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Monster Maker

Fleas and Reputation

With no central organization to connect Delvers with potential jobs or clients, one might ask how exactly would Delvers find jobs. Considering the general animosity targeted at Delvers, one might think a Team can’t just go around soliciting their services to any bystander nor could a potential client in need just openly advertise their need for a Delver on the Infosphere.

Thus comes in the fleas.

No one is sure where the terminology came from. Etymologists believe that it was a natural mutation of the term ‘fleece’. Deriving it’s origins from a natural protection or insulation with wool or obtaining a great deal of money from someone typically through underhanded means, it seemed appropriate to describe the role of fleas.

Acting as a go-between for clients and Delvers, fleas vet and distribute contracts from clients to the parties that they determine will be good for the job. Fleas have their own network of contacts and often run legitimate businesses. While not covered under the Delver Agreement, fleas are generally considered to be immune to Delves simply because they are necessary to the new ecosystem. Not to mention any hostility against a flea would invoke the ire of any Delvers that have worked with them for that would be a potential loss of revenue. Fleas are also generally amicable with one another simply because any hostilities could lead retaliatory Delves. The memory of the Delver Agreement is a harsh reminder that overt operations that could lead to unnecessary loss of life and wanton destruction could provoke yet another restructuring that could very well eliminate their usefulness in the world.

Apart from working on a basis of omnidollars, fleas also have another currency that they depend on; reputation. Contracts come to a flea through word-of-mouth and no official channels. Cash is often transfered through means unique to the flea in question and are often untraceable. Most governmental organizations don’t bother to hide transactions with fleas because the Delver Agreement would cover such activities under it anonymity clause. Reputation, however, is far more difficult to exchange.

Fleas put their own reputation on the line when they assign a contract to a Delver. Failure of the Delvers to meet the contract objectives would damage their reputation and cause a loss of revenue. On the other side of the spectrum, outstanding success of a Delver Team could boost their reputation and lead to more contracts. Thus, it is critical that fleas find the right team for the job.

Often times, a flea might not have a team within their immediately list of contacts that could be right for the contract in question. They would then reach out to other fleas and potentially take a cut of the payment to assign another team to the task. It is also within a flea’s right to reject a contract if it does not meet their standards or they suspect it to be too dangerous. Their Delvers are their assets and best means to earn both omnis and reputation.

Being known as the flea that throws your Delvers under the metaphorical bus might get you some contracts but it certainly will not give you the most trustworthy of teams.

Chapter 3 - To Renew Purpose

SCPD uniformed officers swarmed the clinic. Better late than never. Dressed in their navy blue-uniforms, padded with light armor and some magical runes around their sleeves, the light blue lines that rippled and shifted like an LED light strips denoted them as average officers. The grunts of the SCPD.

Tyson recalled his brother telling him that during Delves, the SCPD usually arrived within ten to fifteen minutes once a disturbance was called in. They would usually send uniformed officers first, the ‘Blues’ as Teddy called them.

His eyes shifted to the two bulkier officers that had strips of silver attached to their uniforms. The ‘Chromes’ according to Delvers. Officially known as the Tactical Response and Special Operations teams, they were far more heavily equipped. Their armor was thicker, more defensive runes. Heavier weaponry adorned their kit. Whenever the Chromes were present, Delvers usually made themselves scarce. Blues could be considered less skilled than most Delvers but a Chrome would be on-par or even better than Delvers depending on how well-prepared or equipped a Delver team was.

Little wonder that Teddy was nowhere to be seen as the SCPD ushered the survivors out of the clinic while paramedics swarmed in to check on the injured. Special white and blue, armored vans bearing the green cross emblazoned within a heart denoted the presence of the Armed Medical Technician Teams or AMTTs. It was ironic that AMTTs often were far more heavily armed than SCPD officers responding to a call. Far from being a comforting thought, the presence of the huge AMTTs in their white-colored power armor lumbering through the crowd brought a hushed silence to the scene. Even the normally noisy news crews who had swarmed the clinic spoke in hushed whispers as the AMTTs towered over Harrow, listening to the Orc’s orders.

The smell of coffee wafted into Tyson’s nostrils and he instinctively flared them. Being unable to detect the notes of bitterness or how much sugar had been put into the brew was jarring to him. Confusion was replaced with the realization that, as an Orc, his senses were not as sharp as when he was a leonine demon. Glancing down, he noticed the disposable cup holding the brown brew held by a blue-furred paw. He took the cup with thanks.

“No surprise Harrow got AMTTs involved,” Detective Knight Keening muttered, the tendrils on his face that made his chinstrap bear wriggling in agitation. The detective was once again fully dressed. “Ever seen a Paladin up close before?”

Tyson shook his head grimly. “I don’t qualify for their coverage.”

That earned a raise of a chitinous eyebrow. “Really? A celebrity like you with your own private residence up in the Eastern Rim? You don’t qualify AMTT coverage?”

Tyson tilted his head to the side, a little smirk on his face. “Let me put it another way.” Taking a sip from the coffee, he caught hints of blueberry. Not your average brew. “I don’t want their coverage. Also, this isn’t your average coffee, is it?”

Knight gave him a little smile in return. “Harrow keeps some expensive stuff in his office. Thought I’d grab a few cups while poking around his documents.”

“Is that legal?”

The Elder Detective dipped his own cup of coffee towards the squat, three-building clinic with a shimmering hologram of a grinning Orc giving a thumbs up over its door. “As far as the SCPD is concerned, this whole building is now a crime scene. Everything within it is evidence. I need to examine the evidence.”

Likely would not do him any good. Harrow likely had someone with InOps training wiping his files remotely. Best he could tell, no one in the SCPD squads deployed were scanning the local Infosphere at the moment. Such an action would be considered a breach of privacy and unconstitutional unless it was considered a reasonable response. Funny how it was permissible to have Chrome officers and even the heavily armored ‘Paladins’ of the AMTTs wandering around and ready to fire their ordnance at hostiles but hacking Infospheres was considered an ‘extreme’ response.

“At least they didn’t send SCORN in.”

Even Knight shuddered at the mention of the highest rank of SCPD officers that would put even the AMTTs to shame. Highly specialized and powerful, the gold-clad members of the SCPD’s Sanctuary City Overwhelming Response Neutralization Team or SCORN Team was basically the city-state’s superheroes if they were allowed to operate outside the boundaries of the law. Judge, jury and executioner all rolled into one, the gold-clad SCORNs were only ever deployed in the cases of extreme danger.

“I think it says a lot about our city that SCORN is currently occupied,” answered Knight. “Besides, an attack on Harrow?” The detective smacked his lupine lips. “Nope. Wouldn’t even be a blip on their radar.”

Sanctuary City. A place of opportunity where anyone can be anything they wanted… even an extremist terrorist attacking a dental clinic catering for Orcs.

Tyson shook his head in misery, shifting uncomfortably in the dental scrubs that he had been offered by Harrow. With his clothes shredded during his assault, he had asked the ‘doctor’ for something for the sake of modesty. He did not feel like being paraded around the front of the clinic nude. Even though no one was likely to recognize him as he was now, it was still humiliating.

“Did you want to get out of here?” asked Knight, hiking a thumb over his shoulder.

Tyson gave the detective a tilt of his head. “Going to get my statement?”

“Naw. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a victim here. Defended yourself admirably but still a victim. We’ll get your statement once you’ve recovered some.” He tapped the side of his head. “Besides, I’ve got everything I need up here.”

“Neural implant that records everything?”

The Elder wolf smirk at him. “Hell no. Just good memory.” He began turning away, flicking an ear to the right. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home. Though hope you don’t mind if we stop by my place before we do.”

Looking up at the sky, he noticed that the sun had ducked behind the towering monoliths of Sanctuary City’s skyscrapers. It was well into the afternoon now. The events of the morning followed by the tense meeting with Harrow and now this GHM assault had caused him to lose all track of time. Thankfully, he had no appointments to keep today. No clients to see.

“Yeah,” he rumbled, taking a sip from his coffee again. “Let’s get out of here.”

He followed Detective Keening into a nearby bright red, Toyota Euphoria. A luxury car. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that the towering, well-built detective would be driving around in a sizzling hot vehicle. It had a sleek, low chassis with grooves and curves that absolutely screamed speed. Even the tailfins on the back were made to look as aerodynamic and sleek as possible bringing to mind shark fins. As they approached, Keening pressed a button on his key fob and the car activated. Several, triangular panels all over the chassis suddenly came to life, breaking up the sleek exterior to shimmer and shift, roiling over one another like a heavily pixelated approximation of a tidal wave. The ripple of crimson metal pulled the metal open to reveal the driver’s side. As Tyson approached the passenger side, the metal shimmered and moved to give him way.

“Nice ride,” he commented, parking his bulk into the large, warm, leather seats. With a press of a button, two seat belts sprang up from over his shoulders, strapping him into the seat. The metal of the doors moved and locked the car again.

“Someone once told me that if I’ve hit my hundredth year and did not have a luxury car, I might as well just hand in my ‘Elder card’,” Knight responded. The lupine Elder placed the keys in the ignition and then waved his paws through the air to disengage the arcane lock. Tyson noticed that the Elder’s tendrils slotted easily through holes in the seat. Not that there was much room in the back for other passengers. Maybe one more person.

The Euphoria barely let out a sound as it came to life. It lifted off the ground, rubber wheels sliding back into their sheathes as it rose higher and higher into the air. Wings unfurled and then they were off joining the Sanctuary City traffic. A look at the clock noted that it was just a little after three in the afternoon. Not quite peak hour traffic but getting there.

They drove mostly in silence with Knight obeying the laws of the air as was to be expected by an officer of the law. Just as they had drifted away from the crown of silver, glass and magic that was Sanctuary City’s heart and was starting to hit the various specialized districts, Knight finally broke the silence.

“What kind of magic was that? Where you turned into liquid and entered the GHM goons?”

Tyson smirked a little but that smile was twinged with the discomfort of his tusks. “Part of my specialized treatment plans.” The topic of his methodology allowed him to slip back into practiced rhetoric and speeches that he gave every time he had a new patient. Anxiety over the attack at Harrow’s clinic was pushed to the background. “It is a combination of various techniques I developed during my college days and is the basis of my thesis. I don’t become ‘liquid’. I turn my entire body into just a nervous system. Every cell in my body becomes a collection of neurotransmitters, proteins and nerve cells that I fully control.”

“Not the question I asked,” Knight replied. There was no hostility in his voice. At least as far as Tyson could tell. “What form of magic was it? It certainly wasn’t Fae or Elemental. Definitely not technomancy from Mechanism or Singularity.” He briefly flicked his eerie eyes at Tyson. “Demonic? Angelic?”

“Why do you ask?” countered Tyson suspiciously.

“Because it looked a little Elder,” responded the detective. “Turning yourself into sentient goo? And based on what you said, you basically become liquid brains? That screams Elder.”

The recently-transformed Orc tilted his head to the side and let out a little chuckle. “I guess you’re right. It is a little reminiscent of Elder magic. I’ve heard of more than one spell form the Outer Domains inflicting all sorts of body horror on victims.” He closed his eyes briefly, leaning his forehead against the window of the car. “But no. It’s not Elder Magic. I learned it from this fraternity I belong to back in College.”

“What kind of magical fraternity teaches people to become a pile of prehensile brain cells?”

Tyson grinned as he recalled his college days. “The Order of the White Orchid.”

“Never heard of them.”

“I’d be surprised if you did,” snickered Tyson, opening his eyes and straightening. “Apart from being an all male-group, the White Orchid specializes in one thing…” He gave Knight a side-long glance, watching his expression. “… gay male sex.”

Most people would jerk away in surprise or do a double-take but, to the detective’s credit, all Knight did was quirk one of his chitinous eyebrows.

“Not the weirdest fraternity I’ve heard about,” admitted the blue-furred wolf. “Theta Gamma Nu would periodically use their techniques to switch between male, female, hermaphrodite or even sexless depending on their mood at the time. They claimed that getting rid of the sexual organs would help them study and remove all distractions of sexual reproduction from their minds but we all know that they got off on that.” He tilted his head towards Tyson while keeping his eyes on the road. “But how does one go from being part of a fraternity focusing on sex between men to turning yourself into liquid brain matter?”

The detective’s focus on his technique was genuinely surprising. Most people who be firing off a series of questions asking about his sexuality or experiences with the White Orchid. Then again, those who asked him such things were generally his clients who were either cautious and straight or curious and gay. All men, of course. He had his specialties and preferences.

“The White Orchid taught me a lot of techniques about how to pleasure men,” Tyson explained, trying to keep his tone professional and as flat as possible. “Everything from the basic like erogenous zones and anatomical differences between species to more advanced topics such as different forms of love languages and chemical reasons for attachment. Yes, there were orgies and lots of sex but that was all to teach me about their most valuable resource and the main conduit for their spells - semen.”

Knight made no comment as they veered away from the city itself and started heading into the suburbs of Sanctuary City. The towering, sun-blocking spires of the city gave way to smaller, shorter apartment buildings with the distant homes off in the distance.

“As you no doubt know, every form of magic generally has some form of ‘price’ that must be paid to cast them. Most times, it’s just our physical stamina or mental exhaustion. But some magic requires components that are expended to cast the spell instead. For the White Orchid, it’s cum.”

“Alright…” Knight rumbled. “Still not answering my question.”

It occurred to Tyson that his long-winded explanation may have sounded evasive. Likely not earning him any brownie points with the alien and strangely attractive detective.

