Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The lights poured down onto the wooden stage, where only one person stood- Artful, performing before a crowd. He stood tall and confident, a spark of pride in his posture, the kind that would usually intrigue anyone. Unfortunately, not this crowd. Dozens of bored faces stared back as the magician performed his “fake” tricks, not impressive enough to truly entertain or amaze them.

Artfull swung his wand, conjuring a plastic golden egg into his hand. He held it up gracefully before the audience, twisting and twirling it to show that there was nothing else there but the egg itself.

“Now, mes amis, right before your eyes, I’ll make it come to life!” he announced.

He then removed his hat and placed the egg inside. With a spin of his finger and a cheerful “allez hop!”, he tossed the hat into the air. It flipped upside down, its brim facing the ceiling- and in the very next second, a dark, blackish rooster with shimmering feathers leapt out of it. It hopped onto the stage and let out a triumphant crow before darting into the rows of the audience and disappearing from sight.

The hat landed gracefully back onto Artful’s head. He gave a small bow, peering out from beneath the brim to study the audience, hoping at last to see some admiration or surprise. Instead, he was met with an angry face in the front row staring directly at him.

“Really? A freakin’ rooster? What are ya, a farmer now?! Since when do magicians use roosters instead of pigeons?”

Artful froze for a moment, forcing himself to keep smiling as it grew harder and harder to hold. He glanced at the man, who had now stood up and started booing him. It didn’t take long before others began to join in.

Was it not enough? This was the twentieth trick he had performed on this stage, and it still wasn’t enough? Such behaviour toward a true magician, and not just any magician, but Artful, who had tried his best and worked tirelessly to make sure his performance reached its peak. Even when performing the simplest tricks, he poured his time into improving, only to be treated like this? To be treated as a joke?

Artful slowly straightened up from his bow, raising his hands in front of him in an attempt to calm the crowd. But the boos and complaints only grew louder, swelling over his voice as he tried to reason with them.

“Now now, I still have a few tricks up my sleeves! Maybe one of them will be to your taste-”

He didn’t even get the chance to finish before something struck him square in the face.

A banana peel. A disgusting banana peel. Artful slowly took it by the tip and stared at it in shock. A few more followed, flying toward him and smacking against his suit, leaving stains and littering the stage. The first feeling was shock. The second was confusion. And the third was burning, rising rage. He deserved better. He deserved a better audience, one that could truly respect him and see his potential. But this?! This was unacceptable!

He gritted his teeth, fingers curling into a fist, while his other hand gripped the wand so tightly it looked as if it might snap. The shouting continued, louder, harsher and with every passing second, Artful saw less and less. He didn’t see anymore, he only felt. And what he felt was anger, deep and boiling.

The room began to blur into one chaotic pond of noise. Half the audience screamed and jeered, while the other half stared in stunned silence at what was happening. A few rushed to stop the ones throwing banana peels, insisting things had gone too far.

Among them was a young girl clutching a doll to her chest. Her wide, terrified eyes darted from the furious crowd to the man on stage. She had never seen an audience act like this, not to this extent, ever! She felt so bad for her favourite magician, who was now getting harassed for nothing! Her small voice rose above the chaos, pleading for them to stop, joined by a handful of other reasonable civilians. But it was useless.

Then the shouting faltered a bit as a familiar voice boomed from the stage once again.

“So… you want to see a real magic trick?” Artful spat, his words dripping with malice and rage. A few people froze mid-throw. “So be it. For my next trick… I shall make the citizens of Robloxia vanish!”

He swung his wand through the air, carving a fast circular motion that left the crowd blinking in confusion. A few seconds passed, and then the first row erupted into screams of horror.

The loudest hecklers, including the man who had started the booing, suddenly stiffened. Before anyone could understand what was happening, they collapsed forward, their bodies transformed into lifeless wooden puppets that hit the floor with dull, hollow thuds.

Faces drained of colour. Gasps filled the air. But none were as pale as Artfull himself, his face painted white with his makeup, as he leapt down from the stage with another furious swing of his wand. More people turned to puppets in an instant.

Some weren’t as “lucky.” They were dragged by their collars and struck across the face, blood splattering across the carpeted aisle as the performance turned into a nightmare.

Multiple civilians began running for their lives, while others tried desperately to stop the magician and his sudden outburst, but they were all met with the same fate, caught in the crossfire of his blind rage.

The girl watched the scene unfold with glassy eyes. The magician was doing all of this without a hint of hesitation. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, trembling but never falling, as fear froze her voice in her throat. But maybe… maybe he could stop. Maybe she could convince him to stop. She had to try.

She hurried toward the magician, who still had his back turned to her — busy beating a man to a bloody pulp. The floor around him was littered with wooden dolls and echoing screams. She finally gathered the strength to speak, her voice trembling. “Artful, p-please stop-”

She didn’t get the chance to finish. Before she could even breathe, she stopped in place. Artful’s wand was pointed directly at her. He didn’t even glance in her direction as he repeated the same motion he had used on others. And then, suddenly, she couldn’t feel her legs. Or her arms. The sensation of losing herself crept up from her chest to her head, until her world faded completely. She collapsed onto the cold floor, her own doll lying beside her.

It took several minutes before Artful finally turned around. When he did, his eyes fell upon the small puppet on the ground, its familiar bow and clothing unmistakable. He froze, a sharp, panicked breath tore from his lungs, so sudden that it felt as though he might tear his own lungs apart. His eyes locked on the doll in horrified realisation. The rage that had consumed him vanished in an instant, replaced by raw fear, denial and regret.

He dropped the man he had been pummeling unconscious, or perhaps already dead, and stumbled forward. His knees hit the floor as he reached out with trembling hands, desperate to pick up the puppet. But he stopped short. Reality slammed back into him, bringing with it a nauseating churn in his stomach and a crushing weight in his chest that pinned him to the spot, making him feel sick. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe.

Artful was now surrounded by silence. The entire theatre lay still, bodies and wooden puppets scattered everywhere. And among them, right beneath him, was the one person he knew better than anyone… lying motionless, her young life cut short for nothing.

A trembling breath escaped him, broken and shallow. What had he done? His hands slowly rose to cover his face and eyes, as if he could shield himself from the horror of his own disgusting actions.

Twigs snapped beneath his steps as he circled through a fairly bushy area, carefully watching where he placed his feet while searching for berries to gather and eat later. The forest enveloped him in a comforting silence, broken only by the occasional chirp of birds hopping from branch to branch, singing and calling to one another. Artful looked up to see a woodpecker staring back at him before returning to its work, hammering into the tree to make a small nest. He shook his head slightly and continued scanning for edible fruits and berries.

He was far from any nearby village, far enough that he wouldn’t be found by accident. It had been several weeks since he went into hiding, keeping away from the consequences of his… incident. So far, he had ventured into a village only once, to buy supplies he couldn’t find in the forest, carefully removing his makeup to blend in, though the fear of being caught lingered just as strongly as in the beginning.

Artful clenched his jaw uncomfortably and turned his gaze toward his new “home,” about a hundred feet away, a small shack he had built using a mix of his magical abilities and construction knowledge. At least for now, the skills he had picked up as a construction worker, long before he became a magician, were proving useful. As he slowly made his way toward it, eyes still scanning the underbrush for anything edible, a flash of color caught his attention.

He knelt and peered closer, and was met with a pleasant sight: clusters of reddish berries glistening under the rays of the setting sun. He carefully picked them one by one until he had about fifteen, placing them into a handkerchief he had recently started using for his berry scavenging.

“That should do the trick for now,” he mumbled, half-whispering as he got back to his feet. With a handful of berries in hand, he slowly stumbled toward the shack once more. When he reached it, he quickly opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him, trying to make as little noise as possible. The shack was simple but sturdy, good enough for actual living, though comfort was still lacking. A small wooden table sat in the middle, with a chair beside it. A few leftover fruits rested in a bowl on the table; lately, everything Artful ate consisted mostly of fruits and the bare minimum. He sighed in disappointment and set the berries down next to the few he had gathered previously.

On the opposite side of the chair stood a mirror, which he used to reapply his makeup after that trip to the village, although over time, he had grown sick of even looking at himself.

He turned away and dropped onto his bed without caring if the impact hurt his back. “Bed” was generous; it was a little more than a pile of leaves he’d stuffed into a makeshift sack, with a single real pillow as its only comfort. Staring up at the ceiling, he slowly removed his face mask and hat, setting them beside him before covering his eyes with his arm.

Stop thinking. Stop caring. But how could he?

A deep frown cut across his face. The chaos. The screams. They looped in his head, over and over. How could he ever forgive himself? How could anyone? A mistake. A grave mistake. One that had cost him everything. Headlines flashed in his mind: news articles, magazines, all plastered with the same words, “Last Performance.” He dragged his hand from his face and turned to the side, staring at nothing. Maybe he should turn himself in. But then what? Prison? Years behind bars? The humiliation of looking his family in the eyes after what he’d done? Or worse… a death sentence? He trembled at the thought. Artful shifted uncomfortably, trying to stop the relentless train of thoughts. He squeezed his eyes shut harder with each passing moment, until suddenly… sounds. Nearby sounds.

He sprang up from the bed, half-sitting, alert. Who could possibly be in the middle of the forest at sunset? His hand shot to the mask, pressing it back over his face. The hat lay nearby; he snatched it up and secured it on his head. Slowly, cautiously, he rose to his feet, ears straining for any sound. At first, he thought maybe looking out the window would be a better idea. But… he didn’t know who or what might be out there. Risking his own safety would be foolish. After all, he was far too noticeable with all the makeup on.

The sounds were getting closer, close enough that Artful began to recognize voices. Civilians, and a few of them, maybe around three or four. No doubt about that. But… what on earth were they doing here? He’d been living here for nearly a week or two without being noticed, and without noticing anyone else. His fingers slid into the inside of his vest, gripping his wand tightly.

-“He has to be here somewhere. There’s even a shack.”

-“Are you sure? Like, really sure? This is one hell of a place to stay, or even live. There’s literally nothing around! And this looks like crap! We wasted, what, two hours getting here!”

-“Exactly why he should be here. Think about it, who in their right mind would go somewhere like this for a walk? Besides, that lady said he went toward the forest in this exact direction.”

-“So you trust someone blindly now? That’s so unlike you.”

-“Hey! We’re here for the bounty in the first place, remember? And it wouldn’t hurt to try. She said she recognized him… saw him once without makeup after one of his performances or something.”

“Fils de pute! C’est la catastrophe!” Artful’s eyes snapped open. His hand shot out, banging on the door in a blind, angry reflex, but he jerked it back instantly. The voices fell silent, whispering something unintelligible, though the sound of approaching footsteps confirmed they were heading toward the shack. He backed away from the door and pressed himself against the side, hidden from view, heart hammering. A smart move, because the next second, the door creaked open slowly. A few metallic clicks echoed, the sound of a rifle or revolver being loaded. Artful’s breath grew shallow, slow as he attempted not to make any noise or sound. Today was definitely not the day he wanted a bullet in his head!

The next few minutes stretched on, though they felt like hours. Nobody moved. Then a click. The door shifted slightly toward him. That was his signal.

Shots rang out, striking the door parallel to where he stood. Artful reacted instantly, conjuring a wall of magic that sprang up between him and the civilians. The splintering wood of his shack behind him barely registered before he destroyed it completely and leapt out.

He landed face-to-face with the ones hunting him. Two wore cowboy hats; another looked like some kind of medic. Their faces were pale, eyes wide. He remembered that look. Just like last time, they were still hunting him. Artful’s gaze flicked to the other two, busy reloading their revolvers. 

A drop of sweat slid down his cheek. The air suddenly felt thick and heavy in his throat, like it didn’t want him to breathe. His right hand, gripping the wand, shook uncontrollably. What should he do? He couldn’t let them escape; they would tell the others where he was. Or worse… if they caught him here, he could be arrested instantly. He couldn’t let that happen. He simply couldn’t.

Shots rang out again. One bullet sliced past his face, so close it burned the air beside his skin. Another slammed into his shoulder, knocking him backward. The sensation buzzed through his whole body, tingling, disorienting. He didn’t even register it at first, not until a thin stream of blood trickled down his arm, hot and metallic, staining his white sleeve red. There was no pain at first, only numbness and then a sharp, burning throb.

Seconds later, he swung his wand, pupils constricted, locking eyes with the man across from him. A wall erupted beneath the shooter, slamming into his spine and drawing a pained growl. With another desperate flick, a music box materialized beside their heads. It began to play, but instead of a gentle melody, a shrieking, unbearable noise screamed from it, so piercing it made their ears bleed. They collapsed to the ground, clawing at the sides of their heads to block it out.

Artful stared at the chaos he’d unleashed, breath ragged, chest heaving like he was starving for air. He coughed, trying to steady himself, trying to calm the unpleasant feeling surging through his body. He couldn’t look at them. It was their fault. It was them who’d come here in the first place. He’d isolated himself on purpose. So why was he still the one at fault? They forced him to do that!

He wished they would just disappear.

Chapter Text

Artful sat in the chair outside his destroyed shack, leaning back and letting his weight rest as the sky darkened to shades of pink and purple after the hours that passed. His shoulder burned from the earlier shot, ruining whatever peace he might have had, if it could be called that. He turned his head. Three bodies. Barely breathing. Blood dark on the dirt, especially the one who’d bled from the ears. They drew ragged breaths. Artful felt a twinge of guilt.

He looked up at the sky as if searching for an answer; some stars had already become visible, his brain too exhausted to think. If he was really going to-well, kill them-he might as well do it quickly. But he had already failed minutes ago, which was why they were tied up and still suffering. The fact gnawed at him: he really was a danger to civilians, hurting them but not ending it cleanly.

Artful raised his arm slowly, pressing his hand to his shoulder, fingers searching for the wound. The bullet hadn’t gone in deeper. Thank God- just a brass glint streaked with blood. It would take time to remove and patch properly. Last time he checked, the bandages and first-aid kit were under the table inside the shack, probably destroyed now. A low groan escaped him. No way he was crawling back into that wreck tonight.

The world tipped as he stood. Legs wobbled, vision softening at the edges. Blood beaded and ran down his arm to his fingers. He peeled off his vest and wrapped it tight around the wound, breath shallow. To the left of the shack, there should be yarrow. If he could find it, maybe he could stop the bleeding long enough to think and recollect himself.

He started making his way toward the spot but stopped after a few steps. Something… unseen pressed against the back of his head, making his skin crawl. Not the wound that still burned, but as if someone, or something, was piercing him with eyes. Animals had stalked him before, hidden in the bushes. Normal. It was a forest, filled with bears and wolves, after all.

So why did this feel wrong?

It was unnerving, paralyzing. Artful strained his senses, trying to catch anything that could indicate movement behind him. Maybe it was his imagination. Going crazy wasn’t unlikely, not after everything. The civilians he’d captured? No, they were in too much pain to act, barely able to stand even if they tried.

Yet turning around felt wrong. Every instinct screamed at him to get the hell out of there. The fear of being arrested, or of the civilians surviving, vanished entirely.

Silence.

A scream.

A scream so sharp it twisted his stomach inside out. His head whipped around so fast that pain shot through his neck, eyes locking on the shack where the hostages were. Blood sprayed across the wall. The caretaker, the one gasping heavily moments ago, now sat frozen, face drained of color. A chunk of their arm was gone, torn away as if bitten, with such force that even the bone had broken. Veins and blood vessels peeked from the wound. His eyes bulged, wet and red, jaw trembling as the screams collapsed into guttural, choking sobs.

Artful’s eyes followed the trail of blood toward the thing crouched silently on the ground, chewing the arm, tearing the tissues slowly before tossing it aside without finishing. Its clawed hands reached for the man’s leg, which thrashed in a futile attempt to escape, still tied to the other two civilians, one unconscious, the other sitting to the far right, watching in terror.

Maybe the caretaker’s struggling and shouting had annoyed the creature because, in the next instant, its claws slashed across the neck, tearing veins and breaking the spinal cord. The movements slowed, then stopped completely. Dead.

His lifeless eyes stared straight into Artful’s, a silent, horrifying accusation reflected in their vacant gaze.

Artful’s body convulsed, legs buckling as he crumpled to the ground. He clamped his hand over his mouth, eyes refusing to watch the scene, fixed instead on the grass beneath him. A metallic tang of blood filled his mouth; he’d bitten down hard on his tongue, trying to anchor the last fraying threads of his sanity and suppress any noise. Maybe this was karma, the heavens punishing him for his sins- or perhaps it was just his luck.

Oh, how he wished he were deaf. A second scream tore through the forest, piercing his ears. He couldn’t help but lift his head slowly, eyes moving back towards the civilians and the creature.

It seemed to be doing the same thing- tearing into flesh, biting hungrily, drooling over the fresh meat. The civilian hadn’t made another sound like the caretaker, nor did they seem to be breathing. On its chest was a gushing wound, marked by the sword lying next to the creature. At least this death spared Artful from witnessing another excessive display. The creature continued munching, ignoring him and the third civilian, still unconscious.

Maybe he could escape. He still felt strength in his muscles- enough to move, yes, but not to run. Whatever that thing was, there was no chance it wouldn’t catch him. It absolutely didn’t look human: from a distance, its limbs and silhouette were vaguely familiar, but up close it was bigger, hunched, something else entirely.

He didn’t dare move. The world buzzed as he tried to think. Trying to come to terms with… terms with what?

Them being dead? The civilians?

He didn’t feel remorse. It was confusion, a conflicting feeling telling him he was responsible; if he just gave himself up and got arrested, none of this would have happened. They’d be out of the forest, together.

But no real grief. Why wasn’t there Anything!? Was he okay with this? Okay with the fact that he’d indirectly caused their deaths, adding to the list of his victims? that he’d let this foul creature do the dirty work, kill them, and leave no witnesses? That he wouldn’t be found? That the government wouldn’t know where he was right now?

He should stop. He should stop thinking and-

Teal wide eyes met his, pupils almost invisible with how big the irises were. Its teeth were bared, teal just like its eyes, but stained with dripping blood from the two civilians, smeared all over its jaw. It didn’t move, a statue frozen mid-breath, and even the rise and fall of its chest was barely visible. Looking directly at it, he began to notice more details he’d missed before, when its whole body had seemed like a single black blur. Now, though, he saw it clearly: the sharp ridges of its spine pushing against the skin of its back, not from starvation, but from the natural structure that made them look almost like spikes. A long spiky tail slammed against the ground in an annoyed, maybe even angry, rhythm. Its body, from neck to tail, was covered in a thin layer of short, sleek fur that still looked coarse and rough to the touch, not enough to soften its shape but just enough to catch the faintest glint of light. Only its face was white, stark, and striking against the dark, and twisted into a terrifying expression as it stared him down.

He would have still been in a trance, continuing to analyze it, if not for the sudden movement it began to make. It rose to its feet in one abrupt motion, never breaking eye contact, lips curling into a grin that showed every blood-stained tooth. Its body started twitching, shifting unnaturally, and a series of sharp, sickening clicks echoed through the air- bones shifting and moving beneath its skin. Then, slowly, it vanished. Or rather, it became invisible.

“What the fuck!” Artful almost choked on the words. The creature was gone. He couldn’t see it anywhere, which meant he had no way to defend himself, no chance to fight back even if he wanted to. His heart hammered against his ribcage, panic threatening to consume him whole. Shaking, he tried to get up, to do something, anything. He was losing control of his own hands; they refused to steady, no matter how hard he tried. Forcing his right hand to grip the wand, slick with blood, felt impossible.

Then Artful felt it, that same feeling from before, like eyes stabbing into his back, making his whole body tremble. Instinctively, he swung his wand as he turned, raising a wall behind him. It blocked something, probably the creature’s sword, judging by the loud clank that followed. An angry growl burst out of it as the quick attempt to kill him failed.

A spark of hope shot through Artful-  maybe he could still fight this thing off. But that hope vanished the moment the creature leapt over the wall, claws scraping against the bricks before it vaulted down toward him. It crashed in front of him, pushing him on the ground, their faces only inches apart, teeth bared and snapping, as if trying to tear his face off. But the creature met the solid smack of his wand mid-lunge, the hit sending it stumbling back just in time.

It didn’t take long for the creature to lunge again, this time dodging the brick wall Artful had thrown up and the wand aimed at its face. Its teeth snapped toward his neck, but Artful blocked them with his wounded arm- the same one still bruised and pierced by the earlier bullet.  Pain exploded through him, making him whine and hiss, every movement amplifying the agony. The teeth sank deeper, piercing his flesh, drawing blood, and he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing, praying it wouldn’t hurt as much as it would when it decided to fully shred it away. He waited.

As the seconds passed, he still felt nothing besides the bite and the sinking teeth themselves. Against his own fear, he slowly opened one eye, peering at the creature, only to be met with its expression. Instead of continuing to gnaw on his arm, the creature spat it out, a wet blegh escaping its mouth. It even gagged, desperately trying to scrape its tongue clean of… was it his body paint? Artful’s gaze darted to his arm, where the bite had left a mark: blood smeared across the white paint he usually applied on the visible parts of his limbs, carefully matching the makeup on his face.

“Il n’y a aucune chance que ce soit ça qui l’empêche de me manger!” (1) Artful couldn’t hold in his baffled expression; he might have even laughed at this if it weren’t a dire situation where he could very well die.

It started making noises, and Artful quickly snapped back to reality, fear clawing its way back into his chest. The creature’s pupils constricted even further, teal eyes blazed with rage; regret for even biting him was visible in its glare. Hurling and gurgling something, it finally spat out the words with sheer effort, twisted by the taste lingering on its tongue:

-“Dis…guh…sting…!”

-” W-what?” Artful could only stutter as he asked out loud. Did this thing just… speak something comprehensible? Was he hallucinating, or had it really just used a human language-

The creature stared at him for a few more moments, then went silent again, focusing on scraping the paint off its tongue. Artful froze, doing his best not to provoke it, as the monster’s attention drifted away from his flesh, obviously repelled, and any satisfaction of its previous meals was ruined. Slowly, it managed to rid its tongue of the smeared makeup before standing up and vanishing once more, repeating that grotesque process of twisting, shifting its own bones. Artful was left sitting on the grass alone, heart hammering.

His nerves and body finally gave out. He collapsed fully onto the grass, letting its coolness soothe his neck and head, easing some of the heat radiating from his wounds. Night had fully fallen, the sky now a deep ocean of stars. It was pleasing. They flickered one by one, like tiny lamps scattered across the heavens, and for a moment, their gentle light calmed Artful’s mind. He wanted to stay like this for just a little bit longer.

…

But there were still things to do. The first was tending to his wounds, especially his arm. What if he got rabies from that bite? As ridiculous as it sounded, the possibility was there. He pinched the bridge of his nose before turning his gaze toward what remained of the shack,  and the bodies. Limbs, flesh, and blood painted the ground. Each glance sent a shiver. The first body was slumped against the broken wall. The second lay sprawled on the ground, the gaping chest wound long since bled dry. And the third- wait. Where was the third civilian? 

A jolt of dread snapped through him, stronger than the pain from his wounds as he staggered to his feet. Where is he? Where the hell is he? His eyes darted frantically around the clearing, jumping from tree to bush to shadow, searching for any sign, a foot, a scrap of fabric, anything.

Maybe that thing had taken him… but if it had, it would’ve torn him apart like the others, not carried him off. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore, swallowing hard. The worst-case scenario was that the civilian had escaped while the two of them were fighting- well, while Artful was struggling to stay alive, more accurately. 

If the civilian reached the village… if he told them what happened here, then more people would be after him.

Artful slumped down next to the bodies, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them as he clasped his neck with both hands. His gaze stayed fixed on the corpses. He had to get rid of them, sooner or later. If he didn’t, they’d attract other animals, starved and hungry; to them, meat was meat, no matter where it came from.

And maybe…

His eyes traced the remains again, analyzing what was left and what had been eaten. Maybe if he dragged them closer to the village, people would become wary of the area, and stories of a beast attacking civilians (which, technically, wasn’t a complete lie; it even attacked Artful) would spread. Fewer people would wander in. Fewer chances of someone going after him, even if the escaped civilian would tell everyone where he currently was.

He knew how twisted the thought was, how disgusting it sounded, using their deaths as a warning sign. But the truth was, he didn’t feel much about it, at least at the current moment. It was practical. Efficient. And if it kept as many people away from him as possible, then that would be good enough.

Artful bit his lip, holding back grunts as he rose slowly. He stood over the bodies, looming above them… feeling disgust, but nothing more. Carefully, he reached for the first one, dragging it by the legs away from the shack, just far enough to “organize” it, to make the job easier. Even through his gloves, he could feel the cold stiffness of the corpse. Slowly, he moved the second body, placing it near the first, gathering the leftovers that had fallen beside them. He almost gagged as blood stained his pants.

Using the wand, two puppets appeared, lifeless and waiting for Artful’s orders, which didn’t take long. He made sure the puppets carefully picked up both bodies.

He looked down at them one last time before turning away, letting the puppets deliver the corpses to a more populated area- where, sooner or later, they would be discovered.

Chapter Text

“This should do.” He straightened the green shirt a little more before pulling on a simple brown coat, adjusting its collar to sit neatly. Despite everything, Artful couldn’t imagine stepping out without proper preparation. Call it a habit, if you will.

Soft thuds of rain tapped against his temporary tent, set up the morning after that night, two days ago. Fortunately, the aid kit he had planned to use had survived, even though the shack had been destroyed and its remnants had collapsed on top. When Artful found it, the metal casing was dented, but the contents were intact, enough to dig the bullet out of his shoulder and disinfect his other wounds, a process that had been painful enough. Now he just needed to restock supplies, mainly makeup, bandages, and hygiene products. 

Artful let out a tired sigh, knowing he wasn’t in any condition to walk far. The shoulder beneath his coat throbbed less than in the first few hours after the patch, but the pain was enough to aggravate his headaches and wear him down. On top of that, there was the anxiety of entering a village full of civilians, especially since he still didn’t know if his risky plan of leaving the…dead bodies was the right choice. The only real motivation pushing him was the dried blood on the skin, which, if not cleansed soon, would drive Artful crazy from the relentless itch over his limbs.

He gently pushed the tent’s flaps aside with his fingers, peeking out to see if the weather had worsened. Thankfully, it hadn’t, the rain still fell in the same steady rhythm on the wet grass. A thin veil of fog was beginning to form, but otherwise, everything was the same. Well, if he wanted to finish with his business quickly, he had to go now, and not dwell.

Artful stepped out of the tent, feeling the rain soak his face and wet his hair, which had grown back since he hadn’t had the chance to cut it. Pushing strands from his eyes, he hesitantly glanced at the tent. Then, taking out his wand and flicking it in front of the structure, it vanished into thin air, destroyed, as if it had never been there.

This area was no longer safe. Nothing about it felt secure after everything that had happened. That creature- whatever it was, had been here and feasted on his own kind, and could very well return for more. The escaped civilian? They knew the location and might lead others here. There was no way he was coming back. Once he had restocked his supplies, relocating would be the only option.

He turned away, walking past the bloodied patches of grass near the ruined shack, the rain slowly washing the stains into the dirt, erasing the last traces of the crime scene.

The two patrolling civilians gave Artful a quick look, nodded to each other, and stepped aside, letting him pass through the gates. They clearly didn’t recognize him, assuming he was just one of them.

Artful was grateful the coat hid his body, because underneath it, he trembled, barely noticeable, but there nonetheless, especially in his hands, tucked deep into his pockets. His mind only began to calm once he realized he was in the clear, letting out a long-held breath as he followed the road winding deeper into the village. The growing number of civilians made it clear he was entering a busier area. Some were chatting; others passed by either alone or in groups, minding their own business.

Yet somehow, it all irritated him. He couldn’t say why. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, sliding through the crowd, careful not to draw attention. Still, a strange emptiness lingered, something that hadn’t been there a month before, and it made him increasingly uncomfortable.

Perhaps it was the fact that he was walking among civilians, looking like those he had killed. Or maybe it could be the constant paranoia clawing at him, reminding him that he was being looked for, and that anyone in these streets could call him out, bringing doom to any hope and freedom he had left, keeping his body taut and every muscle on edge. He absolutely hated it.

Trying to calm the growing irritation, he shifted his attention to the shops lining the street. All of them were open, their wares displayed behind glass, trinkets, tools, objects of every kind, but none of it interested Artful. Perhaps before, he would have taken his time, enjoying the displays, watching but not buying. Sometimes, that alone was enough to bring a small sense of satisfaction. Now, it only made him want to turn away and go back.

