people will feel.

Oliver gives up on trying to converse with you and simply leads you through the strange corridors of this facility. Through cell blocks and corridors, up several flights of stairs, through a long, narrow maintenance passage and eventually up a ladder to a sealed escape hatch. The scenery is dominated by greys, whites and bare metal; the interior design ethos is somewhere between that of a hospital and a prison. Colour exists mainly in the form of warning messages printed on and around heavy steel doors. The uncompromising dullness is calming. It saps the colour and urgency from emotion and memory; the churning in your mind runs its course and becomes still again.

You exit the hatch, travel a short way through a sewer tunnel, then up another ladder, through a manhole and into open air. It's night. A half-moon shines down on you from out of a clear black sky. The air is crisp and cool and fresh. You take several deep breaths. You're not sure how the air enters your body, exactly, but your chest inflates and deflates satisfyingly. You feel calm.

You're going to need to pull it together if you want to get through… whatever is happening to you right now, and this is the best chance you're going to get. You reach deep inside yourself, take hold of what's left of the solid core of your volition, and with a great effort you stop dissociating.

It would be nice if there was some kind of satisfying snap back to reality or shift in perspective. There is not, you are just once again fully aware of occupying your own body. It is a painful and disgusting experience. You turn to Oliver, wondering what he thinks of you after all this.

Oliver looks back at you with his teeth slightly bared and knees bent in a ready stance. You flinch back, but as you watch he slowly returns to a neutral position.

"It … looks like you're back," he says. "It appears that was a touchy subject. I'm not that curious, please don't think of it again."

"You were ready to kill me, there." Your voice sounds very neutral about this.

"When I took your name," he says, "I gave you something in return. Not a real name exactly, more like a curse. A mass of accumulated grudges I picked up when I lost my original name and added to in turn. 'The name given by prey to the nameless beast.' It carries a particular set of violent impulses. I had no way of knowing what was going on in your head, just now. I had to be ready to act decisively."

You nod. You can feel this presence lurking within you, now that it's been described. It fits in strangely well among the other repressed and shadowy things that haunt your subconscious.

"Sorry. I'm okay now," you say. You are not okay, but you're at least in a state to say "I'm okay" in a steady voice. That's something.

You take a moment to survey your surroundings. You're on a back road next to an open field. A utility corridor, you think. In the middle of a relatively poor residential area; there's also a strip mall visible across the field. There's nobody in sight. No, there's an older man in a big coat cutting across the open field, carrying something heavy in a shopping bag. He's very drunk, based on his stride.

You should kill the next human you meet.

Several conflicting impulses scrape painfully against one another inside your mind. You've already taken several brisk steps toward the man before you manage to jerk awkwardly to a halt. Oliver follows your gaze and gives you an unreadable look.

"Well, that's convenient. Are you going to kill him?"

"A-are you kidding? Of course not. What the hell?" The enamel blades lining your arms extend and retract convulsively.

"You want to kill him, don't you? Devour his name? It'll make things much easier on you, for a while," Oliver says. "You'll end up killing someone sooner or later. Either that or steal a name, but then you'll just pass the curse to the next person. That's why I was planning to just eat you, until you came and made things complicated. The curse will eat at you unless you feed it. If you wait till you've been half hollowed-out to give in, it'll be much worse."

"Fuck that," you say. You meant to be tough and defiant but it comes out sounding very small and sad. You turn away from the man, sit down on the grass and concentrate your attention on the cracks on the sidewalk.

Oliver sighs. "It would be inconvenient for me if you were to lose yourself, so here is some advice. You can still see the snowy place, correct?"

You have to focus on it, but it's there. You nod.

"If you see someone who leaves deep footsteps in the snow when they walk, they're about to die. Within hours. If you're lucky you can steal the reaper's prey right out from under him.

Oliver holds your shoulder. His hand is warm and small; his touch frightens you. "Unless you want to reconsider and take out this convenient old drunk. I'll even—"

"Shut up."

He lets go. A moment later, he tosses something metal and shiny on the ground in front of you. Your keys.

"Very well. Have these back. I'm done with you now, so don't expect any more help and especially don't do me any more favours. I don't recommend trying to leave town, either. Winter won't let you, and it'll be unpleasant."