“I apologize if I seem like I’m beating around the bush,” he said, holding up a hand. He paused for a second as he regarded his bulky hand and recalled that the big, green fingers were his. “I promise, I’m getting to the point.” Lowering his hand, he continued. “From the Order, I learned the value of semen and they taught me techniques to literally control semen. Call it some form of water magic or maybe even an off-shoot of blood magic but the White Orchid can literally extract the cum out of you if they so want in the most pleasurable way possible.”

Tyson bobbed his head to the side. “More than once, they use that same kind of magic to turn themselves into sentient semen. Apparently it has its origins in Water Magic but evolved over time. I just took that in a different direction and turn myself into ‘liquid brain cells’ like you said so I can attach myself into my patient’s nervous system and then use the waves of pleasure I inflict upon them to cross from the physical to the metaphysical and find their soul.”

Thinking of souls and the existential terror that came from his discovery of the Inscriptions made Tyson audibly grimace.

Knight didn’t miss the noise. “You doing okay, doctor?”

“Not really,” he confessed. “I… discovered something about the Inscriptions while I was probing the souls of those GHM extremists.”

“Do tell.”

He explained to Knight his discovery that the Inscriptions were consuming the people’s souls not barricading them as he had first assumed. Now that he considered it and the rules of magic, it seemed likely that the component to activate the Inscriptions within their souls was likely the soul itself. His voice shook a little as he gave voice to his theory that the victim’s entire pasts according to their souls could have been rewritten based on the Inscription.

“It’s a sinister affliction,” Tyson confessed. “It’s slow and gradual. It’s one step after my treatments” Holding up his right hand, he said, “When I go into someone’s soul, I’m just there as an observer. Yes, I move and shift aspects of the soul to see more about the individual but that’s the limit of my soul manipulation. I then I attempt to reshape their physical aspects to align with what their soul.” Then he held up his left hand. “But an Inscription seems to be constantly changing the soul and rewriting the person from within.”

“And that’s far too similar to your revolutionary technique for comfort,” Knight grunted.

Tyson took a moment to respond because he knew how any affirmation might sound to the detective. “Exactly.”

As he lowered his hands. “The difference here is that I don’t change the soul that’s already there to reform the body. Someone branded their souls with an Inscription only for that Inscription to rewrite that person’s soul according to a template and then their mind and bodies follow suit. The natural order of things is for the physical aspects to write to the soul but this is reversing that flow.”

He frowned deeply, ignoring the strange sensation of his tusks against his down-turned lips. “When I peered into those souls, I first thought that the Inscription was blocking anything immediately related to its application as a defensive mechanism to prevent identification of the culprit. But now, I’m starting to think that it has been actively consuming the soul while simultaneously preventing any new experiences from being written to the soul. In that way, that person’s entire existence becomes centered around the Inscription.”

Again, Knight was quite and for a little while until he started dipping the car downwards slowly towards the nearby suburbs.

“Is that why you forced yourself into those Orcs and transformed them?”

That was the question he had been fearing though he had anticipated that it would come from Teddy or his father. In the short while since his invasive transformation of the GHM goons, he had started coming up with reasons and rationale for what could be considered an ethical breach of conduct if judges were being lenient. Murder of the soul if they were being harsh.

“They were dead men,” Tyson explained grimly. “The Inscription had made itself the very core of their existence and their damaged soul had started to rewrite itself to explain its presence. I can’t even tell if they were Orcs to begin with or that is just what the one that gave them the Inscription wanted them to become.” He glanced over to Knight who was still focused on the road. “I saw the Inscription actively eating away at their soul even when they weren’t using it. It was changing them, detective. They were little more than puppets.”

“And what you did to them was better?” There was no judgment or disdain in the Elder’s voice. Or at least Keening was keeping his emotions in check.

“I don’t know what would have happened if the Inscription was allowed to consume their soul entirely,” admitted Tyson, turning away. “However, what I did was give them a fresh start free of the Inscription.”

“Please elaborate.”

The car drifted towards a road where the wheels unfurled once more. As they hit the ground, there was barely a jostle as the gravity engines that kept them aloft quietly shut down and a more traditional form of locomotion took over, carrying them across the smooth roads down the streets. In a way, the gentle rumble of the wheels kept Tyson a little more grounded.

“I cannot tell for sure,” answered the animacologist. “But it seems that an Inscription has some sort of… controlling factor within it. It’s in an equilibrium. Just with any spell. Mispronouncing a word, using the wrong component or even being interrupted during concentration will cause the spell to fail or catastrophically backfire. Inscriptions seem to be trying to rewrite an individual to fit a specific template but when I shattered it, the remnants of the individual merged with the intent of the Inscription and hurried a different kind of transformation to its fullest. I think that’s why they became those snake-Orc hybrids. I sincerely suspect that they would have become full Orcs eventually but because the Inscription was designed around toxicity and there was still some part of them remaining, when it collapsed, the mishmash of the Inscription and remnants reflected back upon their physical aspects and turned them into those hybrids.”

“And could that have any detrimental effects to you?”

The strangely concerned question surprised Tyson and he briefly glanced towards the detective. Unfortunately, Knight had his head turned as he spun the wheel to guide them up a particular driveway.

“My dad suspects that I may have been hit with the blast,” he confessed. “That’s why I was forced to become an Orc. I suppose destroying those Inscriptions on another four GHM Orcs may have only compounded on my problem but I won’t know until I get my soul examined again.” Tyson absently picked at his tusks. “He did say that since the transformation wasn’t intended for me, my soul is not hampered in any way and that I am shedding the Orcish shape gradually though, after all this, I likely will have more time in green skin.”

Only then did Knight glanced towards him, a small smile on his lupine features. “To be fair, you look good in green.”

Butterflies danced in Tyson’s stomach and he couldn’t help the force of a smile tugging at his lips or the light blush on his cheeks. They held their locked gazes for a perhaps a little too long as awkwardness started creeping in. Knight was the first to break the gaze, coughing and turning his gaze away.

“Anyway, give me a few seconds. I need to check on my son.”

Tyson’s smile immediately fell.

“You have a son?”

?

“Yes,” Knight Keening answered, opening the driver-side door. As the triangular paneling shifted to give him room to move, he explained, “His name is Salem. He’s about thirty CMP years of age.” He glanced briefly at Tyson, appraising the Orc. Given this was not the Shaper’s actual body, it was hard to tell age but he recalled that the normally leonine demon was in his late twenties. “A little older than you, I suppose.”

Tyson Prowler looked a little puzzled by the statement which was understandable. Age was often very difficult to tell amongst species who do not share the same metabolic rate. With Elder who matured far slower compared to most other species out there, thirty years of age on the Central Material Plane would be equivalent to being in the prepubescent stage of life - older than a toddler and still shining with innocence and that child-like wonder.

The minute his car door closed, the door to his simple two story home sprang open.

“Daddy!”

Another blue-furred lupine Elder sprang from his house, scampering forward and using the four tendrils on his back to propel him across the ground. Slim but still with a little bit of baby fur around his cheeks, Salem took a lot from his father in terms of appearance. Same blue fur, same gray lower jaw, same yellow irises in a field of black. The only major differences were that Salem did not have a tail and instead had an extra pair of fleshy tentacles on his back. No ‘facial hair’ quite yet.

Knight immediately brightened and moved around his car to scoop up his son in his thick arms. Salem was getting heavy but not so heavy that he couldn’t pick him up. The boy was dressed in the gray shorts and maroon shirt of his primary school uniform. Given the time, that was unsurprising. The school bus probably had dropped him off not too long ago which was exactly why Knight wanted to be here.

“Now what did I tell you about using your tentacles for walking?” Knight growled playfully, grabbing one of his son’s legs and giving it a little wiggle. Salem giggled and kicked his hands away lightly.

“I won’t get big and strong legs if I keep using them,” Salem admitted in that guilty-but-happy-for-it tone that kids often used. “Are you done with work, Daddy? Can you come play?”

“Almost done, my little horror,” he answered, affectionately nuzzling his son. “I just need to finish up and then I’ll be right back to make dinner. Pizza tonight, remember?”

Salem beamed brightly. “I already made the dough!” Just to prove it, he held up his own hands which, unlike Knight’s, were covered in leathery paw pads. Unlike Knight’s paws, there was evidence of sticky dough between his fingers and flour. “See? It’s resting now!”

“That’s my good little chef of horrors.”

Salem’s bright yellow eyes then drifted past Knight to his car. “Who’s that? A criminal?” Naturally, with the lack of social consciousness that most kids had, Salem pointed.

“Don’t point, Salem,” Knight chastised. He then nodded towards Tyson with a grin on his muzzle. “Come on out, Doctor Prowler. Meet me son.”

Tyson seemed a little hesitant but he did open the door and step out. Salem openly gawked at the man.

“Wow! You’re an Orc!” exclaimed Salem, leaning forward and actively sniffing at Tyson. “But you smell… weird.”

Tyson offered a shaky smile. “That’s because normally, I’m a demon. Circumstances… afflicted me with this form.”

Salem blinked at the Orc with clear confusion on his face. Despite the long life of every Elder, physical and mental maturation progressed just as slowly.

“He means that things happened and he became an Orc for now,” explained Knight. “Your daddy is helping him sort it out.”

Salem threw his hands into the air in excitement. “You’re on a case! Can I help?”

Beaming, Knight said, “You can help but making sure dinner is all ready by the time I get home.” He pressed his nose against Salen’s cheek as he let his son down, his own tendrils gently wrapping around Salem’s waist to make sure he was safely on the ground. “Now go on. Head on inside, lock the door and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Salem spun around, facing the house and happily hopped back indoors, using his feet this time instead of his tentacles. The young Elder grabbed the doorknob and turned back to Knight and Tyson before waving goodbye.

“Okay, Daddy! Nice meeting you, Mr. Orc!” Salem then tilted his head to the side, the floppy triangular ears atop his head twitching a little. “I’m sure you’ll be back to being a demon!”

Tyson waved back, a little bit of hesitation in the gesture. “Thanks.”

Salem shut the door.

Knight let out the sigh of relief he had been holding. “Sorry about that. I just wanted to make sure he’s back safe and sound after the school bus dropped him off.” He turned back towards his car and beckoned for his charge to follow. “I don’t have anyone that can watch him or pick him up so I try to stop by around this time during weekdays to make sure he gets home safe.”

Tyson took up position in the passenger seat again as they both slipped into the vehicle. “You don’t see very many Elder kids on this Plane.”

“There’s a reason for that,” answered Knight, starting his car again. He reversed out of the driveway and began building up speed to take flight once more. “Because we Elder mature much slower than other species, schools and educational facilities on the CMP are seldom equipped to cater for us. Salem may be thirty or so years old but really, that’s comparable to a seven or eight year old in human standards. Imagine having the same student running around your class for fifty years before they could legally and mentally be considered a teenager. Then dealing with a teenager for another thirty years before they move on to college.”

Tyson grimaced and rolled his eyes. “My teen years were not exactly the most pleasant so I can’t imagine what it would be like to be one for thirty years.” He glanced towards Knight as they took off and swung through the air, heading east. “But you found a good school for Salem?”

Knight’s ears twitched slightly. “No. He’s making it through primary school easily enough. He’s a smart kid. I figure I’ll home school him or something for the next twenty-or-so years until he’s ready to move to middle school. I don’t really have a plan.”

“What happened to his mother?”

The question made Knight smirk a little. “His father left us. Couldn’t stand the idea of me being a cop and raising a kid all on his own.”

A disapproving edge crossed the Orc’s features. “So he saddled you with that responsibility?”

The blue-furred detective shrugged absently. “I can’t really blame my ex. We had our fling. I wanted a kid. He didn’t. I chose to have Salem. It was my responsibility.” The silence that followed was all too telling and Knight couldn’t stop himself from smirking. “You don’t know much about Elder biology, do you?”

Tyson shook his head. “I confess, I do not.”

Lifting a finger, Knight said, “Pay attention because I’ll only say this once. Yes, I have a dick. All Elder are male - at least by the definition of most of the Planes. We reproduce by giving genetic and neurological matter to the ‘birthing parent’. Said parent will develop the embryo in a compartment somewhere in their body. Most people liken it to growing a soon-to-be-sentient tumor on your body. Most Elder actually do grow their offspring on or near their stomachs as it’s easier to get nutrients to the child there. When it comes to birth, the birthing parent can choose how to produce their offspring. Some literally just slough the sack off their bodies, others choose to ‘eject’ them through an orifice while there are even others that would ‘lay’ the child through an egg earlier in the process and continue to ‘feed’ it the material it needs to grow.” He lowered his hand and shrugged. “It’s one of the benefits of belonging to a species that has complete control and knowledge of every cell in your body.”

There was still a puzzled look on Tyson’s features as the Orc opened his mouth and shut it multiple times. “Excuse my ignorance but when you say ‘giving genetic and neurological matter’…?”

“It means that, as an Elder, I can literally take someone’s cells and use it to make another Elder. As for the neurological matter, well…” He tilted his head a little to the side with a smirk. “… I guess it’s kind of like what you do when you enter someone’s body. But with other Elder, we literally give the birthing parent a part of our nervous system as part of the impregnation process. It’s how we maintain both genetic and mental diversity.”

“Can this work with other species?”

Knight grimaced, showing his fangs a little. “Not so much. We can have sex with them, that’s not a problem. But if we wanted to have a child with our non-Elder partner, the child will always turn out an Elder. Females of any species are actually not advised to be a birthing parent to an Elder because, like everything with Elder, our gestation period is long.” He glanced over to Tyson. “Orcs usually give birth in nine months, right?”

The Shaper’s features soured. “From what I’ve told.”