A distant murmur of chatter caught his attention, forcing him to glance toward the opposite street. Amid all the thinking and distractions, he hadn’t noticed the growing circle of civilians around a small newsstand. They were talking loudly, seemingly unconcerned by the rain soaking them. Whatever they were discussing had clearly stirred some emotion. A few frowned in discomfort, clearly bothered by the topic, while others looked annoyed, rolling their eyes and clutching newspapers tightly as if trying to prove a point.

His chest tightened as worry and anticipation coiled inside him. Could it be the bodies he had made the puppets deliver? Yes, that had been the plan; he wanted them to find them. But what if it hadn’t worked and had the opposite effect? He wasn’t sure. A gut feeling told him otherwise. His hands gripped the fabric of his pockets, trying to soothe himself. He shouldn’t worry; it could be about anything. Yeah, why would it concern him? A lot was going on besides. The best way to know was to find out for himself what they were talking about.

He quickly crossed the road, accidentally bumping into someone and hitting his own shoulder, the one with the bullet injury, making him wince. What luck. The civilian muttered a quick apology, but hearing it only made Artful feel even more repulsed. Ignoring the feeling, he finally found a small space where no one stood and pushed through. He was met with rows of displayed newspapers, the front page featuring an announcement from the sheriff of the village, and something mentioning the government itself.

Artful didn’t pay attention afterward; he just snatched one of the newspapers from the side without anyone noticing, his headache starting to worsen. The rain’s droplets were oddly refreshing, giving him just enough strength to resist the urge to smash something.

He shakily held the newspaper in front of himself. The front page featured an image of the sheriff, probably taken during an investigation or an interview, with his speech printed below:

“Citizens, recent events have been grave. Three of my deputies went in pursuit of a known fraud- Artful, but the mission turned against them. Hostages were taken, and they encountered dead ends, resulting in casualties. By fortune, one returned, bringing terrifying news: the creature that terrorized one of our largest farms has returned after months of absence.

Be vigilant. Any encounter with this creature could result in death, as it did for two of my own.

As for Artful, this criminal has been greatly underestimated. He is highly dangerous, comparable to the other four individuals currently under scrutiny. Remain cautious and do not leave town alone under any circumstances. Your safety depends on it.”

Artful felt cornered, powerless, trapped in a dead end. Any energy he’d had was gone. He didn’t move for a good ten minutes, just standing there in the middle of the damp street as rain poured onto the newspaper, soaking the pages. His eyes scanned the same lines over and over, rereading until the words began to blur and swim together, dissolving into nothing. A faint ringing filled his ears, dull and distant, as if the world around him was sinking underwater. The patter of rain faded to a muffled hum.

-” Artful! Could you please pass me the ball?”

He lifted his gaze slowly. A mud-streaked blue ball rested by his boots. A girl held a doll in her left hand.

“Artful? Aaaartful? Hey, Artful! Why aren't you responding? Are you okay?”

Her voice sounded soft, distant.

“Artful, you seem unwell… do you maybe want to come with me? Sarah’s baking your favorite cookies.”

The words grew quieter, almost swallowed by the rain.

“Artful, doesn’t the rain bother you? You’ll catch a cold… I don’t want you to get sick.”

Her footsteps made small splashing sounds as she came closer, and she stopped about one foot away, looking him in the eyes.

“Artful? You're making me feel worried!”

His chest ached, throat burning; he wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. “...Sorry,” he finally breathed, barely audible before passing by her and into the nearby pharmacy.

Artful almost walked straight into the shelf, stopping just inches away. His arms felt cold and stiff as he grabbed the bandages, gauze, cotton balls, and antiseptic wipes, barely feeling the items in his palms, even as fingers touched them. In truth, he couldn’t feel anything physically at all. His headache throbbed, his shoulder ached and itched, but at the same time, it felt as if it didn’t. He was shaken.

Artful didn’t even register paying for the bandages and antiseptics at the pharmacy. Later, he found himself outside again, buying makeup, and then eventually a bottle of wine. Everything passed around him and through him, as if the world were moving in slow motion and he weren’t a part of it.

By the time he found himself outside the village, roaming the forest, the rain had fully stopped. His legs dragged him toward an unknown destination. Trees blurred at the edges of his vision, bushes, flowers, mushrooms, even boars, all smudged together as if he were walking through a fog made of many things.

He only stopped when his legs gave out. He plopped down into the grass, finally registering at least some details of his surroundings. It was some kind of clearing, filled with daisies, where he could see the sun slowly hiding behind the forest, casting scattered yellows and oranges across everything.

His gaze shifted to the side, where all the items he’d bought lay in a plastic bag. Inside was the bottle of wine, still in its box, unopened.

He rarely drank. Usually, his family favored drinking, and he would join in occasionally, but it was never a habit. Right now, though, he couldn't care less. He just wanted to feel at ease, to feel normal and alright. He had no one left, no one to care for him… or anyone he wanted to care for, so the least he could do was let his brain rest and enjoy the taste.

Shaking, he fumbled with the box, muscles stiff and uncooperative, until he finally managed to pull the bottle out. Its label was a deep royal blue, elegant but meaningless to him; he didn’t care about names or brands, only the liquid inside. The cork resisted at first, and realizing he had no tools to open it without damaging the bottle, he lifted his wand and cast a small spell. With a soft pop, it gave way, releasing the faint scent of sweetness that immediately filled his senses, encouraging him to proceed.

Artful brought the bottle to his lips, the first sip warm against his mouth. The liquid spread quickly, thick and syrupy, coating his tongue and throat. It carried a sharp, fruity tang beneath the sugary sweetness, a fleeting comfort against the weight in his chest. For the first time in hours, the tension loosened.

Setting the bottle clumsily, he pressed his cold, trembling fingers against his forehead. Eyes slowly closing, he let the exhaustion pull him into the damp ground.

-“Artful?”
A familiar, soft voice found its way near him. He opened his eyes slowly, but didn’t dare look at her.

-“Yes?” His voice barely carried.

-“Did… did you mean it when you said sorry?”

-“Yes, I did.” He couldn’t bring himself to turn toward her, but the sound of shifting grass told him she had sat down nearby.

-“And the others?”

-“What do you mean?”

-“The others who died… Do you feel sorry for them?”

-“…”

-“Artful?”

-“…”

-“Why aren't you saying anything, Artful!?”

Silence fell as he didn’t answer. Suddenly, the sweet taste on his tongue turned bitter, and the relief he had felt vanished. His chest ached, his mind spinning, and for a moment the world seemed to tilt. He turned his head to the side, expecting… nothing.

Then his fingers brushed against the damp, crumpled newspaper tucked in the bag beside him. Almost automatically, he stretched out his arm and pulled it closer. The tactile sensation, cold, wet paper against his skin, made him twitch, grounding him back to reality in a way.

He flipped through the pages. The first few, following the Sheriff’s interview, didn’t hold much interest: mostly his own face, accompanied by details about him and a bounty, it didn't surprise him. He barely glanced at them before moving on. But then his eyes widened slightly, sobering him from his daze, and he pushed himself up from the grass. Now that… caught his attention.

A familiar silhouette appeared between the trees in the photograph: a white face, teal eyes, and a grin that held that same terrifying smile, the rest of its body shrouded in black. At the top of the page, bold letters read: “Pursuer.” The description below repeated familiar warnings about avoiding the creature, emphasizing its danger. But reading further left him disappointed; there wasn’t much useful information.

"A lethal Apex Predator of unknown origin, unmatched in both speed and hunting skill. With the ability to become completely invisible, it can stalk unsuspecting prey and strike with deadly precision, leaving no trace behind. By the time its distant howl reaches your ears, it is already too late."

As if its appearance and diet weren’t obvious enough- they could’ve at least included something more practical.

He closed the newspaper, losing interest entirely, and lay back on the grass. The numbness was returning, dragging him back into the hell of his own mind as he closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

When he had woken up, it was still dark, all was quiet, the forest wrapped in total stillness. The only sign that it was just early morning were the barely-heard tweets of birds and the faint freshness in the air, something he had grown used to after living in the wild for a while.

Memories from yesterday didn’t rush back immediately, giving him a moment of calm. He used it to pull himself together, removing the brown coat, changing into his usual outfit: black hat, gloves, vest, and pants, paired with a white shirt layered over a turtleneck. He reapplied his makeup using a fresh product instead of the old- nearly empty box whose bottom he could already see through the powder. He also replaced the bandages on his shoulder; the wound was healing faster than expected- not too deep, and he’d removed the bullet cleanly without tearing more tissue.

When he started recalling, it was only in fragments, bits and pieces of what had happened yesterday after he’d finished everything. Honestly, it felt more like a strange nightmare. The sensations, the weight his chest had, they weren’t there anymore, almost as if they had never happened, with only the slight trembling of his hands giving it all away. Maybe that was just his brain finally resting. Still, the faint taste and smell of alcohol on him lingered, just enough to remind how he’d even ended up here, in the middle of this clearing.

Well, if the memories weren’t coming back anytime soon, that was probably for the better.  The half-empty bottle of wine lying on the ground did its job. And who was he to complain? Artful didn’t want to make things worse than they already were; with how everything had been going lately, even this small bit of peace felt like an extremely lucky day.

Arful gathered the rest of the items scattered across the grass and swiftly “pocketed” them with his wand, a simple trick he’d learned after a few days of being hunted down. Creating a small pocket-space to store his things without actually carrying them was a niche ability, but a useful one nonetheless. 

Finishing the quick rearrangement inside, where he caught a brief glimpse of…something very familiar…he shut it faster than he’d opened it, a drop of sweat forming on his forehead while turning his head away, breath hitching. Don't look, just ignore it right now. You were supposed to be on your way anyway.

He once more adjusted his sleeves, loosened the shirt slightly to let the wounds breathe, and gave his gloves a final tug to settle them comfortably. Lastly, with his hat straightened, Artful finally set off, walking at an easy pace. There was no reason to rush anywhere in particular.

The surrounding trees felt as though they towered over him, making him seem smaller against the weight of nature. Ahead was nothing more than dirt and grass, no clear trail to follow or navigate through. Artful had always avoided forests and isolated places and the deeper parts of the woods, especially in the first days right after what he’d done. Back then, he still clung to a bit of hope that maybe, somehow, he could avoid the consequences. That it might fade away like an illness that only needed a remedy. But it hadn’t gotten better in the slightest. The town where his performance had been held had been hunting him down with great effort, even getting close to arresting him.

The grass underneath him disappeared and changed to…an actual path.

It was clearly a road of sorts, probably made for vehicles rather than travelers. There wasn’t any asphalt or stone,  just bare, yellowed ground, stripped of grass from years of use. He didn’t think much of it; he’d seen similar paths before in the forest. Logically, there was a town nearby, so it made sense that civilians might use it from time to time- probably how these three civilians found him.

That, of course, wasn’t his goal. Artful wanted to get as far away as possible from populated areas or any routes that might still be in use, considering the place where he stayed before wasn't deep enough into the forest. He thought about turning back, but the road somehow felt more comforting than the endless wild around him. And besides, given what had happened recently, there shouldn’t be small groups of civilians wandering into the forest. If he were them, he’d stay at home, waiting for “Artful” and the creature, what was it called again? “Pursuer”? Yeah. He would’ve stayed inside and waited for things to calm down.

And that’s what he hoped for, because Artful didn’t want to run into anyone else, resulting in a similar end as last time- two more dead bodies, and another reminder of how little humanity he still felt each time. Just when he had only started feeling a little bit at ease.

The thought lingered, heavy and familiar. But unlike yesterday, he felt oddly calm, as if someone had flicked a switch inside him. The acknowledgement and worry of having an absence of emotions weighed on him through these past weeks, still leaving Artful trying to understand why. But unlike yesterday, today he felt oddly calm, as if someone flicked a switch inside of him. Either way, he didn't resent this particular set of mind- or feeling, whatever it was.

Beep…

   Beep…

      Beep…

A quiet, almost unnoticeable sound came from beneath his foot, making him step back quickly, startled. Kneeling down for a closer look, eyes squinting, he noticed a small circular dot half-buried, only the front part visible, its metallic surface faintly glimmering as a red light flickered in rhythm with the beeping sound.

His fingers brushed over the surface slowly, checking first if it wasn’t something that could harm him, before digging it out with quick movements and lifting it closer to inspect. The metallic item looked like a tracker, or something close to it. There was no way it could’ve just ended up here on its own, of all places. Artful stood up fast, stepping around the area and scanning the ground carefully, trying to spot any other similar devices. But there was nothing. The gadget still in his hand, he decided to toss it away, sending it flying into the bushes as far as possible.

An unsettling feeling crept into his chest just when he’d finally started to relax. Of course, something strange had to happen- why did he even think he was safe in the first place? Stepping off the road, away from where he’d thrown it, he pressed close to the trees before breaking into a run, breath growing unsteady as he tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and that spot. Whatever that thing was, he needed to get away from it. It was still early, the sun hadn’t even risen yet, and as far as he knew, hunters didn’t track animals during these hours. And they definitely didn’t use gadgets like that.

So whatever reason it was there for, it couldn’t mean anything good. Thinking back, the sheriff had said not to go alone… or in small groups, right? He never mentioned anything about larger ones. Maybe- maybe there actually were specialized teams searching for him. Or for it… Hopefully for it. But if he was being honest with himself, that thing most likely had already been a threat here long before he showed up. And if someone had to pick the easier one to catch, it’d be him.

He slowed down to a jog, then stopped completely. What if he was overreacting? There was a chance it really was just a hunting device. His body still felt weak, and the pain in his shoulder pulsed sharply from the sudden sprint. Turning around, he guessed he’d put at least a hundred feet between himself and the spot. Far enough… probably.

Yeah… far enough. He exhaled, trying to steady his breathing, though the tightness in his chest didn’t quite fade. The trees were quiet again, but that silence didn’t feel comforting anymore.

Then another beeping sound came from the road, Artful instantly looked to the right, to see a flying squirrel, in its small paws was same similar device. The ground were it was digged from had been ravaged, the squirrel noticing the shine at night, with its interest peeked couldnt ressit and dug it up, thinking it was something valuable. Turning it around a few times, and seemingly get frightened by the sound, it threw it back and run into the woods.

-“Espèce d'écureuil stupide! Tu n'as rien de mieux à faire?!”(1) Artful whisper-shouted, swinging his hands up to clasp the sides of his head in a pissed off manner. There was no way he’d run all this way just for a squirrel to dig another piece out!

He was about to bolt off back from where he came from, to the clearing, away from the road- in the opposite direction, just like he should’ve done from the start- but stopped when the ground beneath the grass gave a faint tremor, sorts of vibrations.

Artful froze, eyes narrowing as he peered through the branches. In the distance, a light flickered, then grew stronger.

As it drew closer, his ears picked up the low hum of an engine. A vehicle, something like a jeep or a van, rolled into view, a device mounted on its roof emitting sharp but lowered beeps. The light swept across the trees and briefly caught Artful in the eyes, burning his vision for a second and forcing him to rub them with the back of his hand. The vehicle slowed, then stopped just a little ways down the road. Its doors swung open, and several civilians stepped out, all dressed in simple matching uniforms he didn’t recognize, ones he’d never seen before.

Artful ducked behind the tree, hardly daring to breathe, let alone move. Running now was too risky. Strength still hadn’t fully returned, and even if it had, the branches and undergrowth around him would give him away in seconds. He just needed to stay still and quiet. His chest rose and fell slowly with each breath.

The first civilian to step onto the ground approached the object left by the squirrel, crouching to pick it up before standing straight again. He inspected it carefully, then let out a chuckle, probably disappointed by the frown that lingered on his face.

“Seems like your stuff still glitches out, Doc. Maybe a beta test for this thing would’ve been the right idea?” His head turned toward the woman sitting in the front seat of the vehicle, who was looking right at him.

-“Please! Don’t blame me! Blame the head for rushing me to use this! He didn’t even want me to test it before deployment!”

-“Didn’t you have a deadline? There was enough time to make this metal thing work.”

-“Exactly, it works! But it wasn’t finished! And instead of just catching signals, it picks up everything! Physical contact included!”

The third civilian, standing by the van door with a blue helmet marked with green arrows, shook his head. He approached the first civilian, took the gadget from his hands, and added a comment.

-“To be fair, she did mention this before, to the head researcher in our lab.”

-“See? I’m not lying! I was just rushed to finish it, no time to address the small nuances.”

-“Alright, alright, I get it. But honestly, do you really think any gadget is useful against a robot that escaped and can fly, like Killdroid?” The man scratched his chin in confusion.

A voice joined from the back, where a civilian was inspecting the area around the tires, seemingly finishing that task.

-“Believe me, the whole point of that gadget was to track any nearby or distant signals, especially in the air. Ava was assigned specifically because she’s the best with these devices. I heard it directly from the head.”

Ava, the woman sitting in the car, waved her hand to dismiss the compliment.

-“Anyhow, probably the wildlife triggered it. Still, I want to check the surrounding area just to be sure. Two of them going off shortly after is a little odd.”

-“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll go around the back. You two take the front.” The civilian standing near the one who had inspected the tires before nodded in agreement.

All of them got to work. The driver gave a thumbs-up without saying anything, and the woman took the gadget from the other man, unscrewing it to inspect the insides.

Artful turned his head away, looking nowhere, as his breath got shallow. Killdroid… the name rang a bell. He vaguely remembered it from a few months back, some government project, if he wasn’t mistaken. Nobody heard anything afterwards from then, though. At least he didn't.

From the corner of his eye he saw a silhouette edging closer to the spot he’d hidden in. The flashlight in the civilian’s hand flickered, sweeping from bush to tree, slowly inching toward where Artful stood.

Okay. Okay- this was not good. He tugged at his turtleneck without making a sound, as if the collar were squeezing his throat; the air felt hotter, his heart pounding in his ribs and sweat starting to form. Yes, they probably weren’t looking for him specifically, but the fact that they were government employees didn’t make things any better. If that guy shone the light right on him now, he’d be caught. There was no way these people weren’t aware of what had been happening around here, with the news being everywhere!

What was he supposed to do? Negotiate? Like hell there’d be any chit-chat. He’d be slammed to the ground and handled like a criminal. Defending himself wasn’t an option either- that would count as an attack, and would only drag the whole agency down on him. He began rubbing his wrists to steady himself; his leg shook, itching to tap the ground if he didn’t force it still.

Suddenly, he froze, every nerve in his body going rigid. Artful’s eyes flicked to his shoulder.

He remembered getting shot while trying to defend himself, letting the civilian strike first as he waited, cowardly. Afraid of getting caught, just like at the moment. The memory brought back the agony, the burning pain from the wound. Faces flashed in his mind, one by one, filled with anger and terror as he held them hostage. Back then, he still felt guilt, felt it slightly, but it was there nevertheless. When clearly it was their fault. But now, replaying those moments, it wasn’t the same. Even the dead eyes of the caretaker in their final seconds didn’t shake him; it didn’t feel… the same anymore. It was as if the part of him that used to care had quietly left, taking with it every reason to resist what he was becoming.

Why was he still searching for reasons- forcing himself to feel remorse that wasn’t there? Why fight against himself when he could simply let it be, relax like he had earlier, and avoid it? Maybe this was easier, giving in, letting things unfold as they would. No more struggle, no more pretending he could undo what was already done. The relief he experienced- a feeling that had almost begun to feel foreign.

So why, when the outcome would be the same? It always did.

Artful looked down at his hand. The shaking had stopped completely. His wand rested there, in his gloved grip, and suddenly it felt… right. The forest around him was still, dark, silent, and empty. Everything felt… right. The lingering weight of contemplation began to fade, accompanied by a faint, almost fragile voice in the back of his mind, young and familiar, reaching out, trying to get his attention, maybe even trying to stop him, trying to remind Artful that the suffering he was going through came from the very first thing he was about to do. 

But the approaching sounds of the civilians only pushed him further, toward an action that guaranteed his freedom and well-being. An action which he wasn't yet brave enough to admit and say out loud, consciously.

The light from the flashlight fell on him and the surroundings where he stood, illuminating his whole silhouette and stance. His head shot up to meet the face of the civilian, who looked startled, clearly not expecting to see Artful.

Their staring contest didn’t last long. Artful swung his wand straight into the civilian’s gut. A sharp thud and a grunt followed as the man stumbled back, clutching his stomach. The other let out a strangled cough, groaning from the hit, the noise loud enough to catch the attention of the rest.

Artful barely had time to think; the others were already running toward them. He stepped out from between the trees, breath ragged, and tried landing another blow. The civilian caught it just in time, blocking it by sheer reflex before jumping a few steps away, dirt scattering under his boots.

The three others finally reached them, helping him up, all of them glaring at Artful, first in confusion, then in realization. Their faces twisted with anger.

-“Is this who I think it is?!” the one in front spat, voice shaking with rage. “You should’ve been in jail long ago! What nonsense-!” He turned sharply, yelling over his shoulder, “HEY, BLOCK! SOME LIGHT HERE, DAMMIT!”

Artful glanced toward the car just as it shifted into reverse, then turned sharply to the side before completing a full spin, its headlights sweeping across the area and flashing blindingly bright. The sudden glare burned into his eyes, the contrast between the early morning dark and the harsh white light stabbing through his vision.

He winced, a few low groans rising from the others around him. When he turned his gaze back, the civilian he’d struck earlier was already back on his feet, steadied by one of his teammates who had rushed to support him.

“Will be honest, that punch came good- guys.”
They exchanged a quick look before surrounding Artful, dropping into fighting stances.

The car’s headlights still burned into his eyes, so before they could react, Artful swung his wand. A wall shot up between the four of them and the car. The woman inside yelped in surprise, and for a split second, he caught her and the driver's shocked faces before the wall sealed the view. He’d left a few small gaps and holes in the surface on purpose, enough to see the others clearly without being blinded by the light bleeding through.

They attacked in sync, wasting no time. Blows came one after another, forcing Artful to dodge and stumble back, breath quick and uneven. Even with all his effort, one hit connected hard against his side, drawing a sharp wince. But adrenaline was running hot, dulling the sting almost instantly.

Now spread apart in new positions, the three stood farther from one another than before. Artful seized the moment, swinging his wand again and hurling two loose bricks toward the pair on the right. They dodged just as he’d expected, breaking formation even more and leaving the one he’d already hit isolated.

Now it looked more like a one-on-one. The other two were too far to intervene, leaving Artful facing the last man alone.

The civilian struck first, but missed. Artful countered, but his attack also fell short. Both of them were clearly beaten down, breaths ragged, steps unsteady. Still, the civilian had the upper hand; he lunged forward and threw another punch.

Artful braced for it, expecting a hit to the face, but the strike veered lower, slamming into his shoulder instead. A sharp, burning pain tore through him. He let out a yell and swung his wand instinctively, sending a slab of brick and dirt bursting up from beneath the man’s legs. The civilian went down hard, cursing as Artful staggered back, clutching his shoulder. He could feel the old bullet wound tearing open again, heat spreading across the fresh bandage he’d changed earlier.

-“Fils de pute! How’d you know?”(2) Artful spat, anger, and shock twisted his voice.

The man groaned, holding his leg as he forced out through gritted teeth, chuckling, “Your whole arm was stiffer than the other. Either you faked it, or you were hiding an injury. Guess surrendering would’ve been the smarter choice, huh?”

Artful’s eyebrows furrowed down even more than before, lips tightening and narrowing together. Did the civilian just taunt him?!

In the heat of the moment, Artful spun toward the two others trying to approach unnoticed. He slammed two walls behind their backs, striking their legs. One of them likely had a bone break, as he opened his mouth to scream but quickly clamped down on his arm, gritting through the sharp pain radiating from torn tissue and strained nerves.

The second man beside him stumbled forward, narrowly avoiding a similar injury, but he was dazed and disoriented. If he got back up, Artful would be in serious trouble. He didn’t care anymore. With a swift motion, he hurled another brick toward him. It flew past the civilian with the broken leg and struck the other squarely in the forehead. The impact knocked him out instantly, blood streaming from the wound, leaving a deep, circular dented bruise where the brick had connected. A deafening silence followed, punctuated only by the slow trickle of blood from his nose and ears. He was dead.

Artful froze, jaw clenched, before a fist suddenly slammed into the right side of his face, near his mask, almost shattering it. He stumbled back, grunting, snapping his attention to the civilian in front of him. Unlike before, when the man had been smirking and taunting, concern now replaced all his former confidence. Seeing his friend fall like that stirred something in Artful- a strange, uncomfortable satisfaction, tinged with disbelief, as he saw the smugness vanish from the other’s eyes.

He swung his wand again, this time the strike connecting. The other’s block failed, and the blow landed low near the base of his neck. He staggered, then went limp, teetering for a heartbeat before collapsing to the ground, unconscious. His breathing was slow, the only proof he was still alive. 

Artful stood above him, his heart still hammering but slowing, each beat sinking into a steadier rhythm. The surge of strength that had carried him moments ago drained away, leaving his muscles heavy and trembling. Sweat trickled down his back, cooling fast against his soaked clothes, sending shivers through him. Pain he hadn’t felt before now stabbed sharply from the bruises and impacts, his nerves screaming in protest as if his body were catching up all at once. 

Yet none of that mattered. His focus snapped to the other side of the wall he’d created on the road, the barrier between them and the car. The woman and the driver still hadn’t moved to aid their comrades, and that uncertainty gnawed at him.

With hesitation, he made the wall disappear. The car was still in the same spot, its headlights stabbing at his eyes again, though thankfully they had adjusted after a while. The sky had started turning a pale purple, the sun finally rising and tinting the clouds with hints of orange. The windows were pitch black, probably privacy glass. The doors were closed, and he couldn’t hear any breathing or movement from inside. He grasped the handle, ready to apply all his strength, but to his surprise, the door gave way the moment his hand touched it, opening just slightly. A soft sound came from below; tap, tap. 

Droplets of blood sliding down. His reflexes betrayed him; he jerked back, but his hand was still on the door, inadvertently pushing it open further. 

A body tumbled out onto the ground, landing face-first, forcing Artful to release the handle. It was the woman, lying still, utterly motionless, no breath escaping her. A chunk of her collarbone was gone, muscles along her shoulder and down her arm torn away. Artful froze, the scene before him flashing a familiar, gut-churning memory from the day he’d faced something similar. His stomach twisted with disgust. Hesitantly, he nudged her body onto its back with his foot and immediately regretted it. Her torso was ripped open, organs missing or mangled, the sight worse than anything he could have imagined seeing today.

Artful’s gaze shifted to the driver. Slumped over the wheel, a dart gun limp in cold hands, unused in time. His upper body… obliterated. His head… it wasn’t even there. “Mon dieu, il a l’air encore pire,”(3) Artful muttered, hastily trying to shut the door, but the body on the ground blocked it. He let go, unable to look any further.

When he looked again, the civilian whose leg he’d broken stood there, gun raised, finger on the trigger. Artful froze. No shot came. Slowly, his gaze fell to the sword lodged in the man’s stomach. It forced the gun from his hands with a brittle clatter, pressed dangerously close to Artful, yet never touched him. The civilian coughed violently as it was wrenched free, collapsing.

Now, only Pursuer remained. The creature loomed impossibly tall, hunched, pale face streaked with blood, teeth bared. Artful didn’t move. Every instinct screamed at him to stay still. Pursuer’s eyes narrowed, catching sight of Artful, before grimacing in disgust and avoidance as it recognized the meat in front of itself, that same one that left a disgusting taste on its tongue, which is why Pursuer immediately turned to the dying civilian’s remains. Tearing into the flesh, indifferent to the gurgling noises. Artful nearly vomited, stumbling back, trembling at every twitch of its limbs.

Finally, he managed a shred of distance. The dart gun lay just out of reach. If only he could use it- if only. Pursuer paused, blank expression for a heartbeat, then a grin spread across bloodied teeth. In its hand, a piece of flesh quivered. Slowly, it pointed at Artful. His heart hammered. Sweat prickled his back. He dared not move.

-“…more… fresh meat,” it muttered, words garbled, mangled. Only “fresh meat” emerged clearly.

Artful’s voice trembled as he forced a reply. -“A-aha… could you, p-please elaborate?”

The creature blinked, dumbfounded for a moment, then thrashed its tail angrily, thudding sharply against the ground.

-“Ouille! Elaborate means e-explain!” Artful stuttered, hating how stupid he sounded.

Pursuer’s grin widened when he finally understood.“…where you… more… fresh meat,” it said, never stopping staring at him. “You… lure… for more fresh meat.”