You do not respond. You remain seated, gaze fixed on the sidewalk, as Oliver's footsteps slowly fade into the distance.

some time later

Moving from place to place is easier than you thought it would be. You move quickly, flitting from shadow to shadow. Occasionally humans cross your path, out late for one reason or another, but you find it requires only a little effort to remain unnoticed by idle gazes. Their eyes slide off you, registering nothing, and you vanish into the shadows. It feels kind of nice; you suppose even this twisted body has good points. Kind of like how your previous form could at least help people get things off high shelves, sometimes.

You arrive home a little before dawn, unlock your own front door and collapse on your own bed. You expected entering this familiar space in such an alien form to be unsettling, but instead it feels… the same.

You spend a while lying in bed, staring at your own hands. They're more like… five small separate tentacles, branching out from the larger tentacles that are your arms. A single claw-like tooth juts from near the end of each 'finger'; you can extend and retract these at will.

After a careful inspection of your limbs doesn't seem to drive you mad, you give in to morbid curiosity and slink to the restroom to check your reflection. It's basically as Oliver described. Looking carefully, you see slight indentations in the hide of your head that correspond the origin points of your vision. Eyes of some sort. You feel nausea, and also hints of a much stranger feeling. Validation, maybe. Nobody can deny that there's something wrong with your body anymore.

You leave the bathroom behind, pausing only to note with some amusement that the grate over your shower drain has been clogged with thick brown fur. You have an important task to take care of.

You shift around some boxes under your bed to find the loose floorboard, then carefully slide it out of the way and retrieve a six-year-old laptop computer from the hidden compartment. You wonder, for a moment, if your weird paranoid habit actually had any impact when Oliver searched your home earlier. He probably wouldn't have taken this laptop even if it had been lying out in the open; it's not like it's particularly valuable.

You log in and navigate to your usual stomping grounds. It's a small, very old fantasy roleplay forum that still operates exclusively in long-form posts. You've been active here for over a decade. It's slowed down, in the last few years especially, but you and a few other regulars have been keeping things going.

Threads consist of three to five people taking turns writing elaborate prose descriptions of their next action in the story; usually focused on court intrigue in a high fantasy world. Your current character is a wicked duchess, plotting against the heroic prince to secure the throne for her nephew. You catch up on the plot developments and then spend a few hours carefully crafting your next post, where you elaborate on your plot to have the young heir pass away tragically in a staged hunting accident to your co-conspirator, an affluent businessman with ties to the underground. There's a lot of flirting involved. You feel, at least while you're writing, much more invested in this fantasy world than in your actual life.

You add a small 'out of character' note to the end, warning that you might disappear thanks to 'real life stuff' soon, and advising the other player to write you out of the game if you stop responding. Then you send the post. You weren't sure if you'd ever get back to this, after the attack on the train. It's… nice.

You return to reality. You feel profoundly weak, and the snow is more visible than ever. Are you running out of time? Are you really going to have to kill someone? What should I do… you think to yourself.

You decide to collapse on your bed and stare at the patterns of frock on the ceiling. This is unlikely to solve any of your immediate problems. The otherworld snow drifts by, superimposed over the rough white surface above you. The effect is faintly mesmerizing. You breath in and out, slowly, like the waves of a vast dark ocean slowly eroding away the beach. There's a dark, swelling hollowness in the core of your being. An unspeakable longing to hunt rises within you, to tear and rip and devour the succulent flesh of the leftover barbecue chicken you just remembered you still have in the fridge somewhere. You haven't eaten anything in over 24 hours.

Giving in to the unspeakable longing, you find yourself sitting at your kitchen table staring down what's left of the dismembered, greasy remains of a unlucky bird. The smell is strong and unfamiliar. The BBQ sauce and seasoning is perceptible but muted to your new senses; the scent of grease and of the meat itself is much sharper. Almost overwhelmingly so. A drip of unknown fluid falls from one of the teeth that jut out below your 'chin'. It sizzles on the table.

You have no idea how to eat this, and you are so hungry. That mass of non-retractable teeth under your head has to be involved; you feel at them cautiously with your fingers, but there's no mouth-like opening to be found. You feel a faint stinging sensation where you touch the underside of your head directly.

You wish that the personification of your self-image problems could have been something normal. Maybe like a big scary dog-thing or a bear. Even some kind of fucked up bug would have had — no. You cut that thought short. A giant bug would have been way worse, even if it had a proper mouth.