It took him a second to remember that Tyson was not born an Orc. Not born a demon either. “Right, sorry.” Coughing slightly, he focused on the skylines again. “Well, nine months is basically nothing to an Elder. We gestate for years at a minimum. Again, would depend on the Elder as we have complete control over our cells. It varies as we can give as many resources or genetic material to the child before it’s fully formed. Elder young need to have stable bodies from birth or we risk them dying and without the cellular control that we first start developing in our tenth year and only really master after a hundred years, a child could easily perish if they aren’t prepared.”

“Prepared…?” repeated Tyson. “You make it sound like your child is conscious while gestating and you’re teaching it while carrying them.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. The neurological matter we contribute carries some of our knowledge and experiences with them and as the child grows within us, we teach them what they need to know to survive.”

The Orc blew out his cheeks and let out his breath slowly. “I can see why you thought my techniques were Elder-related. I had studied Elder bodyshaping magic but didn’t know it was so complicated.”

A bit of satisfaction that welled up inside Knight. Knowing something that a learned individual like Tyson Prowler did not know was one of life’s little pleasures. Elders lived amongst species that had comparatively short lifespans. One of the key techniques taught to any Elder who would leave the Outer Domains was to celebrate events and occurrence that would seem so insignificant because to other species, it could be something momentous.

“What is it that what all the academics say?” he asked. “Every form of magic comes from a necessity. For the Elder, bodyshaping is just how we live. To everyone else, it’s this alien magic.”

Tyson’s brow suddenly furrowed and he looked disturbed. Knight gave him some time to digest his words as he drove the car away from the hustle and bustle of Sanctuary City’s suburbs and into free airspace. There were no lines or runes in the air to dictate where he could and could not fly. Now he was free to zoom as he saw fit and he made a beeline for the Eastern Rim and Prowler’s residence. A good five minutes in, he broke the silence.

“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” he asked keeping his voice even and flat.

“No…” Tyson mused. “Just… You’ve given me something to think about.”

“Do tell.”

Again, the Shaper was quiet for a few minutes. “Magic, in any form, spawns from necessity,” intoned Tyson at length. “Merriwether Eyre said that. Though I’m sure that different needs change over time, it all comes back to that one quote.”

Knight lifted one chitinous eyebrow. “Alright… and…?”

“It makes me wonder what the necessity drives the Inscriptions.”

Back to the Inscriptions and their current crisis. Knight had hoped to divert the conversation away from it given the good Shaper was struggling with the ethics of his actions. That was good. Serial killers and psychopaths never doubted themselves. That indicated, at least to Knight, that Tyson Prowler had a conscience under all that muscle. “If we’re to believe the zealots of the GHM, it’s to make sure that the public image of Orcs isn’t ‘tarnished’ by these ‘unrealistic standards of beauty’ that Harrow is promoting. Though I’ll be frank, those Orcs didn’t look bad.”

Tyson lifted his hand and crossed his arms thoughtfully. “That’s exactly it. Those guys were big. They were beefy. By modern standards, they were actually quite handsome. Barring some scars and maybe a bit of dental issues, they weren’t ugly by any means.” His eyes narrowed, almost vanishing beneath the heavy brown of his Orcish features. “Then there’s the ‘spells’ and ‘abilities’ that the Inscriptions actually granted them…”

He shook his head, dismissing the thought with a frustrated growl. “Damnit… I feel like I’m close to something. It’s on the tip of my tongue but I just can’t get it!”

“Don’t worry too much about it,” Knight assured. “Leave it to the SCPD. I’d recommend you advise your brother to back off as well and abandon whatever job he has for Harrow. And while we’re on the topic…”

He drifted off as he brought them circling down towards Tyson’s mountain-side home. Once he landed and shut off the ignition, Tyson was already emerging from the car.

“Will you be alright this evening?” Knight asked, following the expert on souls up his driveway to the door. He took a moment to appraise the residence in front of him.

Modern and luxurious, it reminded him of some of the Californian upper-middle class homes he had heard so much about. Consisting of only a single story, the walls were white and appeared well-maintained. The front yard was barred by a large, wooden fence held together by black, iron frames. A garden predominantly made of succulents and stones spoke of an individual that wanted to look classy with as little effort as possible. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed plenty of natural light to stream into the home but they were distinctly designed to be one-way so they only reflected the exterior and prevented anyone from peering inside. The roof was slightly slanted towards the slope of the mountain ensuring that when it rained, all water would not collect and just pour down the mountainside. This ensured that the front half of the home was about half-a-floor taller than the rest of the home.

Tyson approached his large doorway and waved his fingers through the air, unlocking the door with his unique, personal spell - his ‘block’.

“I’ll be alright, detective,” assured the demon-in-an-Orc’s body, a half-smile on his features. “I think I just need to take a moment to decompress and digest everything that’s happened.”

Knight nodded in understanding. Most people who be in shock or inconsolable after being near the epicenter of a terrorist attack. Then again, most people would also not take it upon themselves to fight back against the terrorists with orgasm after orgasm. Certainly something to admire about the Shaper.

Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he fished out a small business card and handed it to Tyson. “Take your time. I’ll be in touch in case we need your expertise on what happened at the clinic. If you come up with any other strokes of inspiration you’d like the share, this is my number.”

Tyson took the offered card and nodded in return. “Thanks, detective. If you need my contact details, I’m sure you can find it somewhere.”

Knight returned a lopsided smile. “I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I couldn’t find your number on the Shared Planar Infosphere.” He lifted a finger, shaped it like a gun and playfully fired it at Tyson. “You really should take your details off any sites, you know. It’s how Delvers find a way into your place. It’s how I knew where you lived without ever asking you for the address.”

For a second, Tyson’s crimson eyes widened and then he blinked a few times. Knight took that as his cue to dramatically turn around and stride back down the little stone path back to his car. His tendrils tingled a little at the satisfaction he drew from being enigmatic, charming and just a little bit ominous with his parting words. Even without looking back towards the Orc, he knew he had left quite the impression.

Maybe even a little bit of confusion.

He drew satisfaction from that.

“It’s the little things in life,” he told himself his vehicle closed in around him and he few off back to work.

?

SCPD were swarming all over the clinic.

Even now, a few hours after their arrival, Teddy watched the armored goons that called themselves ‘police’ scrambling all over the three-story building from a nearby high rise. The victims and civilians had been cleared out and now only the detectives and police remained. That Elder detective, Knight Keening, had returned and spoke with some of the other officers on the scene. Harrow had already left but the news crews were still itching for a statement.

“Must be a slow news day,” he mumbled to himself.

Normally, an attack like this would not even make the evening news. If SCORN wasn’t involved, this would be little more than a footnote or a passing mention to a coworker over lunch. Sanctuary City has bigger problems than a supposed terrorist attack on a dental clinic in the middle of town. Spectacle aside, it was hours after the incident and people were complaining about how it would affect their commute. From where Teddy sat in an lobby of a nearby corporate building, the city’s normal citizenry had forgotten or chosen to ignore the clinic which was currently swarming with SCPD.

He brought up his phone and pretended to be watching the news on the screen. At the same time, the psychic connection Nya maintained scratched at the corners of his consciousness.

“What does a guy have to pay the mayor to get this kind of Blue response?” rumbled Ruben, his voice clear through their psionic link. His thoughts came across with a piercing accuracy, a sharpness and precision that bought to mind a silvery blade or metallic lightning. Many times during their first few Delves, the team had to remind Ruben to slow down his thoughts because they would come in scrambled and out of order like he thought all the words at once.

“Prolly bribed the Mayor,” Cole responded. His voice was slower, gravelly but burned with an intensity that demanded attention. If everyone was talking/thinking over one another, Cole’s thoughts would always be the dominant one. The Lava Elemental was on the ground level, pretending to be one of the few onlookers that was genuinely curious about what was happening. “You don’t get the SCPD buzzin’ ‘bout yer place without greasin’ a few palms.”

Miri’s words came in next. Her ‘voice’ came in haltingly like every word was preceded by a period. Quiet but clear. Best way Teddy could describe it was someone talking in Morse Code if every beep was a word. “If you think about it, there would be a lot of reasons for the Mayor to sponsor Harrow’s work. The positive image he’s promoting for Orcs would attract more of them to Sanctuary City. Not to mention his work in Orcish cosmetic dental care is revolutionary so having a celebrity like him living within the city would be good publicity.”

Teddy sent his two-cents, his own words coming across as blunt, commanding but with this edge of playfulness; like being hit with a rubber mallet if the hammerhead was pink and covered in glitter. “Harrow ain’t an actual dentist. He’s a businessman. Who made the procedure he’s getting all the omnis for ain’t published. One of the things we’re trying to find out.”

Just as he finished his thought, a short buzzing rippled through the phone he was holding. Someone was calling him. Conscious of his twin brother’s status, he pulled his attention from the psychic conversation and focused on his phone. Instead of the handle ‘Typhon’ appearing on the screen of his paper-thin, glass device, however, the name ‘Kunoichi’ flashed. Stifling a groan, he informed his team that their flea was calling and they all went silent.

He pulled the phone to his ear and the moment the device sensed his proximity, it accepted the call.

“Kuno,” he said with a deadpan tone, using a nickname as he was out in public. This also indicated to the ‘opportunity broker’ for Pulse to extend the same courtesy. “What’s the stat?”

“Apollo,” came the calm, even response with a thick accent. One that tended to pronounce ‘Ls’ as ‘Rs’. “I have just had the most interesting conversation with your latest exclam.”

Teddy scrunched up his face in annoyance. After the show at Harrow’s office and the accusations that he had flung around, he had been expecting this call. Exclams didn’t take too kindly to being harassed. He could defend himself by saying that he was just being cautious but the vetting of operations and jobs was usually done by the fleas. Either Kunoichi was going to berate him for not trusting her or accuse him of being unprofessional towards Harrow.

“And what did he have to say?”

There was a pause on the other side. No doubt it was Kunoichi sucking on a Nani cigarette that the kappa loved to indulge in for dramatic effect. Those things were non-toxic, apparently, and just produced smoke that would break down into nutrient-filled molecules that would be absorbed into the bloodstream via the lungs but smelled absolutely awful. Like burning rubber mixed with sweaty body odor.

“He was impressed with your defense of his person. Above and beyond the line of duty, in fact.”

That was a surprise. Especially considering how the conversation went.

“Sweazy,” rumbled Teddy, keeping his cool. “Did we get a bonus?”

“Quite a hefty sum, in fact. Even received some praise for assigning a team that was not afraid to step outside the bounds of the contract.” Again, another pause. “You were involved in protecting him at his clinic this afternoon, were you not?”

Trust Kunoichi to connect the dots especially when it came to her Delvers and their clients.

“We were.”

“And I assume it was not just to report your success on on the previous Delve?”

Seeing some people were already starting to give him a suspicious side-eye, Teddy stood up from where he was seated and began to wander slowly down the hallway, the clinic still in his periphery through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “You got that right.”

“So what was the nature of you engaging him directly without going through your loyal flea?”

Familial piety. That gave Teddy some relief. Kunoichi only used that tactic when making light threats that could be considered jokes that would be uttered around a table while having some tea or orange chicken in the restaurant she ran as a cover for her operations. Kunoichi did not threaten. If she wanted anyone dead, she would not waste time or effort with making ominous promises.

“Something isn’t all gold with him.”

“Are you suggesting that I may have not done my job and properly vetted the request before assigning you to it?”

Again, a light threat. She was not really concerned. Amongst the dozen or so Delver teams that called her their flea, Pulse was amongst the lowest ranked. If they messed up or stepped out of line, it would not harm her reputation much.

“More like I think he lied to you or didn’t tell you everything,” Teddy answered curtly.

Another pause.

“I had my suspicions that was the case,” came her response. “While on the surface, it was fairly obvious why he wanted to get rid of the Green Hand Movement, something about his motivation and response smacked of deception. It was far too obvious. Nothing is ever as it seems in Sanctuary City.”

Those famous words that were often uttered amongst Delvers in Sanctuary City gave Teddy pause. Coined by one of the City’s most famous Delvers, Morgana Ravenwing, it was a constant reminder that the city state was not beholden to the laws of the rest of the Planes. Even the kindest and most charitable individual would always have ulterior motives.

With that reminder, everything clicked and he couldn’t help but smirk at Kunoichi’s own brand of deception. After all, if Pulse messed up and did something stupid to Harrow, it wouldn’t be like the flea would lose much for it. However, if they did discover something far more sinister, it could open a lot of doors.

“Any advice?” he asked.

“Only to keep your head down. Harrow is not without his resources. His headquarters is located in California, after all. That rests within the Commonwealth of Greater Canada.”

That was a warning in and of itself. Of the five nations that divided the continent of North America, the Commonwealth would be the one considered the most left-leaning or socialist. Popular opinion could drive the direction of the government even down to the local courts. Evidence did not matter. Not even money mattered. People ruled by their hearts.

Delvers were treated harshly there and though the Delver’s Agreement prevented anyone from being persecuted for using or being associated with Delvers, that did not stop people from drawing suspicions and launching probes at people who had a history of using Delvers. For Harrow to set up his headquarters in California would mean he constantly ran the risk of some senator or representative going after him with a deposition or summons.

“Thanks, Kuno,” Teddy responded.

“I am sending you the bonus. Keep up the good work.”

Then she hung up.

A soft ding on his phone announced a deposit to his account. Harrow had dropped a hefty two hundred thousand omnis. That was not a small amount. Kunoichi would likely have taken her cut as well though she never resorted to a flat rate. How much she took was up to her whims. One of the risks with working with the notorious ‘Shadow of Sanctuary City’.

Teddy tapped a few buttons on his Nebula’s screen and ran a quick macro that immediately divided the amount amongst his team members while routing all the transactions through a series of intricate and complicated off-shore accounts to avoid any fees and ensure that none of it could be tracked easily.

Cole was the first the break the psicom silence.