Now it was Artful’s turn to look confused at what Pursuer was implying. Because if he’d understood it right, then he was in deep, deep trouble.

There could only be one reason the creature was talking to him at all, and that reason had just become painfully clear. Pursuer was suggesting that Artful attracted the groups of civilians who tried to hunt or kill him, just like the first time they met. Wherever Artful went, they followed. Which, in turn, meant fresh meat for Pursuer. Easy prey, delivered right to its table.

And now, after attacking and killing people who worked for the government, even more would be after him. If that creature decided to follow, it would be pure hell for Artful- there was no chance of avoiding trouble anymore. Even if he tried to stay away from civilians, it wouldn’t matter. The only reason Pursuer hadn’t eaten or killed him yet was that Artful unknowingly fed him, bringing more victims wherever he went.

Artful stared at Pursuer for a long moment, his face twitching as he tried to piece together a calm reaction. Of course. Of course, that was how it worked. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

“Eh bien, voilà,”(4) he muttered under his breath, tone strained. “I’m your walking dinner bell. Fantastic! Just what I wanted!”

His words came out tight, as he tried to look calm, but that only barely masked the anger simmering beneath. The more he thought about it, the more the realization clawed at him. No matter what he did, no matter where he went, he’d just keep digging himself deeper into this cursed mess. Every step forward dragged him further down the same damned hole.

He laughed once, low and humorless. “You’re really making this easy for me, huh?” he said, voice cracking slightly at the edge. “Guess I should thank you for not eating me yet.” Pursuer only tilted its head, staring blankly and bored, back at him, blood still dripping from its mouth, unacring.

Artful clenched his jaw and turned away, the heat of frustration mixing with the sick churn in his gut. He couldn’t even tell if he was angry at Pursuer… or at himself. But right now, he wanted to punch the other straight in the gut.

Pursuer, meanwhile, straightened slowly, still staring at him, that awful grin never leaving his face. To Pursuer, Artful was nothing more than meat. He didn’t know the other’s name, nor did he care to. Whatever Artful said held no real interest; words were meaningless when spoken by food.

What did catch Pursuer’s attention, though, was the change. Last time, when three civilians had died before Artful’s eyes, the man had looked like prey- wide-eyed, trembling, like the frightened animals Pursuer so often compared to rabbits. But now… this “bunny” had killed one of its own. And what’s more, it stood and watched as Pursuer fed, showing no horror or guilt towards its fellow rabbits.

No prey would ever do that.

Unless, Pursuer thought, narrowing his teal eyes, this meat was never a bunny to begin with, but another predator wearing the same skin.

Pursuer turned away, its interest fading as quickly as it had appeared. Bones shifted with a wet crack, the creature’s outline rippling before vanishing into the air, gone, retreating before day starts. Artful didn’t stay to see if it would come back. He picked up the dart gun, slipping it into his pocket dimension through the wand, then caught sight of a small red USB on the car seat. He didn’t know what it was, but took it anyway; something told him it could be useful. With one last glance at the wreckage, he turned and walked off, the early morning light catching the edges of his mask.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since Artful’s talk with Pursuer, yet nothing seemed to have improved for him.

After leaving the crime scene successfully, he felt as though he were trapped inside a bubble, present, but distant. Just like his goal was from the start, he had been trying to find another safe place to stay for a while, and his wandering eventually led him to a small clearing near a river. At first glance, it seemed ideal: open space, good visibility, no sign of predators like wolves, foxes, bears, and such. However, it didn’t take long for the flaws to become apparent. There were no berry bushes or edible mushrooms, nothing he could rely on for food. The place swarmed with insects, and though he’d tried to stomach a few mealworms and grasshoppers, the attempt ended with him spitting them out in disgust. They were tasteless, and the texture alone made his stomach turn. He wasn’t used to eating things like that.

The river was the only reason he chose to stay. After all, since that damned punch the man had landed on his injured shoulder, the wound had only worsened. Tired and irritable, Artful had changed his bandages more often than he wanted to. Supplies were running low after his last trip to town, and during one of his attempts to disinfect the wound, he realized it had become inflamed. He wasn’t a doctor. Everything he’d done so far had seemed to help, but now the injury had become one of his biggest concerns. He could only guess at what had caused the inflammation and hope his guess was right.

One thing was certain, though: he intended to make full use of the river nearby. Despite the throbbing at the back of his head and the strange, pulsing fog that dulled his senses, he still had enough clarity to think. The worms he’d found earlier went into a small container he carried; if the river had fish, they might serve as bait. From what he knew about hunting and fishing, worms were a common choice.

The river was also a blessing for another reason: he could finally bathe more often. The only explanation he could think of for the wound’s worsening state was his lack of proper hygiene. And truthfully, that bothered him more than he liked to admit. The layer of sweat and…blood, clinging to his skin, made him feel filthy, and the thought of washing it all away,  even in a cold river, felt like relief. Maybe it would refresh his state of mind as well.

Overall, Artful didn’t think much about Pursuer at the moment. In fact, everything he was preoccupied with, his wound, the river, the lack of food, had almost made him forget about the other entirely, and how much danger he was still technically in.

But the reminder came naturally. 

He’d finished changing the bandage, sitting on the grass, exhausted. His mind wandered to the face of the man who had punched him, the expression he’d worn when killing his friend. Artful tried to push the image away, to forget it, to focus on anything else instead: the feeling of the grass under his fingers, the sting of his shoulder wound, the dull ache of bruises that flared with every movement. And he did try. And yet the strange pull, that twisted urge to experience something similar again, only grew stronger. It was such a contrast against the past few days, during which he hadn’t felt anything at all; paranoia alongside his own confusion with himself had drowned out everything else. That the moment he’d decided to act- to commit, had felt better than anything he could imagine now. Sweet, liberating. His mouth opened and closed on its own as he was thinking, and replaying the moments.

Which was why he didn’t even register the goosebumps crawling up his arms at first. It took Artful a moment to snap out of his thoughts and freeze mid-movement. He didn’t want to turn his head, hands already trembling. He’d honestly thought that, by now, he’d be used to Pursuer’s tricks… that maybe he would react to them with much more confidence. After all he had seen worse- Pursuer eating flesh, and even dead, demolished bodies. But the rapid breathing and pounding heartbeat proved him otherwise.

The silence that always came with Pursuer’s presence didn’t help either. It made everything else feel wrong, unnaturally still, heavy. Nerves screamed for Artful to find the danger, to see it. He scanned the space between the trees, the wide gaps, the lack of bushes. At first, the openness gave him a false sense of control, but the longer he looked into the open spaces, weirdly, the blurrier his vision became. Maybe Pursuer had turned invisible again? But that assumption died as quickly as it came. 

Now he knew why he couldn’t spot him. Artful’s eyes finally locked onto a single teal eye peeking from behind one of the larger trees. Pursuer was so still that even the one leaf that fell on his head didn't fall off. Pursuer didn't have the usual grin. There were other parts of his body peeking out, like his shoulder, clawed hand, and even its spiky tail. But they were much less notable, with them all being black and merging with the shadows of the surrounding trees.

If it had been anyone else, they probably would’ve screamed. Rightfully so. Artful, however, just sat there, frozen. Not because he was calm; far from it, but because, deep down, the fear he experienced was so strong, it was paralyzing. Or… maybe it was a kind of grim awareness, something that dulled the shock just a little? He wasn't sure, but the name “Pursuer” suddenly made a lot more sense. When their eyes met, Pursuer didn’t even flinch, just kept staring straight into him, unwavering. Artful fidgeted in the grass, trying to calm his nerves through pointless motion. He was right at the edge of mustering enough confidence to grab his wand or tell the other to go away, when, just as he opened his mouth, Pursuer vanished. Leaving Artful to sit all by himself.

Suddenly, what Pursuer said before repeated itself in his ears: “You… lure… for more fresh meat.”

Right. Yeah, he totally had forgotten. He clenched his teeth in anger at the full realisation of how trapped he felt.

Artful had to… make sure the one Pursuer was going to eat wasn't him.

But another civilian.

Artful punched the tree beside him, the impact sending vibrations and pain straight into his hand. Thinking about what had happened only fueled his frustration.

It wasn’t the sight of someone else being consumed by that creature because of him that upset Artful. Not right now. He had already come to terms that he didn’t care, couldn’t force himself to. As long as he could keep his freedom and live to see another day, he would. Even if that meant trading someone else’s life, someone who probably wanted nothing more than to see him behind bars, stripped of that freedom. 

What did frustrate him was being forced into it. He was willing to do whatever it took to survive, but being manipulated, even indirectly, infuriated him. The fear it caused, the constant threat, the endless vigilance- was what truly enraged him. He was tired of walking on eggshells, tired of always having to watch his back. Maybe if Pursuer were a civilian, he would have tried to end the other already.

Artful let out a ragged breath, pinching his nose and taking a few steady inhales, trying to calm himself. There was no point in dwelling on it right now. His gaze drifted upward, the river coming to mind. Maybe he could try catching some fish. It wasn’t such a bad idea; he was hungry, and the berries he ate occasionally weren’t enough. Perhaps that was part of why his injury wasn’t healing properly; he hadn’t been eating well. And who would have a good mood on an empty stomach anyways? Yeah. He should do that.

He took out his wand and opened his pocket space, retrieving the box filled with worms he had collected. After a moment of thought, he hesitantly pulled out the dart gun. It was just the right size for him, comfortable to hold, and not too heavy.

Just before closing the pocket space and slipping his wand back into his vest, he took off his mask and hat, then pulled on the coat he had worn when going to the village during the rain, hiding his costume attire underneath from view.

Afterwards, he turned his attention to the dart gun, inspecting it more closely than he had before. Unlike the guns he’d seen in movies, pistols and shotguns, he didn’t really know how this one worked. He just knew it didn’t use bullets to kill, only to paralyze or put animals to sleep.

Artful twirled it in his hands, trying to figure out the parts. The barrel was narrow and smooth; he guessed that was where the dart came out. The trigger clicked when he pressed it, though he had no idea what it actually did inside. He poked at a small lever, and with a pull on the bolt handle, a tiny compartment opened, revealing a single dart with a green tail. He turned it over in his fingers, noting the faint seam where the tip met the shaft. He didn’t know how many darts the gun could hold or how to reload it properly, but at least one was ready.

It could be useful if any animal tried to attack him. Sure, he could defend himself with a few spells here and there, but it was wearing him off. Plus, it is fit for the occasion. With that, he started making his way toward the river. The path wasn’t particularly interesting, Artful passed the same trees and bushes he usually did. He knew his way thanks to a few trees he had marked with large black dents. He’d made them subtle enough not to draw any eyes, but noticeable enough for himself. As he followed his markers, he wasn’t paying full attention to the surroundings in front of him, resulting in a few sticks smacking him in the face by accident, and to make matters worse, a spider landed on his nose along with its cobweb. Startled, Artful quickly wiped it off. Thankfully, it hadn’t bitten him. After that little incident, he moved more carefully, keeping his eyes on the path ahead.

The sun was still high in the sky, so he had no trouble seeing where he stepped. Before long, faint glints of sunlight caught his eye, reflections dancing on the river’s surface, accompanied by the soft sounds of rippling and rattling water as it flowed naturally along its path.

The ground beneath his feet grew damp, the dry soil giving way to patches of moss and slick stones. Rocks were scattered around the bank, their surfaces coated in green. Tree roots jutted out from the earth here and there, and a fallen log stretched across part of the river. It almost blocked the flow entirely, leaving only a small gap on the far left, a narrow passage for the water to slip through. It was…nice.

Artful closed his eyes for a second, inhaling the refreshing scent that was in the air, followed by the sound of crunching leaves.
…
Crunching leaves?

-”YO! dude! Are you here to hunt as well?”

He snapped out of his thoughts immediately. Across the narrow river stood a group of four young civilians, probably in their early twenties. They all looked fairly fit despite the circumstances. Two of them carried backpacks, while the other two- the ones in front, each held a plastic sack filled with their catches: a few rabbits and pheasants. It was one of those two who called out to him, the one with a shotgun slung over his shoulder by a strap. The group seemed in good spirits, chatting and laughing, clearly pleased with their successful hunt.

Artful stood still, saying nothing, forcing his muscles to loosen. It seemed they either didn’t recognize him or hadn’t heard about him at all; both possibilities worked in his favor. He tried to hide the tremor in his hands by giving them a quick shake, then brought them to his mouth and coughed, pretending to warm them. If he was going to speak, he had to make sure his accent didn’t slip. Who knew? Maybe that alone could give him away. They might not realize who he was yet, hidden under the coat and without the hat. And although the makeup was still present on his face, they could easily mistake it for him just being pale… if they were dense enough.

-”By the way, do you know any shortcuts to get to the village from here?

-“No, I just got here a few seconds before you.”

-“Aye! Seems like it! You looking for bigger prey by chance? ’Cause if I’m not wrong, that’s a dart gun you’ve got there.” The man pointed at the weapon Artful was holding.

-“I was,” he lied, shifting his gaze toward the sacks they were carrying. “But my eye didn’t catch anything. Though it seems your hunt went better than mine.”

The group laughed, clearly proud of their catch. The one who had spoken, broad-shouldered, with a shotgun slung over his back, patted his friends and motioned for them to cross the river using the fallen log. They made their way over carefully, stopping beside Artful once they reached him.

-“Name’s Bolt!” the man said cheerfully, shifting his sack to one arm so he could extend his other hand toward Artful. Artful hesitated before reaching out. The handshake felt almost strange. It wasn’t bad; in fact, he might even admit he had missed physical touch and was glad for a normal conversation for once. A breather, something different from the past few fights, chaos, and coldness of the bodies he felt underneath his fingers for the last few days. He tightened his gloved grip slightly, giving it a small squeeze, perhaps a bit firmer than intended, before letting it go. If he had known these guys, maybe he would have even felt a small ounce of sadness for them. But he didn't, which changed everything. He knew they were going to die the moment the familiar goosebumps had returned.

Artful nervously looked around while the unsuspecting group of friends talked to each other.

CLANK. A sharp metallic sound echoed nearby, not far from where they were standing. A few birds scattered into the air from the source of the noise, while crows began cawing loudly, spiraling above the area in restless circles. The sound reminded Artful of something similar to snapping, like a-

“It's our bear trap. I’ll go check it out with Bolt.” One of the guys with a backpack placed a hand on Bolt’s shoulder, drawing the others’ attention. They nodded and walked off together.

Could that bear trap actually catch Pursuer? Artful wasn’t sure, not whether it could physically catch him, nor whether the idea itself was foolish. From what he had seen, Pursuer was intelligent enough to communicate in basic ways, but he didn’t know the limits of that intelligence. Sure, it could barely speak, but it seemed to learn, or more accurately, to analyze. That, more than anything, made the situation unnerving. He could only wish that something like a bear trap caught the other, and finally guaranteed Artful some safety.

-“Did you guys set these up to catch more prey?” he asked, a slight shudder in his voice betraying him.

-“Sure did, but that was before we got all of these-” the man shook the plastic bag, showing the rabbits and pheasants inside. “Why?”

Artful didn’t answer. He held the man’s gaze for a moment before silently taking out his hat and mask and putting them on. The other two watched, confused at his sudden movements.

It was simple: he wasn’t sure if Pursuer would recognize him without the hat or mask. Something told him the creature might already remember his face, but he couldn’t be certain. The stark white paint still streaked across his skin, making him stand out far too clearly among the other civilians. Even so, he should have been… safe? He couldn’t quite call it that. But for now, it was the closest thing to safety the situation offered.

Artful froze as a pair of teal eyes locked onto the civilians, the creature’s familiar form beginning to take shape just a little farther away. In an instant, it sprinted toward them with a speed far beyond what ordinary humans could manage. Within seconds, Artful watched as the two tried to fight it, but it was hopeless. Pursuer’s sword came down with lethal precision, piercing one man’s heart and dropping him instantly to the ground. Then it began to feed, tearing into the man with a hunger and fervor so intense that, if not for the fact it was human before him, Artful might have thought the meat was simply delicious.

The other man, watching in horror, tried to run. He lunged toward Artful and grabbed his arm, thinking he could give them both a chance. His grip was strong, and it didn’t help that he seized the arm with the injured shoulder. The sudden pressure sent a jolt of pain through the wound, forcing Artful to grit his teeth and shove him away. Pursuer, having finished feeding, quickly turned his attention to the man trying to ‘help’ Artful. He was far easier to kill, frozen with fear and confusion, trembling at the sight of Pursuer, alongside Artful. Artful himself couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to his own terrified state when he first encountered Pursuer, and it made him feel almost pathetic.

Pursuer did the same to the man as he had to his previous victims, inflicting so much pain that the other eventually fainted, likely dying as Pursuer fed. Sitting on the ground with only his side facing Artful, he tore at the flesh and gnawed on the bones, utterly absorbed in the body before him, his tail thrashing violently behind him. Artful, meanwhile, took a few slow steps back, keeping his distance and watching in tense silence.

…

click

Pursuer’s violent feasting was interrupted by a sound from Artful’s side. The magician stood with the dart gun trained on Pursuer’s silhouette. The creature froze, his tail halting mid-thrash, his smile fading. His pupils constricted to thin slits as he locked eyes with Artful, studying him intently while blood trickled down his face. Pursuer released the hand he had been eating, letting it hang free, his clawed hands poised in the air. Their gaze remained locked. Slowly, his tail began swinging from side to side, his entire body coiled and ready to strike, while Artful appeared equally tense, preparing to fire.

Artful fired. Pursuer remained perfectly still, watching him as the dart flew past, only to strike Bolt, who had sneaked up in a last-ditch effort. His leg was mangled, missing tissue and muscle, just as he was about to slam the closed bear trap against Pursuer’s head. The dart pierced fast, lodging near his collarbone, close to the chest. Bolt, caught off guard, missed the swing entirely and stumbled to the ground, letting out a painful cry as dirt and sticks scraped his exposed nerves. Pursuer slowly turned to look at the man lying on the ground, then at the dart embedded in him. His tail swished in slow, deliberate circles, analyzing the situation. After giving Artful a sharp, considering, almost surprised glance, he returned to feeding on the first victim, completely absorbed, while Bolt remained sprawled on the earth, the paralyzing sedative gradually taking hold.

Artful, on the other hand, had his whole body shaking. If it weren’t for the situation, his legs would probably have given out. His heart hammered, and his hands trembled as he remained frozen, dart gun still in hand, slowly lowering it. He couldn’t even describe the depth of the fear coursing through him; his whole body felt hot as he gulped down his own saliva, trying to draw in fresh air to steady himself.

That shot had been meant for Pursuer; there was no doubt. Every ounce of strength and confidence he had mustered was aimed at that one target. Pursuer, at that moment, had been in a perfectly vulnerable position. But the way he had looked at Artful… the way those eyes pierced him almost made him collapse on the spot. Even if the shot had landed, the sedative would have taken time to work, probably, if it had worked even- and Pursuer would have devoured him in seconds before he could even react.

The fact that the other civilian had been foolish enough to interfere, and even come back to try to help, was almost unbelievable luck, for which Artful was quietly grateful. It had unintentionally saved him, the only thing keeping him alive. Pursuer didn’t seem to think much of it. Artful gasped for air, trying to calm his racing nerves, yet even thinking about it made his panic spike again. He had to get himself together.

Artful, who slowly started to calm down, watched as Pursuer got up and made two quick steps towards the paralyzed civilian. Kneeling and ready to eat the remaining flesh the other had on him to offer.

-“Attends!”(1) Artful couldn’t hold himself back as he called out to Pursuer. The creature stopped in its tracks, turning its attention back to Artful. It surprised him that Pursuer seemed to understand what he meant; the French word had just jumped out of his mouth instinctively. But what surprised him even more was that the creature actually seemed to be listening.

“I- I need the guy. Alive.” Artful wasn’t lying. He had actually planned to ask the other if anything new was happening outside, since he had no access to newspapers or other sources without venturing into public spaces. Considering everything that had happened over the past few days, there was probably something important he needed to know. But with no time to spare, and Pursuer intervening, his plans had been ruined. The least he could do now was try to keep the man alive somehow.

-“...Fresh meat… now…” Pursuer was clearly not content with that, baring his teeth as his tail lashed the air with renewed force. The spines along his back flared upright, bristling like those of a furious animal.

-“You’ve already eaten three of them! Aren’t you satisfied?” Artful snapped, his fear mingling with exasperation. What did he mean, three bodies and still hungry?!

-“Not… much… fresh meat…” Pursuer grimaced, his voice deep as both of them seemed unwilling to yield.

Oh là là!! Mais regarde ce type, il bouffe et en veut encore, et moi, je meurs de faim ici, à grignoter des baies de temps en temps!(2) Artful thought, throwing his hands up in disbelief as Pursuer began to drool again, these teal eyes flicking from him to the body lying on the ground.

“D’accords!(3) You can eat him after I ask him what I need to know, alright? Just wait a while!”

Pursuer tilted his head, seemingly thinking it over. Then, to Artful’s surprise yet another time, he actually stepped back, which seemed to be not out of obedience; rather, intrigue. It was the spreading grin, glinting eyes, that gave away the small amusement Pursuer had- as though indulging in entertainment. But unlike usual, he didn’t vanish; instead, he simply stood there… waiting.

Artful, on the other hand, had absolutely no intention of getting any closer as long as Pursuer stayed put. And even if he wanted answers, he’d have to wait for the sedative to wear off a little first; the man on the ground was completely paralyzed. Lifting him now wasn’t an option either; his own shoulder would never hold under the weight. 

So he hesitantly looked at Pursuer, who was still waiting.

-”Uh…could you, pick him up…s’il te plaît?”(4)

There was dead silence between them before Pursuer finally moved, lifting the man with an unamused expression, probably thinking Artful was going to question the civilian right there, rather than wasting time. Slinging the body over his shoulder, he started walking in the direction of where Artful stayed. Of course, he knew exactly where the other stayed.

Artful sighed, feeling every muscle in his body ache from the tension. Not to mention the strange, almost unreal feeling that came from talking to Pursuer, it made him feel like he was losing his mind. He understood who he was speaking to, yet somehow, it hadn’t felt… as bad? It was unsettling, as if he’d been talking to an ordinary civilian instead. His hands still trembled. He looked down at the dart gun, then tossed it into the river; it was useless now that it was empty. With that, he turned and started heading back toward the clearing.

Chapter Text

-“The government decided to build a bunker?”

-“Y-Yeah, the news were -cough- all over town, everybody knows about it.”

Artful sat on the only stump the clearing had to provide him, looking down tiredly at Bolt, who lay sprawled on the ground. The man still couldn’t move properly; his mouth twitched and stretched like that of a newborn trying to learn how to make sounds.

-“What for?”

-“Have you heard of Killdroid? The robot they’ve been working on to-”

-“Yes, I know. Get to the point.”

Artful’s tone was sharper than he meant, edged with the strain building in his chest. Each faint thump of Pursuer’s tail behind him only worsened it, a reminder of how little patience the creature had left. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Pursuer didn’t even look at him. His gaze was locked on Bolt, unblinking, the faint shimmer of drool catching the light. Shit.

-“Besides him, there’s also some kind of virus, Bad… Badware? I think that’s what they called it. They didn’t really explain much about what it is, just that it’s dangerous. Like Killdroid, maybe worse, depending on who you ask. The bunker’s supposed to be a safe zone for civilians like you and me- to hide, if things get out of hand.”

There is no “you and me” in this.

Artful nearly said it aloud, but swallowed the bitter thought. Maybe that had been true once, back when he still was normal. But now, after everything he’d done, he wasn’t one of them anymore. The only thing he shared with civilians was the simple, fragile fact that they were made of the same flesh and blood. Right now, he felt like a ruined mess, lacking everything that could prove otherwise, to the fact that he was practically a killer now.

-“Anything else?”

-“I don’t know any more than that- I…”

Bolt looked up, meeting Artful’s eyes. Instinctively, Artful wanted to look away, but he forced himself to hold the gaze. The longer it lasted, the stranger it felt- uncomfortable.

“Can I just… could you let me talk to you a bit more?” Bolt’s voice trembled. “You know, just- pretend you’re my friend. Like we’ve known each other for years.”

The look on Bolt’s face and the tear forming in the corner of his eye made Artful pause. It was obvious he was terrified- of death, of what came next. And Artful could’ve easily said no, could’ve let him die, and be done with it. Bolt had already told him everything he knew; keeping him alive served no purpose. But maybe it was that same strange ache he’d felt when they’d shaken hands- that brief, fleeting sense of connection he had missed over the days. Normalcy, that is. Maybe that’s what made it harder for Artful to call Pursuer and tell him to dispose of the other. The lack of normal interaction really was taking a toll on Artful. And it was irritating him; he was aware of it, most certainly. So he let a barely audible “Vas-y”(1), which Bolt probably didn't catch at first, but he seemed to understand the meaning after a moment.

“Thanks, man. You know, I always wondered how I’d die- but I never thought it’d be like this.” Bolt chuckled, trying to steady his nerves. “I guess Pebble won’t be getting another round of hugs from me today. She always got irritated by it, hissing and turning her back on me, you know how cats can be? She’s probably the best proof of every stereotype out there.”

-“...”

-“Have you ever had pets before?”

-“I did. A fish.”

-“Dang, I guess Pebble would’ve eaten the guy right there.”

-“...”

-“Hah… Now that I think about it, I probably should’ve listened to my uncle. He was grumbling all day, protesting against my friends and me going hunting. It was my birthday a few days ago, we had a bunch of stuff planned, so it was already set in stone.”

Artful’s jaw tightened as his hands searched for something to hold onto. He ended up gripping his knees instead, fingers digging into them, grounding himself as he listened.

“Fuck… what will my parents think-” Bolt’s voice broke as he grimaced, eyes squeezing shut, letting tears roll down his face. He recognized that look immediately, regret, pain, and the realization that it was far too late to change anything.

Bolt’s growing sobs were almost the only sounds around them. Everything felt heavier than usual; even Pursuer’s presence didn’t press down on him like this. Artful didn’t feel regret or remorse, yet he understood the other’s pain all too well. It was the difference between this friend group and the civilians he had killed before: these people were innocent, oblivious, while the others had tried to hunt him down.

He had thought he was fine with everything now. But he had been wrong. Extremely wrong. He didn’t want to feel like this; it was far easier to kill someone for a reason than without one. The difference was stark. At first, he had believed this was guilt, the feeling he had thought he’d long since passed...and he did. He realized it was something else, a heavy, pressing sense of responsibility for what was happening, a burden. And he hated it. He needed to find a reason- someone who could take the responsibility away from him.

And that person was right there, or… it, precisely, behind them.

He looked back at Pursuer, who was still waiting, though now he seemed to be in a bad mood, irritated by the sounds. If someone else had seen it, they might have thought Artful was testing Pursuer’s patience on purpose. And for a brief, poor second, the thought would have made Artful chuckle if Pursuer weren't some humanoid killing monster. 

He turned back to Bolt, who was in a terrible state, both physically and mentally. Artful watched him silently for a few seconds before taking out his wand and opening the space pocket. In response, he heard Pursuer shift and let out a low growl, seemingly confused by what Artful was doing. That only unnerved him more, reminding him exactly where he was and with whom he was sharing the space. Eventually, he sped up, searching until his hand found the wine bottle he had started a few days ago but never finished.

Getting down on one knee, Artful placed his hand on Bolt’s back, intending to help him into a half-sitting position. He quickly realized, however, that with his injured arm, he wasn’t strong enough to support him. Instead, he then guided Bolt to lean against the stump he had been sitting on earlier. Bolt looked utterly wrecked- eyes, nose, and cheeks red from crying, so lost that he didn’t even notice the bottle in Artful’s hand until its neck was pressed to his lips. He took several large chugs without much hesitation, for which Artful was grateful.

With each passing second, it felt as if Pursuer was inching closer, even though he hadn’t moved. Every glance Artful spared in his direction made the presence more oppressive, even the look that Pursuer was making while simply watching was awful. When he turned back to Bolt to make sure the other wasn’t choking on the drink, he could almost feel and hear the grass shifting behind him. The sensation became so intense that, at one point, Artful could taste the fear, his hands trembling as he steadied the bottle.

Thankfully, Bolt drank it all quickly, so Artful’s slip of dropping the bottle from the excessive trembling after a few seconds wasn’t too consequential- nothing had spilled in the end.

-” Maaaan, how long you were gonna gatekeep the fact you had the good stuff?” Bolt stopped crying and was clearly out of it- the alcohol hit him fast and hard, and he looked like a lightweight. Artful almost smiled at the comment.

