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It's good to have at least a little bit of a fear of dying, I think. It shouldn't be so much that it consumes and dictates your everyday life, but even for people like Nym and I, who have put our trust in the artificial to keep us nine-tenths on this side of that veil, there should be some awareness of how easy it is to slip through. There should be some drive to fight against it, to claw for our right to take pleasure in the comfortably mundane and all those stereotypically idyllic things a life in the Ravel so infrequently offers.

But I guess, when I'm not being directly confronted with that revelation, forced to think about it in the present, I'm terribly, frustratingly, stupidly deficient in that fear. Nym must be too, because here we are; painfully aware of the fact that the soft whoosh of his turbine circulation and the sluggish purr within my chest are the loudest things in the room right now, with only fresh corpses for company.

The sight of them causes my hackles to raise, but it's not the scene of sprawling carnage I had dreaded. There's little room for relief here, however. In the wide hall, long walls of light provide a harsh glow through diagrams inverse-stenciled on their surfaces, casting long, twin shadows that drown out any trace of crimson, though the shape of spilled, spattered viscera is unmistakable.

Nym and I squint into the light projecting from atop the far doorway as we walk softly, partly out of caution, and partly out of what I assume is a shared sense of reflexive reverence for the dead. I probably shouldn't feel that way, given how badly I've suffered at the hands of Dominion muscle, but whatever made such short work of twelve of them, I've yet to ascertain just how easily it could give me that much more in common with them.

Scratch that, actually. As we make it out of the hall and into the center of the sanctum, there are plenty more. There isn't even a little bit of spell residue to pick up, each one hit the floor before they could even cast in self defense, and there's no evidence of weapon fire at all. Their wounds look older, long since congealed over.

I suppress the urge to flinch. It's impossible to shake the sensation that something is getting ready to strike me from my blind spot, or that I'm about to see Nym collapse moments before I do. For a moment, it at least becomes manageable, as my companion places his hand on my shoulder and offers me a reassuring smile.

I try to sigh out the tension as quietly as I can, gathering enough clarity to take stock of my surroundings as they are.

Ramps curving to other levels suggest a spherical shape to the sanctum as a whole, in keeping with its tendency toward rounded design. Walls and floors alike are made of dark metal grates, with thick tubes feeding through the space between them and the reinforced shell outside the globe. Tall shelving units made from what really must be Oleander's favorite wood extend radially from the center, capped with a flange of perpendicular light screens glowing in off-white, leaving enough space between each to walk between. Aside from the spotlight glare of the screens, and an even spacing of translucent pillars creating islets of total illumination, the directed nature of the the lighting in here leaves most of the place quite dim, as if to obscure it in dreary darkness while simultaneously preventing one's vision from acclimating to it.

There are books and scrolls aplenty here, but they're separated up into neat little stacks and piles of various sizes in places indicative of a process I cannot begin to follow. They comprise a minority of the contents; various articles and artifacts rest interspersed with them, some merely examples of familiar hardware and implements, while others resemble something familiar, but are composed of an unusual blend of bone seamlessly married to driftwood and copper.

Nym's attention is immediately drawn to them, barely appearing able to keep himself from exclaiming. Clueless as I am to locate my own answers, we've found what might well be a treasure trove for his purposes. With as little noise as he can get by with, he carefully takes the first notebook off of a nearby stack, hoping to ascertain the purpose of the nearby tiny cylindrical apparatus, made of differently sized rings and coils. As tempted as he might be to touch it, we both know better. It's a lot more material than his little canister of hazardous fragments at home. The field of floating particles around the object, like glistening black grains of sand, might be containing its radiation but even that is only a guess.

The multitude of forbidden details keeps him transfixed but I continue to peruse, hoping to find something with more specificity. Some of these contraptions betray no clues as to their purpose; whatever the ivory-studded globe of irregularly shaped plates is meant to be, it's beyond me. Maybe it could secretly be the world's deadliest puzzle, but the interlocking set of rings on the shelf just below it is hot competition.

When I round the pillar of light in the middle of the aisle, the object it had been obscuring at the room's center fully grabs my attention, and it's my turn to hold my reaction in. The thickness of the glass surrounding it is visibly evident at the sides, so much that if it had been a medium I could have plunged my arm into, I'd have to go elbow-deep to touch the interior. Not that I'm even going to risk laying hands on it at all, the motionless bodies nearby are warning enough.

Centered in the glass, floating in a particulate containment field, is an unfurnished specimen of bone. Multiple bones, actually; it resembles some kind of limb, maybe a leg if judged by its thickness, but it ends in a knobby point, and what might have been a knee, there is a branching point, but the complete bone is snapped in the middle. It's as if two legs fused into one, unless I'm looking at it entirely wrong.