“Holy shit! Where the hex did all this come from!?”

That immediately triggered some curiosity from the others and, one by one, they all checked their accounts with the exception or Ruben.

“Harrow sent us some ‘good job’ money,” Teddy responded, moving towards an escalator.

“Feels like ‘shut up and do your job’ money,” answered Nya. “Think he doesn’t want you digging further?”

“Hard to say. Would depend on what Ruben finds.”

There was a pscionic chuckle that rippled through their personal network. Ruben’s words came in clearly and tinged with a level of amusement.

“Funny you should mention that. I made it into the big guy’s office.”

A brief image flashed through their minds. A dark room with the only light coming from the nearby one-sided windows. There were diplomas on the walls. Physical books in shelves. A broad desk with a console and photographs that depicted people that were clearly not Casey Harrow. This was not an office belonging to their client but whoever looked after the facility.

“Going to need your help, Miri,” said Ruben as the image faded away. “Local infosphere looks pretty tight. Layered. Multi-layered, in fact.”

As Teddy reached the bottom of the escalators and began down another set to the ground floor, Miri instructed Ruben to patch her through. Just as he reached halfway down the floor, he knew the their goblin Slayer had hooked up an embedded neuralink cable protruding from his body and inserted it into whatever port was nearby. Through their psionic link, Miri connected into the clinic’s local infosphere and the two were likely sweeping through its files, breaking through firewalls and dodging through NODACs.

It took a special kind of person to be able to hack infospheres. The average person needed a physical interface to be able to interpret the vast amounts of knowledge that infospheres presented such as a phone, tablet or console. But those with the skills could literally connect their minds into an infosphere and then it was up to them to use their mental strength to translate that information into something that wouldn’t melt their brains. Ruben described his interpretation as a palace where firewalls were doors or walls he had to work around and hostile anti-hacking programs being the knights or guards that would need to be dodged or eliminated. Miri often supported him in his hacking and corroborated the story. Considering how the two often had to synchronize and work together in such endeavors, it made their job twice as hard. Trying to mentally parse the very concept of information into a physical shape was difficult enough. Doing it alongside someone was doubly as hard. Still, it was better to traverse an infosphere with someone beside you than alone.

The entire process made Teddy’s mind spin but he tried not to think about it too hard as he reached the bottom floor. He was still psionically connected to his teammates and any stray thought could break Miri and Ruben’s concentration.

“First layer is easy enough to get through,” Ruben reported calmly. “It’s the public layer. Good to know that they have some form of public infosphere in this place… Second layer is a little more difficult. Company-only. But they’re sloppy.”

Mental agreement came from Miri. “Whoever assembled this either was a novice or clearly was not paid enough to plug some of the more obvious holes. There are a few NODACs here but they are basic and predictable. The firewalls won’t take a second…”

A satisfied hum buzzed from both the tech experts in the team as they clearly made it through the second layer. It made Teddy wonder, though. If the first layer was for the public and the second layer was for the company and employees… what was hidden behind the third layer?

“Oh hex…” Ruben suddenly said though there was no fear in his voice. More surprise and a degree of begrudging approval.

“What?” Nya asked, the farther from any technology of the team. “What do you see?”

“The third layer is definitely far more protected,” answered Miri calmly. “Definitely more NODACs and far more well-designed. I even see a lone NOHAK.”

That made Teddy freeze. A mother and her child were immediately behind him and jerked away before striking him. The woman threw him a foul stare before wrapping her arms protectively around her child and hurrying away. She would have reacted the same had she encountered a NOHAK.

NODACs or Network Operations Defense And Containment programs were anti-hacker countermeasures that were designed to keep anyone intruding an infosphere from getting in and, if they did get through, keep them there until they could be extracted by an operator. They were designed to be non-lethal. Not so their killer counterparts, the NOHAKs.

Network Operations Hunter And Killer programs were true to their name.

They were designed to kill.

“The fuck is a NOHAK doing in a local dental clinic’s Infosphere?” Cole spat. “Does the hexin’ mayor hand them out like candy now!?”

Due to their lethality, NOHAKs were extremely regulated. Having one in a local Infosphere was very expensive and dangerous. Delvers weren’t the only ones to jump into Infospheres through a neural link, after all. Sometimes, it was faster to program something when you could mentally envision it in the code first. Not to mention NOHAKs were capable of killing and corrupting Infomorphs. One stray query, one curious mind and suddenly, there could be a dead body in the middle of an office building.

“Be careful,” Teddy warned, resuming his stride and leaving the building. The crisp, night air of Sanctuary City met him. He took a left, away from the clinic. “It’s just one. I’m sure you two can handle it. But don’t take any risks.”

“What do you take us for?” scoffed Ruben. “We’re already past it and in the ‘fo!”

A sigh of relief left his lips. He was confident in both Miri and Ruben’s skills but death was always a looming threat amongst Delvers. As he made his way through the streets to their rendezvous point, he sensed more and more confidence coming from both his colleagues as they stole the data they needed.

Then there was a bout of disappointment before they announced they were leaving. Teddy reached a little diner and parked himself in a corner booth where Cole was already seated. He nodded at the burly Lava Elemental who returned a nod and slid over one of the menus on a disposable, plastic sheet.

“What’s good here?” he asked aloud.

“Get anything,” grunted Cole. “Everything sucks but it’s all cheap.”

At that, one of the other people in the diner shuffled. Nya slithered over, sitting beside Teddy to be as far away from Cole as possible.

“I hear the chicken fingers are actually decent,” she announced. “Uses actual farm-bred chicken instead of the lab-grown stuff.”

“You can tell the difference?” asked Teddy.

“It’s in the texture.”

Their code phrases exchanged and suspicion from any would-be eavesdroppers allayed, they received an all-green signal from Ruben. The psionic link was re-established and within a few minutes, both Miri and the goblin were joining them. Banter was made aloud while they communicated through their mental link.

“Did you get anything good?” Cole asked.

“Not really,” answered Miri, that disappointment coming through again. “The only thing kept in that third layer were personal files and dental records of clients. On the one hand, it’s encouraging that Harrow pursues proper procedures over privacy but it is disappointing for us.”

Teddy slumped slightly in his seat. “Nothing about his finances? Correspondence with other Delver teams? The usual?”

“Nothing,” Ruben answered, physical shaking his head slightly. “Everything looks good. All payments are made on time. Nothing shifty with landlords or clients. Hell, they even donate to this charity organization called ‘REPAIR’. It’s all clean.”

“Honestly didn’t expect much from a local infosphere,” Nya admitted. “We’d have to go to his HQ to get the good stuff.”

Teddy shook his head and fished out his phone. “Didn’t want to have to do this but I’ll have to…” He held up a finger as he shuffled past Nya and Ruben so that he could take a private call.

Outside of the diner, amongst the roar of cars and chatter of people, he hit a well-used contact on his phone and brought the device to his ear. After two rings, Tyson picked up.

“Teddy, you okay?” came the immediate request.

“Yeah, Ty,” he answered, smiling at his brother’s concern. “I’m okay. How about you?”

“Fine. Just… digesting things. I have a lot to tell you when you’re free.”

Closing his eyes and lowered his head, Teddy massaged his temple with his other hand. If Tyson had something to say, it was probably going to be something complicated that would make his head hurt. Likely adding further layers to the mystery that was the Green Hand Movement and Casey Harrow.

“Probably not now. I have a… request.”

“What is it?” answered his brother guardedly.

?

Tyson was left stunned and speechless.

How had he completely missed that Detective Keening hadn’t asked him where he lived?

Of course he knew why.

The Green Hand Movement attack on Harrow and what he had learned about the Inscriptions constantly gnawed at the back of his mind, haunting him. Someone out there was cursing others and changing them completely down to their very soul. What is someone in GHM was actually forcibly recruiting people into their cult by inflicting them with Inscriptions and turning them into Orcs that were frantically devoted to their movement? He didn’t want to voice it to Knight because it sounded so far fetched and he had only just met the detective.

The general opinion of the SCPD was not exactly positive. Sanctuary City was considered a city state in the divided North American continent. Though technically within the border of the Commonwealth of Greater Canada, it was an isolated island that was self-governed. This meant that what ‘common laws’ were practiced in the five nations that had divided the continent were not necessarily practiced in Sanctuary City. The SCPD really was more like a bigger Delver Team that had the backing of the government.

Then there was Knight’s explanation about Elder bodyshaping magic and how it was a necessity for them to survive. That sparked a question in Tyson that he feared to answer.

What could necessitate the use of Inscriptions?

Those thoughts bounced in his head so much that he had been incredibly distracted. So much so that he had forgone any sort of self-preservation instinct and jumped into the car of a near-complete stranger.

Tyson growled at himself, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching up his face in irritation.

“Teddy would have my ass for how careless I’ve been…”

He tried the door to his home and was surprised when it refused to budge. It took him a second to wonder if he had actually used his personal spell to unlock the door or not. Then, when he determined that he had, he wondered why it had not worked. A glance at his big, green palm made him wonder if the spell was somehow corrupted or changed now that he had changed bodies.

“Impossible,” he mumbled to himself. “Blocks are given to people when they’re young. Everyone gets one. Even as their bodies change through puberty, it never changes…”

A bubble of fear welling up in his chest, he tried the spell one more, making gestures with his fingers, drawing runes and symbols through the air. Magic sizzled through the air as a unique spell that formed part of his identification triggered. The door acknowledged his presence and when he tried it again, it swung open.

That only left one possibility of why it had failed the first time; he had just been standing outside long enough for it to self-lock again. Mentally kicking himself for yet another example of his inner turmoil distracting him, he wearily stomped through the small entrance hallway to the common area, frustrated at himself and feeling the weariness the past few hours had delivered upon him.

“Everything goes by faster in Sanctuary City,” he rumbled to himself, repeating the idiom that was often quoted in the city state.

When he entered the common area with his kitchen and lounge area, a familiar baritone immediately made him stop.

“A common saying in reference to the chaos and hectic nature of our home town,” Banchomyon announced, perched at the kitchen counter with a cup of tea in his big, striped paws. “Often considered a poor mimicry of Texas’ own saying. ‘Everything is bigger in Texas.”

Tyson placed a hand against his chest, just over his heart, feeling the rapid beating gradually slowing down from the fearful rush that it had jumped to. Again, he mentally chastised himself for not realizing that the lights were on in his home and the holovid was blaring. The news anchors were talking about the events at Harrow’s clinic.

“Dad,” he sighed, partially from relief and partially from exasperation. A lecture was likely on its way. “What are you doing here?”

“To present you with my findings,” answered the three-eyed demon, glancing at him with a humorless smile. He pushed a mug in his direction. “Sit. I made tea.”

Tea. Banchomyon’s beverage of choice for grim news. Anything else was considered for parties or social gatherings. One of the reasons Tyson liked coffee so much. It was tea-adjacent and the caffeine helped him brace himself for whatever was to come next.

Before he could even take a step forward, a big, green figure popped up from one of his couches. It was Bert. The black-haired Priapan beamed at him brightly and waved a hairy hand at him.

“Hey, Tyson Prowler!” The man pointed at the TV. “Lord Banchomyon said that was you on the holovid! Are you a Hollywood star? An actor?”

Both of Tyson’s eyebrows lifted and he looked towards his adoptive father. “He’s sounding more eloquent.”

Banchomyon’s smile grew a little more genuine. “I brought him to a learning center and after just a few hours hooked up, he has made leaps and strides.” There was a fatherly edge to his smile and it was one that Tyson recognized all too well. It was the same smile that the demon gave him often as he grew up under the hellish tiger’s care.

“While everything about him has been reset,” continued the tiger, “he still has the mind, body and soul of a thirty-something-old CMP resident. The capacity to learn is there and none of it is colored by prior experience or even a past. That makes him a sponge that readily absorbs information.” The demon tilted a had slightly and grimaced. “Perhaps a little gullible and sensitive to disinformation but I have no doubt that after a week or so of regular sessions at the learning center, he will be a fully functioning adult.”

Just a week?

Thinking about Torpak, Tyson recalled that he sensed the Inscription had been inflicted upon the man a whole month ago. It was entirely possible that the Orc had been rewritten much like Bert and then trained to be a fanatic for GHM in that time.

He shook his head free of the thought.

No, Torpak still had a past. A childhood. Education. They were being rewritten by the Inscription but it was not completely blank like what had befallen Bert. At least, not until after Tyson had fully unleashed the power of said Inscription.

“Looks like you have something on your mind?” Banchomyon observed.

Tyson sat on the barstool right next to his father and took a sip from the offered tea. It was lemony. Sweet. With a little hint of something fruity and spicy.

“Cardamom?” he asked.

A shimmer of pride entered Banchomyon’s eyes. “Yes. Good to see that your taste buds were not affected by your transformation.” He reached over and gently patted his adoptive son’s shoulder. “Now tell me what you’ve learned.”

Tyson recounted what happened at the clinic and his own discoveries. Unlike with Knight, however, he knew he could trust his father and voiced his theory about the Inscriptions - how they could have been used as transformation mediums to brainwash and rewrite individuals. As Banchomyon listened, the feline demon’s expression lost any warmth and developed a cold, critical edge.

Once he was done, he looked to his father. “What do you think?”

Banchomyon’s grip on his shoulder tightened slightly. “I think you were careless. You triggered all those men’s Inscriptions knowing full well that the retaliatory blast would have affected you. What if such acts would have damaged your soul?”

“Did it?”

The tiger’s eyes searched him. Then his smile returned with a bit of relief. “Thankfully, no. It remains intact and unaffected. I see that what progress it made to recover has been reset, however. More layers attached. Your soul is still shrugging it off easily enough but you still need to be careful. What if, whoever is inflicting these poor victims with Inscriptions, does so with the express purpose of disabling you?”