-” Cesse de parler et reste immobile un instant. Pour ton bien, ferme les yeux aussi.”(2) Artful whispered, almost to himself, though Bolt seemed to catch it anyway.

-” U-huh? oui… oui… baguette… croissante? Sorry bro, I have no cluuuee what you just told me.” Bolt slurred, wobbling slightly. He even almost lifted his left hand, fingers twitching and jerking as if testing the strength that was slowly returning after the dart.

The sound Bolt made with his movement was all Pursuer needed. The moment he noticed it, he moved- swiftly, without hesitation- while Artful instinctively sprang up and jumped away from the spot.

And, just like all the previous times, he watched the barbaric way Pursuer tore into him. Teeth pierced flesh, taking bites and chunks one after another. Bolt probably didn’t even have time to react to the pain; the alcohol and his earlier breakdown had dulled everything, making the slow death almost bearable- if Artful could call it that. Through it all, Bolt simply looked up at the sky, toward the sun, even as clouds began to hide it.

Artful, on the other hand, slowly sank to the ground, letting out a trembling sigh of slight relief; at least he didn’t have to hear the screams. He didn’t lift his eyes from the grass until the sounds of tearing and munching slowed, a subtle sign that Pursuer’s attention had shifted to the corpse rather than him. He watched the creature crouched on the ground, back arched like a predator’s- still alert, even in the midst of its feast.

Bolt was already dead. His body was torn and mangled, clothes shredded where the bites had struck. Both arms were nearly gone, stripped of flesh, leaving only bones partially visible, with bits of tissue and nerves dangling loosely. A deep dent marred his chest, right where his heart had been. Pursuer ate with a strange urgency, almost as if racing against some unseen clock- a sight that was simultaneously bizarre and horrifying, that Artful never had truly spared attention to, as he never thought of it in the first place. The stump Artful had sat on moments ago was now a chaotic splash of blood, crimson staining the clearing in random, haphazard patterns. Cleaning it afterward was unthinkable.

The silence that now hung over them was… awkward. The heavy feeling had returned, even though he clearly wasn’t responsible for Bolt’s death. It was almost an ache, one he couldn’t shake. Not as intense as at the start, but still pressing and lingering in his muscles despite his body being nearly completely relaxed. He wanted it gone, but it only seemed to ease when he could distract himself. Before, it had been Bolt talking to him that did the trick. Ah. Right.

There was no one to talk to. That feeling was coming from the loneliness that’s been piling up. It pressed on his whole being, giving him an actual headache- proof of why he shouldn’t have indulged in talking to anyone. Once he’d experienced what it was like to have someone to listen to him again, or for him to listen to, the need returned. A need he had avoided for weeks, while his top priority had been survival. Artful bit down on his cheek as a horrible thought surfaced:

Maybe… he could try to stir a conversation with Pursuer? It sounded absurd, almost humiliating, that Pursuer was his only option out of everything.

But who else was out there to talk to? No one.

His eyes stayed fixed on the other, and the thought of trying, really trying, to speak to it made his stomach twist. Was it worth the risk? Then again… the creature was already following him, tracking him, knowing where he was and when. And it even spoke to him a few times, which always surprised Artful.

…He truly was insane.

Artful got up from the spot he was sitting on, before slowly walking up to Pursuer. Its head snapped toward him instantly, eyes narrowing, every muscle taut. The meat hanging from its jaws went unnoticed as a low rumble escaped it, the sound vibrating through the clearing. Its tail twitched. Artful swallowed, forcing himself forward. Step by cautious step, he closed the distance. Pursuer didn’t lunge or growl louder. But it didn’t relax either. The air between them was getting tense, each waiting to see who would make the next move. And with all the confidence he could summon, Artful took his shot, speaking up first with a small shudder in his voice.

“Satisfied?” The question felt fitting, given the fact that Pursuer ate the body. For a brief second, a flicker of expectation stirred in Artful- maybe the creature would answer, like it sometimes did. But he was wrong.

Pursuer went back to eating, completely ignoring him. The move struck a nerve; Artful felt a spark of offense. He couldn’t make sense of the creature. One moment it spoke, the next it acted like he didn’t exist. Artful’s jaw tightened. Should he push? Say something else? At least Pursuer didn’t seem provoked by the attempt.

In the end, he decided to take the risk. He even went as far as sitting back down on the stump- just as Pursuer finished the last piece of meat.

“Uhm… so, do you only eat civilians, or are animals on the menu too?” Artful adjusted his hat, trying to ease the atmosphere, to make himself seem a bit more open. Maybe it would work?

In response, Pursuer’s eyes flicked toward Artful, squinting with some suspicion in them, and the only thing he did was lick his teeth, letting Artful see how sharp they were in the process, and giving Artful the goosebumps. His tail swayed lazily from side to side, and the small spines along his back lay flatter than before. But he still looked unnerving, specifically his face.

“I’ll take it as a… yes?”

The conversation really seemed to be going nowhere. Pursuer didn’t respond, and Artful was too cautious to press any further, aware that the creature could tear him apart if he pushed too much.

For the next twenty minutes, they sat in silence. Pursuer seemed to be taking a break from his meal, while Artful simply stayed put, his mind drifting between fatigue and mild dread. Then, without warning, Pursuer began shifting again, his gaze returning to the mangled body, scanning it as though searching for something specific.

With nothing better to do, Artful watched. The predator moved like… some kind of raccoon? Snatching something from the tattered pants Bolt still wore. Whatever it was, it glinted briefly in the sunlight in the grasp of Pursuer’s claws as he turned it over a few times, examining it from every angle- something small and round, like a coin. But his interest in it quickly died, tossing it aside.

The next thing he pulled out was a small metallic folding knife. Its dull light blinked across the creature’s face as he squinted his eyes when hit with the sunlight, and also as he clearly did not understand what it was. In its folded state, it probably looked more like a strange trinket than a weapon.

“It’s a folding knife you’re holding,” Artful hesitantly clarified after a moment. He figured Pursuer would sit there turning it around forever if he didn’t speak up. In this state, the creature almost looked harmless, and Artful didn’t mind that. As long as it meant Pursuer wasn’t thinking about tearing into his flesh, he was fine with whatever the other did.

But Pursuer suddenly froze at Artful’s remark. The pause made Artful tense, his posture straightening instinctively, ready, just in case.

Then, in an instant, Pursuer stood. Artful almost screamed in horror as the creature towered over his seated silhouette, staring directly into his face while holding the folding knife awkwardly out toward him- too close for comfort. The blade wasn’t even extended, but that hardly mattered. His breath hitched as his balance wavered; he nearly toppled backward off the stump and into the dirt, now stained with splattered blood. His hands shot out to steady himself, gripping the sides of the stump as pain flared in his shoulder from the sudden strain.

He froze, staying in the same position for several seconds, eyes darting between Pursuer’s face and the folded knife in his hand. And honestly, Artful wasn’t even sure what was sharper at that point: Pursuer’s claws or the blade itself. The knife already bore small scratches, nothing major, but the fact that it had been damaged so quickly by those claws was… scary.

Pursuer kept staring down at him, eyes and grin wide open, their unnatural teal color reminding Artful just how unlike any animal or human he’d ever seen this thing was. His pulse hammered, half expecting to start praying aloud if it would help. If these little heart attacks didn’t stop soon, he was convinced he’d die from them long before his actual time came.

He gulped once, trying to get some air into his lungs, but instantly regretted it. The heavy stench of iron and meat hit his tongue and nose, coming from both the corpse nearby and Pursuer himself. The smell was so strong that even his tongue seemed to recognize it. He let out a quick cough, bringing his hands together in front of him- palms pressed but not intertwined, as if holding someone else’s in a stiff handshake. Sitting up straighter, he tried to mask how startled he really was.

“Bah! Mon cher ami, si tu voulais que je te montre comment ça marche, il suffisait de demander! Pas besoin de mouvements aussi… brusques, hein?”(3) Artful hissed through gritted teeth, irritation slipping into his tone. Pursuer’s antics were really starting to get overboard, setting him on edge more each time- especially now, when he was finally beginning to calm down. At least the other didn’t understand French, which meant he had no idea Artful was complaining straight to his tête de moche(4).

Pursuer’s tail made a single, heavy swing, hitting the ground as he waited for whatever he wanted. Artful sighed and extended his hand, keeping it just below Pursuer’s.

“Drop it.” He wasn’t going to touch Pursuer’s claws- he already had the others' bite marks on his arm, and additional claw marks were not welcome.

Pursuer rolled his eyes, slowly relaxing his grip on the folding knife and letting it fall into Artful’s hand, leaving him momentarily baffled at the other's cheekiness.

But that wasn’t the end of it. Pursuer sat back down on the ground, legs crossed, posture hunched as always, a faintly bored expression on his face. This time, however, he positioned himself directly in front of Artful, watching the magician’s slightly trembling hands up close, waiting for him to demonstrate how the item worked. Artful didn’t hesitate, quickly showing him, just to speed up this uncomfortable situation.

“Bien.(5) Look- you press here, on this side.” Artful pressed the small lock on the handle, and the blade sprang out. Pursuer tilted his head, watching intently as Artful continued. “When you open it, it’ll stay locked in this position, so if you want to… erm, close it again, you have to press the button and hold it while you force the knife back in.” he did just that, returning the item to the way it previously looked. Artful slowly extended his hand, still cautious, to Pursuer with the knife, as if saying, ‘go on; try it’.

-“…Little… use-useless? Useless…” Pursuer muttered, struggling with the word as he glanced away from Artful, changing his attention somewhere else, on some random tree, again, probably. Well, at least he started talking now- the magician let out an exhausted sigh.

“What isn’t useless, then?” Artful asked instinctively, responding to Pursuer’s words. Despite wanting some semblance of a conversation, he quickly regretted it. Pursuer turned his gaze toward him, flashing a wide, almost bright smile- if it could even be called that, given the bloodied teeth and the creature's character, sending chills down Artful’s spine. Without warning, the creature stretched its arm backward. Artful’s heart leapt; he saw the hand reaching for the long, sheathed blade on Pursuer’s back, the same one he’d used to pierce victims before. Instinctively, Artful grabbed his wand.

But it was…

…

Unnecessary?

Instead of the massive blade, Pursuer took out something much smaller. Something that made Artful pause, confused, as his brain battled to digest what he saw.

It was sitting right in front of him, holding a… harmonica.

…C’est quoi ce bordel?(6) 

Artful would have stayed rooted there like a lost puppy if it weren’t for the sound of the instrument reaching his ears shortly after. Pursuer brought it to his lips(?) and played- so skillfully that Artful’s jaw nearly dropped.

As Pursuer continued to play, Artful slowly began to… enjoy it? He sat there in silence, listening as the creature played for at least five uninterrupted minutes. The contrast was bizarre- here was Pursuer, usually a total animal, a primal force of danger, sitting calmly in front of him, handling the harmonica as if he had attended a proper music school. Even back when Artful played the piano, he’d have been impressed by that skill.

Questions swirled in his mind, especially how Pursuer had learned to play. Perhaps this flesh-eating monster, despite everything, had a real talent for something like this?

But the music didn’t last long. A false note hit Artful’s ears, making him cringe at the sudden disruption. Pursuer seemed startled too, with his tail swinging up; he had missed the right note. And it clearly angered him: he abruptly pulled the harmonica away from his mouth and bit down hard, gnawing at it in frustration over the ruined melody, the metal holding strong despite his efforts as he bit at it and scratched it.

The scene was too much for Artful. Small giggles escaped him, quickly escalating into full laughter as he clapped his hands together. Pursuer slowly looked back up at him, stopping the moment the magician began laughing. But Artful couldn’t stop- his fear of the creature was completely overtaken by the absurd joy of the moment. He simply couldn't hold himself.

“Bravo! Bravo! Quelle performance! Tu as un talent naturel pour l’harmonica! Maintenant, il ne te manque plus qu’un public!”(7) Artful said, taking small pauses between sentences as he clutched his stomach, which now hurt- not from hunger like usual, but from the pain and difficulty of breathing caused by his laughter. However, he soon stopped. Pursuer didn’t seem to respond, and fear crept back in; Artful worried that the creature might take his praise as mockery… and even if partly he would be right; after all, Pursuer had angered Artful earlier. Still, when he said the other had talent, he had meant it genuinely.

Thankfully, Pursuer didn’t seem bothered or even particularly pleased by Artful’s laughter. He kept a neutral expression, likely still annoyed with himself over the earlier mistake rather than caring about Artful’s reaction. Maybe the laughter had caught him off guard at first, but nothing more than that.

They sat in silence for a moment before Pursuer held the harmonica out in front of Artful, then put it back. Ah- Artful finally noticed it was attached to a string tied to the sheath of the sword; that’s why it had been there all along, barely noticeable. After a brief pause, Pursuer muttered:

“…funny… item… useful…” Pursuer muttered, then rose, towering over Artful once again, squinting at him before turning and walking away from the clearing.

“It is,” Artful murmured to himself, mostly for his own reassurance. Pursuer didn’t seem inclined to stay or even look back, which suited Artful just fine. He’d had enough of the other for today- and it was getting late.

He glanced at the purple sky and the trees surrounding the now-empty clearing. Apart from him and the corpse, nothing remained. The birds had gradually fallen silent, and the rustle of leaves could only be heard as the wind howled, swaying them from their branches. Artful shivered; tonight would likely be cold. He needed to make a campfire- or, more realistically, create a “box” of bricks with his wand. The latter seemed safer and easier.

One last glance toward where Pursuer had disappeared caught him in the act of merging with his surroundings, turning invisible. For a brief second, it seemed as if the creature was looking directly at Artful- then, just like that, it was gone.

Chapter Text

Artful’s silent steps echoed along the stony path of the village road, illuminated by the soft glow of the lamps scattered across the street to lend light to the few who still wandered at this hour. As expected, there were scarcely any civilians about- almost none, truth be told. A small group passed him by, likely returning from a drinking party; one clutched a bottle of beer while the others laughed without restraint, their voices loud despite the lateness. The noise drew a faint grimace from him, though he kept his composure, offering no reaction.

As he went on, his gaze caught the pale glimmer of light through a few windows. The muffled hum of televisions drifted out into the cold air. On a narrow balcony, a young woman leaned against the railing, cigarette in hand, the smoke swirling and vanishing into the restless wind.

Artful shivered as the gust brushed against his face and slipped through the seams of his coat. As he had feared, the night had turned out to be cold, the air sharp with the stillness of the ‘witching hour’. Now, in the heart of the village, he neared his…“destination.” From time to time, he glanced up at the street signs to keep his course, though the further he went, the more his resolve seemed to wane- hesitation quietly replacing the determination that had carried him this far.

His hand rose slowly from the depths of his coat pocket, revealing a folding knife, its blade already drawn. Each time Artful passed beneath a streetlamp, the metal caught the light and gleamed briefly in the dark. Etched into the blade in small, blocky letters was an address.

When Pursuer had left- abandoning Artful with both the body and the scattered items- his first thought had been to move the corpse as far from the clearing as possible. The moment his gaze fell upon it, a few insects were already making their way toward the flesh. He had no desire to attract a swarm of bugs, let alone the animals that might follow the scent of blood.

It had been a tedious task, dragging the body away while exhaustion gnawed at him, his skin itching and his strength nearly spent. When he finally deemed the distance far enough, he decided to check the body one last time, ensuring nothing of importance had been overlooked. Yet there was nothing useful, leaving him to return to the clearing with nothing but the knife in his hand. It took him a few hours afterwards to notice that there was something on the knife itself, which he had held in his hands, surprising him.

Artful let out a cough as a particularly cold gust of wind struck his throat, forcing him to stop and clear it of the chill. His gaze lifted to the nearby street sign- its address identical to the one engraved on the folding knife. The light from behind cast his shadow long across the cobblestones, a dark silhouette stretching before him. He glanced down at it, then at the narrow street ahead, which ended in a kind of dead end lined with a few doors; homes, it seemed, tucked quietly away from the main road.

He wasn’t sure why he had come this far. At first, the thought of searching had seemed pointless, even foolish. Yet another part of him had hoped, perhaps irrationally, that he might find something useful, maybe even gain access to the other’s apartment. The idea of eating something real, something handmade, of resting in a warm space for once, was almost too tempting. More than that, he longed to clean himself properly, to inspect his wound before it worsened further- each passing second made it throb with a dull, biting ache.

And still, he stood there, unmoving, staring down the dim alleyway. As unease settled in his chest. The thought of entering someone else’s home, especially one belonging to the man now dead, in part because of him, felt wrong. Disrespectful. It weighed heavily on him, stopping him from continuing further.

But then again, after all the effort it had taken to reach this place, two hours wasted- especially going into a village he had to avoid, full of citizens and risk; turning back now would have been pointless. He had to try. At worst, he would fail and return to the forest, surrounded once more by the wildlife…and Pursuer. The thought alone sent a shiver down his spine.

Artful furrowed his brow, releasing a weary sigh that soon slipped into a yawn. Yeah, he just needs to be quick.

Moving as quietly as he could, he made his way toward the row of doors. The problem now was figuring out which one belonged to Bolt. All he had was the address; no keys, no indication of which door led where.

He approached each door in turn, tilting his head toward them, listening carefully. The first one was clearly not it; faint sobs of a newborn reached him, followed by a woman’s soothing whispers, which probably weren't anyway related to the civilian; he looked too young to have a wife and kid. The next door carried the hum of a television and the soft rhythm of snoring- two people, perhaps, one higher-pitched, likely a woman, the other deeper, a man.

Then came the third door, where he finally paused. It was darker than the others, framed by a small wooden arch that sheltered it slightly. A nameplate shaped like a rifle hung crookedly above the number. No sounds came from within, save for a few soft mewls- a cat. He waited a moment longer, then knocked gently against the door. The mewls quieted, but no footsteps followed. No signs of anyone approaching. Bingo.

Now the part of getting inside... There were no windows to slip through, which ruled that out entirely, and breaking one would make far too much noise anyway. He glanced around, scanning the outside carefully, eyes moving over every detail as he searched for another way in.

After a moment of finding nothing, his gaze dropped to the ground. A small rug lay before the door, with an empty flower pot beside it. Artful knelt down, lifting the pot carefully to check beneath it- nothing. Inside, too, it was hollow. He set it back down gently; the base made a faint clink against the stone. Next, he took hold of the rug by one corner and pulled it aside. Again, nothing. He was about to let it fall back into place when something caught his eye- a single brick, slightly uneven compared to the rest. Against all odds, he reached out and tugged at it. To his surprise, it slid free with little effort, not wedged tightly like the others.

And beneath it…

Artful let out a quiet chuckle of relief. Resting beneath the loose brick was a small spare key. Taking it, he carefully restored everything to its place before rising to his feet. His hands trembled slightly as he slid the key into the lock- half from nervousness, half from the restless anticipation stirring inside him. The click of the mechanism turning, followed by the soft creak of the door opening, sounded almost heavenly. It eased his pulse, steadying him just enough to step forward and slip inside, closing the door behind him.

Darkness greeted him. He ran a hand along the wall, feeling for the switch, his fingers tracing the cold plaster until they brushed against it. A soft click- and light filled the narrow hallway. Artful could feel his heart pounding as he moved deeper into the space, legs heavy but still carrying him on. The kitchen revealed itself just to the left, across from a small bathroom.

He turned on another light, blinking against its sudden brightness. A modest room came into view: a small round table, counters lined with simple utensils, and a fridge humming quietly in the corner. He hurried to it and pulled the door open. Inside- food. Not much, but enough. Small portions of this and that, more than enough to make a proper meal. Artful’s hand trembled on the handle. With his other hand, he pressed his palm over his eyes, trying to steady his breath. A ragged sound escaped him- half relief, half exhaustion.

He stayed frozen for a few seconds, his hand still pressed over his eyes, before the faint sound of soft taps reached his ears, light like the steps of paws against the floor. Lowering his hand slightly, his gaze caught the movement: a small grey cat had entered the room. 

She wore a collar with a nametag that read “Pebble.” There was no doubt, this was the cat Bolt had mentioned. A faint spark of relief flickered in him, but it vanished just as quickly. The animal seemed wary, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes, yet her focus soon shifted to the metallic bowl beside his feet. Pebble approached cautiously and began to eat, only occasionally flicking her gaze back toward Artful.

Shit. The bowl was full. That meant someone had been here recently. Someone else must have had access to the apartment. Family, perhaps. He had to be faster than he originally was. He probably has four hours at best, then he needs to get out. Artful decided to shower and cleanse his wound. It was a top priority.

He made his way to the bathroom and pushed the door open. The floor was tiled with small squares of green-blue ceramic, faintly glimmering under the dim light. Inside stood a bathtub, a toilet, and a sink with a mirror above it.

Artful hurried straight to the tub, turned on the faucet, and waited for the cold water to pass before letting the warmer flow fill the basin. While the water ran, he refused to waste time. With some effort, his shoulder protesting in pain with each movement, he stripped off his coat, green shirt, and black pants, setting them in a pile beside his shoes. Soon, he stood in nothing but his underwear and the bandages still clinging to his skin.

He was about to remove them and replace them after cleansing himself, with his own fresh ones that still were lying in the space pocket, but then a thought crossed his mind: there might already be spares somewhere. Perhaps behind the mirror- that was usually the place. He turned toward it quickly, barely sparing his reflection a glance as he opened the small cabinet hidden behind the glass.

No bandages, but plenty of disinfectants and antiseptics filled the shelves, along with a few needles and a pair of scissors. Relief flickered through him as he gathered them, placing each item neatly on the small stool nearby. While reaching down, he noticed a medkit tucked beneath the sink. Maybe, for once, luck was on his side.

After setting everything up, he finally removed the last of his underwear and began unwrapping the old bandages. The moment the fabric tore away from his skin, a sharp sting burned through him; the air itself seemed to bite at the exposed wound. The sight was unpleasant- disturbing, even. His shoulder was caked in dried blood that clung stubbornly to the skin, and the wound beneath had reopened, a slow trickle of fresh red seeping from its edges and its center. It hadn’t closed at all. The earlier punch had only worsened it, swelling the entire area and tinting it an angry red. 

At least there was no visible sign of obvious infection, like drainage of pus. For that, he supposed, he had his body, or sheer luck, to thank.

He eased himself slowly into the tub. The sensation of clean water finally touching his skin was almost enough to make him cry- tears of pure, simple relief, if not for the sharp sting that immediately flared where the warm water met his wound. A low whimper escaped him, involuntary, and he could only brace himself for what came next: the thought of stitching the gash. It made him feel weaker, more miserable, and yet he sank further into the water, letting his body relax as his eyelids grew heavy.

Even starting to wash himself with soap felt like a monumental effort. Every motion, every touch, was a battle, as though his limbs were dragging through molasses. He was exhausted. In every sense of the word.

Soon, he finally finished and stepped out of the tub. Water dripped from his hair and shoulders, and though his wound still throbbed, it finally felt as if it could breathe. He moved the items aside on the small stool and sat down, gingerly reaching for the towel to pat the area around the wound dry. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. His eyes flicked from one tool to another, uncertainty gnawing at him. The bath had seemed to open the wound even more- maybe sinking into the water had been a mistake.

Artful slumped forward, resting his head in his hand, elbow on his knee. He needed to gather himself. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he pressed the towel against the wound again, making sure it wasn’t actively bleeding. Slowly, deliberately, he picked up the alcohol wipes and began cleaning the wound. Each pass burned, forcing him to bite his lip to keep from crying out. It was way worse than he expected- of course, it was easier just to bandage it and let it be like he did before. But now that he really needed to treat it, the experience was the worst.

Artful looked at the needles and threads laid out before him. His hands trembled just at the sight, fear growing heavier with every passing second. There was no way he knew what to do- no real plan, just his gut feeling and desperation. He turned instead to the medkit, flipping it open and scanning through the items inside, hoping for anything that could spare him from the needle, or at least dull the pain. Then his eyes caught a small spray bottle labeled Lidocaine. He carefully read the instructions, only to feel disappointment creep in almost immediately; it was hardly meant for something like this. Still, he decided to try, as it was the only anesthetic.

Artful sprayed the area around the wound. The first sting was sharp, but after a few minutes, the burning edge of pain softened, leaving the skin faintly numb. It wasn’t much, but it was something. His eyes drifted back to the curved needle. He stared at it for a long moment, motionless, before letting out a quiet, defeated sigh. Grabbing a small, clean towel, he pressed it between his teeth, muffling his breath. Then, with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking, he picked up the needle and thread. His gaze flickered between the wound and the shining metal tip, as he pressed it into his own skin.

Having the towel in his mouth turned out to be a wise choice, as the scream of pain that tore from him was almost completely muffled. His whole body froze, trembling uncontrollably as tears welled in his eyes. The needle had gone through, the first thread in place, and for a few seconds, he couldn’t even breathe. Then, with a shuddering inhale, he forced himself to move again. His fingers were clumsy, slippery from sweat, but he kept going, dragging the needle through his own skin, stitch by stitch, each one worse than the last, as pain hit the back of his head, and his own nerves screamed at his actions.

It was six in the morning when he sat quietly in the kitchen, watching the clock go tick-tack-tick-tack while eating an omelet with bacon and a handful of sausages. His cooking had never been particularly good, but right now it tasted divine. Compared to the past few days, when his meals had been little more than berries and a few vegetables left from a rushed shopping trip, this felt like a feast. The first few bites barely registered in his stomach before the pangs of starvation reminded him just how hungry he was. Pain urged him on, and he ate as much as he could, savoring every bite while trying not to think too much about the days he had gone without.

He also tried to move his shoulder as little as possible. Once he finished stitching the wound, he reapplied fresh bandages and even managed to trim his hair shorter. For the first time in a while, he finally looked at his reflection in the mirror. The only way to describe himself was “avoir l’air complètement détruit”(1), eyes red from pain and tears, face drawn and exhausted after the ordeal of treating the wound. The two hours of sleep had been just enough to restore a small portion of his strength. Yet he was still so drained that he hadn’t fully dried off after the bath, sitting half-wet in his clothes, which were still far dirtier than he was now. And borrowing the other’s clothes was out of the question.

Artful popped the last bite of omelet into his mouth, then rose slowly, placing the dishes in the sink. He wobbled slightly as he made his way toward the living room, lost in thought. He sank into the armchair, which let out a small squeak, positioned just in front of a modest TV and a medium-sized glass table. He had no interest in the TV- not that it would have been useful anyway. Turning it on in the morning would have been the stupidest idea. 

What did catch his attention, however, were the laptop and the scattered papers on the glass table. Artful straightened slightly, then leaned forward to examine their contents. Most of the papers were newspapers, which he quickly skimmed, absorbing the summaries of the events the other had already described. His gaze then fell on a magazine. The cover showed a quaint flower shop, but as he flipped through it, he was met instead with… mature images of female models. He set it aside, blushing, and slightly flustered but otherwise indifferent. Finally, it was the laptop’s turn.

He opened it hesitantly. The screen lit up the instant the lid separated from the bottom half, displaying a PNG background of some random beach, a password bar, and the current date. Artful clicked “Enter” without typing anything, and, to his relief, it opened- apparently, there was no passcode. The desktop showed only the basic programs. He clicked on the small folder icon, finding it empty. For several seconds, he just stared at the screen, unsure what he could make use of it for. Then a small thought sparked in his mind. Quickly, he pulled out his wand, opened the pocket space, and retrieved the USB. Plugging it in, a new file promptly appeared on the screen.

“Mais… qu’est-ce que c’est ?”(2) It was the only thing that left Artful’s mouth as he stared at the screen in confusion.

There were maybe two- no, four programs open at once. Two of them displayed strange moving graphics, both showing a model of what looked like a robot. Artful glanced at the title: “KILLDROID” was written in large, blocky letters. The first window showed the robot’s full body, with small boxes connected to different parts of it, each filled with explanations. It looked almost like a blueprint- detailed, and far too professional for anything casual. His stomach tightened. Just what exactly did he pick up from these government workers?

He clicked the window away and turned to the next program. This one bore a shield-shaped icon and, again, required a passcode to go any further, underneath which there was a whole list of random numbers. Artful hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the keyboard. The faint reflection of the word KILLDROID still glimmered on the darkened corner of the screen. In the end, he decided to ignore it and switch to the other graphic. The screen lit up with a hologram of the...uh- what looked like missiles and rockets? Along with some kind of fuel graphic of a jetpack, he guessed. He kept scrolling through all the files, trying to understand what exactly this was for besides the analysis of the robot. 