They've been gathering a steady feed of data here; conduits connect to the ceiling, and a triplicate of printouts feeds into chutes intersecting the grated floor, collecting in bins below. Numerous display screens, powered off, face the specimen from mounts on the shelves, along with the only cameras I've seen so far, faced the same way and wired directly into each cluster of screens. I'm sure I'm missing some details, I keep looking back to what I can only assume are corpses, but they aren't visibly damaged like the ones outside, nor are they armored the same way. They wear beige robes secured close to their bodies and a black shawl, a black veil draped from a frame that gives their heads the impression of an inverted triangle, while obscuring any other impressions. The only exception is one with their muzzle left uncovered by the way their veil fell, tongue tasting the metal grate and dried out by the dehumidified air. Despite how recently they must have died, I expect the smell of rot, but I find that in this aggressive dryness, I can't smell much of anything, my sinuses already beginning to feel the effects.

I backpedal to Nym, gesturing toward the pillar and guiding him around it. The expression of awe that spreads across his face just about matches what I had envisioned, remaining in all its initial intensity as he tentatively steps into the circle, taking a slow lap around the containment before taking note of the printouts, crouching near one and furrowing his brow, as puzzlement takes the place of wonder. Without context it's difficult to make sense of a graph, most of the time, but it's probably safe to assume something is unusual if the only thing being inked is a perfectly straight line at its maximum threshold. As he likely makes that same assumption, he springs to full height again, hurrying for a ramp down. Not wanting to be left alone up here, I follow.

There are many terminals down here, matrices of lightbulbs stationed at every workbench to display data, had they been powered on. More bones beneath the cubical glass containment chamber of a nearby analyzer, which appears to be drawing only enough power to maintain its field holding in harmful emissions. It's of little interest to either of us right now though. Nym goes for one of the bins, searching deep into it before pulling out long, tangling ribbons of paper. Even a brief inspection of them shows fluctuations not too much earlier. If I had to guess, it would have been around the time the alarms sounded that the readout hit maximum. But maximum what? Radiation? If that were an anticipated risk, everyone in here would have been wearing proper protective gear, not merely what amounted to lab coats plus anonymity.

Something else catches Nym's eye; the way he hurries off, it would have been harder not to notice him notice. A covered booth sits against the curved wall, demarcated with universally recognizable hazard lines around its base and a warning written in four languages:

Ensure adequate protection and assistance before viewing.

Potentially hazardous images are being relayed in real-time.

It doesn't deter Nym for more than a moment and I can't stop him from opening the door, breaking the slight vacuum seal and peeking inside. To my relief, he doesn't react with anything more than confusion, giving me a glance brimming with it, but it certainly doesn't quell my own curiosity. I peer in as well; on the wall to the right, there is a somewhat tiny monitor showing an image of some kind of fissure, little more than a deep, dark crack running through some yellowed medium, too coarse to be skeletal material itself though its hue still brings it to mind. Every few seconds, another picture is taken, slowly painting itself by way of electron bombardment, row by row until it replaces the last image, no different save for visual artifacting.

Scanning the room one more time, I motion for Nym to follow me into the booth and close the door. Feeling content with the level of isolation, I finally hazard trying out actual words again.

"So you definitely weren't the only one curious about those shards then. What do you think Oleander is doing with all this?"

"I've got no clue!" Nym whisper-shouts. "But a hoard like this only makes me more suspicious about what happened to Tsing; clearly whatever all this is, it's not new. I'll bet you anything she's got a folder here too."

"I wanted to bring that up too. You said mine was in here, right? But everything looks to be related to all... this."

"Probably near Oleander's personal terminal. I'm going to guess it's at the top of the sanctum. I would like to keep snooping here if you feel safe going up there on your own."

I force a chuckle at that. "Nothing about this makes me feel safe. There are dead people in here too in case you forgot. But, I'm still going."

"If anything goes wrong..." He doesn't have to be specific. I know what "anything" means here. "...make some noise to signal me. There's no reason to be quiet if they've already spotted you."

"Or it," I suggest, only halfway-joking. Packing my trepidation as far down as it'll go, I open the booth again and make for the ramp, going up.

The floor above is mostly hardware, much of it necrotech, preserved nervous systems joined together by mycelial hybridization in vats overhead and providing another angle of analysis. I momentarily pause here, initially contemplating what I might be able to glean from the network if I had the right equipment on me, but my thoughts quickly shift to how easy it would be to hide among the columns. How easy it would be for something else to be doing so already. Shuddering that thought out before it can compromise my nerve, I continue up, fighting the urge to smack my lips. The dryness in here is oppressive, I can almost taste blood as the membranes in my head object.