That had occurred to Tyson and he swore that he would be more careful in the future. However, now that he knew more about them, he was already starting to think about ways to counteract the Inscriptions.

“We’re dealing with a new type of magic, dad,” he said. “Something that is fully capable of recycling someone into a predefined template. I saw the Inscription eating away at Torpak and his gang.” He gripped his cup tightly, careful not to break it. “I’m not sure what would have happened if they had been completely consumed by it but those evil words eating away at them. I couldn’t just sit by and let that happen.”

Banchomyon released his shoulder and let out a soft sigh. “I understand, son. I would have done exactly the same thing. There is nothing worse than the complete and utter destruction of one’s self.” Gripping his own mug in both hands, he took a sip from his own cup. “When we perish, everything about us is reused in the great cycle of life. Our physical bodies are broken down into materials and nutrients for the Planes. Our souls are no different. They are broken down into different seeds, grown into nascent souls and then spread out into the world.”

The demon’s three eyes narrowed. “The greatest atrocity of this all is that everything about the individual is being rewritten as part of the transformation. Their past, all their experiences, emotions and the very building blocks of their souls is being lost in the process to create a blank slate. What could have amounted to thirty-or-so years of seeds for new souls to grow is completely destroyed.”

Suddenly, two, big, hairy arms wrapped around Tyson and Bert was pressing his body against the red-haired Orc. Tyson was broken out of his grim stupor as the Orc-Satyr, held him tightly. At least no longer naked or scantily dressed, Bert was now wearing a pair of dark blue shorts that had frayed edges that ended around halfway down his thigh. A white, sleeveless crop-top that showed off his fuzzy abdominal muscles covered his torso, the logo of a popular brand called ‘Hellborne’ was emblazoned across his chest.

“I know you’re talking about me,” rumbled the hybrid, speaking into Tyson’s neck. “I’m sorry I’m so much trouble and I can’t be of more help.”

Emotional growth. That was certainly a leap in development. The shine in Banchomyon’s eyes belied the great demon’s pride and his fatherly instincts. His strange obsession with having sons and watching them grow was something the feline demon had been accused of amongst his peers both amongst demons and other animacologists. They mockingly called him the ‘Father Amongst Demons’.

Tyson gently patted Bert’s hands. “It’s alright, Bert. It’s not your fault. We’ll find whoever inflicted this upon you and find a way to reverse it.”

Banchomyon made a face and coughed slightly. Bert’s grip around Tyson also tightened. Tyson did not miss the small exchange of glances they shared.

“What?” asked the red-haired Orc. “What did I miss?”

“I do not believe it will be possible to restore Albert Tien to his former self,” said Banchomyon grimly. “He is already in the later stages of the Lapsing.”

Tyson immediately went rigid, his sudden movement pushing Bert away from him. The motion immediately made him turn towards the Priapan with a panicked look.

“That’s… That’s not possible!” he exclaimed. “I’m seeing Bert right now! He still has his soul! He can’t possibly be undergoing the Lapsing while he has a soul!”

Banchomyon placed a paw on his knee and gently gripped it. “That is not what I am saying, Tyson. I am saying that Albert Tien has started to Lapse.”

With his mind still racing, Tyson took in those words and started to reinterpret them.

Eyes still on Bert, he said, “The Lapsing… so Albert is being forgotten and erased from everyone’s memories…?”

Bert ducked his head in shame, those tube-like ears drooping.

“And all public records, yes,” Banchomyon responded grimly. “After I took Bert here to get some clothes, I started my own investigation on who he used to be. Imagine my surprise when I found conflicting records.”

Tyson turned to his father, brow furrowed. “Contradictions?” he asked. “Cases where sometimes it would be Albert but others would say it was someone else?” His father nodded grimly. “Fuck… that is late stage Lapsing… Six months or so from now, Albert Tien would be completely forgotten until…” His eyes widened as he turned to look at Bert. “Oh…”

“Yes,” the feline demon said sorrowfully. “The only way to truly cure anyone suffering from a Lapsing is to give them a soul. They will be completely ignored by the Planes as a whole until they die as the universe will recognize their dead and soulless bodies as a separate entity from what they used to be. And since Bert here is, by all intents and purposes, no longer Albert Tien…”

“Then there is no way to restore Albert…” Tyson groaned sorrowfully. “I completely and utterly killed Albert…”

His father gripped his knee tighter. “No. I do not believe you did that.” A protest about Banchomyon’s words just being the comfort given by a father to his son died in Tyson’s throat as the demon lifted a paw. “Before you say anything, allow me to explain.”

The striped demon motioned towards Bert. “It is my firm belief that what you did was not condemn Albert Tien to non-existence but reincarnate him into Bert. You saved him. You gave him a second chance unburdened by his past. You of all people know about psychoaniliosim.”

Tyson waved a hand absent through the air. “The extremely rare condition where memories or personalities from past lives that have gone through the cycle of the soul resurface causing psychosis. Often caused when a soul is either not properly broken down in the Hells or, for some reason, is redistributed to a body that has similar conditions to a prior incarnation.”

His eyes went back to Bert. “But… because Bert has been completely refreshed, his entire soul cleaned so to speak… he would never be inflicted with that. In fact… he would be completely immune to most soul-borne diseases because he is literally a new soul.”

“Exactly,” Banchomyon said, beaming brightly. “Tyson, this is revolutionary! You’ve achieved complete and utter reincarnation! Even those who are reincarnated through modern means have fragments of their soul lingering and the reason we don’t really rely on them is because the reincarnated soul will eventually grow weary and collapse due to not having been renewed through the natural cycle! But this…!” He gestured at Bert. “This is true reincarnation.”

Novels, theoretical papers and Hollywood movies had been made about the dreaded ‘Soul Apocalypse’. A nightmare scenario where either there were not enough souls to go around forcing people to scramble to claim the last remaining souls or everyone’s souls became so diluted from constantly being cycled through the great cycle that they were stretched thin and rendered fragile. Historians made claims that soul-borne diseases like animanecrosis only really started up recently and they warned this was the onset of some Soul Apocalypse. As populations boomed because of relative planar peace and advances in modern technology, the possibilities for souls to fray and fracture grew.

All those stories, however, never truly addressed a way to prevent such an apocalypse.

Could true reincarnation be their salvation? Reset the people of the Planes entirely and renew their soul?

“Too bad it was accidental,” sighed Tyson, patting his father’s paw. “But I get it. It’s not as bad as destroying a person.” A sarcastic edge entered his voice. “I facilitated his complete reincarnation involuntarily as a means to save his fate of being doomed to be one of GHM’s zealous terrorists.”

Bert tilted his head a little to the side and offered a little, awkward smile. “I don’t know Albert. I’m not him. But from what Lord Banchomyon told me and from what you’ve said, I think if I were him, I’d prefer what you gave me to what I could have become.”

That was something they would never know. Albert seemed adamant that he did not want to become an Orc. Though Bert was only half-Orc, what Albert would have said about his situation would never be known.

Thinking about the progression of the Inscription, Tyson wondered how long it would have taken before Albert eventually succumbed and believed himself to be a whole-hearted follower of the GHM teachings. The fact that he was slowly being turned into an Orc added more credence to the theory that, eventually, he would have become a fanatic. Were Torpak and the others just like him? Former innocents that had an Inscription forced upon them before fully transforming into Orcs that were more than willing to rampage through a public facility and kill others with their Inscription?

“Alright,” he sighed softly, sliding off the stool. “I’ve had enough of this existential crisis. What’s next?”

“Next?” Banchomyon repeated, also getting up. “I am going to go visit some friends. See if any of my contacts know anything about these Inscriptions.” He pointed at Bert. “I’m leaving Bert with you. Take him to a learning center. Teach him about the world. Show him how to make a place for himself here.”

Tyson flinched and spun towards his father in shock. “What? Me? Why?”

The three-eyed tiger gave him a very demonic smile complete with showing his fangs. “Because nothing would make my prouder than you being your own father.” He patted Tyson’s shoulder. “And I would sooner cut off my own left nut than mar his crystal-clear essence with what your brother does.”

“Aren’t we denying him that choice?” countered Tyson.

The not-so-subtle jab had clear undertones but Banchomyon refused to rise to it. “Choice is a power far too many people abuse and exploit. You and I would both feel the weight of guilt if we let him die in a Delve gone wrong.”

The demon-in-an-Orc’s body offered a slight smile. “Are we still talking about Bert?” Without waiting for a response, he turned towards Bert and draped an arm around his new ward and pulling him towards the kitchen itself. “Come on, Bert. How about I teach you the finer art of cooking?”

Banchomyon didn’t respond. The faint surge of magic through the air and the loud whoosh of air that followed announced the demon’s departure through some a flaming portal. The ancient demon was more than capable of an teleportation spell let alone one that could cross the Planes. Little wonder there were no cars or vehicles out in front to announce their presence.

Tyson pushed the conversation with his father aside though he still drew some comfort from the logic that was presented to him. He did feel slightly better after being presented with the evidence that what he did to Bert and Torpak’s gang was probably preferable to a lifetime brainwashed by GHM. A quick reflection on his remaining misgivings that left a hole in his gut revealed that he would have preferred to come to the conclusion himself than someone else telling him.

With that little bit of self-analysis out of the way, he let go of Bert and moved towards a blank corner of his kitchen which had an unassuming wood cabinet and a granite counter-top much like the rest of his kitchen. He patted the surface and a few hidden runes glowed a bright red on the surface. A square section of the entire cabinet suddenly shifted upwards, lifting towards the ceiling and revealing his freezer that had been sitting beneath it, hidden from view.

“Wow!” exclaimed Bert. “That’s amazing!”

Tyson smiled at the Orc’s amazement and opened the freezer, perusing the proteins and frozen foods he had stored there. Then a thought occurred to him - what did Orcs eat? Were they allergic to anything? Vampires needed blood, Fae had a notorious sweet tooth and Elementals could not eat anything that was aligned to their opposing element. But Orcs…?

“Hey Excella,” he stated. A slight beep followed as his home AI chimed in, announcing that it was listening. “What’s a typical Orcish meal?”

A feminine but bland voice answered shortly. “The most popular Orcish dish is known as krash’mapok which consists of a minced lamb patty that is typically mixed with herbs and spices, lightly coated in flour and then grilled or roasted. This is served on a fritter that generally consists of a crumbly vegetable such as a cauliflower, broccoli, potatoes or, in some regions, a cabbage. The fritter is bound together with eggs and flour, seasoned to taste and then deep fried in lard. The lamb patty is served atop the fritter and is accompanied by a zesty sauce.”

Tyson inclined his head a little in acknowledgment. “Huh. Sounds fairly simple enough. I was sort of expecting something exotic like dinofruit or saurian meat.”

“While Orcs have found homes across the Planes and have adapted their cuisine to local flora and fauna, traditional Orcish dishes utilize ingredients from the Central Material Plane. If you would like me to provide a list of chefs who specialize in Orcish-Planar fusion cuisine, please let me know.”

Rolling his eyes, he glanced off to the side and said, “No thanks, Excella. Please just provide the recipe for the simplest version of that dish you mentioned.”

“Understood.”

A soft beep announced that the recipe had been sent to one of the many home-bound tablets that were perched on charging stations around his home. One was right next to the freezer, hanging against the wall. He plucked it from there, reviewed the recipe and promptly took out some lamb mince from the freezer. With a wave of his hand, the freezer sank back into the floor, the cabinet masking it once more. The mince went into a small oven that would thaw it without cooking it. Then he proceeded to grab the remaining ingredients and place it on the kitchen counter.

That’s when he caught Bert’s curious look.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

Bert tilted his head to the side, leaf-like ears flicking nervously. “Is… is your house haunted?”

After a few seconds of cogs turning in his brain, he realized what Bert was really asking and let out a short laugh. Fishing out a knife, he began preparing the vegetables while explaining to his innocent ward where Excella came from.

“No, that voice is my Virtual Assistant Non-Infomorph Intelligence. Or VANII for short. She’s provided by Exallion. A big tech company that started out as a college student’s attempt to create a search engine with a decent algorithm. VANIIs aren’t ghosts or even really alive. They’re just a bunch of code that is designed to help you in your daily life. They’re not allowed to have full consciousness.”

“Why not?”

Seemed like political discourse and social sensibilities hadn’t been one of the topics covered in the learning center that his father had taken Bert to. Understandable since there were hundreds of thousands of years of recorded history to go through. Learning centers had been optimized to cram as much knowledge as possible in a short amount of time but that was still a lot of knowledge.

While following the recipe on his tablet, Tyson explained how Infomorphs took offense to anyone creating any sort of artificial intelligence. It was considered unnatural to create an intelligent construct outside of the natural means that Infomorphs reproduced. As physical representations of knowledge itself, Infomorphs were far from perfect but they considered that a good thing. Creating something that was meant to be ‘perfect’ or aligned to the fantastical and often genocidal AIs that were depicted in media was considered an affront to their species.

“Apparently it’s akin to eugenics amongst them,” Tyson explained. “Infomorphs are basically a piece of knowledge given form but it’s not like they have to reflect that knowledge.” He shrugged while waving his knife absently to the side. “I know an Infomorph in college who was basically the word ‘Squelch’ given physical form. But she didn’t make you cringe or constantly emit a squelching noise when she moved. She hated that. It’s just how she was born but it didn’t define her.”

“Just like how being an human doesn’t mean you always were meant to be one?” Bert mumbled softly.

Tyson opened his lips to protest but slammed his jaw shut at the surprisingly insightful thought. “Yeah. I guess so.”