His only guess was that the real deal was actually the program with the shield icon, some kind of firewall maybe- something that could lead to whatever this whole setup was protecting. Which, of course, was none of his business. Squinting his eyes, he decided to close everything and pull out the USB- when another window suddenly popped up. He froze. He hadn’t clicked anything. 

Artful frowned as the cursor moved on its own, opening the file directory again. He wasn’t even touching the trackpad. Then, another file appeared and opened automatically, revealing a bright green screen with a white smiley face and eyes, along with the words:

“OOPS_YOU_HAVE_BEEN_INFECTED.”

His expression shifted instantly, eyes darting across the screen as new messages began flooding in. One by one, the files he’d just seen were replaced by “content deleted” pop-ups, followed by a cascade of error messages.

He tried to close them, fingers moving fast, but no matter how quickly he clicked, more windows appeared.

Then the chaos stopped. A single black screen remained, and across it, new text appeared:

“HEY_B)”

A pause. Then,

“YOU_HAVE_SOMETHING_THAT_I_NEED.”

Artful didn't say or move; he was too cautious to do anything.

“THE_USB_ALLONG_WITH_ITS_CONTENTS.”

Artful opened his mouth, ready to finally ask some of the questions piling up in his head faster than he could control- when a sudden ‘meow’ echoed from near the door. A soft, familiar sound, quickly followed by the faint ‘clink’ of keys outside and approaching footsteps. He froze. The realization hit an instant. Artful shot up from the armchair, a sharp jolt of pain tearing through his stitched shoulder, forcing a grimace out of him. His gaze snapped back to the laptop screen just as new text began to appear across it:

“Downloading Coordinates…user advise: stay online…”

Artful couldn’t care less. He yanked the USB out of the laptop and slipped it into his space pocket with the help of his wand before bolting toward the hallway.

Just as he reached it, he nearly collided with a man mid-fifties, maybe, whose face sparked a flicker of recognition, though Artful couldn’t quite place where he’d seen him before. The stranger froze, wide-eyed, clearly startled by the sudden sight of him. Artful didn’t waste a second; he shoved the man aside and dashed for the door.

Behind him came a burst of shouting- “Stop him!” and “Call my brother!” echoing down the hall. The commotion drew the attention of nearby residents; windows cracked open as people peeked out, startled by the noise. But Artful didn’t slow. He sprinted down the street, heart pounding, toward the edge of town and the safety of the forest. Familiar buildings blurred past as he retraced his earlier path, forcing himself to remember the turns and everything- anything to keep from losing his way.

As he neared the outskirts of town, the pounding of footsteps echoed behind him- multiple people, their shouts cutting through the morning air. They were calling out for others to join in, rallying anyone fast enough to catch up to him, anyone who knew how to fight.

Even after Artful slipped past the last line of houses and into the forest, the sound of pursuit didn’t fade. They were still following him.

Now, as for the references! Here we go:

Chapter Text

Artful’s breathing grew ragged as he ran deeper into the forest, coughing now and then from the lack of air and the burning in his throat. He held a hand out in front of him to block the branches and sticks that threatened to whip his face, while the other held tightly his wand, each step crushing the leaves beneath him with sharp crunches. From time to time, he glanced over his shoulder to gauge the distance between himself and the civilians chasing after him.

Their shouts and footsteps were growing fainter, swallowed gradually by the distance and the trees that partly muffled the sounds. He no longer knew where his legs were carrying him; the surroundings had become unfamiliar despite his efforts to remember the path he’d taken. It was difficult to keep track- especially with them trailing behind him.

A droplet of rain fell onto his head. The sudden cold made him flinch, and he lifted his gaze to the grey-blue sky as it began to drizzle, the rain slowly soaking the forest and turning the ground slick. Artful skidded to a stop and pressed himself against a tree to his right, bracing one hand on the bark to steady his weight as he drew deep breaths, chest heaving. If there weren’t so many civilians following him, maybe he’d have a chance to take them down. But he counted more than seven at least, if he wasn’t mistaken.

His head tilted to the side, resting against the tree as he leaned his weight into it, feeling the droplets run down his hair and face, falling from the tip of his nose. The rain was refreshing, at the very least. Yet he had to keep moving if he wanted to come out on top of this situation. His stamina, however, was clearly drained; he had never been able to run for long, and it was becoming painfully clear that the civilians would catch up sooner or later.

Artful turned his head, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was getting close again. The shouts became audible in the distance once more. A few crunches somewhere far away echoed through the rain; some of them were probably getting closer. He squinted, trying to focus his vision despite the drizzle blurring everything ahead. There was indeed something resembling a silhouette in the distance. Yet a small sound, strange and indistinct, came from his opposite side, making Artful flinch and immediately drop back into a stance, thinking it was a civilian. He pushed himself away from the tree, looking around and straining his ears before starting into a jog. But before he could fully pick up speed, something slammed into him with sudden force. 

The impact sent him sprawling, his body slamming into the ground and rolling through the dirt. Branches and sticks scraped against his back as he tumbled, pain shooting through him- sharpest in his shoulder and head, as he collapsed. He let out a strangled, half-gasp, half-groan. His vision spun from the blow as he tried to lift his head, but before he could make sense of what had happened, something slammed it back down.

A black-clawed hand pressed against his face, pinning him with such force it felt as if his skull were being crushed. The pressure sent an unbearable ache through his head, making it hard to breathe. The claws nearly covered his entire face, leaving only his left eye uncovered, and their touch scraped his skin raw. 

Disoriented, he tried to push back with his left hand while reaching for his wand with his right; the same wand that had slipped from his grasp and rolled just out of reach when he fell. But before he could move far, his left arm was caught and pinned down with an equal force, piercing claws into the flesh.

Trying to move his lower body was just as impossible; he was completely pinned. Artful felt defenseless and lost, his only free eye blinking rapidly as he struggled to clear his vision. As his senses caught up, the burning pain from the claws digging into his skin flared sharply, forcing a muffled cry from his throat; muted by the large hand that still held him down with unrelenting force. After a few seconds, his sight finally focused, only for him to go pale. His eye widened in fear and confusion, his heart pounding against his chest.

Pursuer was right on top of him, hovering over his body. His irises and pupils had shrunk into such tiny dots that they looked like the slits of a true predator; far more terrifying than his usual large, black, almost hollow irises against the teal sclera. His mouth was slightly open, though his jaw remained clenched, teeth pressed together as a thin line of drool formed at the corners of his lips. It was his arms that had pinned Artful’s head and left arm into the dirt, leaving him barely able to move- except for his right arm. Pursuer looked nothing like before; if anything, he looked even more frightening, and Artful couldn’t read him at all. There was nothing on his face that could resemble some sort of emotion, just total emptiness. Those eyes pinned him down, studying him like some sort of fresh meat-

MERDE!(1)

As the realisation hit him, Artful tried to wriggle free with all his strength, even pushing against Pursuer’s shoulder with his only free hand, that before tried reaching desperately for the wand. But it was useless- Pursuer didn’t budge an inch, and instead the spikes on his back seemed to get up in agitation, his tail thrashing violently. Artful’s struggles were futile, wasting his energy. 

Why was he suddenly attacking him?! Didn’t he plan to use him as bait? Not even half a day had passed since he devoured that group in the forest- so where was this sudden aggression coming from?! Did Artdul miss something? Surely there had to be a reason for such sudden behavior- maybe he didn't recognise Artful without the makeup? Why was this happening-???

Artful let out a loud, pained groan as his head was forced further into the damp ground, bruising his scalp and grinding dirt into his hair. He was pushed back even more, exposing his neck. Pursuer opened his mouth and began leaning forward with terrifying speed, clearly ready to end the other's life by mauling his flesh. Artful shook in horror, struggling to stop him. In the process, the creature’s hand had shifted slightly away from his mouth, giving him a brief, desperate chance to speak.

“IMBÉCILE, C’EST MOI- SHIT!(2) PURSUER STOP! GET OFF OF ME DAMIT!!!”

Pursuer didn’t stop despite Artful’s protests. In a desperate move, the magician began kicking him in the gut, pounding with his feet a few times, only for Pursuer to catch the blows easily, as they did barely any damage; if anything, they only made it slightly harder for Pursuer to tear him down. But thankfully, Artful’s left arm was finally freed. 

Seizing the chance, he stretched for his wand lying nearby. His fingers brushed it just as he struggled to see through the partial blindness caused by Pursuer’s hand.

Pursuer lunged, teeth aiming for his neck- yet Artful shoved the wand into his mouth just in time. The creature’s teeth pierced it without breaking it, leaving him drooling with his jaws bared. Artful held the wand with both arms, shaking violently from fear and the burning pain in his shoulder. Yet adrenaline surged through, lending him the strength to keep Pursuer from sinking its teeth into his exposed neck. 

Pursuer squinted as soon as he saw the familiar wand; yet the pressure he was applying didn’t let up, though perhaps it eased just a little. Artful frowned, gritting his teeth as he held the creature off. It was now clear that Pursuer recognized him, fully aware of what he was doing, but the question remained: why? 

Artful even felt faintly… disappointed? It was strange to feel something like that in this situation, while the creature was trying to kill him. And yet, no one in his position would normally pause to wonder “why,” or try to justify Pursuer, the flesh-eating humanoid monster, or whatever it was. Why would it have a reason at all anyway? Even now, Artful couldn’t shake the thought that maybe it had simply changed its mind, and if that were the reason, somehow, it offended him.

Perhaps it was simply because he had tried talking to it before out of his own personal selfish needs, and the brief interactions they’d had in between were somehow starting to rub off on him, making him feel less lonely. He wasn’t sure anymore.

-“Dear Robloxia… that’s- no way! We can kill two birds with one stone!”

Artful jolted as he heard a civilian just a few feet away. He couldn’t see him- still pinned in the same position, with Pursuer unmoving. It seemed the civilian had quickly run back to the others. Pursuer’s eyes followed briefly, staring toward where the civilian had probably been, before shifting back down to Artful. For a moment, there was a flicker of reconsideration in its gaze.

Then it released the wand from its teeth and loosened its grip on his face. Artful wasted no time, pushing himself out from underneath it, scrambling to the right, and putting distance between them. He straightened and sat against one of the trees on the ground, the rain slowly washing the dirt from his throbbing head, breathing heavily. Both of them stayed on the ground, holding eye contact.

Artful now noticed that Pursuer’s silhouette was strangely rigid, almost tense. Despite the black fur he had only felt a few seconds ago when trying to push against the shoulder, until then, he hadn’t even noticed it, assuming it was just skin; there were some strange cuts along the edge of one arm and across the chest. Teal liquid oozed from them, which, if he had to guess, was Pursuer’s blood, mixed with something else that glowed a yellowish hue. He was clearly agitated and hungry, that is. Artful could only guess what had possibly happened while he was away.

Artful sighed, relaxing more into the tree, closing his eyes. Honestly, it is ironic how the civilians who led it to this were also the cause why he wasn't dead, with Pursuer’s attention now on them. He didn't even care right now if the other tried to attack him again; he was too weak, and taking a breather was something that he wanted more than anything.

Yet he found himself thinking now, rather than relaxing. Even if Pursuer’s attention was on the civilians at the moment, it didn’t mean he would be safe later. What if something like this happened again? He had to somehow make sure he would be completely safe while Pursuer was around. Yeah, maybe he was safer than most civilians would have been- the creature hadn’t attacked him directly the past days, and it had even slightly loosened its grip when it recognized him- but that didn’t mean he was truly safe. It was just an “if.” How, though?

His eyes shifted back to Pursuer. The creature still saw him, at best, as bait. Maybe he could try to form some kind of alliance… if it even knew what an alliance meant. Artful felt completely defeated. The civilians were already on their way… Pursuer could kill him at any moment… everything was just so exhausting.

-“Listen,” Artful began, shifting his head slightly higher- it hurt like hell- but enough to see Pursuer more clearly. The creature watched him, its spikes lowering just a bit.

“It seems we both need… support,” he said, nodding toward Pursuer’s cuts. The low, angry growl that followed confirmed his suspicion: whatever had happened while he was gone had been a real threat to Pursuer. And if it was dangerous to the creature, it was dangerous to him too.

“Why don’t we help each other?” he continued, voice shaking slightly. “If we work together, as a team, we’ll both have a better chance of getting out of this unharmed. And of dealing with whatever threatens you. You get food, and I… I get to see another day outside some metal bars.” He spat the last part, a mix of hate and guilt. “It’s in both our interests to survive. What do you say, Pursuer?”

Artful hardly expected any reply; talking to Pursuer felt like a gamble. One outcome was that the creature might understand and agree; the other was that it might not care at all, just as it had shown most of the time. He wasn’t even sure if the words he’d chosen were simple enough for Pursuer to understand, or even recognize, at the very least. He still honestly didn't know how good Pursuer was with English.

By now, Pursuer’s eyes had returned to their usual appearance- enlarged and empty, like dark voids. It rose, hunching over as it stared at Artful, almost judging him, before slowly turning away, watching somewhere else, likely where the civilian had sprinted off. It moved off in the opposite direction, then shifted its bones and became invisible. Just before vanishing completely, it added in a low, chilling, almost sarcastic tone:

-“Bunny hunt…Fresh meat…funny…”

Artful stood up, confused. What kind of answer was that even supposed to be? Silence stretched around him, broken only by the falling droplets of rain. Then he heard it: crunching leaves and snapping sticks. With no one else nearby, the only possible source was Pursuer, which… was strange. One thing Artful had always noticed about Pursuer was how unnaturally silent he could be. He executed it perfectly- so perfectly that he had even managed to sneak up on Artful, while surrounded by said hundreds of sticks, leaves, and everything else that could easily crunch underneath enough weight. That display alone was proof of his incredible stealth. Now, it almost felt as if he was doing it on purpose.

So Artful didn’t move, trying to understand. He just listened, still unsure of what was happening. Then, suddenly, someone or something shoved him away from the tree he had been standing by, in the direction Pursuer had vanished. His eyes darted around in panic, convinced the creature was toying with him.

A faint sound followed, like wood being scratched or split. His gaze fell to a tree right in front of him; claw marks were carving their way across it. Then another appeared, farther away.

Wait… did Pursuer mark the trees to guide him, using the same method Artful had used before to find the river? Artful nervously smiled, droplets of rain sliding down his face as he watched in silence. The thought that it had learned so quickly, adapting to his own methods, both unsettled and fascinated him.

-“Holy, wait… is that him? Standing there… unharmed?”

-“Honestly, I saw that thing attack him! He probably shook it off or something- he should be weak!”

-“Alright, let’s get him; I think he saw us.”

Artful caught sight of the civilians in the distance and broke into a sprint, running in the direction Pursuer had gone. He kept glancing at the trees, checking to make sure he was following the right path. The civilians pursued right after him, and one of them tried to shoot him while running, but the shot missed, the trees providing cover. Adrenaline surged through Artful, giving him strength as he pushed forward, still careful to avoid getting hit while running.

Soon enough, he found himself back at his own clearing and made his way to the center. It had been a smart move on Pursuer’s part, leading him into a more open area where he could use his magic without obstruction. Yet Artful quickly realized it was a disadvantage for him as well. The civilians had regrouped into pairs on each side of the clearing, with one group of three on each flank. He still wasn’t sure where the seventh person was, though.

-“Finally, we can finish what the government should have- I don't even know how you still haven't been caught, with how obvious you are.”

-“Don't mention, he is even recognizable without his makeup- The government is just shit at doing their jobs!”

Artful took a defensive stance, his head shifting from one side to the other as he tried to keep both groups in sight, avoiding any blind spots. One group stood to his right, the other to his left, their members speaking loudly enough for each other to hear.

-“So you’re vigilantes,” Artful called out carefully, “and not actually working with the government?” It made sense now why he hadn’t seen any real government agents - only armed civilians, revolvers in hand, without any actual advanced weapons.

On the other hand, his question seemed to offend them.

-“If we were,” one of them snapped, “you’d probably be roaming around for years without getting caught! Those guys are doing absolutely nothing!”

-“They only care about the big names,” another shouted. “Badware and Killdroid get all the government’s attention!”

-“Meanwhile,” a third added bitterly, “we’re being terrorized by a fraud and some creature that’s been eating our farmers, our cows- hell, even civilians!”

Everyone stayed still, no one daring to attack yet. Artful was starting to get impatient- and nervous. At any moment, they could snap. Then the seventh civilian appeared, a man in his mid-fifties, strikingly similar to the one Artful had seen at Bolt’s house. He caught up to the group, a sheriff’s star glinting on his chest. Ah.

-“Sheri-” the civilian was cut off.

-“Where is my nephew? What have you done to him?!” The sheriff aimed his gun at Artful, fury burning in his eyes, and beneath it, a flicker of hope tangled with fear.

-“Your… nephew?” Artful asked slowly, pausing in between the words.

-“Stop playing games! Where is he?!” the sheriff barked. “You were at his house, you bastard. Where… where is Bolt?!”

Artful froze. His mouth opened, then closed awkwardly. For a moment, he just stood there, before his shoulders eased slightly. He at least deserved to know the truth about his own nephew. It was only fair. and it also explained why the others hadn’t attacked yet. 

-“He’s dead,” Artful finally said. “His body’s not far from here…not buried.”

The second he finished the sentence, the sheriff’s expression shattered into fury mixed with grief. A single gunshot cracked through the clearing. Artful jerked to the side, the bullet grazing past his shoulder with a hiss. He barely had time to breathe before the others reacted.

It was chaos.

The civilians spun their revolvers and fired in unison, the sound of bangs overlapping into a deafening noise. Birds scattered from the trees in frightened bursts; branches trembled, leaves falling like ash. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the damp scent of rain-soaked earth.

Artful ducked and created two walls on either side of him, but they shattered quickly under the rain of bullets. He bolted forward, aiming straight for the sheriff. But a pair of civilians lunged into his path. One threw a wild punch, another swung from the side, Artful twisted between them, breath catching in his lungs, his body moving on pure instinct, surprisingly leaving him unharmed. He narrowly slipped past one, using their momentary confusion to strike- his wand swung out, hitting one across the chest. The second caught a sharp jab to the gut, then another to the neck. Not enough to kill, but enough to leave him gasping for air.

Despite his best efforts, Artful was outnumbered; his reactions weren’t fast enough. Another shot rang out. He barely saw it before instinct took over; he braced for impact, eyes squeezing shut. But instead of pain came a sharp clang- a familiar sound of metal.

He opened his eyes just in time to see the bullet deflect off a blade. Pursuer stood before him, half-visible as he faded back into the scene. His claws dug into the wet earth, rain dripping down his back and spines. Artful had barely even breathed as he stood in disbelief, clearly not expecting the other to actually block the bullet, not to mention helping him in general. 

But neither hesitated. In an instant, they split, running in opposite directions. Pursuer darted toward the far side of the clearing, steel flashing as he crashed into the shocked civilians. Artful sprinted toward the men shielding the sheriff, who fumbled with his revolver, trembling as he reloaded.

The civilians lunged at Artful all at once. He swung and missed. A punch slammed into his back, forcing a grunt as he stumbled forward. Another fist came flying at his face, but this time he was ready. He caught the blow mid-air, fingers locking onto the knuckles, before slamming his wand under the man’s chin. The civilian collapsed immediately.

Artful turned his head just in time to see Pursuer slashing through one man’s torso, then sinking his teeth into another’s hand. Flesh tore away in chunks, exposing muscle and sinew, the screams echoing through the rain-soaked clearing.

One teammate aimed at Pursuer. Artful reacted instantly, spinning his wand to form a barrier. The bullet hit the wall, shattering against it. Pursuer’s eyes flicked toward him, tail twitching, before returning to his prey, ripping through the man with a feral roar that rattled everyone’s ears. Artful shut his ears, shielding himself from the sound, only to realize he’d made a mistake- another punch struck him while he kept his hands busy by blocking off the noise. Multiple blows and shots flew, slowly cornering him toward Pursuer and the remaining civilians.

At one point, he found himself just a few meters from Pursuer, who dodged attacks effortlessly. Artful made a decision: he needed to separate the teams. With a swift motion of his wand, he created a small enclosure of brick walls, cutting off the second group of three. Angry curses rained down on him.

Pursuer turned, standing near Artful. Both stared down the remaining civilians, radiating menace. The sheriff fired, but Pursuer was too focused on the three ahead. Artful grabbed him by the arm, yanking him aside and sending a brick flying into the bullet’s path to block it.

The remaining civilians formed a circle, trying to overwhelm them. It failed. Pursuer and Artful countered every attack- Pursuer biting into arms, breaking bones, while Artful used his wand to block or deflect blows from behind. Pursuer’s claws shredded anyone who got too close. Suddenly, his tail wrapped tightly around Artful’s stomach, yanking him away from danger, shielding him from the worst hits.

The standoff didn’t last long. Soon, four bodies lay sprawled on the wet ground, grotesquely twisted. Flesh was ripped and torn, jagged chunks missing, exposing the insides. Bones jutted at unnatural angles, scraping the earth. Tendons and veins glistened under the rain, blood mixing with the water in dark, sticky pools. Shredded tissue clung to Pursuer’s claws and fangs, the carnage halfway done.

Artful watched as Pursuer approached the wall he had made before, the one meant to trap the three remaining civilians. The creature paused, tilting his head with a flicker of curiosity, before a low, hungry growl rumbled from his stomach. Without hesitation, Pursuer vaulted over the wall and landed inside, leaving Artful standing outside, chest heaving, breaths shallow and ragged as exhaustion was clearly taking over, with the adrenaline wearing off. From within the enclosure, the terrified screams of the trapped civilians pierced the air, mixing with the patter of chewing sounds shortly after.

Artful sheathed his wand and slowly made his way to the lone stump in the clearing, lowering himself onto it. From there, he watched as Pursuer emerged from the enclosure, a single body slung over his shoulder, the unfortunate civilian still faintly breathing.

Artful braced himself, fully expecting Pursuer to tear into the civilian right there, on the spot. Yet he was taken aback when the creature instead moved toward where he was sitting, not directly in front of him, but close enough, and only then began eating.

A quiet settled over the clearing, broken only by the sound of Pursuer munching and the steady patter of rain.

Artful couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of familiarity; just like before, sitting awkwardly while the other ate, seemingly satisfied to finally fill his stomach with fresh meat, and this time, it didn't feel exactly…bad? Yet something about Pursuer’s feeding habits struck him as… unusual. He never took more than two bites from a corpse that had been dead for even a few seconds, but with a living prey, his feasting was instantaneous and unrestrained, tearing into flesh without hesitation. Maybe that's why he kept saying “Fresh meat”? Well, anyhow, it didn't interest him as much as another question at the back of his mind.

“Say… were you so hungry, perhaps, after… getting these cuts? Did you fight someone?” Artful asked, glancing at Pursuer nervously. Before, he would have needed far more courage to speak, but after their earlier exchange, a faint sense of safety had settled in. Even if Pursuer’s answers were always mixed and not exactly…clear, something about their talk made it feel… a little less dangerous to ask.

Pursuer’s gaze locked onto him the moment the question left his lips. The way he narrowed his eyes, the sharp intensity of his stare, screamed “mind your own business.” His tail flicked side to side- not aggressively, but enough to make it clear that this was not a question to push further. Still, it felt… strange. By Artful’s logic, it didn’t make sense that Pursuer wouldn’t even acknowledge it- unless whatever had happened was far more dangerous, to the point that he didn’t dare bring it up. And that wasn’t helping Artful at all; if Pursuer refused to share what he’d seen, then Artful was left completely in the dark, vulnerable to whatever danger the other already knew was roaming around, perhaps.

“For the love of- just tell me if you fought something, yes or no! Don’t make this so difficult!” Artful groaned when Pursuer didn’t respond; the silence only stoked his irritation. How was he even supposed to communicate with this creature? Sure, their teamwork in battle had been perfect, with both of them surprisingly falling into a tandem with each other (probably because the two had seen how one fought, and simply tried to stick to the style), but verbal communication? A complete disaster. One moment, Pursuer acted smart- by guiding Artful back to the clearing- and the next, he left Artful floundering in confusion.

“Did you even understand what I meant by working together?” he muttered.

Both of them looked equally irritated now, Pursuer refusing to talk about whatever had happened before, and Artful sitting there clueless thanks to the other’s stubbornness. The rain kept falling, its cool touch calming his frustration a little, until Pursuer finally spoke again, mumbling something that made no sense.

-“…Sick… bunny… useless right now…”

Pursuer rose to his feet and stared at Artful for a long, heavy moment, long enough for the air to feel dangerous again. Artful decided not to press the issue any further, sighing as he gave up. But really-

-“What do you mean by ‘sick bunny’? Are you referring to me?”

Pursuer tilted his head slightly, his empty eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. “… weak…bunny meat… smells sick…” he muttered, his voice gravelly, dragging out the last word almost mockingly as he watched Artful on the stump, still breathing slowly, recovering wasted energy.

Artful blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me? That’s- okay, that’s definitely an insult. What do you mean by sick? Like my shoulder, or something else?” he asked, half-offended that Pursuer had basically called him rotten meat. Sure, he did smell a bit; he’d sprinted through a forest, gotten smashed into the dirt by Pursuer himself, and fought a handful of armed civilians- but sick? No clue what the creature meant by that.

“Also, stop calling me bunny or meat,” he added, frowning. The way Pursuer said it always made his skin crawl. “My name is Artful. And besides, I call you by your name, don’t I?”

Pursuer tilted his head, considering this. He didn’t seem to care much about names, but the magician made a point. After a pause, he tried to pronounce it.

“Ar… Artf- Art…fool? Artfool?”

Artful nearly jumped to his feet. His face turned crimson. “No! stop! Artful! Not Artfool! Those are two completely different things!”

Pursuer didn’t see much difference; they sounded close enough. But the magician’s reaction was priceless. His grin widened, sharp teeth flashing as he let out a low, rasping chuckle, clearly enjoying himself. Satisfied, he didn’t bother correcting it or trying again. Instead, he turned invisible mid-laugh, the sound fading into the rain.

“Ne t’avise même pas de m’appeler comme ça la prochaine fois! Hé- Pursuer!”(3) Artful called after him, fuming, his cheeks still red. He sneezed suddenly, which only made him more embarrassed.

Chapter Text

The next day, the rain didn’t stop. It poured endlessly, and Artful spent most of the time groaning and coughing. Running in the downpour yesterday- sweating and breathing in cold air- had earned him a nasty cold. Because of that, out of everything he’d planned to do, he’d only managed to hastily build another “house” that morning. Now, he was dragging away a second corpse from near his shelter.

He gripped what was left of the man’s legs, pulling him slowly toward the far edge of the clearing. The ground was littered with other bodies, and just looking at them made the task even more dreadful. The thought of how many still needed to be moved left him mentally drained before he’d even begun. At least the rain made it somewhat easier- the soaked grass let the bodies slide instead of catching against the dirt. On a dry day, the rough ground and roots would’ve made the job even slower.

He turned his head away to sneeze harshly into his shoulder. The motion sent a sharp pulse through his already pounding headache, and his throat burned raw. Frowning, Artful tightened his grip and gave the corpse a small heave for momentum, adjusting his hold before dragging it faster through the wet grass, leaving behind a smeared, red trail.

Now Pursuer’s comment about him being sick made sense.
Artful still didn’t quite understand how the other had known- there hadn’t been any visible symptoms, and even he hadn’t felt the cold coming on. He’d been perfectly fine during the fight. The sudden illness, though, probably had to do with his immune system. His body was already pouring all its energy into healing his shoulder, leaving him defenseless against something as simple as a cold. And it wasn’t like he could replenish his strength properly without food or rest, both of which he’d been lacking for days. 

Perhaps that “weak” remark from Pursuer had been referring to that as well… or maybe just in general. Speaking of which-

Artful lifted his gaze, blinking away the raindrops clinging to his lashes. Across the clearing, he spotted Pursuer sitting under one of the largest trees; the kind with enough branches and leaves to give at least a little shelter from the rain. His knees were drawn up, arms resting on them, chin tucked down. His tail lay curled around him in a loose circle, twitching now and then. Pursuer met Artful’s eyes, silent as usual, though this time, at least, he wasn’t watching him from behind a tree while being menacing.

Of course, that didn’t mean Artful felt relaxed. Even now, his whole body was tense, but at least it was better than getting startled every time and suffering those small heart attacks. He was fairly sure Pursuer knew exactly the kind of reaction he caused by doing that, probably even did it on purpose- to keep him on edge, maybe to hold some sort of control over him by using fear.