On the next floor up, I find what is unmistakably Oleander's personal haunt; above is just storage by the looks of it. In front of me is an enclosed room, taking up a good three-quarters of the floor save for the little wedge reserved for coming and going, its paneled appearance fitting the dull sensibilities of the place uniformly enough to make up for its size. It's the kind of thing that should be locked tight, but isn't; it's got a bulkhead of its own that has been severely brutalized open, metal simply peeled aside into wrinkling folds.

The interior is all black and gold with crimson accents, calling to mind the palace and its decor, but the furnishings are otherwise minimal. Desk, filing cabinets, a few chairs around a low table, mostly-empty shelving units of a simpler, metal make, and a cot in the corner for long nights. It figures something like this would happen on one of the Warden's days off.

Ducking through the ruined bulkhead, I nearly startle enough to bang my head on its remains, finding another veiled corpse resting propped against the nearest wall inside. This one isn't intact like those around the leg bones. At the hem of their shawl, the beige of their robes has been stained dark and had time to set. Whatever did this, it's been thorough.

It probably doesn't help my nerves at all that I'm thinking of it as "it" instead of something familiar like a person. A person would be manageable. A thing though, who knows what a thing is gonna do.

I check the desk first, the Warden keeps it fancy, having both a matrix and a monitor, but his keyboard is only connected to the latter. I wonder if he's been watching that hazardous imagery they make such a fuss about here? As quietly as I can, I go through the drawers, unable to stop my expression from sliding smoothly but quickly into a victorious grin as I find coarse paper folders in the top drawer. And I've hit a fucking jackpot.

I'm here. Tsing is here. Even Suraokh is here. I actually don't even know where to start, I should get right into mine, see why I'm such a hot commodity here, but I can't resist starting with that freaky stuffed kangaroo's file first.

Oh shit, there's a lot redacted in here, actually. Birthplace is completely stricken, birth year gives little except for the Age. Gods, he really is that old. He's from the 17th.

Associates: Leksan Nayre, Jen Nayre, Merion Kane, redacted, redacted, some names I have no context for, redacted, redacted, redacted, and Bailey, whose last name is redacted.

There's that name again. Who are they, that I've got not one, but two threads on my mental conspiracy board linking to them now? First, the void siphon technology that drew our mutual associate to me in the first place, and then the fact that we've got a mutual associate at all.

The assessment of Suraokh is mostly black boxes too. Even what I assume is just his name is blacked out in everything but the file name and the name entry on page one. Some use this turned out to be, actually. This may well be the highest-clearance file on him in the world and most of it is stricken from record. The next several pages, which should have included what might have amounted to an abridged biography tracking every moment of intellectual pursuit, political activism, and potential radicalization points, are blacked out too, only leaving anything readable around the time he was assigned to come find me. At least he seems to have been honest, but there are enough interspersed omissions near the end that I wonder what exactly has been left out.

Oh well, I did get something out of it, at least. I should look at mine next.

I would, too, except I hear something suspiciously like the cocking of a gun behind me. My hands go up, and I slowly turn on the swivel chair. It looks like one of the researchers survived after all, and despite how visibly they tremble with unmistakable terror, my meddling like this has made fixing what I'm hoping is a tranq rifle on me a greater priority than escaping.

That's probably too optimistic. They have a lot of info on me after all, and Dominion forces were the first to discover that killing me doesn't have to be a permanent solution. I've only gotten more resilient since then, and Suraokh has likely reported on that, too.

I'm not about to wait and see what kind of ammo they've got. It's time to see if I can handle a person as well as I claim. They're going to look for the traces of spellcasting after we're done here but I'm in dire straits now as it is and I'm willing to bet there's enough arcane bullshit in this place to provide some cover for it. My fingers unflex, and I brace myself to land on my feet as I blink through the void and appear behind them to grapple.

To my confusion and dismay, that doesn't happen. Apart from a brief wreath of a few broad lines of total darkness carving hard angles through the space around me, nothing does, and even the flickering of spent radiance is just that, crackling out like silent sparks. I shouldn't have fumbled that, I shouldn't have been able to, unless there's so antimagical marrow in here that its presence alone is snuffing the attempt.

I assume then and there that I'm going to take one between the eyes, but the researcher does something I truly didn't expect. As they turn tense, they also turn their back on me, rifle aimed at the ruined entrance. I can sense an air of incredulity from them. It's like they can't begin to imagine why I would try to cast. Have I made a greater mistake than I thought?