The thought bounced around his mind as he prepared the dish according to the recipe’s specifications. A soft beep announced that the lamb mince was thawed and he removed it from the heater. The mince was still nice and red. Not cooked at all but soft enough like it had come straight out of a butcher.

Tyson instinctively reached for the gloves that he had stored in a cabinet nearby and paused. Black latex gloves were used during food preparation for species that had a lot of fur on their bodies to keep said fur from falling off and mixing into the food. But now that he no longer had fur, he wondered if he needed it at all. For the sake of hygiene, he decided to don the gloves regardless. After a quick seasoning of the lamp mince, he began shaping them into patties.

“You’re still uncomfortable being an Orc,” Bert observed, more an accusation than a question.

He gave his guest a little smile. “It’s not the body I was born with nor is it the one I chose. You’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly enthused to be in another body.”

“Why not?”

Tyson paused as he set down a third patty on a baking tray. “The circumstances of my transformation wasn’t exactly…” He stopped for a moment. While he was about to say ‘pleasant’, that was a lie. Changing Bert, merging his nerves with the Priapan and feeling Albert become Bert was quite pleasurable. Even if it was involuntary, it felt good. Even changing Torpak and his gang felt empirically ‘good’.

“Let’s just say I’m the kind of person that likes to know what I’m doing and what I’m getting into before doing it,” he responded. “As a Shaper, what I do to someone has a direct impact on them and could have dire repercussions for me. It’s why I was so… upset when I turned Albert into you. I didn’t anticipate or even know that things would turn out that way.”

He rested his hands on the table, palms down. “And I have yet to apologize for my brazen and careless actions.” Tyson lifted his gaze to meet Bert’s. “I’m really sorry, Bert. Truly.”

The Orc gave him a bright smile in return. “You know, I was going through some young adult novels when I was at the learning center. I keep hearing how teenagers, no matter the race, would keep throwing around the line about ‘not asking to be born’.” He frowned a little before shaking his head. “Honestly don’t know why that would hurt the parents so much. The parents did so much. The birth of their child and deciding to keep them was their choice. But the kid deciding to throw back that it wasn’t their choice to come into the world?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense to me.”

Tyson snorted and returned to making the food. “It’s just a rebellious phrase media throws around. Maybe alluding to some veiled threat about parental control or self-harm.”

Bert tilted his head to the side. “Maybe but from where I’m sitting, I don’t have any reason to hate you for making me. I don’t know if that’s the Inscription or Lord Banchomyon’s doing but I can’t be mad to be able to live, breathe and think right now. So you don’t have to apologize.” The dark-furred Priapan gave him a little grimace. “Especially if what you said was true about the Inscription making me into someone else. At least now I get to make my own choices. My own mistakes.”

The Monster Maker turned back to making more patties. “We could get into various philosophical debates about the illusion of choice and the lie that is free will but I think I’ve had enough existential dread for now.” He nodded towards the couch. “Why don’t you sit down and relax. I’ll get dinner ready soon.”

Bert slipped off the kitchen counter, his cloven hooves making a soft clanking on the floorboards. “Yes, daddy,” he teased.

Tyson grimaced at the nickname. “Did you call my dad that while he fucked your brains out?”

Glancing over his shoulder with a sly grin on his face, Bert said, “I couldn’t really say anything. His dick was -”

Holding up his gloved hands, Tyson cut off his guest. “I get it! I get it! I shouldn’t have asked.”

A lewd and taunting grin crossed Bert’s features. “Why not? Does the idea that your dad likes to have sex make your skin crawl?”

Heat crawled up Tyson’s cheeks and he quickly turned around to start cooking the patties. “I will be the first to admit that my dad is amazingly hot - both figuratively and literally - but there is a… sanctity in our relationship. I won’t cheapen that with sex.”

Bert’s grin only grew bigger. “Who said anything about breaking your relationship by having sex with him?”

He quickly turned around and scowled at the Priapan. “I think I liked you better when you were a semi-literate himbo.” Turning back around, he began assembling the fritters which he used sweet corn and some cauliflower to form. “Besides, physical intimacy isn’t the end-goal for relationships to me. Fucking is nice and feels good but with my job, it’s just one of the tools I use to touch a patient’s soul.”

“How so?” Bert asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

Tyson shrugged. “Deep down, we are driven by our need to procreate. In modern society, sex has gained this almost divine status as the best thing in life. People romanticize it all the time. As we grow up, we are made vulnerable by puberty as our bodies undergo changes that prepare us for sex and our teachers educate us about the dangers and risks of sex. Combined with the stigma of certain religions around sex, how nations and media purposefully block pornography before a certain age and the emphasis people put on having children and a family and sex becomes this…” He waved a spatula through the air, trying to find the proper words. “… this McGuffin that we are all striving to achieve. So when I approach a patient, often times the easiest way to reach their souls is to have sex with them because the concept of sex, the very act of it is ingrained so deeply into their being that it’s the easiest path there.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, “How many of these do you want?”

“I’ll take two, please,” said Bert, holding up two fingers.

“Coming right up!”

Within a few minutes, he had everything ready and served the hot lamb burgers on deep-fried fritters with a zesty chili mayonnaise. Just to add a bit of freshness, he threw in a quick salad on the side. It was a decent dish. Definitely hardy with enough variety to easily claim it had nutritional value. Though he suspected that whoever authored the recipe had tailored it to the more health-conscious individuals on the extrasphere.

As they ate, he asked Bert a few questions about what he did throughout the day. It quickly became clear that with his soul refreshed, Bert had no identity in the world. Banchomyon had started the process of making sure to get the foundations but hadn’t finalized anything. Likely there was some distant hope that Bert could be reverted to Albert but after the previous conversation with the demon, Tyson was fairly sure that would no longer be possible. He made a mental note to ask his father for a list of what needed to be done so that he could ensure Bert could live a comfortable life.

“Did either of you try to contact Albert’s relatives?”

Bert scratched his furry chin absently. “Lord Banchomyon did. Albert was a single child and had no romantic relationships. His parents are still around. Working. But they barely remember him now. He has some aunts and uncles too but it was just like his parents.” Bert shrugged. “Some of them even thought that he was just some dream they thought up. You know. Kind of like that ‘nephew’ that they claimed was someone’s but had never met.”

Definitely late-stage Lapsing. Scary how it had progressed so far. Though he wondered if that was because Bert had taken over Albert’s place in the cosmos. If the Inscription was allowed to proceed naturally, would all of those people remember Bert as an Priapan or forget Albert entirely like the final stages of the Lapsing?

Would the same be said about Torpak and the others given they had been Inscribed a month ago?

Again, he made a mental note to check up on that.

As he was through his second fritter, he marveled at how naturally Bert ate even with those tusks of his. Tyson still struggled and, thus far, he had eaten most of his food with a spoon and fork so that he could guide the food between his tusks. Bert was actively using his tusks to shred through his patties and fritters like he was eating a burger.

The contrast between how they had adapted to their bodies was stark and a little disheartening. A faint beeping pulled him from the abyss of depression before he could stare too deeply. The tablet he had left on the counter announced he was receiving a live call.

It was Teddy.

Depression was replaced by worry. In all the commotion and existentialism, he had forgotten that his brother had slipped away before the SCPD could catch him at Harrow’s clinic. They had not spoken since.

He picked up the tablet and hit ‘receive’.

“Teddy, you okay?” he asked, the worry clear in his voice. Bert stopped eating respectfully and locked gazes with him. They both listened patiently for Theodore Prowler’s response.

“Yeah, Ty,” came the response which immediately caused both me to relax. “I’m okay. How about you?”

“Fine. Just…” He glanced at the food in front of him and frowned a little. “… digesting things. I have a lot to tell you when you’re free.”

There was a slight pause and he could feel waves of weariness coming Teddy through the distance and call. “Probably not now. I have a… request.”

Now he was worried and even Bert widened his eyes a little at those words. After they had just established how a request from Teddy Prowler often came with extravagant rewards, they both understood that another ask on top of what was already turning out to be a complicated contract would not be cheap for the Delver.

“What is it?” Tyson asked warily.

“This shit that happened has me on edge. I haven’t found anything strange on Harrow.” Another pause and Tyson was growing increasingly worried. “Something doesn’t smell right here and I need help from them_._”

The bile and venom in the word ‘them’ made it clear who his brother was referring to. The mere thought that Theodore Prowler would resort to asking Tyson’s old fraternity brothers for help was comical. Not unheard of but still comical. The brothers both found their crowds and friends and neither of them ever had anything bad to say about either group. Tyson liked the members of Pulse. They hung out between Delves monthly, burning some of the omnis that they earned.

But Teddy absolutely hated the members of the Order of the White Orchid.

“Really? You want me to call in the Order? You hate them.”

Bert gave him a quizzical look and mouthed ‘who’. Tyson waved him down indicating that he would fill in his charge after the call.

“Yeah and with good reason.” Again, there was the bile and venom in Teddy’s tone but he took a second to compose himself before continuing. “But right now, I don’t know who else can help us figure out what the fuck is really going on here.”

Weighing his options, Tyson was inclined to agree. When his brother said he hadn’t ‘found anything on Harrow’, he deduced that as the Delver using his resources to break back into the clinic and scan Harrows’ Infosphere for anything incriminating. That had been Teddy’s leading suspicion but since there was nothing there, they were back to square one. They only had the conditions of Harrow’s initial request - to stop the Green Hand Movement.

The problem was, they had no idea how to find GHM.

“It must be serious if you want me to call on my brothers for this.”

“What part of what happened wasn’t serious?” Teddy snapped immediately, causing Tyson to lift an eyebrow. “Sorry, sorry,” Teddy sighed on the other side of the line. “I haven’t gotten any sleep since… well… yesterday.”

Concern dripped into his voice as he replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll give them a call. Set up a meeting. I’ll send you the details. Get some rest, Teddy.”

“You too, Ty. You too.”

Then the call ended.

“It takes a special kind of person to be a Delver, huh?” Bert asked.

“Incredibly so,” agreed Tyson.

“And who is this ‘Order’ that you’re going to call? More brothers of yours?”

Smirking, Tyson straightened and began to finish the rest of his meal. “Not in any sort of biological way. They are my ‘brothers’ from a fraternity I joined while I was in college. The Order of the White Orchid.” He smiled at the memory of his time with his ‘frat-bros’. “It was actually thanks to them that I developed the technique that basically made me a mini-celebrity.”

Bert made a curious noise, prompting him to continue. As Tyson thought about it, he wondered if the Teddy was onto something. Perhaps the Order could use their techniques to help find GHM or at least unravel this mystery. At the very least, they could use their vast resources to help him find a place for Bert.

“I’ll introduce you,” Tyson said. “They might even help get you a job or something. Suffice to say that they taught me the power of male pleasure.”

A lewd smirk touched Bert’s lips. “Oh yeah?”

Rolling his eyes, Tyson said, “They’re a bunch of guys. Just guys. We were in college. Horny. They helped my discover myself and by discovering who I was, I got to where I am today. And yes, the sex was fun.”

When Bert’s smirk faded, Tyson grew worried.

“Was?” repeated the Orc-Satyr.

Tyson was taken aback by the question. Of all the things to fixate on, it was his use of the word ‘was’ in describing sex with his fraternity brothers.

“It’s not like I’ve lost contact with them,” Tyson said defensively. “I still visit them at least once every weekend. More if I’m not busy. We still have sex too. It’s basically a ritual these days.”

“But is it still fun?”

“Of course,” Tyson answered impulsively. Then he frowned and glanced down at his empty plate. “Actually… I’m not sure.” He tilted his head slightly.

Was sex still fun for him?

His own words came back to him. Sex was just one of the tools he used for his patients. When describing it, he had been very analytical. He understood why people revered sex and the mechanics of why it was one of the easiest way to touch another person’s soul. Erogenous zones, kinks and even sexual awakenings were all just more ammunition in his vast tool box.

Arguably, he was one of the most prolific and sexually active people to hold a doctorate in the field of animacology and shaping as far as he was aware. Sex was his main avenue to a client’s soul so the people he saw for treatment basically expected to get off. Similarly, his frequent visits to the Order usually ended in more than one orgasm. He justified such visits as a way to ‘keep his skills sharp’.

But was it fun?

“Huh…” he mused softly to himself. “You know, it’s weird. I think… I think I’ve gotten tired of sex.”

Bert’s eyes widened and Tyson quickly held up his hands.

“Hang on,” said the Monster Maker, “let me clarify. Just… give me a minute.” He took a few moments to collect his thoughts and analyze himself before coming to a disheartening solution. “I use pleasure in my technique to get to someone’s soul. Sex is a primal act that is nearly universal across species. We are rewarded by our own bodies in the act of sex because it ties to our fundamental purpose of procreation. It is ingrained into our very beings.”

He made a few slicing motions through the air. “It is simply the simplest way to give a client the treatment they needed. Even though my help is extremely specialized, I would have clients come to me at least once a week. That would involve some form of sexual interaction that would lead to orgasm. Then I would visit the Order under the pretense that I needed to keep up with the latest trends of how to pleasure a man and they were a fantastic resource for that.”

“Are you saying you’ve had too much sex?” asked Bert sceptically.

Tyson shook his head. “No. Far from it. Yes, my visits to the Order would lead to multiple orgasms and if a client is in some desperate need of help, the same could be said. But I think the problem is that I have started to consider sex from a purely academic stand point. It is a tool. There is a technique. Analysis. Thought. It became my job. I lost joy in partaking in it.”

He frowned and straightened. “Somewhere along the way, I think I lost sight of the raw pleasure of having sex.”

Bert reached over, gently resting a hand over his. “Do you want to rediscover that?” crooned the half-Orc, half-Satyr.

A bitter and exasperated stare was Bert’s response. “Is this really the time. I’m having a bit of a crisis here.”