Yet, considering their recent dynamic, which Artful still couldn’t quite define, unable to get a proper read on the creature- perhaps that was the reason behind Pursuer’s… openness? His loosening grip on him? Artful couldn’t name whatever this was, but it was certainly welcome. The thought of not having him as an enemy, along with the others who were after him, made something inside him ease, just a little. The confusion, however, sent another pulse of pain through his head. He clenched his teeth, forcing his focus back on the corpse at his feet.

He finally reached the edge of the clearing and let go of the man’s legs, dropping the body to the ground with a dull thud- right beside the first corpse he’d dragged there earlier. Both were in terrible shape, but he couldn’t have cared less. He sneezed again, this time into the crook of his arm, refusing to use his gloves after they’d just been all over a dead body and its blood.

His nose had started running, forcing him to sniff every few seconds, each time more irritating than the last. His body felt hotter now than it had that morning, his temperature clearly rising. His eyes ached from simply trying to focus, and sweat clung uncomfortably beneath his coat. With a muffled groan, Artful finally pulled it off. Stupid thing to do in the middle of the rain, but he was already soaked, and the heat under his skin was unbearable. The rain, at least, cooled him a little.

Artful gathered what little strength he had left and made his way back. Each step was a struggle, his muscles ached, and even the constant sound of the wet grass beneath his boots irritated him. It was probably just his sickness and the pounding in his head, but the noise set his nerves on edge. He tried to calm himself on the way by focusing on the trees around him, letting his eyes trace their shapes- until they inevitably landed again on Pursuer’s silhouette. The creature was still there when Artful finally reached the house and stopped in front of the door.

He coughed uncomfortably, squinting toward the tree where Pursuer sat. The shadows now hid most of his face, only faintly lit by narrow beams of sunlight slipping through gaps in the heavy gray clouds. What Artful could see, though, was the way Pursuer’s hand was clenched so tightly that his claws pierced into his own skin. The sight made Artful avert his eyes at once, and the scratches on his face seemed to sting in reminder of how close he’d come to dying under those claws. Without lingering, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him, trying not to think much.

The “house” was a bit larger than the previous shack he’d built- more space, but no better in comfort or practicality. No windows, only four places where the bricks were missing served as “windows”; these said bricks lay on the floor, in case he wanted to close the gaps again. Along with that, there was no chair or table like before; he’d left those behind, never planning to use them again. His original idea had been to avoid settling anywhere, to keep moving from place to place. But the weather had ruined that plan; the constant rain and cold had forced him to stay.

Inside, there wasn’t much: some spare clothes, a flashlight lying in the far corner (unlit but there in case he needed it), and a few blankets he’d pulled from his hat using his magic, instead of the usual scarves. They made a softer surface to rest on, serving as a replacement for a real bed. He’d first considered stuffing a bag with leaves again, like before, but that was impossible now- everything outside was soaked. On top of the pile rested a pillow, one of the few successful things he’d managed to pull from the hat. Thankfully, such simple spells didn’t cost much energy, and he couldn’t afford to waste any.

Artful took off his shoes, coat, and gloves, then headed straight to the left side of the room where the fireplace stood. He set everything down between it and his makeshift bed before reaching for his wand, which rested atop his hat above the mantel. With a small swing toward the pile of sticks inside, he waited for them to catch. A flicker of fire appeared- only to vanish a second later when he sneezed, too suddenly to cover his mouth. He frowned in irritation, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and flicked the wand again.

This time, the flame sputtered weakly before dying on its own. The sticks were still damp from the rain; they hadn’t had time to dry. Realizing that only made him more frustrated, and several more attempts followed, each ending with another faint spark or puff of smoke, accompanied by muttered French curses. It was probably on the seventh try that the fire finally caught, crackling softly with a sparkly hiss. Artful, already sweating despite the cold, felt his migraine surge stronger, throbbing.

He dropped the wand onto the pile of blankets and went to change his clothes. Stopping beside them, he tugged off his pants first- they were soaked and stained with rain, blood, and dirt- and replaced them with a looser, dark gray pair. Next came his shirt: the green one, just as filthy, was peeled off and swapped for another of the same kind, only with slightly longer sleeves. Not long enough to reach his wrists, but enough to cover most of his arm’s skin.

As he dressed, his eyes wandered to the fireplace, to the small, flickering flame, and then to the three bricks in the corner. After a few seconds, he decided to fit the bricks back into the gaps, so the wind wouldn’t snuff it out. Crossing the cold floor made his feet ache; the stone chilled them to the bone, the contrast biting against the feverish heat burning through the rest of him. He knelt and began lifting the bricks. Even that simple task felt heavier than before- his muscles strained, his body aching in pain from the physical actions it was forced to do.

When he finished, he shuffled back toward the fire, relieved to see it had grown stronger. Carefully, he sat down on the pile of blankets that covered the floor. The warmth reached him slowly, though the chill of the wall pressed against his back, and his sore body complained at the angle he sat in. With a sigh, he grabbed a few more blankets and wrapped them around himself, pulling them close as he hugged his own shoulders.

His breathing steadied. His hair, still damp, began to dry in the faint heat. And with the fire crackling softly beside him, Artful finally let his tired eyes close.

But the muffled sound of something moving near the front door, faint beneath the steady fall of rain, made Artful stiffen. Just as he was about to relax again, convincing himself it was only his imagination or a trick of his feverish mind, the door suddenly swung open with a violent crash, nearly breaking off its hinges. Artful flinched hard, eyes snapping toward it.

In the doorway stood Pursuer, soaked to the bone. Water dripped from his short fur and hunched posture, pooling at his feet. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, just staring at each other. Artful sat wrapped in blankets, frozen mid-breath, while Pursuer stood shivering, his tail twitching and curling in random motions. The usual grin was gone. His hands trembled, his whole body unsteady, and the expression he gave Artful wasn’t one of menace- it looked almost like envy, with furrowing mouth and narrowed eyes.

Artful didn’t dare move. Confusion ran through his fever-fogged thoughts; why would Pursuer suddenly barge in? Was there danger outside? Something attacking him again? A threat? But those possibilities vanished the moment Pursuer’s gaze shifted to the fireplace.

The creature’s posture changed instantly, less guarded and rigid, more intent, and Artful could tell before it even happened that Pursuer was about to step inside- which was not happening! JUST NO!

-“NON! Il n’y a aucune chance que tu entres ici!”(1) Artful yelped, his throat rasping painfully as he spoke. He nearly stumbled as he sprang to his feet, hurrying toward the doorway. The door hung crooked on its hinges, and he grabbed its edge, forcing it halfway shut to block the creature’s path. The effort made his arms shake, but adrenaline overpowered his weakness- apparently, seeing a man-eating creature about to step into your only shelter was motivation enough, even for someone sick and feverish.

Pursuer, meanwhile, bared his teeth in irritation, a low growl rumbling in his throat. His expression shifted a second later, the snarl flattening into a tense line. Though his stance remained rigid and the spikes along his back bristled slightly, he didn’t lunge forward. Instead, he simply stood there, glaring down at Artful and occasionally glancing past him, toward the flickering firelight behind. The orange glow reflected off his eyes, tempting.

Artful stood his ground, even as his heart pounded. “You are not entering the house! You hear me? Not only did you almost break my door, but you- uh- you’ll get the whole floor wet! Yeah! You’ll get it wet! So don’t you dare!”

He sneezed immediately after, sniffling and trying to recover whatever dignity he had left. Excuses tumbled out of his mouth faster than he could think. He couldn’t exactly say, “Hey, mon ami, you’re scaring the hell out of me and I think you might eat me despite our ‘alliance’, so no thanks!”(2) Even if it was painfully obvious he was afraid, admitting it outright felt dangerous- like giving up ground he couldn’t afford to lose. So he stayed firm, at least for as long as Pursuer let him the chance to.

“It’s not like you built this, or helped me, so there’s no reason for me to let you in. So go away!” Artful finished, his stomach growling just as he spoke. For a long moment, neither of them moved. He let out a tired, shallow breath, coughing again and rubbing at one of his eyes as his vision blurred. Without another glance at Pursuer, he shut the door firmly and returned to the blankets. He lay down, resting his head on the pillow. Sick, exhausted, hungry, and weak, he needed sleep- and there was no way he could get any with Pursuer inside. Before letting his eyes close, he clenched his wand tightly in his hand, ready in case the creature decided to return, to attack despite his protests.

Artful woke up, sitting straight up after maybe what felt like an hour or even less. Once again, the door moved- though this time less aggressively, just by the handle. Half-asleep, he thought it might be a civilian. Yet it turned out to be Pursuer, holding something in his hand. Before Artful could get up or swing his wand in defense, thinking the creature was entering silently on purpose to maybe kill him, Pursuer stepped forward and stopped in front of him, droplets of rain still sliding down his body, eyes squinted and fixed on Artful, before dropping the object onto the floor.

Artful rubbed his eyes in confusion, trying to understand what was happening. When his vision finally adjusted, he almost gasped, stupefied: a single grouse and two hares lay right in front of him, their small stains of blood barely noticeable. He skeptically looked back at Pursuer, who still stood above him, as if waiting for Artful’s reaction rather than planning to attack. Artful shifted slightly into a more comfortable position, leaning forward slightly, inspecting them, trying to understand why Pursuer would bring this, and hesitantly poked one of the animals with his wand. It rolled over with a faint flinch. Their necks were broken, and the only blood came from faint bruises that looked like claw marks. 

He tightened his grip on the wand, ready for anything, as he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Even if it didn’t seem hostile, he wasn’t letting his guard down. Yet all Pursuer did was go to the nearest corner and shake itself, sending water droplets flying in every direction. Artful squeezed his eyes shut as a few drops hit his face, and he even felt the fire flicker from the splash. Once the spray subsided, he opened his eyes, lowering his hand, and watched Pursuer, who now sat on the floor as if he had every right to be there, like Artful hadn’t told him to leave just an hour ago or so. He remained in the same posture as before under the tree, hugging himself, tail wrapped around him, shivering slightly.

Artful slowly got to his feet, keeping his eyes on Pursuer, and approached the door, still letting rain and wind sweep inside, threatening to extinguish the fireplace. He was about to tell Pursuer to leave again, but something caught his attention. The clearing looked emptier in his peripheral vision. Shifting his head forward, he froze: the piles of corpses were nowhere to be seen in their previous places. Artful bit down his tongue, tightening his grip on the wand, waiting for a few tense seconds while thinking, then quietly shutting the door.

“Are you really this desperate to stay inside, Pursuer?” Truth be told, Artful hadn’t expected this guy to bring him food and get rid of the bodies- a nice surprise, no doubt, but that still didn’t mean he wanted him inside. By the looks of it, Pursuer seemed to think he’d earned the right to stay, that this was a fair exchange. If Artful argued now, it would probably end badly. On one hand, it actually did feel fair, and he even felt a little guilty for trying to push Pursuer out. Yet it wasn’t as if he had much of a choice after all.

Pursuer only frowned at the question, baring his teeth at Artful. The magician quickly tried to smile awkwardly and brush it off before returning to sit in front of the fireplace. As he settled down, he pushed the animals slightly to the side with his wand and glanced back at Pursuer, who was now sitting with his mouth slightly open, probably about to say something. Pursuer grimaced at Artful’s action, only to be interrupted by the magician.

“Ne t’inquiète pas- I’m not discarding it, I appreciate it. Je l’ai poussé parce qu’il sont devant la cheminée.”(3) It was probably enough of an explanation for Pursuer, despite the other clearly not understanding most of what he said in French, only judging by the soft-spoken tone Artful used.

For the first twenty minutes, both of them remained completely still, enveloped in a mutual silence. Pursuer shook much less now, though his teeth occasionally clicked together, probably from the cold, while Artful sneezed and coughed from time to time, pressing a burning hand to his forehead as the migraines made everything harder. Out of curiosity, they glanced at each other, seemingly at different times, never quite meeting each other’s gaze.

Just now, Artful was watching Pursuer, while the other seemed to be staring off into some random brick. Honestly, Artful felt complicated the entire time, which was why he kept sneaking glances at him. Part of it was pity- seeing Pursuer shiver on the cold floor made him uneasy. Artful himself could feel his own butt still ache despite sitting on multiple layers of blankets, so he couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable Pursuer must have been, sitting still and cold without complaining.

On the other hand, Artful knew it wasn’t really his problem. Pursuer getting inside was already a big deal, and he constantly kept Artful on edge, keeping him away from falling asleep and resting. He couldn’t exactly say he liked him… yet the few times they had talked were enough to make him feel just a little less indifferent. Even now, when he was the one sick that even Pursuer had pointed out his condition, Artful was the one here, wondering if the other was even comfortable enough. He let out a sigh, which quickly turned into a cough, before reaching for his wand.

It caught Pursuer’s attention. The creature shifted slightly, tail moving away from his feet as if curious but cautious enough despite knowing Artful wasn't a big much of deal to it. But when a blanket suddenly landed on his head, covering his whole face and torso, Pursuer sprang up to his feet in a blur, claws shredding the material into pieces, clearly startled and not expecting this. He tore it apart completely, then looked down at the remnants before meeting Artful’s gaze again.

Artful, meanwhile, just sat there, nose scrunched and wrinkles forming across his shriveled-up expression, utterly exasperated.

“Tu es vraiment un barbare- of course, ze first thing you do is shred ze blanket when I try and lend you help.”(4)

Pursuer paused, claws still slightly flexed, tail twitching, clearly caught off guard by Artful’s words. For a moment, the air between them hung heavy. Artful stayed put, watching the creature carefully, wand still in hand. He was already regretting trying to do something nice for him.

Pursuer, on the other hand, seemed to halt his actions and think. His eyes fell to the floor, studying what remained of the blanket. He bent over, picking up the torn material, letting his fingers brush against it, feeling its texture. Then a grin spread slowly across his face, mischievous, but oddly thoughtful this time- as his attention snapped back to Artful.

Artful blinked, deadpanning at him, his frown deepening. “Incroyable… absolument incroyable,”(5) he muttered, disbelief heavy in his tone. But Pursuer only shifted his head, glanced at the shredded pieces again, then at the remaining pile of blankets underneath Artful and pointed at them, expectantly. It took Artful a second to realize what he meant. “Oh, now you understand what it was for,” he said, rubbing his face in frustration.

Pursuer let out a low growl that turned into something similar to a whine, which could almost pass as a fake pitiful shiver. He hunched his shoulders, tail curling around him once more like a freezing animal, making a quiet sound that could only be described as exaggerated suffering.

Artful sighed. “No. Forget it. I used up enough strength already, and you shredded the last one i had the energy to create. You’ll survive.”

Pursuer stopped his act, pausing for a moment before, without warning, standing up, walking right over, and plopping himself directly onto the pile of blankets Artful was sitting on, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. The only thing separating them was the blanket Artful had wrapped around himself. He froze on the spot, eyes wide, stiffening up and gripping his wand the moment the extra heat sat down right beside him.

If anything, Artful wanted to scream and run- or rather, scream, punch, and then run away. Because this absolutely felt like a fever nightmare.

But Pursuer simply settled in, tail flicking once in satisfaction, eyes half-lidded as if to say, ‘Problem solved’. His tail flopped lazily behind Artful’s back as he met his gaze. It didn’t help that Pursuer was much taller, forcing Artful to tilt his head up just to look him in the eyes. Then, to make matters worse, he felt a sudden tug- Pursuer was trying to pull the blanket off him, clearly intending to use it for himself.

“You’ve got to be joking-”

And before he even realized it, they were both pulling the blanket in opposite directions- Pursuer tugging it toward himself, and Artful stubbornly refusing to let go. Despite everything, Artful didn’t want to admit it, but it was painfully clear that Pursuer was holding back. He wasn’t even using half of his strength, only toying with him, a grin stretching across his face as if amused by the sight of the shivering, feverish magician trying to win a fight he clearly couldn’t.

Even knowing that, Artful couldn’t help getting irritated at losing. Soon, it stopped feeling like a struggle and more like a game Pursuer was playing out of boredom. And Artful, stubborn and petty as ever, wasn’t about to let him have the last laugh.

So when Pursuer gave another playful tug, just a little stronger this time, like he did every time Artful nearly got the upper hand, Artful suddenly let go. The move caught Pursuer completely off guard. He let out something between a grunt and a startled yelp, nearly falling backward before catching himself at the last moment with one arm. Artful blinked, half exasperated, half amused, as Pursuer steadied himself. Then Pursuer leaned back slightly, tail flicking with satisfaction, the grin widening just a little bit more. It was unmistakable that he was enjoying this far too much. Artful involuntarily smiled at that fact, probably not even realising it.

They sat like that for a few more minutes, slowly calming down. Pursuer still wore a smile, though it wasn’t as light-hearted as when they had been tugging at each other. Now he simply watched Artful intently, lost in his own thoughts, as if he had reached some conclusion in his mind. Artful’s smile had completely disappeared; he stared into the fire in front of him, having reclaimed the blanket from Pursuer’s hands and wrapped it around himself again, warming up.

Though it was somewhat… enjoyable, in a strange way, to spend time like that, it was clear he was feeling worse, drained from using so much energy. Despite his best efforts to resist it, his eyes began to blur, and the pull of sleep grew impossible to ignore.

He turned to look at Pursuer, who returned the stare.

It was… unfortunate, in a way, that these types of moments would probably be a one-time thing. After all, it wasn’t like either of them was truly enjoying it, right? Despite everything, Pursuer was… Artful didn’t even know what he was. His diet was his problem- a predator who fed on civilians, capable of attacking at any moment. So why even entertain the thought of befriending him? He was tired, utterly drained, and he couldn’t keep obsessing over it any longer.

He turned away from Pursuer and closed his eyes, fully giving up, thinking that if he were to die at the hands of a man-eating monster in his sleep… then so be it.

Pursuer watched silently as Artful drifted off. Strangely, even without the remnants of a white distasteful paint on the man’s face, the urge to eat him wasn’t as strong as before. He couldn’t pinpoint why. It wasn’t the type of hunger he usually felt- predatory, instinctive. This hunger felt… different, undefined, and strangely unsettling. It stirred something in him, a warmth in his chest that he assumed was a fever, though it wasn’t unpleasant.

BONUS!! Bolt reference! (Kudos to inotzim_0 for asking if I could do one- so here's a quick sketch! :)

Chapter Text

The door opened just a little, allowing his gloved hand to slip out into the cold morning air. He held his palm open, feeling for any signs of rain. After a few silent seconds, he finally leaned forward and peeked outside, his eyes lifting to the sky. It was clear and sunny today, the light shining directly onto his face. Then his gaze drifted across the clearing, scanning each tree and bush that caught his attention, before he finally stepped out and closed the door behind him.

The grass beneath his shoes was still damp from yesterday’s rainfall, washed clean of the last lingering iron smell from the corpses. In its place was a fresh, earthy scent, exactly what Artful needed at that moment.

A full week had passed, with a few days on top, and the weather had been miserable. The rain had rarely stopped, only pausing for short breaks that Artful, still feverish, used to rush outside for sticks and keep the fireplace burning to warm the cramped space he lived in. And cramped it was, thanks to none other than Pursuer, who stayed inside for as long as the storm lasted, leaving only to eat or hunt… as far as Artful could assume. It certainly didn’t seem like Pursuer had any hobbies outside of his harmonica.

Honestly, it would have been fine for the most part. Artful had already accepted the fact that Pursuer would continue using his place as shelter, and for most of it, they both stayed out of each other’s way. Artful, recovering slowly from his cold, made sure to keep enough distance between them for any given possibility, for safety reasons. Pursuer, in turn, warmed himself silently in the corner and occasionally played the harmonica. Interaction was rare, usually limited to a tired Artful asking him to stop after half an hour when the headaches got too strong, and the other grunting, to sometimes growling, however, complying. Overall, there had been no more close-contact moments like the first time Pursuer stayed over.

There were only two real problems, the first being that every time Pursuer barged in, he brought dead animals with him- his own version of compensation for using Artful’s space. And Artful did appreciate the food, truly, but most of it ended up piling in the corner. Even after weeks of being starved and eating as much as he could, the exact moment it was cooked, his cold made it impossible to eat that much. Eventually, he had to throw some of it away, which he absolutely hated doing because of the additional labor.

He brought it up once, on the third night, blocking Pursuer at the door and asking him not to bring any more while pointing at the seven untouched corpses lying outside the cabin to the right, emphasising his point. Pursuer responded with a look that could only be interpreted as, “Are you seriously refusing food?” accompanied by a disgusted grimace. But despite that, he listened. Well… partly. Instead of showing up with four or three animals, he brought just one. Which was actually the start of Artful's second problem, that only made itself more obvious by each day Pursuer stayed over-

Artful caught himself actually looking forward to having him around. His assumption that he didn’t enjoy the other’s presence was clearly starting to fall apart. At first, it was simply because Pursuer’s company made the isolation less miserable- just having someone there eased the loneliness that had been gnawing at him for weeks of exile. Then came the whole alliance memo, the way they helped each other during the fight. And now the food trading, where Artful was finally able to eat, thanks to him. All of it only strengthened the feeling.

And the final nail in the coffin was exactly that- despite Artful telling him to stop bringing food, Pursuer still went out of his way to do it. Whatever his reason, he did it anyway. To anyone in Artful’s place, it would almost certainly feel like some form of affection, even if barely noticeable. Artful was no exception.

And yet, the thought left him in a tightening spiral of dread. From the very start, he had seen this outcome as one of the worst possibilities. Finding himself slowly getting attached to someone like Pursuer felt like a death sentence waiting to happen. Pursuer was not a normal civilian; nothing about him could be measured by ordinary standards. Any action that might seem kind, considerate, or friendly from his side could not be trusted. His motives were completely different, his behavior and actions incomparable to normal standards, driven by hunger for most of it. Hell, maybe he didn’t even feel compassion at all. Artful had no idea; everything he had done so far had been for his own benefit, for curiosity and amusement, and Artful recognized it easily- he was literally doing the same, just for different reasons, which only made the dynamic between them more complicated. 

Despite acknowledging all of this, he still couldn’t stop that slow, warm feeling from spreading in his chest whenever he thought about Pursuer showing up. And if things continued down that path, Artful was certain it would eventually reach a point where he’d lose his guard entirely- and start trusting Pursuer, if not relying on him.

As the week drew to an end, he tried to come up with solutions to prevent that. In the end, the most “optimal” idea he managed to come up with was simply to avoid his interactions with Pursuer as much as possible- any conversation and attention. But of course, that was easier said than done. Aside from these usual one-minute exchanges when Artful was slowly recovering from his cold, he still found himself getting pulled in far too easily by whatever Pursuer did, mostly because of how persistent and strangely expressive he was sometimes. 

A good example came on the sixth day, when Artful once again failed to ignore him due to the strangest expression he had ever seen on Pursuer’s face after he accidentally overcooked one of the grouses. It was probably the smell… or maybe just his cooking. Either way, it was apparently suspicious enough for Pursuer to assume the animal was poisoning the air inside or something similar to that, and so he threw it outside. Artful had to physically hold himself back from being offended, laughing, and stopping Pursuer in the act all at the same time, as he was pretty sure it was easier to let him be.

So the plan had changed. Artful no longer aimed to avoid Pursuer completely, only to limit himself. No unnecessary eye contact. No initiating conversation. Keep every reply short, then return to whatever he was doing. And through all of it, he tried to behave exactly the same as before, hoping Pursuer wouldn’t notice the shift. Yet it seemed like Pursuer had caught on- or at least grown suspicious. The way he stared at Artful the moment he tried it a few days ago, and again yesterday, made that painfully clear. However, he didn’t seem to care much beyond giving him occasional glances- at least, as far as Artful could tell.

Regardless, he felt the need to take a break from the other and simply freshen up by doing something else. His fever had already passed along with most of the symptoms, leaving him only with occasional sneezing, but besides that, there was nothing more to it. The weather also seemed fine today, which only encouraged him further to do anything other than sit and sulk all day, overthinking his feelings and staying on a constant edge because of the lingering paranoia.

Now outside, he adjusted his hat and vest, the clothes he had changed into shortly after waking, and finally applied his makeup again. He glanced toward the path leading to the river and slowly started walking, leaving the clearing behind and stepping into the forest once more.

Artful took his time, moving at a slow pace and making sure he didn’t trip on any of the roots jutting from the ground. He knew he was heading the right way when he spotted the familiar markings on some of the trees that he had left earlier. He stopped at one, inspecting it thoughtfully before continuing on, shifting his direction just slightly so that instead of going straight to the river, he walked alongside it, toward its source, where the water flowed downward.

He didn’t exactly plan to reach the very top of the river, only to make sure he wouldn’t be in the same place… in case Pursuer tried to find him. Which he probably wouldn't because he had his own stuff to do, but if he really wanted to, it would just take him a while, nevertheless.

…

And once again, Pursuer came to mind. Artful quickly looked away, forcing himself to focus on anything else. Anything that wasn’t him. That was the whole point of today, after all.

As he walked, he glanced down into the river, watching his reflection shift with each ripple, distorting his features as sunlight scattered across the water and his face. Then his gaze moved past the reflection and into the river itself, catching sight of different rocks and even a few tiny fish barely visible due to their size and their colors blending with the surroundings. Artful slowed down just enough to take off one of his gloves and dip his hand into the cold water, grabbing a honey-yellow stone. He continued down the riverbank, turning the rock between his fingers while his other hand held the glove he’d taken off. The color was strangely appealing. It immediately made him want to find another, a blue one this time.

About fifteen minutes were spent on that alone, driven by the urge to collect as many shades of blue as he could find. He kept searching for a perfect royal cyan- which, of course, was impossible, but the task was entertaining enough to keep him walking slowly, eyes fixed on the river. Eventually, he had no free hand left. After picking up his fifth rock, he took off his hat and used it as a makeshift container, tossing each new find into it along with the glove. He refused to stop collecting as long as he kept discovering new shapes and hues, eventually gathering over thirty rocks. When he finally grew tired of it, the stones simply vanished into the inside of his hat, and he put it back on his head as if nothing had happened.

The timing was perfect. Soon after, he found himself standing in front of a small pond with a waterfall. It wasn’t very large; the area around it was surrounded by mossy rocks that seemed to form a natural circle. Inside the circle, there were no tree roots, only some boulders, damp soil, and small brown mushrooms in the corners. Artful decided to move slightly away from the waterfall and sat down on one of the bigger boulders nearby. 

He touched it to check if it was still soaked from the recent rain, making sure he wouldn’t end up with wet pants. Thankfully, it wasn’t- the rock was barely damp at all, likely sheltered by the long branches of leaves of the tree it rested under. So he settled down, his posture a bit slumped as he relaxed, before deciding to take out his wand, holding it with a thoughtful expression on his face.

It had been a while since he had learned any new spells, for obvious reasons, like being hunted, trying to conserve as much energy as possible, and… for more personal reasons. it wasn't quite the same anymore whenever he held his wand. It felt different, everything felt different- the way he used it was different. Before, he had cast simple spells for an audience, for the love of it, for entertainment. But now, his talent was used for violence and defense. That shift had even affected his performance: usually, when he succeeded at casting something, his hands would tingle with satisfaction. He would feel proud. It brought him joy to see others in awe. Especially…

His grip tightened as he closed his eyes, exhaling before opening them again. The past was the past. He didn’t feel like performing tricks currently, and if he wanted to practice, it would have to be for something useful rather than just for fun. Not practicing felt like a waste, too. On one hand, using his magic like this didn’t feel right; on the other, letting it go unused was also impossible. With nothing better to do at the moment, he might as well try to practice a little.

Artful’s eyes fell on a random stick. He lifted his wand and, with a careful flick, sent it flying as if caught in an invisible gust of wind. It landed lightly beside him, and he picked it up, snapping it in two with a quick motion. The broken pieces rested in his lap, and he stared at them for a moment before placing his wand gently across the stick and tapping it a few times. Tiny sparks flickered, almost too faint to see, dancing along the jagged edges, forcing the stick to lightly glow and slowly, as if by a magnetic force that started to attract the two ends, making them shake.

Suddenly, the world wobbled before his eyes. His squinted, focused gaze snapped open, and where the broken stick had been, a shattered wooden hand now lay instead, and the moment the broken ends got attached once again, its fingers stretched forward as if trying to grasp something.

Artful yanked the stick away in a panic, his breath hitching as he blinked several times. When his eyes cleared, it had almost returned to normal, though faint cracks still marred its surface- he had nearly succeeded, and yet failed. His hand rose to his face, covering his eyes as he drew in shaky breaths, sweat trickling down his forehead. Through the small gap between his fingers, he peeked at the stick, forcing himself to act as if nothing had happened while trying to calm down.