In a burst of frustration, you just kind of plunge your head down on a piece of chicken, impaling it. Your body reacts immediately. Your fangs shift subtly, hooking into the meat and pulling it closer to your head. The strange fluid sizzles on contact with meat, producing a strong and satisfying smell. Or maybe this is taste? The chicken begins to dissolve, and the resulting fluid is drawn up through channels in your fangs and absorbed into your body. It takes less than a minute for it to disappear completely. The experience is strange, but not unpleasant. You can even kind of 'taste' the barbeque sauce as you soak it up, although you have to really focus and you're not sure if it's a good taste, exactly.

Instinct and hunger take over from there. You pause to reflect, as you voraciously jam great chunks of meat into your fangs. What happens from now on? Can you live like this? Do you really need to kill someone? You've been resisting the idea, refusing to accept that it might be necessary, but the way your body is tearing into this chicken almost of its own accord makes the idea feel … closer. You can imagine the teeth and sinew taking control, tearing into living flesh, absorbing it till nothing remains but a stain of blood and melted flesh on the ground. There's even something vaguely appealing about it, if the prey was a small animal or something.

Maybe you could live like an animal on the outskirts of town; a shadowy beast feeding on gophers and squirrels, avoiding the light, staying out of sight of humans. Maybe one day you'd come across a child in danger from bullies or something, and you would save them. You'd keep occasionally meeting, and gradually form a bond of trust and the child would learn important lessons to carry through to adulthood.

You have outlined maybe 2/3rds of the plot of this hypothetical boy-and-his-monster movie when you realize you finished eating some time ago, and have been pacing the kitchen aimlessly. You do not want to live alone in the darkness, waiting to take part in someone else's heartfelt coming of age narrative. That sounds really sad and lonely. You also do not want to murder anyone, even if they're about to die anyway. Could you do it, if you had to, to prevent something worse? You're not sure.

You've heard there's a secret section at the Anklebone Central Library where they keep books about fairies and nameless things. They'll probably let you in now, right? You should try to learn as much as possible about whatever you are now. Maybe there's some way to get out of this without hurting anyone.

You've wasted enough time. You set off immediately.

elsewhere

Feather sits in a small chair in front of a desk in front of a man sitting in a larger chair. She smiles and gestures animately, indicating various things written on pieces of paper. She outlines her whole life history as a drama all leading up to this singular moment, to this shining opportunity to follow her passions for the sake of a greater whole. The man smiles back, accepts the papers she slides across the table, occasionally fires back questions. He has already mostly tuned her out. She suspects this, but can't afford to let up the act. The performance continues to its dramatic conclusion. The audience nods distantly and tells her to expect a call sometime in the next week. There will not be a call.

Feather collects her bags, insists the man keep the various papers, and leaves the interview. She suppresses the momentary urge to turn around and peek back into the room to see if she can catch him dumping her CV in the trash.

It's whatever, honestly. She didn't want to be an 'administrative assistant' for this stupid shoe company anyway. She wraps back up in her scarf and jacket and steps out into the fall air. She's exhausted. I should head home and try to get at least one more application done today, she thinks. If I can't find a proper job I'll be in serious trouble within a month or so. Might be trouble either way, honestly.

After ten or so minutes of completely thoughtless driving, Feather discovers she is not at her tiny apartment. Her subconscious has instead navigated her to the parking lot of the Anklebone Central Library. Oh well, she thinks. The applications will be there in the morning. A fearful, warbling part of her mind reminds her she could just as well fill out applications at this place. She shushes it.

The Central Library is an architectural chimera. A venerable old stone building with ornately carved windows has been half consumed by a more recently constructed thing of glass and steel and exciting curves that suggest the onset of modernity. It looks pretty bad, honestly, but it's kind of charming. More importantly, there's a cozy little cafe tucked away down a hallway off the side of the main entrance. She barges into this place, collapses into a chair near the back corner, and starts reading a romance novel about werewolves on her cell phone. It's not very good. The last three in the series weren't very good either. She should probably stop getting each new one as it comes out.

"Hey, Feather." The barista calls to her. It's the teenage one with the green hair. "Can I get you anything?"

Feather calls back something unintelligible, which the girl correctly interprets as 'the usual' and gets started on a latte with two extra shots of espresso. Feather reads a couple more pages before sighing and putting down her phone to accept the coffee and pay the bill.

"Another interview today?"

"Yeah. They say they'll call back within a week. They won't, probably."

The barista continues the conversation for a few more sentences worth of vague encouragement before returning to her post; Feather replies on autopilot while sipping from the expensive coffee. She ends up here after every interview, somehow. Sitting here and pretending to be someone who can afford to consume this product, occupy this space, seems to make the fear go away for a little while. It's all going to catch up to her pretty soon.