Bert’s hairy fingers slowly traced a vein up Tyson’s forearm. “And what better way to get over this crisis than with some spontaneous sex?” He began to lean closer. “No thinking. No questions. No analysis. Just do what you want to do. Whatever it is. I’m yours.”

Tyson frowned at him and was just about to pull away when he stopped himself.

He was thinking. That was the problem. If he was purely stripped down to his animalistic desires, here was a male that was incredible handsome and, to him at least, desirable. What reason would he not get his rocks off at this very moment?

And that was a question; a question he shouldn’t be asking in the first place.

“Fuck it,” he grunted.

Tyson savagely grabbed the back of Bert’s head, a fistful of curly, dark hair in his fist and pulled the other male towards him. He pressed their lips together, tusks colliding. There was a second of discomfort from the impact but he completely ignored it, setting aside any worries or alien sensations from the body that he now possessed. The kiss was brief because a second later, he pressed his forehead against Bert, snarling hungrily and staring deep into the eyes of the man who had voluntarily given himself up to him.

“Tonight, you’re mine,” he growled.

Bert’s eyes widened and a shaky smile crawled onto his features.

“Eep.”

?

Tyson was a different lover to Banchomyon. The demon lord that had treated Bert was confident, dominating and was not ashamed to use Bert in every way. Though the demon made sure that Bert did get off, it was only because it served as a foreplay for him to get started again. Many times, Bert found himself being pleasured by the huge demon’s lips or fingers, ejaculating madly and before he could bask in the ocean of afterglow, he would find himself being fucked by Banchomyon and ready to burst again.

But Tyson was very different.

Attentive and methodical, Tyson’s lips gently pressed against Bert’s neck, sending waves of pleasure up and down the Priapan’s spine. His big hands slipped underneath Bert’s shirt, probing the muscles there and his fingers caressing the coarse hairs in just the right way to illicit waves of pleasure but not hard enough to pull at the hairs. His breath wafted against Bert’s exposed neck as his body was leaning across the kitchen counter. The warm touch of his fingers in Bert’s inner thigh, just inches away from the Priapan’s balls made Bert’s cock throb and ache with need.

Each movement was designed to stimulate him. Nibbles on his sensitive neck had just the right amount of pressure to arouse but not cause pain. Fingers knew exactly where and how to touch to entice a shiver without causing a tickle.

And that was what was wrong with all of this.

It was all too… technical.

Bert gently rested his hand’s on the big, red-haired Orc’s shoulders and, though it made his dick protest with precum, he pushed the Monster Maker back slightly.

“Is something wrong?” Tyson asked, brow furrowed in concern.

“No,” Bert answered. “I mean, yes.” He scrunched his face slightly. “You’re still focused on me. I can tell. Are you even hard?”

The Shaper frowned a little. “Well, it’ll take more time for me to get it up…”

Bert shook his head. “Shouldn’t be like that. You should be feeling the need. You should want this.” Then a smile crawled onto his face. “Maybe it’s because you don’t know how to fuck like an Orc.”

Tyson gave him a critical look. “And you do?”

“I’ve fucked and been fucked more as an Orc than you have.”

That look was tinged with sourness. “Touche.”

Bert allowed his fingers to slide down Tyson’s arms, taking the time to let them linger between the firm, defined muscles all over those sculpted shoulders, following the vascular lines along Tyson’s biceps and tracing the contours of the thick forearms. Once he reached Tyson’s hands, he gently gripped them and pulled Tyson around the kitchen counter.

“Here,” he began, pulling Tyson closer. “Let me show you some things I’ve learned.”

As he drew closer to Tyson, he tilted his head a little to the side and let his tongue snake out from between his lips. Ever so gently, he pressed the organ against Tyson’s left tusk. Tyson’s frowned a little which allowed him to pushed his tongue down to the base of the tusk before slowly running it up the length of the tooth.

“Oh…” mumbled the red-haired Orc. Bert repeated the motion and Tyson’s eyes widened. “Oh wow…”

The little moan opened Tyson’s lips a little and that allowed Bert to press his lips against the tusk, kissing it entirely. Another soft, surprised moan rose from his partner’s lips and his jaw hung open slightly. Bert capitalized on this and reached up with his free hand, gently brushing the back of a finger against Tyson’s right tusk. The twin sensations made Tyson’s eyelids flutter a little.

“I… I didn’t…” began the Shaper.

“Good, right?” huffed Bert, now fully erect in his denim shorts and his cock snaking down one of the legs of the garment.

“Never… knew…” huffed Tyson, inadvertently twisting his lips away from Bert’s tongue and right into the Priapan’s finger. Bert gently slipped his finger in between those tusks. There was a second where Tyson seemed stunned but then his lips wrapped around the digit and he began to sensually suckle on them. Bert complied by slowly sliding his finger and out of the offered orifice, imagining it was his dick sliding in and out of the Shaper.

“Let me show you what else these tusks are good for,” Bert said, oozing with confidence. Leaning towards Tyson’s neck, he gently pressed his lips against the thick traps that rose up to swallow the Orc’s neck. As he did so, he made sure to angle his tusks in such a way that their blunt points pushed against Tyson’s thick flesh first. Just enough pressure to illicit a reaction. A brief burst of adrenaline, a surge of flight-or-flight that made Tyson start a little. Bert brushed his tusks against the curve of the muscle, the gentle curve guiding the flesh towards his lips which he then proceeded to lick and slide his slick tongue over.

“Ah…!” gasped Tyson, his huge hands curving around Bert’s waist, squeezing his ass tightly.

Taking that as a sign to continue, Bert guided his assault up Tyson’s neck, following the slope of those huge traps until he felt Tyson’s pulse beating against his tusks. Again, there was that moment of tension, a flicker of fear, every muscle tensing. Then, as Bert soothed the skin his tusks had momentarily threatened with his tongue, the muscles eased and relaxed. A second later, he opened his paw and pressed his fangs against Tyson’s throat. Again, Tyson tensed and again, the big, red-haired Orc relaxed a second later when Bert calmed him with the touch of his tongue. He repeated the motion over and over; tense one second and then relaxing the next but with the gap between each iteration shrinking until Tyson was flexing his whole body to the rhythm of his own racing heart.

“Oh… Oooooh…” Tyson moaned, reaching up and gripping the back of Bert’s head. The Shaper angled his head towards the Priapan for a moment, kissing Bert’s head just above his ear. “Where did you learn all this…?”

Bert gently pulled away from Tyson’s neck, bridging the short gap to meet the other Orc’s lips and affectionately pressing their lips together, their tusks brushing against one another and sending little jolts of pleasure throughout his body.

“I learned a lot today,” he rumbled, between kisses. “No filters at learning centers for grown men.”

Tyson chortled, his hand gently cupping Bert’s cheeks and using that as leverage to break from the kiss. “I think it’s pretty clear there is still a lot I have to learn about being an Orc.”

Bert waggled his eyebrows. “And I’m only half Orc.” He grabbed Tyson’s shirt. “Enough talk. Let’s fuck.”

But the Shaper held up a finger, pressing it against his finger. “And we shall. But there is one thing I want to do first.”

The throbbing in Bert’s shorts cried out in protest and he gave an exaggerated groan. “What now?”

“It’s related, I promise,” Tyson answered, grinning lightly. There was a little blush on his cheeks that sparked Bert’s curiosity. “There’s… something I haven’t done since college. It could be considered ‘cheating’ in a way. There are risks but I’ve done it dozens of times and-”

Bert cut him off with a well-placed kiss. His tongue invaded the other Orc aggressively. Whatever the Monster Maker had to say immediately died in a chorus of moans. He pushed ahead with the offensive. One of his thick, hairy hands pressed against Tyson’s chest and pushed, gently guiding them both back towards the kitchen counter. His other hand easily swept behind Tyson, pushing the dishes that were still on the table aside to give them both some room.

The fainted clatter of a spoon against a fork made Tyson emit a soft, curious moan but it was quickly ignored. Bert smiled inwardly at that, glad that he man that had saved him was at last leading into the sensations of this moment and not over-analyzing every movement. When Tyson’s hands fell around his furry hips and spun him around, that smile grew even bigger. His ass, still covered by the tight, blue jeans, pressed against the kitchen counter and he eagerly hopped onto the marble surface, spreading his hoofed legs to invite the Monster Maker into him.

Little did he know just how literal that thought would be.

Tyson quickly took control. Big, green hands grabbed one of Bert’s wrists and lifted it above his head, pressing it off to the side and against the cold counter top. The other pressed thick fingers against Bert’s chest, his index finger sliding right in between the hairy pectorals of the Priapan. A big grin crossed Bert’s features and he offered a little resistance, hoping to feel the Shaper physically push him back down against the counter where he could be fucked.

No pressure or force came. What he felt instead was Tyson’s finger sinking deeper and deeper between the crevasse of his meaty chest. A warmth rose from the contact, radiating out from the point. Veins that were closest to the Monster Maker’s digit throbbed and thrummed with excitement, plumping up his pectorals and making the muscles reflexively pump with the rhythm of his rapidly beating heart.

Tyson’s finger vanished between the cleft of his pectorals down to the first knuckle and that pumping only intensified. Bert was fairly confident in how big his chest was but he was sure given the size of the Shaper, he should have at least started feeling the Orc’s fingertip against his sternum. When the finger disappeared up to the second knuckle, he started to grow suspicious even as the flood of pumping and thrumming grew more and more intense.

“Hrrmmm…” he rumbled, breaking the kiss for the first time. “What are you…?”

He glanced down and stared through half-lidded, glazed eyes for a few seconds.

Tyson’s finger disappeared down to his last knuckle between his pectorals. Huge, plump veins were radiating out of the point of contact like a network of roots that were spreading out from a tree’s trunk.

“Uuuuhm…” Bert began, his brow furrowing and his jaw hanging open.

Tyson leaned forward, his tusks brushing up against Bert’s ears. In that single motion, the rest of the Monster Maker’s hand began sinking into the Priapan’s hairy chest. Green flesh seemed to just sink into the forest of hairs that was across Bert’s chest, dissolving into the emerald skin beneath and spreading the extra mass outwards from his chest. That pumping Bert felt was the flesh and bone of Tyson’s limb being distributed across his pecs.

“Trust me,” rumbled the red-haired Orc, sounding both nervous and excited at the same time. “Best way for me to learn how to fuck from you?” His tongue snaked out between his tusks, gently touching Bert’s ear. “… is to be you.”

Before Bert could respond, another pumping sensation rippled up his arm, the one restrained by Tyson. He glanced towards the limb and watched in a strange mix of surprise and desire as a big green hand began digging into his own wrist. Meaty fingers were digging into his tendons, causing the flesh to bulge for a moment while that deep thrumming rippled up his wrist. Thick veins rumbled up his hand. Every inch of Tyson that disappeared into his flesh caused his fingers to thicken and his palms to expand.

A sensation of being filled wracked each of his digits like each one was a balloon that was being filled to bursting. The moment he thought his thumb of pop, bones would expand with a soft crunching noise, skin stretched to a symphony of stretching leather and muscle grew while emitting a half-squelching and half-wet-slapping noise like someone was rubbing two pieces of bloody steak together. All the while, that feeling continued; of being filled, of coming close to reaching his limit only for another inch to be added to his mass and release being snatched away from him.

“Ah…!” he exclaimed, throwing his head back.

The twin sensations of Tyson’s hands sinking into him from both his arm and chest assaulted his senses. His pectorals eagerly grew, rising upwards and ballooning to swallow more and more of Tyson’s arm. The mound of green, hairy muscle consumed all the mass halfway up Tyson’s forearm before the mass started spreading towards his shoulders. Pulsing veins crawled across the plates of his pectorals, pumping Tyson’s mass directly into his already broad traps only to cause them to inflate even more. At the same time, Tyson’s forearm sank into his own making him instinctively flex. His arm surged upwards and outwards, similarly gobbling up more of the Monster Maker and sending that urge of near-bursting all the way up his arm to his biceps.

The soft touch of Tyson’s tongue against his growing neck filled him with a more traditional sense of arousal. That lasted for about two seconds before he started feeling that wriggling tongue sink into his skin and that pumping feeling creeping up his neck to the base of his jaw. It was a strange feeling. He could feel the entirety of Tyson’s tongue from tip to base as it undulated and wriggled deeper and deeper into his veins but he had no control over it. Excitement over the growth was tempered with an odd sensation of not being in control.

Inch by inch of Tyson’s tongue entered his neck, the mass seemingly being immediately absorbed instantly into his mass. The connection of nerves and flesh confused his brain. For a instant, he could taste himself on Tyson’s tongue before the feeling faded though he could still feel it’s specter on the tip of his own tongue. When Tyson’s lips pressed against his flesh, he could feel the strong muscle of his growing traps as he he was suckling on it himself and it made his mouth water. The brush of those tusks against his neck made him shiver as he felt the involuntary reflex of fear of having his jugular pierced mixed with the erogenous sensitivity of those tusks brushing against firm muscle.

Without warning, his unoccupied arm lashed out and immediately grasped the back of Tyson’s head, digging into the red hair and pushing the Orc deeper against him. There was no second to even consider that he hadn’t done that himself before the pumping sensation spread against his face, creeping up his skull and digging into his brain. Bert’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, his eyelids fluttering and his jaw falling slack as a low, deep moan rose from deep within his expanding throat.

Neck muscles rapidly expanding, swallowing half Tyson’s face entirely with thick, green veins radiating out of the point of contact. Frustratingly, Tyson was still wearing that medical gown that kept the rest of his body from pressing against his Bert and furthering the merger. That was easily remedied as Bert seized the collar of the light-blue shirt and tore it clear off the Monster Maker’s shoulders. As the shards of the fabric fell to the ground, Tyson’s chest was able to press against Bert’s shoulders. The mere contact of their flesh was like two bodies of water connecting; they immediately rushed to merge with one another.