A raspy, nervous chuckle escaped him. His palm dragged up from his eyes and pressed against his forehead; he didn’t feel like casting anything new at the moment. Instead, he just sat there, head empty, staring at the waterfall as its water tumbled and sparkled in the sunlight, the sound oddly soothing against the tension still coiled in his chest. That calm was broken by a sudden “tap”, a seed falling on his head before landing on the rim of his hat. Artful shifted, reached down, and tossed it away, returning his gaze forward to another lying stick. Maybe he should try again.

So there he was, sitting for an hour, fiddling with a stick again. To say he was disappointed would be an understatement- every attempt that followed ended in failure, and the results were often worse than his very first try. By now, he had gone through about six sticks. Most of them he had used multiple times, only to be forced to replace them after suddenly casting the wrong spell out of nowhere. Sometimes it burned the sticks to ashes; other times, it transformed them into butterflies instead. On one occasion, he had completely changed a stick into a different material- an icicle that slowly melted in his gloved hand, forcing him to drop it and start over again.

He was so focused on the sticks, trying desperately to get the spell right, that he didn’t even notice that some of the dry leaves were crunching beneath silent footsteps. A dark silhouette drew closer, now hovering just behind him, watching over Artful’s shoulder as he fumbled through spell after spell.

Pursuer watched silently as the magician swung his wand again and again, altering the stick for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand. Each attempt produced sparkles and faint shimmers, always tinted with some strange color that caught his eye- pleasant enough to watch, almost like the shiny trinkets he sometimes found on dead bodies. So far, his favorite had been when the stick turned completely white, its texture faintly reminding him of a snapped bone- though it lacked the meat. The thought made him grin widely, teeth flashing at the idea of food. But his attention drifted back to the magician’s face..

So when Artful finally turned- only because he caught a dark shape at the edge of his vision and then those teal eyes, he froze. His hand jerked on instinct, nearly smacking Pursuer in the face with the experimental stick before he stopped himself just in time. The stick hovered only inches from Pursuer’s face. Pursuer, of course, didn’t flinch. He merely stood there, still and grinning. Artful blinked rapidly, lowering the stick with an awkward, jerky motion.

“Ah, Pursuer.”

Artful shifted away by an inch or two, barely anything, but enough that Pursuer’s eyes followed the movement. He cleared his throat, forced his shoulders to relax, and lifted his wand again.

“Right. If you excuse me, I was actually doing something.” 

He swung the wand in a random direction, mimicking the motions he’d done earlier- only this time he wasn’t casting anything at all, just pretending.

He hadn’t expected this. At all. When he considered the possibility that Pursuer might decide to look for him, it had been an if scenario, one he assumed would happen at dusk, or later, when the creature usually returned from whatever he did during the day. Pursuer almost never appeared without a reason. He was always out, hunting, prowling, or hovering near Artful only when there were civilians involved. And even then, he never came this close. With the exception of only being during the rain, in the cabin.

Yet here he was. Artful sat there, faking spell motions like an idiot just to collect his thoughts. With Pursuer standing over him… and that warm feeling stirring again. He needed to stick to the plan. No over-engaging. Only speak if absolutely necessary. And wait until Pursuer got bored and left.

He sat in silence, continuing to torment the stick while Pursuer simply stared. With each passing second, it became painfully clear that he wasn’t going to leave anytime soon. Pursuer didn’t look bored in the slightest; quite the opposite. Artful could feel the weight of his gaze without even meeting his eyes. The worst part was that Pursuer was no longer paying attention to the magic. Artful tried to shift his focus back to the stick by creating more shiny sparks, but it was of no use. Pursuer’s eyes remained fixed on Artful’s face, making him wonder if Pursuer had blinked at all. This led Artful to suspect that Pursuer was deliberately waiting for the exact moment he finally spoke up and addressed him, as usually happened, especially with Artful being so quick-tempered.

Unfortunately for Pursuer, Artful was particularly determined today and kept his focus away from him. This finally earned a small grunt from the creature, proving that he was indeed trying to provoke the magician on purpose. It was these little things about Pursuer that Artful had started noticing more and more, how whenever he wanted something, Pursuer just loomed close enough until Artful paid attention, whether intentionally or not, considering he clearly wasnt quite the talkative type. It had become such a familiar pattern these past weeks that Artful caught himself anticipating it before it even happened. 

And he couldn’t help but notice it. Finding it amusing, even though he sometimes hated that he did. That contradiction tugged the corner of his mouth upward in a small, bitter smile he tried to suppress, despite how aware and controlled Artful tried to be.

As the silence continued to linger, broken only by the distant sound of birdsong, Artful's faint smile gradually faded into a thin line. He felt a small pang of pity for having pointedly ignored Pursuer. What if he had misjudged the situation? What if Pursuer wasn't here just to bother him? Perhaps Pursuer actually had something important to show or ask, and Artful was so caught up in his own perspective that he failed to notice. After a moment of hesitation, he finally risked a glance back at the latter… who was still staring straight at him, slightly shifting when he caught Artful staring.

“Did you, um, need something?” The question came out strained as he tried to eliminate every unnecessary word. He kept his voice level and neutral. It was the safest way he could acknowledge Pursuer without encouraging him. 

Pursuer squinted at the question, a broad smile spreading across his face, clearly pleased. His tail swished slowly from side to side, and Artful couldn't help but watch its movement. Pursuer then raised his hand, keeping it closed at first before opening it to reveal a large, bloodied fang. The fang was just small enough to fit comfortably in Pursuer's hand; however, if Artful were to hold it, it would likely peek out from the corners due to its size.

Artful felt a surge of concern as he examined the fang, noticing that it appeared to be in remarkably good condition, as if it had been recently pulled out. Blood smeared across Pursuer's palm suggested that he had been holding it for some time. The fang was significantly larger than a wolf's fang (which Artful had only seen once in a documentary), leading him to question whether Pursuer had truly just returned from hunting the animal it belonged to, especially since there was no blood near Pursuer's mouth to indicate that he had fed on it.

“Whose fang is that?” Artful asked before he could stop himself, curiosity winning over caution for a brief moment. Up close, it really did look cool- if he ignored the blood.

Pursuer’s mouth parted slightly, his head tilting, vague confusion the moment the word fang left Artful’s lips. So he took this as a sign to rephrase his question and clarify what he meant by "fang." He opened his mouth and pointed to one of his canines, which weren't particularly sharp, especially the right one. He made sure Pursuer could see the gesture and added, voice a little muffled by the awkward angle, “...What animal was it from?”

Pursuer’s eyes flicked to Artful’s pointed-at canine, then back to the fang in his own hand. The creature blinked once, slow, as if sorting through what parts of the question he actually cared about. His tail made another lazy sweep.

-“Big…brown…close to shelter”

-”Un ours?!”(1) The words flew out of him before he could stop them.

Pursuer gave a small, loose nod, then looked at Artful more intently. He didn’t move his palm at first, just keeping the bloody fang displayed there like it was nothing. But then, almost imperceptibly, he shifted his hand closer. Just a few centimeters, barely anything. Artful stared, now sitting with his mouth already open, from pure shock. A bear. Pursuer had fought a bear. And apparently, it looked like to Pursuer; it was as if killing a butterfly that wasn’t even noteworthy for him. Before Artful could fully process that information, Pursuer inched his hand toward him again, this time more noticeably, as if trying to encourage Artful, who already had the urge to reach out and examine the fang more closely to try and take it.

Artful glanced hesitantly at Pursuer and then at his own hand. After a moment of uncertainty, he slowly extended his gloved fingers, pausing mid-air to carefully assess Pursuer’s behavior- still skeptical about the other's intent behind all of this, not quite sure why he would go out of his way to find Artful just to show him this. But finally, their hands met, and Artful wrapped his fingers gently around the fang, brushing against Pursuer’s palm in the process. He froze, caught between caution and something else entirely that he chose to ignore. Pursuer, on the other hand, remained perfectly still, smiling widely the moment he felt the contact. He watched intently as Artful lifted the fang away, quietly inspecting it.

-”Tu sais que tu es un peu bizarre aujourd'hui Pursuer…Wait- did you say shelter?”(2)

Artful’s amazement quickly disappeared. He realized that, in addition to mentioning that it was a bear, Pursuer also noted that it was near “shelter.” Putting the pieces together, Artful understood that Pursuer had been with him in the cabin, and "shelter" likely referred to that place. Up to this point, he hadn’t seen any signs of animals, but the indication of a bear nearby was alarming. This could mean that other animals, like wolves, might appear soon, likely drawn by the corpses left behind by the civilians.

With the current weather conditions, the bear was likely preparing for hibernation and was simply trying to find as much food as possible. Additionally, the approaching winter could push other animals to become more desperate. That’s certainly not something that would sit well with Artful. He needed to bury the corpses.

He got up from the boulder he had been sitting on, quickly patting the back of his pants to ensure nothing was stuck to them. He then started walking back using the same path he had taken to get here in the first place, toward the clearing, passing Pursuer on the way, who merely gave him a glance before following behind him. Artful could tell because the usual sound of moving bones didnt not reach his ears; instead, he could feel the eyes on his back.

Soon enough, they were close, with Artful recognizing the surroundings and seeing the familiar setting of trees. He could see the clearing in the far distance, peeking out from between the trunks. They reached the edge, where the forest finally broke and the grass began. But the second they stepped onto the grass, Artful froze. Pursuer reacted instantly. His teeth bared in a sudden, sharp snarl as he dropped even lower than before- hunched so far forward he looked one breath away from going down on all fours as both of them were staring at the same thing.

Artful’s cabin door lay broken near the entrance, torn from its hinges and tossed aside, with wood splinters scattered across the ground. Beside it stood… a robot? Or something like it. Its body appeared to be constructed from multiple wires and springs, with spiky dark red tubes protruding from its back. The overall color of its body was a coppery red, while its torso, presumably its chest, was made of metallic ribs. There was a strange image on its front that Artful couldn’t quite make out, but it appeared to be a PNG of a skeleton in a room engulfed in flames. The most striking feature of the robot was its head- or rather, a computer setup that had a pair of large, curved devil horns and bronze-colored antennas. Its screen displayed graphics that shifted slightly, changing each time the head moved, as it seemed to be waiting for something, and hadn't caught up to the fact that both pursuer and Artful were now sharing the clearing with it.

Or with them.

A second computer-headed figure appeared from inside the cabin, stepping out and straightening to its full height. It looked nearly identical to the first robot, though the differences became obvious the longer Artful stared. This one was pink- mostly pink, at least, with lighter shades replacing the dark reds, and a scattering of heart stickers stuck around the panel where its buttons should have been. Its monitor displayed what looked like a letter-selection screen, though Artful couldn’t tell what for. Compared to the red robot beside it, this one looked… almost approachable, if he could even call any of this situation that.

Both robots emitted a series of beeping noises in short, quick bursts, as if they were communicating with each other in what seemed to be Morse code. Then, without warning, the pink one snapped its head toward Artful and Pursuer. The red one followed immediately, turning its entire body instead of just the head, metal joints creaking as it rotated. Its monitor shifted, the harmless graphics glitching before abruptly switching to a bright red, sinister-looking face that stared straight at them.

-“HOW SWEET OF YOU TO SHOW UP!! WE WERE LOOKING FOR YOU ALL OVER THE FOREST!“ The pink robot finally spoke up, moving a bit forward with its arms mimicking an open hug gesture, its artificial voice trying to sound as overly sweet as possible, resembling a feminine one. It had a slightly glitched off effect, setting Artful more on edge. He looked at Pursuer standing beside him, who didn’t so much as glance at that. Instead, he kept staring down the red robot, his jaw moving slightly as if chewing on an invisible piece of meat.

-“Pardon? I don't know you. Mind explaining who you are first of all?”(3) Artful squeezed his wand, feeling his hands start sweating as he slowly began suspecting what this was all about.

-“LOVEWARE, DEAREST!! YOU PUT US QUITE THROUGH THE TROUBLE WHEN YOU WENT OFFLINE WITHOUT A GOODBYE LETTER! WE WERE ALL SO DEVASTATED BY YOUR SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE!”

-“MORE LIKE WE WERE PISSED OFF. I CAN'T BELIEVE WE SPENT OUR VALUABLE TIME ON A PATHETIC FRAUD LIKE YOU AND PLAYING YOUR MOM'S GAME. WHERE IS THE USB?”

-”I have no clue what you're talking about, tête de con.”(4) The last words came out through gritted teeth with irritation at the clear mockery. Even so, Artful’s mind was already racing, trying to find a solution to avoid giving them the USB. They certainly weren't stupid; after all, they had managed to find this place. He knew that handing over a USB belonging to the government was a terrible idea. He wasn't sure what would happen if he simply let them have it. He needed to prioritize his safety above everything else.

-”BUT IM SURE YOU DO SWEETIE! MAYBE YOUR HEART WOULD BE UP FOR A TRADE? HOW ABOUT THIS-”

-”I WONT TURN YOU INTO SCARECROW MADE OUT OF YOUR OWN SKIN-”

-”HON’ IM SURE YOU MEANT THAT WE WILL SIMPLY LEAVE THEM ALONE, AND~ WE GIVE YOU BACK THIS RUSTY BUT LOVELY HARMONICA!” Loveware opened her metallic chest compartment and took out Pursuer’s harmonica, holding it now in her metallic hand. “IM CONVINCED YOUR PARTNER OVER THERE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE IT BACK!”

Artful turned to look at Pursuer instantly. As soon as Pursuer caught sight of the instruments’ spark under the sun, he quickly lifted his arm to check his sword’s sheath and then the spot where his harmonica should have been attached. However, his fingers found no trace of the instrument. Instead, they grazed over a torn thread that remained in place but had broken by accident, and probably was the cause of why the two robots had found it inside the cabin. Immediately, Pursuer’s muscles tensed up as he took a stance that suggested he was ready to leap forward like a dog that had just been released from its leash, waiting for the right moment to jump.

Artful looked back at Loveware, who was standing in place, and typed in the letter text box a single: ”🫢”_ backspace_”😉”. He grimaced, feeling like he would have cursed out loud if he had the chance, but he needed to stay coolheaded. This dang PC knew exactly what she was doing by provoking Pursuer and trying to exchange the USB quite literally for nothing. 

And yet… despite his irritation, a small part of him ached at the thought of Pursuer’s harmonica missing. He knew how much the other seemed to love playing it, and the talent the other had for the instrument, reminding Artful how much he himself loved music, and for a brief, fleeting moment, Artful felt guilty. He wanted to hand it back… but it was simply not worth it.

Artful opened his mouth to decline her offer but was rudely interrupted by the other robot, who snatched the instrument from Lovewares' hands. Lovewares didn't really react; she just shifted slightly, lowering her hands, and seemed almost to look at the other robot “lovingly”, as if he was an angel with a halo.

-“ARE ALL CIVILIANS SUCH SLOWPOKES?! THINK FASTER FOR HELLS SAKE! YES OR NO?”

-”...No.”

Artful didn’t dare look at Pursuer, who he felt was intently watching him. It was difficult to avoid feeling guilty under Pursuer’s gaze. However, after a moment, he summoned the courage to glance over. Pursuer appeared furious, his teeth bared in a frown that sent a shiver down Artful’s spine. For a brief moment, Artful almost expected an attack from Pursuer, but the sharp, metallic sound coming from the other side interrupted the tension. Both of them broke eye contact and turned to see the red robot, holding the broken parts of the instrument in its hands, which was accompanied by a laugh.

-”DAH-DA-DA-DA,HA-HA-HA-HA!! YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN YOUR OWN FLESHY MUGS!”

It was the final thing that pushed Pursuer over the edge. Artful reached out for a millisecond, shouting a quick “Attends!” But it was useless, as in just a second, Pursuer was already halfway across the clearing, charging directly at the robot. When Pursuer tried to confront the other, it became complicated due to the significant height difference- the robot loomed over Pursuer, standing at around seven feet tall. However, Pursuer didn’t care. He leapt into the air and landed right on the robot's head. The collision made the robot stumble and curse at Pursuer, who then jumped behind its control panel. There, he began scratching the screen from behind and trying to unplug all the wires that had found their way beneath his hands.

Artful was ready to help, but Loveware stood in his way, blocking his opportunity to see what was happening behind her. She didn’t make any aggressive moves; instead, she simply positioned herself in front of him and gestured a “no” with her finger. Given that she was a literal machine and larger than even Pursuer, Artful forced himself to remain in place, knowing he didn't really have a chance if she decided to physically attack. So he tried to find a better angle to glimpse around her silhouette instead.

In the back, Pursuer was sent flying into a tree after the red guy thrashed around before finally throwing Pursuer off himself. Before Pursuer could push himself off the tree to charge at the red guy again, he was instead met with the front of a robot's head, which charged at him like a bull. The impact threw him harshly against what he thought was Pursuer but turned out to be a brick wall. The robot's horns got stuck in the bricks, creating cracks all around the area of their collision. 

Artful stood with his wand pointing at the wall he had just created when he suddenly felt a fist make contact with his gut. It wasn’t strong enough to knock him out, but it was enough to make his head spin and blur his vision for a moment as he crouched on one knee. Loveware loomed above him, watching but not pursuing further. She turned around to look back at where Devilware and Pursuer were.

The letter was already up again, and since Devilware was stuck with his head in the wall, Pursuer seized the opportunity to draw his sword and violently thrust it into the back of Devilware's head. The blade pierced through the robot’s compartments and screen, causing it to glitch with electric sparks erupting from the damaged parts.

Artful’s vision slightly cleared, and he watched, thinking Pursuer had won. But then Loveware suddenly lit up, and her screen showed a message: _Marvelous, make sure to send me a letter!_. A beam-like strike enveloped her entire silhouette, crackling with electricity, while a glowing circle appeared beneath her. The same effect soon spread underneath Pursuer, who was crouched atop Devilware, a shimmering circle illuminating the ground beneath them.

Devilware let out unintelligible noises, reminiscent of the beeping from before. In an instant, his body shattered from the impact, pieces flying as Loveware teleported into his place. Pursuer didn’t have time to react; the solid ground he had been crouched on vanished with Devilware’s destruction. The next moment, he found himself lifted by the neck, suspended in midair, leaving him to struggle and wiggle while scratching whatever he could underneath his claws, which was useless against the metal.

Artful quickly got to his feet, almost stumbling forward into the grass as his head spun, sending waves of pain through the back of his skull. He attempted to cast a spell with his wand, but failed due to his blurred vision and the exhaustion from overusing magic during training. 

Meanwhile, Loveware maintained her grip on Pursuer, continuing to strangle him. Honestly, if he had been in Pursuer's position, he probably would have already died. However, Pursuer appeared to be hanging on; instead of keeping scratching her, he chose to lift his body up, pushing against her arms and supporting himself in the air with his hands. It was clear that the lack of oxygen was taking its toll, and he wouldn't be able to maintain this position for long before succumbing. Shit!

-“D'accords! Let him go, I have the USB!”(5) Artful shouted so she could hear him.

Loveware turned toward Artful, then immediately dropped Pursuer. He hit the ground with a cough, glaring daggers at her from below, but she didn’t bat an eye at him. She simply strode toward Artful. Now standing right in front of him, she suddenly pulled him into a hug- and pain shot through his entire body from the crushing pressure of her metallic frame, especially in his already wounded shoulder. He squeaked out a few strained “Arrête!”s (6), and she finally released him, opening her chest compartment expectantly, waiting for Artful to drop the USB inside. He opened his pocket space and took out the USB, holding it in his hand, about to drop it inside, before halting for a second, and hesitantly looking up at her.

“On one condition.”

-“LOVELY, I DID NOT EXPECT LESS FROM YOU! SURPRISE ME, DEAR!”

-“I get to ask one free favor of you in the future, when I'll use that, doesn't matter.”

A face app suddenly popped up on her screen, and Artful saw his own panting, disheveled face displayed on it. A few download bars appeared along the side as she seemed to be saving his face into her memory. Then another icon appeared- a green phone icon, showing a different computer face, this one with white shades over a smiling expression. Underneath, where the username should’ve been, it read “BOSSY_VIRUS,” which made Artful cringe a little. The call was immediately declined, probably by Loveware herself.

-” DONT MIND IT, SWEETHEART! GO BACK TO BUSINESS!

Artful finally released the USB, and it fell into the compartment, which quickly closed. Loveware seemed to vanish in an instant, not caring anymore, and repeating the strange process involving the electrical bean and the circle beneath her. All that remained was a charred circle on the grass, with smoke rising from the very center where she had been standing.

Artful looked at Pursuer, who had already gotten up and was near the cabin, crouched over the ground. After a moment, he stood, holding the two snapped pieces of his harmonica, broken clean in half, completely useless. His jaw tightened. Then, with a burst of rage, he violently threw it against the wall, the sharp crack echoing through the clearing. He then glanced at Artful, who met his eyes. They stood like that for a few seconds, saying nothing, just looking at each other.

Pursuer was the first to break eye contact. His tail stayed still, and his spikes lay flat against his back- clearly upset. Slowly, he began shifting, rearranging his bones and blending into the surroundings, his form already flickering as he turned invisible. And just seconds before he vanished completely, Artful called out to him. He’d finally gathered the courage to apologize, to actually say something meaningful. But the only thing that left his mouth was Pursuer’s name, which was ignored, leaving Artful alone in the clearing.

Chapter Text

His hands trembled as he cupped them around the broken harmonica, desperately trying to get the spell right and fix the instrument. All he managed to produce was a small ripple of magic that escaped from between his fingers, creating shiny sparkles. However, the prolonged use of magic over the past four hours began to hurt his palms, feeling like small electrical zaps.

Artful bit his already aching lower lip, raw from how much he’d been chewing it. He felt the harmonica’s fragments shift, then give way entirely. A surge of uncontrolled energy burst from his hands, the force shoving his grip open. Metal shards flew in all directions, slicing across his fingers and palms as they tore free. They hit the walls with scattered clinks before clattering to the floor, leaving scratches across his gloves and the skin beneath.

The failure only made Artful feel more paranoid and frustrated. Sitting cross-legged on the blankets, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the cold fireplace in front of him. There was no fire yet- though he was considering lighting one soon. The sun was sinking, the sky dimming a little more each minute. It was probably around six, maybe five. He wasn’t sure anymore.

He turned his head slightly to the right, where a few sticks lay scattered on the floor. Those were the ones he’d actually managed to mend with the spell. The fact that it worked on them but not on the harmonica left him uneasy and confused. He hadn’t expected to fix the instrument quickly, so he’d been practicing, with the results lying there in front of him. Perhaps the fact that the wood had broken into two pieces made it easier to fix, unlike the harmonica, which was nearly shattered after Pursuer had thrown it against the wall, already damaged by the robot before that. Or maybe it was just the state he was in, feeling stressed and rushed.

After Pursuer left him there in the clearing, Artful couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d made the wrong choice- despite fully knowing there wasn’t a right one, not with the deal that had been offered. He tried to ignore it, tried to convince himself it didn’t matter, yet the aftermath of their fight kept circling back, leaving him guilty and unsettled. So when Pursuer disappeared, Artful had slowly made his way to the cabin. He searched the clearing for the scattered harmonica pieces, spotting them one by one whenever a shard caught the light. He gathered each fragment carefully and set them atop the fireplace, planning that when Pursuer returned, he’d tell him he would try to fix the instrument.

However, Pursuer had not come back in three days. Even yesterday, when it was raining, Artful expected him to barge in as usual, probably without food because he felt Pursuer was still angry with him. Artful would have been fine with that, but when he didn’t come, not even to get out of the rain, Artful was left alone with… well, with worry. Maybe only a little at first. And then that worry twisted into paranoia.

What if Pursuer was waiting for the right moment to confront him? After all, he had upset the other, and perhaps Pursuer now saw him as a target again. Maybe that was why he hadn’t returned, trying to catch Artful off guard like last time in the woods. 

Artful shivered slightly as he removed his mask and brushed his fingers against the scratches on his face, remnants from when Pursuer had pressed his head into the dirt. The memory stung, bringing back the pain each time he recalled it, as if the pressure on his head was still there, the claws digging into his skin. He quickly put the mask back on, breath quickening as he felt his nerves returning. Artful got up and picked up the pieces of the harmonica from the floor and corners. Afterward, he sat back down and closed his hands around it once again, despite knowing he probably would fail again with how his hands were trembling as they did right now. He squinted his eyes, concentrating, and feeling sweat once trailing down his back.

It wasn’t a matter of whether he could fix it, or even whether he wanted to. The real question was how soon Pursuer would come back for him. He needed the harmonica repaired as quickly as possible- if only to make sure the other got it back the moment he appeared again. Artful had even resorted to using his gloves instead of his wand, thinking it might make the process easier. If he wrapped his hands around all the cracks at once instead of focusing on a single point, the magic should’ve theoretically pulled the pieces together in one quick, clean spell- which he kept failing.

Artful bit into his lip again, tasting metal- probably from one of the tiny bruises he kept reopening, his teeth breaking the skin in the same spots. The cuts from his earlier attempt throbbed worse now, made sharper by the pressure of his gloves. Magic, to him, always felt like a kind of liquid, something coursing through his whole body in warm, steady currents. But with the cuts, it felt like it was leaking out with the blood, spilling through every damaged place and turning the sensation raw and unbearable.

Yet Artful ignored it. He was scared enough and just wished that the harmonica would finally be fixed, giving him some sense of reassurance that Pursuer wouldn’t kill him. But besides that, he couldn’t blame anyone but himself. His eyes drifted to the fang lying beside his wand on the blankets. The sight made his stomach twist, yet at the same time, something in it soothed him. For a moment, the tension in his muscles loosened, his gaze softening as if the gift itself was trying to calm him.

And he didn’t hate it, exactly… but he resented it. Resented that something from Pursuer could make his chest loosen after days of silence. His brain kept screaming that Pursuer would kill him- obviously he would… it was the sole reason he was trying to fix the harmonica. It replayed threats, and every moment Artful had been one breath away from dying. But his emotions betrayed him. Treacherously, they reminded him of things he didn’t want to think about: the moments when Pursuer had done something for him. Small, stupid moments that didn’t matter. Moments that shouldn’t matter. And Artful hated himself even more for remembering them while being in a vulnerable position.

He quickly turned away, feeling his ears warm up- a reaction that caught him off guard. Probably just the aftermath of the cold or maybe the strain of using too much magic at once. After a few minutes, once he forced himself to calm down, a strange sensation spread through his hands. Only then did he notice that the magic wasn’t flowing anymore. The sparkles and ripples that had leaked through the gaps between his fingers had quieted… then faded entirely. Confused, he hurriedly opened his hands. The harmonica rested in his palms, whole and pristine. It appeared as if it had just been purchased, smooth and shining, looking even better than it ever had before. At least, that was Artful's opinion, as he recalled seeing it in the past when it looked quite dirty and a bit rusty.

The result left Artful in shock for a moment before he proudly exhaled with a hint of joy. After all, it seemed he could still learn new spells despite all the pressure. Perhaps it was his urgency and stress that had contributed to his earlier failures. Although he was still not sure why the spell turned out that well, only now.

He got up and carefully placed the harmonica in the chest pocket of his vest, which had previously held his handkerchief. He had moved the handkerchief to his coat earlier, leaving the pocket empty, though now it seemed perfectly sized for the harmonica. He was sure it wouldn't fall out, considering the pocket itself was pretty tight, like the rest of his vest.

Artful bent over and picked up his wand from the blankets, then moved to the left side of the room near the door, where he had set up a mirror while Pursuer had been gone. He avoided looking directly at his own eyes, focusing instead on the adjustments he needed to make. Reaching for the hat that had been sitting atop the fireplace to his right, he adjusted it along his hair, nudging it slightly away from his face. His bangs had grown longer than he remembered, leaving him thinking he might need to cut his hair again soon.

Opening the door, he stepped outside, hesitating for a moment before finding himself standing in the middle of the clearing. The door closed quietly behind him. He wasn’t sure what to do next. Excitement bubbled up despite the fear; he wanted to wait for Pursuer (as unwise as it sounds) to see if he might come today. Around this time was when he showed up...usually. Standing outside felt better than hiding in the cabin, ears straining for every odd sound, bracing for an attack. Artful knew it was likely inevitable- that if Pursuer decided, he could be killed in an instant, which had been demonstrated a lot of times. And yes, he was still scared. But could anyone blame him? The experience with the spell had shifted something inside him, realising that there was no benefit from the excessive worrying. If he was going to wait, he would do it calmly, collected, and as relaxed as he could manage. He had done what he could. That had to be enough from his part now.