It's not even working all that well, today. The hot caffeine refuses to completely dissolve the heavy lump of pure dread in her gut. Unease lingers. She feels the pressure of imagined eyes from the deep corners of the dimly lit cafe. It is time to leave. She finishes the coffee in one go, thanks the green-haired woman at the desk, and pulls her scarf around herself once more.

The wind has picked up dramatically. It has traveled from somewhere far across the great plains; rushing through emptiness at harrowing speed to break against the impetuous skyscrapers of this forlorn city into swirling eddies that lift dust and fallen leaves high into the air. It drags on Feather, urging her toward unknown places. It speaks to the remaining wildness in her heart.

She does not return to her car. It's time to walk, for a while, with no purpose, goal or destination. A kind of ritual, dangerous and potent, to turn even the heart of a city into a wild place where the worries of the human world cannot follow. It starts to rain. Almost nobody is outside. She weaves her way deeper into darker places where the glass and steel of the human jungle gives way to concrete.

There is a clanging, clattering noise from maybe twenty feet behind her. Someone is following her; she can no longer justify ignoring the feeling. Reluctantly, she pulls out her phone to let someone know where she is, maybe call a cab or something. The wind howls. She tries to shield her phone screen from the driving rain. She's five or six blocks out from the train line, in the shadow of a parking complex surrounded by half-empty office buildings, several of which are under renovations. A habitat for cars rather than humans. She starts to dial a number.

Something emerges from behind a nearby concrete pillar. Indistinct, dark, huge. It approaches quickly, with long loping strides, its whole body stretching and undulating in eerie rhythms. It's breathtaking.

Feather realizes, as pearly white blades emerge from the monster's extended forearms, that she is about to die. It is a strange, complex piece of knowledge: sad and painful, shot through with frustration about all the fruitless fears that hounded her, underpinned by a deep satisfaction that at least they wouldn't get her. Her body moves automatically as she ponders; screaming, turning, running. She won't get more than a few steps, yet her flesh — her existence as a breathing mammalian creature — demands the attempt.

Meanwhile, from high above, unnoticed by either predator or prey, there is the sound of creaking and snapping metal. A particularly strong gust of wind tears a poorly secured metal sheet from some construction scaffolding and sends it flying at a steep downward angle. It carves an immutable path through the air directly through where Feather was standing less than a second before. Directly through where her attacker now reaches for her. Its forearm is shattered; nearly severed; left dangling by a bit of skin and flesh. It screams, stumbles and collapses on the sidewalk several feet in front of its intended prey, writhing in obvious pain.

The strength drains from Feather's legs as the danger passes. She drops to her knees in front of the creature and sobs.

"You… saved my life?"

The rain makes hollow ringing noises as it glances off the twisted remains of the fallen metal sheet.

"You tried to kill me."

The creature's movements slow as dark, oily blood pours from the open stump of its arm. Feather rises and takes a step closer. There is a deep sadness to the dark hues and twisted curves of the fallen body. It is like a thing of deep waters, she thinks, accustomed to the pressure and darkness of the hadal brine, having by tremendous effort dragged itself up and up into the light of the sun. Only to be struck down before learning to breathe by some fugitive songbird's misdirected curse.

Feather wipes the tears and rain from her face, taking another step closer. Surely it lacks the strength to hurt her, by now. It almost certainly meant to kill her, yet, imagining the death of this being now is too sad for her to bear. She tears a strip from the strange cloth smock the creature wears and ties it as tight as she can manage about its arm just above the wound. The bleeding slows, but only a little. She's too weak, it's too big. Unconventional methods are required.

There's only one spell she knows that will work here, in the pouring rain, in the heart of a city, on stolen land and upon ground defiled by asphalt and blood. It will draw unwanted attention, but her warding should hold.

Viciously sharp teeth protrude from the bottom of the creature's head. She carefully grazes a finger on one, drawing blood. She mixes it with her tears and with the oily fluid that covers the ground, then recites a short prayer. On the tip of her finger the fluid hisses and glows faintly. Quickly, before it fades, she traces a five pointed star on the arm just above the wound. The universe itself convulses and, for an instant, something that is at once unimaginably close and unimaginably far away sees her.

The moment passes. The wound is no longer bleeding; the creature is breathing steadily. Good enough. She spends a moment searching for her cell phone before realizing she still has it clutched in her left hand. She wipes the rain from the screen. It's time to make a few calls.

to be continued