The sensation of being pumped filled Bert’s whole upper body and it was all he could do to gag and gasp as everything from the tips of his fingers to the very tips of his painfully erect nipples thrummed and throbbed with an electric pleasure. Every fiber of muscle instinctively flexed, growing bigger and bigger and swallowing more and more of Tyson into himself. He could barely keep his eyes open. His entire body was wracked with taunting orgasm that was constantly edging towards release without any sign of release in sight.

Almost every part. His lower body was still left scrambling and kicking.

As if reading his thoughts, Tyson commanded Bert to lower his legs, letting them droop over the edge of the kitchen counter. Even with almost all of his head now sunken deep into Bert’s shoulder, Tyson still had command of most of his faculties as the Shaper lifted one of his bare feet and pressed it against Bert’s fur-covered calf.

There was an instant when Bert was wrenched from this fantasy of being one with Tyson. He could feel Tyson’s toes against his fur, against his calf but not the other way around. That feeling did not last long. Those toes began to sink into his calves, pushing the flesh around to give themselves an opening like his muscle was just made out of putty. Again, that sensation of being filled came rushing back and his legs eagerly grew to consume more and more of the Monster Maker.

Bert threw his head back, letting out a rising roar of ecstasy. He eagerly slammed his other leg against Tyson’s last remaining limb, sandwiching it against his other growing leg. The impact pushed the two limbs together, merging the as one in a violent burst that caused his entire lower body to surge upwards.

The shorts that he wore painfully rode up his waist, squeezed against his expanding thighs. His one hand reached out, desperately reaching for the garment and fumbling for the belt only to realize that Tyson’s remaining mass was now hovering over the buckle. There was no way to free them from the painful confines of the one piece of clothing that still remained on their growing mass.

But that would not be a problem for long. A flush of power, a rush of grown and…

Rrrrrrrip!

Their ass exploded from the seat of the garment and within a second, the belt snapped. Flecks of denim fell to the ground as a huge, green cock sprang up proudly. Thick precum spewed into the air, falling back down against a fur-covered crotch, a glorious green flag pole celebrating their merging.

Now with no clothing separating their two bodies, Bert and Tyson pressed themselves against one another. They raised both their arms into the air, flexing their biceps in triumph while lying back against the kitchen counter. Tyson’s arm sank completely into Bert’s huge, pumped biceps, his shoulder and head being completely consumed by the Priapan’s enormous traps. His other arm and upper torso were swallowed by Bert’s enormous pectorals, disappearing entirely into the forest of dark brown chest hairs.

Juicy abdominals from both men met, combining their mass as the Priapan’s entire body grew and stretched to accommodate their growing form. The divide between their two sets of legs quickly vanished as Tyson seemed to wiggle into Bert’s expanding thighs like someone trying to slip on a pair of compression pants.

Tyson’s own erection, which throbbed and jerked to the same rhythm as Bert’s, vanished into Bert’s flanks while his balls sank into the Priapan’s hip. Every inch that disappeared into the half-Orc, half-Satyr saw another inch added into Bert’s length or girth added to his furry balls.

With both his arms now free, Bert eagerly seized his huge, throbbing cock with both of his hands, one above the other. He stroked his massive meat with both hands rapidly, the ecstatic, edging sensation all over his body rising all the more even though the last vestiges of Tyson was vanishing quickly with every beat of his thick meat.

The desire to cum, to orgasm and to finally release the pent up energy that was rippling throughout his body grew only more and more intense with each stroke. His huge legs lashed out, kicking over the bar stools. The jerky movements added to his increased mass pushed the plates and cutlery off the counter and either into the sink or the floor.

But he didn’t care.

He needed to cum.

His cock ached, his balls tightened.

He needed to cum now.

With a roar, he threw his head back, arched his back and slammed his hoofed feet into the heated, tiled floor. His hands slammed into the base of his cock and -

Splooooosh!

… a geyser of hot, white seed exploded from his spear of a cock, sailing high into the air and slamming against the ceiling of Tyson’s home. The blast of seed was so strong and so powerful that, even with gravity, not a drop of cum fell back down until a few seconds later when the splatter was wide enough that the rush of seed couldn’t just knock the droplets back upwards.

Bert squeezed his eyes shut, slammed his furry ass against the kitchen counter and then thrust his hips back into the air with another roar. Another blinding orgasm exploded out of him. This time, the arc of his cock sent the stream of cum in a slight angle, painting a streak along the ceiling from the movement.

There was no time to marvel at the almost Picasso-like splatter against the tawny ceiling because another blast came running up from his body. His hooves tingle, his calves tensed, his thighs flexed every muscle popping against his fur and veins crawling across its surface. Another eruption knocked him back against the counter. The motion caused his dick to fall backwards like a toppling red wood, angling towards his face. However, it was still too hard to fall over his chest but as the stream of cum sailed overhead and hit the cabinets over the stove, some of his thick, salty cum drizzled onto his face.

Then that tingled came from his fingers. Bert instinctively released his cock as his fingers clenched in a vice-like grip in the air, his forearms became like rigid steel, veins popped all over his biceps and his chest popped with enough force to crush coal into diamonds.

The final blast cum erupted mercifully from his dick. The force had ebbed so the series of eruptions sailed overhead before splattering over his face and leaving a trail that drizzled across his neck, oozed over his pectorals and flooded his abdominals. His cock slumped, exhausted, against his chest, the tip squirming and dripping the remnants of its contents onto his chest.

Bert’s head swam. The heady buzz of afterglow made it difficult to think. The cocktail of pleasure chemicals kept him swimming in warm pleasure for a short while. Though sleep attempted to drag him into pleasant unconsciousness, he was left wondering how, even with their combined masses, anyone could generate so much cum.

The answer, of course, was both simple and complicated. Tyson had merged with him but not everything of Tyson had been absorbed. Their souls remained separated, for one. Physical mass was not a complete one-to-one conversion and anything that could not be fully merged was ejected as semen. All part of the technique to make sure the merging process was as pleasurable as possible.

Bert’s eyes snapped open.

“How…?” he mumbled softly, his voice significantly deeper.

How had he known that?

Again, the answer came to him as easily as if he had learned the technique himself from college alongside the Order of the White Orchid. While the soul may have acted as a repository for memories, conscious knowledge remained in the brain. Tyson’s brain had been absorbed by Bert and thus that information. It was how he had inadvertently continued to transformation even though Tyson began losing control of his own body.

It was the genius of the spell and magic and one of the reasons that many would consider it ‘cheating’ especially on an academic level. Now that they were merged, Bert had access to every piece of knowledge that Tyson had. It would still take a conscious effort to conjure up everything Tyson knew, however. He recalled one of Tyson’s fraternity brothers likening it to looking up a topic in the library. If he knew what he was looking for, he would find it but if he didn’t know that topic existed, he would never find it.

That was how he knew that Tyson was currently locked away in the Monster Maker’s soul which was currently connected to Bert’s body. His consciousness remained there and was quietly observing everything that Bert did, felt everything that he felt and experienced everything that he experienced. For all intents and purposes, they were one being with two souls but Bert was in the driver’s seat. At any time, Tyson could emerge - again in the most pleasurable of ways - but there was also a time limit here.

“No more than six hours,” rumbled Bert in understanding. “Any longer and the relative differences between our souls will blur. Extraction will become difficult with each passing hour but when we do split, since we would have experienced the same six hours through the same body, our souls will have this layer of identical experiences that could cause animacological complications.”

The Priapan chuckled to himself a little. “Feels weird being so smart.”

With a groan, he rolled off the kitchen counter and stumbled onto his hands and knees with a heavy thump. Looking at his huge hands, he was left utterly amazed. As he rose to his feet, he was struck with a bit of vertigo as he now towered at a stunning nine-feet-tall with the build that would have put any bodybuilder to shame and made them green with envy. He flexed his biceps, each one four times the size of an average man’s head. Each pectoral could easily seat a man with ease and was overcome with the image of bouncing each one to some rhythm while causing each man to leap up like they were on a trampoline.

A soft chuckle died in his throat as he lumbered around the cum-covered counter.

First thing was first.

“Hey Excella,” he growled. A soft chime announced that the house’s VANII was ready to accept orders. “Start an order from Krosse’s Pizza. Six large pizzas. One for each of their best. Have them put that balsamic glaze on the side for each. Garlic knots and six large sodas. Then that order of their famous chocolate mud cake. Not a slice. The whole thing.”

“Confirmed,” chimed the virtual assistant. “Order made. They will be here in twenty minutes.”

Bert placed his huge hands on his hips and glanced around him. “I guess that’s enough time to clean up this place. Guess I could always use it for some of your White Orchid magic…” Then a lewd grin crossed his features. “… Or I can go looking or your dildo collection and just add to the mess.”

There was a little twinge from deep inside him. Tyson clearly didn’t approve. Why, he wasn’t sure. Could it be because the cum would have started drying by the time the food arrived and he finished eating? Could it be that White Orchid magic was the post potent when the cum was fresh? Could it even be that sharing a dildo was weird?

Bert wasn’t sure and he didn’t care.

Right now, his cock was springing back up to attention and he wanted to see what else his new body could do while he could. Six hours was a lot of time to explore his new form.

“And you did this so that you could experience the joys of sex again, right?” he teased, tauntingly running a finger around his left nipple.

“Well? Why don’t we get started?”

The Lapsing by Ethel Miracle

There are often questions about what happens to people when their souls are removed or heavily damaged. In modern times, technologies exist to create artificial souls or phylacteries for individuals who have had their souls fractured or lost their soul for whatever reason. Often times, people have posited the question of why we need souls at all. Conspiracy theorists and populists will tell you that the ‘Soul Collective’ is trying to tell us we all need souls just so that they can get money from your frequent visits to an animacologist or to pay for expensive soul treatments.

They continuously ask the question, why can we not simply exist eternally without a soul?

The answer is one of the most deadly, irreversible and horrific conditions in history; the affliction known as the Lapsing.

One has to remember that every individual has two representations; the physical and the metaphysical. We are represented by our body in the physical space while our souls are our representation in the metaphysical. Our minds acts as a sort of go-between the two, transcribing our physical experiences into our metaphysical soul. Even purely magical or energy-based planes such as the Great Mystery or Singularity are in the physical space even though some hard-line conservatives would argue otherwise. Our souls are the only things that represent us in the metaphysical.

If, for whatever reason, something severs the link between the two, it is imperative that our physical forms find a replacement soul as soon as possible. A wandering soul can continue to exist without a person attached to it but if a person were to continue without a soul for too long, then they slowly but surely will be afflicted with the Lapsing.

But what is the Lapsing?

This disease is terrible simply for the fact that, unless treated urgently, it will become fatal not because there is no cure - you can attach a new soul or phylactery to an individual to cure the Lapsing - but because everyone else will be inflicted with a severe case of disinterest about the individual in question. Even those inflicted with Lapsing will gradually develop a lack of concern about themselves to the point where they will forget about themselves entirely.

Without a soul, an individual with Lapsing will slowly be hit with a crippling sense of ennui. Worse yet, everyone around the individual - even their closest relatives and loved ones - will treat the person with the same apathy. If it goes untreated for an extended amount of time, the individual will be outright forgotten by society. People will outright ignore them. Any forms of recording devices won’t register them. Automatic doors will not open for them. Magic will not respond. Eventually, the individual will fail to take care of themselves. Some suffers will die from starvation or dehydration. Others will just stop in the middle of the street and either die from exposure or some accident. One well-documented case has the individual’s suffering eventually end when they just stopped in the middle of a busy street, was eventually knocked over and trampled on until they died.

Ironically, it is only when the individual’s body truly perishes that anyone will notice their existence as they cease becoming a ‘person’ and become a ‘corpse’.

Initially, the symptoms are treatable. Those who lack a soul will likely suffer from Lapsing after two months without the integral part of their being. At the early stages, they will not suffer any effects but those around them may start ‘forgetting’ them. In the earlier case mentioned above, the individual was in a hospital for damaged souls for about three years before their untimely end. They were waiting for a soul transplant or a phylactery but after four months, because of the effects of Lapsing, doctors, nurses and even their own family members began forgetting about them or treating their plight as an urgent matter.

These symptoms will only get worse with time. The individual in question, at one year without a soul, was nearly completely forgotten by the hospital staff. The bed they were staying in was physically assigned to someone else while they were still staying in it and the nurses and doctors were initially surprised that they existed. At the two-year mark, all records of the individual had started to vanish from the world. Loved ones started forgetting them. It is around this time as well that the individual may start feeling a sense of acceptance of their situation. This particular case had the patient wander the hallways of the hospital and became known as a ‘ghost’ that haunted the building.

It was only after their untimely end that their case seemed to be reignited but notes about the individual were severely damaged due to the effects of Lapsing. You see, Lapsing doesn’t just affect the person’s relationships, emotions or how people perceived them. It affects the world as well. The reason I am not naming this individual is not because I am protecting anyone’s privacy. I genuinely cannot because their name was wiped from history. No one remembers this person and the only reason we were able to discern their identity and link it to the case of a patient that suffered from Lapsing is due to their untimely demise. Had they somehow continued to exist despite being forgotten, they may never have been identified at all.

It is theorized that if an individual were go without a soul for long enough, their survival instincts would just shut off and they would die on their own while the entire world will forget they ever existed.

So you see, it is incredibly important that every individual maintains a soul of some sort. Without one, they run the risk of suffering from the single worst fate that could inflict any being.

Being forgotten.