I'm about to pounce them when they hurry through the bulkhead. I wasn't expecting a proper chase, it feels wrong compared to dropping someone as they stand and fight, but I don't necessarily have to kill them. I would really prefer not to.. If I can knock them out and move them out of the sanctum, to where I can cast, a little bit of Necroharmonic fuckery could scramble their memory enough to make our encounter disappear. But that might leave a trace.

I don't get a chance to figure that problem out. They don't even get a chance to make it past the level down, but that's by no merit of mine. I skid to a stop as fear grips me by the throat, and... something takes the researcher in its many cartilaginous arms, reeling them into the maze of life support pylons without so much as a yelp.

Shit. Oh shit, I was right, there was a thing here all along. No going back, I'd only corner myself like someone already did. But I didn't grab the folders. Fuck the folders, actually.

I hurry past the landing, I try to call Nym's name but my throat is so dry in this treated air and it comes out as a croak. I lose my footing, rolling a way down and scrambling to pick myself up.

I get a good look at the thing but gods, I wish I hadn't. I was right about the specimen in the center of everything being a leg though. The misshapen point traces frictionlessly over the grating, floating, needing not provide any support to a single leg that forks at what could be a knee to meet two hip sockets. The creature is vaguely dracomorphic like a person, aside from its leg, and only about the size of a human, with a head resembling one in shape save for its utter lack of facial features. Instead, it's got a rough circle of short horns like coral spikes. It makes me think of the sun, and it hurts just as much to look directly at even for lack of light, and the taste of blood intensifies as well.

Its six arms whirl in thin coiling patterns, reeling back to reach out again with whiplike force. I need to scream for help but I'm more likely to actually shit myself right here than muster a word; it's like I'm choking on dust.

I throw myself to the side as its blade-tipped limbs cut air, barreling down the radial aisles. I pick on something not quite like sound as I'm chased, but it affects my ears all the same; I think it might even be throwing off my balance.

Maybe I can outrun it. I'll turn at the center and double back down an adjacent aisle. I can get to the exit; Nym can too, I can hear other footsteps, he's coming. I try to call for him again but nothing comes out, not even saliva. I don't think this dryness is a feature of the sanctum after all. I met the source.

I'm at the center now, stopping on the pad of a foot, momentarily thankful for the footwear of my disguise preventing the floor from leaving triangular bites in me, but that would have been a mild discomfort compared to what slams into me.

It's good to have at least a little bit of a fear of dying, I think. Something like that would have sheltered me from this kind of fear, the aftermath of the dam that held in my dread catastrophically erupting. I feel like nothing more than an animal, denied even the morbid comfort of contributing to the cycle of nature. I refuse to believe that what falls upon me now could have ever been part of nature.

The entity's clear fur punctures my skin like thin slivers of glass, snapping into tiny barbs as its stone-blue carapace follows, taking me to the floor. I take in a sharp breath and begin to gag on the airborne splinters, but coils of its crimson cartilage around my neck slam my chin to the floor as well, the lens of my headgear cracking and falling out of place from the impact. Through the break in the glass, I see the circle of clustered monitors begin to power on; there's a sound too but it seems so distant, and echoes long past the point it should.

I try to fight back, try to cast, do anything, but the ability leaves me along with a failed attempt at screaming in pain as I feel it dig sharp things into my back; it's pulling on my spinal implant. Its frantic, flailing limbs knock one of the printouts at the base of the containment unit, steadily covering us in shredding ribbons of paper as I fail to resist its onslaught, pinned under its deceptive weight.

My fingers curl uselessly as what feels like tiny threads wrap around vertebrae, finding their way through muscle fiber just as easily as they did through clothing. I don't think I can go into shock, it's suppressing that function too, feeding its threads into my nerves, going up, up...

It's going for my brain. Any inkling of doubt vanishes as I feel it go for the base of the skull, tendrils finer than syringes curling beneath. And I can't do anything but twitch. My heart is beating so fast. My pupils dilate. My breath destabilizes.

I can almost see our image on screen but my vision turns to spots as my eyes desync, flickering in and out of infrared and optics independently of one another.

Nym, help me, I want to say.

Nym, run. You can't fight this.

My insides heave as the threads pull tight, forcing the creature's barbed body against mine, and my mouth and nose flood with inky black vomit, its acidity searing the parched, cracking flesh.

I can't move. I can't speak. I can't think.

Muscles seize to the point of nearly peeling themselves from their anchor points before going slack. My eyes roll back in my head.

I can't move I can't speak I can't think

Coils of worms thrash in simultaneous effort, pulling out my spine, precious innards following in chunks as the creature digs its forehead against my neck and arches its back for leverage.

i cant move i cant speak i cant think

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