Artful looked up while quietly waiting, noticing how beautiful the sky was. The clouds seemed to be slightly smeared across, no perfect shapes, which gave it its own charm, as if it were a painting, tinted in warm orange colors, that slightly shifted to pink, casting warm colors on everything: the trees, the grass, and Artful himself, leaving an impression that this evening would turn out great-

bbzzzz-zzrmmm…

Before he could even register it, something streaked across the sky above the clearing, accompanied by a low hum, like an engine. Startled, Artful barely had time to track its movement as the silhouette darted past, weaving between the trees and quickly disappearing from his line of sight. He stepped to the side, moving away from the cabin, hoping for a better view. Had he been less focused, he might have mistaken it for a bird- a common sight in the forest, with owls and hawks often gliding overhead. But the brief moments he actually saw told a different story. It looked like a… drone. Small enough to pass for a bird at first glance.

Why was an aerial device in the forest of all places? Had civilians gotten their hands on drones to find him? No- that sounded ridiculous. These weren’t cheap, and the few civilians he’d seen in the past month were mostly vigilantes, not tech experts. The sheriff was dead, and the village was likely busy with its own problems. Wait. What if it wasn’t the civilians? What if it were the government? But that didn’t make sense either. He hadn’t seen any obvious attempts from them to track him after he attacked their workers in the forest. Think, Artful. Why could this piece of metal be here? It hadn’t stopped to record or even try to see his cabin more closely; it passed him without stopping. So… why?

Artful had no clue what this was about. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t figure out the reason. But curiosity and the fact that he was a wanted man pressed on him. He felt like he should follow it, trace its path. Maybe he could discover what the drone was after… or maybe he’d find nothing at all. Either way, he had to be careful not to fall into its view. Of course, that was assuming it hadn’t already recorded or transmitted his exact location to whoever was controlling it.

Artful quickly began running in the direction the drone had flown, passing the river he had marked along the trees and crossing it by using the big log still in place. Along the way, he paused occasionally to memorize landmarks, even if only briefly, so he could find his way back to the cabin without getting lost. At one point, he even started using the rocks he had gathered before, dropping one each time his memory needed a little extra help. By the end, he had wasted half the rocks, all while taking quick, shallow breaths- his stamina hadn’t improved as much as he’d hoped after feeling better.

The strangest things kept happening. Animals weren’t just going about their business; they were fleeing in the opposite direction of where Artful was heading. He saw a hedgehog and a chipmunk running together, completely ignoring him. A squirrel boldly jumped onto his hat before bouncing off to another tree. Even a mother fox darted between his legs, holding her kit carefully in her mouth, almost knocking him off his feet as she fled. 

The further he went, the more animals he saw, and the more unnerving the forest became. He felt strange vibrations through the ground, heard distant sounds like metal scraping and trees cracking. Maybe it was lumberjacks? Usually, animals fled whenever trees were cut. But that theory quickly fell apart. Scattered across the forest floor were small dead animals, half-eaten, torn from the inside out, some with organs missing, as if something had eaten them in a rush while they were still alive.

…Pursuer?! Was he the cause of this?? 

…Why did he hear trees falling then??

Artful dodged a flying woodpecker that seemed too panicked and young, inexperienced enough to almost collide with him. Thankfully, his reflexes worked in time, allowing him to duck before continuing to run forward until he finally stopped in between two trees, the only ones standing in front of the destroyed area.

What stood before him was indeed Pursuer- but not alone. Artful couldn’t even begin to describe the thing Pursuer was fighting against. It was enormous, towering at least eight feet tall, dwarfing both him and Pursuer. Its height rivaled some of the smaller trees around it, though many of the others had been destroyed or broken. Artful had no idea where the fragments had gone; in some places, the trees seemed to have burned to ashes, leaving only the stumps behind. The figure had a single, large green eye and no mouth. Its “head,” if it could be called that, was difficult to make out, as the entire body seemed to be composed of sand and sandstone blocks. Its legs and left arm were slightly darker, with a deeper orange hue, giving them a more concentrated, almost molten appearance.

It kept chasing Pursuer, pausing occasionally as if tiring, or bizarrely summoning a massive javelin out of nowhere, which also didn't look like something Artful would name “magic”. Similar to the kind used in sports competitions, it was far larger and sharper than any normal spear, almost looking like a giant weapon, with a thick chain attached to its end. It hurled the javelin violently at Pursuer, screaming as it did so. Pursuer responded in kind, going almost animalistic, roaring so fiercely that Artful’s ears ached; he could feel them on the verge of bleeding. And it looked like it had the same effect on the other being, which was much closer to Pursuer, making them scream and tick almost as if they were in agonizing pain, covering the places where their ears were supposed to be located.

The javelin grazed Pursuer’s arm as he dodged in the moment, cutting slightly and letting teal-colored blood trickle down, before in the same instance returning to its owner, thanks to its chain. The wound left a golden-yellowish hue where the spear had connected with, eerily familiar to the smaller, similar cuts Artful remembered from the last time Pursuer had on while attacking him.

He would have kept watching if not for the same annoying buzzing in the air, somewhere above him. Artful looked up and saw the drone hovering there, its camera trained on the battle below, switching focus from Pursuer to the towering figure across from him. Now it was more or less clear why it was here. He didn’t care how it had found them; the fact that it was recording left him both angry and uneasy. In a flick of his wrist, he swung his wand. A brick shot through the air, hitting two of its propellers. Sparks flew where the brick struck, plastic shards scattering in all directions as the drone spiraled to the ground.

Artful rushed over and stomped on the front lens, which had been actively recording, a red dot blinking atop it. It probably caught his face in the process, but it was better than leaving it intact. All that remained was a shattered lens, reflecting his furrowed brows and eyes tightly closed as usual, before he eventually turned around back to the fight.

A spear came hurtling toward him, catching him completely off guard. He tried to counter with a wall, realizing too late that there wasn’t enough time to dodge. Before the barrier could even fully form or the javelin struck, his entire body was swept off his feet, slammed to the ground behind a few large stumps in a futile attempt at cover.

Pursuer loomed above him, breathing heavily but still composed, teeth bared. His eyes flicked to the towering figure before snapping back to Artful, fury blazing. Artful lay beneath him, disoriented, feeling heat creeping into his ears and cheeks beneath his makeup. Reality hit him like a jolt, snapping him fully back to the situation. He shoved Pursuer away, and they both scrambled behind the stumps as Artful summoned four walls, two on each side to cover their sides, and one in front just as another spear hurtled toward them. He then spun around to look at Pursuer before whisper-shouting.

-”Comment aurais-je pu savoir qu'il y avait un autre monstre que toi ici?! You never mentioned to me anything considering ZAT- i was after ze drone not this!”(1)

Pursuer growled low, clearly unamused. His back spikes were raised, tail lifted slightly, but still, every movement was alert. Artful noticed something else too, Pursuer was drooling, stomach rumbling as his gaze locked on him, dead in the eyes. His knuckles turned slightly teal from the pressure as his claws dug into the ground and the side wall, gripping it like it was a lifeline. Fear surged back through Artful. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, his wall shattered. A hand- or what seemed to replace a hand, shaped like a sandstone column- smashed through it, leaving a gaping hole between him and Pursuer. Both of them sprang to their feet and darted in opposite directions, scrambling out from cover.

Despite Artful’s expectation that the humanoid figure would come after him, it didn’t. It completely ignored him, locking its gaze on Pursuer instead. Without hesitation, it launched into a sprint, heading straight for him. Pursuer leaped onto a nearby tree, using it to vault behind the figure. The impact destroyed the tree mid-jump, splintering wood and sending shards flying in all directions. Artful watched, eyes darting from one place to another- how could Persuer and he possibly stop something like that?

He stayed on the sidelines, occasionally casting brick walls whenever a spear threatened Pursuer, shielding his vulnerable sides. The walls were destroyed almost instantly, but even a few moments of cover gave Pursuer time to catch his breath. Pursuer roared more times than he ever did, which surprised Artful; he had only heard and seen it once before, but the roar seemed to affect the humanoid figure. It faltered, panicking, pausing mid-step. Artful seized the opportunity, attacking with bricks and walls from the back and sides, while Pursuer struck with his sword. Most of the swings missed, but a few connected, cutting chunks of sand from the figure’s body that slipped to the ground like sand through a broken hourglass.

Even so, the strain was showing. Pursuer’s movements became rushed and less precise, his speed faltering, and Artful noticed him clutching his stomach while drooling in the process. Artful himself was starting to falter as well, his spells weakening with each passing moment. Now the three stood in a tense triangle, facing one another in the near-empty clearing where so many trees had been obliterated. Pursuer and Artful together against the figure, which only grew angrier and more panicked with every passing second. Yet considering they got to a point where all of them were clearly spent, and hadn't dared to exactly do the first move, the figure suddenly took a weird still stance, making Artful halt slightly, with Pursuer glaring at it.

Its eyes slid shut, and the ground around it trembled as wet sand began to swirl inward, patching over the broken pieces, trying to rebuild its half-shattered frame. Both Artful and Pursuer tensed, ready to stop it before it finished, but the figure abruptly froze. The repair halted halfway. Its eyes snapped open, staring downward with something disturbingly close to fear. It tried to bolt, only to slip.

In fact, all three of them slipped.

Artful barely had time to blink before the ground vanished. A startled, high-pitched noise escaped him as he dropped, his hands scraping desperately along the collapsing walls. He tried to grab anything, stones, roots, cracks- but only succeeded in shredding his palms. Pursuer shrieked, claws raking at everything and nothing. Where Artful fell straight down, he spun wildly, limbs flailing, clearly having no control over the drop. The humanoid figure spiraled too, though less chaotically. They twisted mid-air, trying to spot something, anything, that could save them- but there was nothing to grab, nothing to latch onto as they fell.

SPLASH

All three of them hit the underground water with a heavy splash, the current immediately yanking their bodies along with it. None of them had time to think, only panic.

Artful fought for air, his head dipping under the surface every few seconds. Each time he came back up, he sputtered and choked, barely managing a breath before being pulled under again. It didn’t help that Pursuer was losing his mind- going absolutely ballistic, thrashing wildly, slapping at the water with clawed hands, and sending waves in every direction. Some of those waves crashed directly into Artful, shoving him sideways and only heightening his panic. He tried to look for the humanoid figure through the chaos, but saw no sign of their head above the surface. A sharp gasp tore out of him, nearly costing him his next breath. Oh mon Dieu! se sont-ils noyés?!(2) He blinked rapidly, water stinging his eyes, shouting at Pursuer to stop flailing and making everything worse. 

Helping Pursuer directly was terrifying. Artful wasn’t even a strong swimmer; he’d only ever managed to stay afloat with floaties, and Pursuer’s claws made grabbing him feel like a death wish. But eventually, Artful forced himself to focus. He noticed the water ahead funnelling into a dead end, most of it swirling downward through a narrow hole in the stone wall. To the side, patches of exposed soil clung to the cavern wall, forming an uneven slope they could climb onto. With no other choice, Artful lunged for Pursuer’s arm, trying to catch him without getting his skin shredded. The moment Artful grasped in a weak hold the other's arm, Pursuer only panicked harder.

“STOP IT, PURSUER! CALM DOWN! I’M TRYING TO—GAH—HELP US!”

Pursuer didn’t listen. His eyes were wild, claws thrashing everywhere, but he did notice Artful dragging himself through the water, desperately trying to “swim” toward the sloped soil on the side. For a brief moment, Pursuer’s movements even softened, like he had begun to trust Artful. But then a strong wave slammed into the magician. It forced him under instantly. Cold water closed over him, and instinct made him open his mouth- only for it to fill with water instead of air. He tried coughing, choking, anything to force a sound out, some kind of shout or plea, but nothing came out. His chest burned. His vision dimmed at the edges, the world going darker no matter how fast he blinked.

For a split second, he was sure he was done for.

Then something yanked him upward so sharply it felt like being ripped from a void. Artful burst above the surface with a violent gasp, hauled up by the waist. Pursuer’s arms locked around him and pulled him close while his other hand drove his sword deep into the soil. At the last possible moment, Pursuer had understood what Artful was trying to do. The weapon wedged itself into the dirt like an anchor, trembling from the force of the current as it held both of them above the rushing water.

As soon as Artful felt his palm scrape against the gritty slope, he scrambled up, pushing with all the remaining strength he had. Pursuer shoved from below to help him, claws digging into the mud for leverage. Artful collapsed onto the sloping ground, spitting out water and coughing hard. Pursuer climbed up next, pulling himself out without hesitation or assistance. When Artful reached a trembling hand toward him in an offer to help, Pursuer slapped it away with a sharp growl, refusing to look at him. The rejection stung…not physically, but enough to make Artful’s chest tighten in confusion, knowing that just a few seconds ago Pursuer seemed to put his trust in him.

The two of them finally had a moment to breathe. Artful slumped on one side of the cavern, drenched and exhausted. Pursuer sat on the opposite side, having yanked his sword free from the soaked soil. He shook himself off, just like he used to do during a rain, sending droplets scattering everywhere, then dropped down heavily against one of the larger stones. He sat cross-legged, chest rising and falling in harsh breaths, his whole frame trembling with the effort it took to keep upright. 

Artful wasn’t doing much better. He peeled off his vest and shoved a hand under his shirt, fingers brushing over his shoulder where his bandaged wound was supposed to be. Thankfully, there wasn’t much additional damage. The skin there had mostly closed, mostly, but the touch still made him hiss quietly. At least it didn’t feel like it had torn open completely. His hands, however, were a disaster. Scraped raw, palms sliced in several places, and bleeding. New bruises were forming on the already older ones, making them worse. 

He exhaled a shaky sigh when he noticed another cut, this one running from his collarbone toward his right shoulder. Shallow, but stinging. He pulled his vest back on anyway, grimacing at the sensation of the soaked fabric clinging coldly to his skin. The water ran in uncomfortable trails down his arms and back, but he forced himself to ignore it. A quick glance at Pursuer made Artful pause. The creature was hunched forward slightly… chewing on something he couldn’t see, teeth working slowly, jaw tense. It didn’t look like a good moment to say anything. Artful looked away again. Probably safer to stay quiet…

Then it hit him.

Artful jolted upright with a sudden spike of panic, hands scrambling to his vest. He patted down the chest pocket once, twice, and then practically dove into it.

The harmonica.
Oh Robloxia please- 

His fingers brushed metal. It was there.

Artful let out a breath that came out half-laugh, half-wheeze, sagging with relief. His heart was still thudding in his throat. The only reason it hadn’t been washed away was that miraculously, it had gotten caught on a loose string inside the vest’s lining. One of those annoying little threads he usually cut off or tied up the moment he found them. Right now, he had never been more grateful for his own forgetfulness. He gently adjusted the harmonica back into the pocket, exhaling again as the panic fully dissolved. Somehow, still safe.

Suddenly, a heavy wave of water surged upward.
Artful jerked in place for the second time that minute, instinctively bracing, while Pursuer snapped his head toward the source.

A sandstone column burst out of the water beneath them.

It lifted the figure’s body up and out of the current, setting them back onto the surface like some collapsing statue returning to land. For a long moment, the creature didn’t move- just sagged there, hunched, dripping, sand sliding off in uneven clumps. Then its single eye flickered open. It turned its gaze toward Artful and Pursuer across the water… then looked away, almost ashamed, or simply exhausted. Its entire body looked fragile, half-melted sand crumbling from its limbs, reforms happening too slow, too sloppy, as it tried desperately to gather itself back together. It scooped at the scattered grains with shaking movements, as if trying to hold its own shape in place until it dried. None of the three moved. It was as if, silently, instinctively, they all agreed, now was not the time to continue fighting.

Artful wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting there, but none of them moved. And it felt like actual hours had passed.

The sand figure stayed where it was, doing nothing besides occasionally twitching or shifting at the sound of Pursuer’s teeth clicking together. Each time, it turned its head in their direction- only to look away again once it realized there was no threat coming. No attack or movement. Just Pursuer sitting there, shoulders heaving with breath, refusing to even glance at Artful. Which worried him. A lot more than he wanted to admit. Every time Artful thought of asking Are you okay?, he stopped himself. Maybe because he wanted to believe Pursuer would speak up if something was actually wrong. Or maybe because Pursuer’s stomach was growling so loudly it sent a chill straight down Artful’s spine. That alone made any attempt at conversation feel like the worst idea imaginable. With Artful not really having a tool to defend himself, the current took his wand and hat away.

So he just sat there. Thinking. Overthinking. His mind drifted to the drone; where it came from, who sent it, and whether it had already transmitted everything it saw before he smashed it. Then his thoughts crawled back to the monster from before, the one that attacked Pursuer. Was that… this same being? This creature now slumped across the water? It clearly wasn’t attacking anymore. It didn’t want to. So why had it attacked in the first place? Or was Pursuer the one who struck first? He didn’t know anymore. It didn’t make sense either way. The creature didn’t even look like it had flesh, so it shouldn’t have been something Pursuer would consider… edible. And how did it even get out of the water? Artful could’ve sworn it drowned down there. It should’ve drowned down there.

All of these thoughts were making Artful feel drained. His head ached from thinking too much, and he let out a long, shaky sigh before his eyes inevitably drifted back to Pursuer. They were wasting time like this. And if he was being honest with himself… working together was the only thing that made sense right now…And maybe, just maybe, he wanted them to interact again. Even if it was just a glare, or a grunt, or something that proved Pursuer wasn’t locking him out on purpose.

In hesitation, Artful bit his lip. Coward. He really was one, wasn’t he? Especially when it came to his relationships- family, friends… allies? He always hesitated, always turning things out for the worst when he acted selfishly. And now there was no one else. Only the cavern, lit faintly by rippling waterlight against its walls and what he considered an ‘enemy’ on the opposite side.

And Pursuer who sat there not looking at him or moving much.

Artful exhaled quietly, something like reluctant…acceptance washing over him. Maybe defeat. Maybe determination. He couldn’t tell anymore. He pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the sting in his shredded palms, then slowly walked toward Pursuer. The other still didn’t look up- not even when Artful stopped just a few steps away, ironically reminding Artful of the same way he tried to ignore the other.

“Pursuer?”

It ignored him and kept staring silently somewhere ahead of itself, not even at the sandy figure.

“I just want to apologize, for uhm, you know, breaking ur harmonica. Voilà! J'ai essayé de la réparer.”(3)

The familiar word that defined his toy (instrument) snapped Pursuer’s head up instantly. His eyes flashed, jaw tightening like he was about to unleash another furious growl. But the sound never came. Because his gaze fell on Artful’s extended hand that held the same harmonica that had been shattered just days ago.

Pursuer froze. Slowly, almost mechanically, he pushed himself away from the stone and stood, stepping right in front of Artful. Towering over him. Staring down in a silence so heavy, Artful swore he could hear his own heartbeat. Artful couldn’t read him, not even a flicker. He glanced at Pursuer’s tail, hoping for the usual swish or twitch that betrayed his emotions. Nothing. His spikes were still too, unmoving like carved stone. Not even a shiver. That worried him more than any growl would have. He swallowed, his hand trembling slightly as he kept the harmonica outstretched toward him, waiting. Hoping the other would take it and hoping he didn’t just make everything worse.

“Ah. Je sais que tu étais sans doute plus attaché à l'ancien… i- i mean, it looked pretty used up, but i hope zis ones will do fine for you.”(4)

Suddenly, Pursuer dropped into a low hunch and leaned forward, so fast and so abruptly that the top of his head bumped straight into Artful’s chest. The impact jolted him, forcing a small gasp out of his lungs and nearly making him fumble the harmonica entirely. His heart kicked into a panicked rhythm, fear rushing through him first… and then that other feeling he didn’t want to name, simmering beneath it. But mostly fear. Because whatever Pursuer was doing- this strange, silent behavior- was starting to genuinely frighten him. Artful parted his lips, shifting his weight instinctively, unsure whether he should step back.

“Pursuer, y-you okay there?”

Pursuer’s claws shot out, gripping Artful’s left arm- thankfully avoiding the wounded shoulder, but the sharp tips threatened to pierce his skin. His breathing was heavy, ragged, and unsteady, shaking through his body as if he were struggling to contain himself. Then Artful felt something warm and sticky land on his vest. He glanced down, or at least tried to, but Pursuer’s head was still pressed against his chest. Drool, trembling, soaking into the fabric. 

And then, without warning, Pursuer lifted his head slightly… and forced his teeth into Artful’s wound on the right shoulder. Pain shot through him immediately, a sharp, raw sting that made him gasp. His body tensed, part from the bite itself, part from the sheer unpredictability of the other’s actions.

Artful froze, completely lost. The harmonica slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor as he scrambled to push Pursuer away, his right arm raised instinctively- but then he stopped, unsure what to do next. Panic slowly gave way to confusion. His eyes met Pursuer’s, and he realized the other seemed… elsewhere, almost trance-like. Teeth still pressed into Artful’s flesh, but there was no intention to bite through. It was as if Pursuer just needed to chew and soothe his urge for food while trying to hold himself back from mauling the other.  And then, just as unsettling, he felt the rough, wet touch of the other’s tongue licking the blood that trickled from the wound through the fabric. Artful’s chest tightened, heart beating fast, which seemed to even urge Pursuer more into the bite, probably reminding him of an actual prey, as Artful thought, while trying to reason it. Sickeningly, part of him couldn’t look away, something darker, inexplicable, something like fascination and pity.

Instead of protesting further, Artful stopped altogether. His hand, still raised earlier in a fist, slowly relaxed. Hesitantly, he placed it on Pursuer’s back. At first, it rested there lightly, unsure. Then, cautiously, he made small circular motions, patting gently from time to time, almost as if testing the waters- whether the other would push him away or accept the gesture. Pursuer didn't seem to mind; it actually seemed to work better along whatever the two of them were doing right now.

Artful guessed he didn't have much choice…but to wait.

Chapter Text

At some point, Artful had started to feel numb in the area where Pursuer was biting him. The creature hadn’t loosened his jaw even once; his teeth were still sunk deep, and not even the layer of clothing between them could soften the pain. Artful stood there with his teeth clenched, forcing himself not to move while Pursuer slowly began to come back to his senses. His tail twitched, the spikes along his spine giving small, disoriented movements.

He knew it would have been smarter to let Pursuer stay latched onto his flesh a little longer; it was the fastest way to ground him. But the idea of walking away with yet another nasty bruise, on top of his already shot shoulder and raw palms, was something Artful really didn’t want. So he tapped Pursuer’s back.

Pursuer shifted his jaw slightly in response. The small movement of those teeth scraping deeper into his skin sent a burst of pain through him, making Artful grunt.

“Alright, I think that’s enough for you- let go of my shoulder.”

Pursuer didn’t react. If anything, his grip tightened, anchoring Artful in place, as if he hadn’t processed a single word. The pain spiked again, and Artful’s patience snapped.

“I said STOP IT!” he yelped, landing a punch on the same shoulder with as much force as he could master, on the spot he had patted just fifteen minutes ago. He was trying to hurry the process along, to “soothe” both of them; encourage Pursuer to fight his hunger urges, and in a way, reassure himself that the other wasn’t about to actually eat him- which now Artful was increasingly doubting.

He raised his hand to hit him again in a small panic, but froze when he saw Pursuer’s tail flinch. That tiny motion was enough of a sign that he was back in reality. Pursuer withdrew almost hesitantly, releasing the bruised skin and damaged vest. He gave it one final, slow lick, clearly enjoying the taste of fresh blood and meat, leaving teel saliva all over the area that started slowly mixing with Artful’s blood, before pulling away completely, straightening to his usual posture, no longer pressed against the magician’s body, who also let go of Pursuer’s back.

It was… awkward now. Painfully so, as they both stood there in complete silence, neither moving nor speaking. Pursuer looked as if he were waiting for Artful to take the lead and make conversation, but Artful had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to say after nearly getting gnawed on. Especially not while Pursuer was staring directly into his eyes and casually licking his teeth, as if tasting the last traces of flesh. Artful’s gaze snapped away immediately. His eyes then landed on the sand figure across from them. And of course, because he had raised his voice a few seconds ago, they were now turned towards both of them. For some reason, that made a hot wave of embarrassment rush up his neck. He could practically feel his face warming; the faint flush was made even more obvious by the smudged makeup that had half-washed off earlier, doing a terrible job at hiding anything.

But his attention went back to Pursuer, who bent over, his hand stretching to the ground and picking up the Harmonica. He got up and started spinning it around, just like he used to when finding new trinkets, or items on the dead bodies- Artful recalled immediately.

-”Don't tell me you aren't recognising it…”

Artful reached out, ready to take it from his hands and show him that it was his old harmonica. But the moment his fingers came close, Pursuer yanked his hand back with a low growl, clutching the item protectively. Without a word, he tied the newly fixed harmonica back to its usual place, securing it to the worn rope dangling from his dark blade. Artful let out a small sigh in relief. So he did recognise it after all. He probably was just inspecting it because of how different it looked now.

The sound to his right made Artful turn again. The sandy figure had moved- well, more like begun pacing in a slow circle, inspecting the area as if mapping it out. Their “hands” dragged lightly across the rocky surfaces, feeling along the walls as though searching for a weakness. Every so often, they paused, tilting their head, as if listening for any hollow patches that might offer a way to break through. But it seemed like no opportunity was present. Every test ended the same: solid rock, meaning no escape.

Artful watched as they drifted from one section to another, their movements growing more aimless by the minute. The constant noise of the water flowing inside the hole in the wall, the same one all three of them had escaped from, barely avoiding getting crushed, seemed to disorient the figure. The noise made it impossible for them to focus.

Artful swallowed and glanced at Pursuer again, speaking in a low whisper.

“Kh-hem… so… are you still mad at me?” He faked a small cough and fussed with the torn parts of his gloves, eyes fixed on his hands instead of Pursuer’s face. He knew he probably looked nervous and fidgety, but he needed something to keep his fingers busy, or else he’d just stand there vibrating with anxiety. He wasn't quite sure if Pursuer was in a better mood now, despite clearly coming back to his senses. And Artful needed them to work together- otherwise there was a big chance of them getting stuck here for longer than he wanted, resulting in other worries. 

But to his surprise, something nudged his leg. He halted, then looked down. Pursuer’s tail had swished against him, just a small touch, before he turned his attention back toward their former enemy across the water. The gesture left Artful’s chest feeling lighter… even a little content, which he wasn't going to deny now, after he experienced the fear and paranoia from having Pursuer as an enemy.

Artful started scanning the cavern again. The place was barely lit, his eyes could only pick up shapes thanks to the faint reflections of water rippling across the stone. Wherever they were now, it was way too far from the original spot they’d fallen through. The current was strong, pulling steadily in one direction, and the height of that drop- yeah, climbing back was physically impossible…at least for Artful. How could the ground have even collapsed? A sinkhole? It had to be. Days of rain had probably soaked the soil above, weakening everything beneath it. And then the sandy figure, when rebuilding its body earlier, must have pulled too much material from the surrounding ground, unintentionally hollowing it out even more. A cavity formed beneath them until the surface finally lost its support and gave in. What luck.

While Artful was lost in thought, Pursuer suddenly roared- a deep, violent sound that vibrated through the entire cave, the ground itself seeming to shudder. Artful jerked around, hands flying to his ears, just in time to see the sandy figure snap its single eye open. It gripped one of its javelins, whether it had drawn it right before the roar or because of it, he couldn’t tell, but the timing certainly didn’t help. The roar agitated it further, and the figure’s hostility only fed back into Pursuer’s growing aggression. The more the creature bristled and lifted its weapon, the louder Pursuer roared, snarling and baring his teeth. Their reactions bounced off one another like a vicious loop, threat feeding threat. The figure’s lone eye glowed faintly in the dark, fixed directly on Pursuer.

At this rate, one of them was going to die. If that javelin landed even once, if it skewered him or Pursuer, they would be yanked straight into the rushing water behind them, and Artful wasn’t sure they would get lucky once again and get out safely. He had to try to stop this-

“PURSUER! STOP ROARING!” he shouted, voice cracking with urgency as he rushed to his side, he was about to pull the other by the shoulder, but the glint of Pursuer's bared teeth made him hesitate and hold back, resorting only to words.

Pursuer’s snarl got cut off mid-growl. For a split second, the cavern fell silent, with the occasional sound of water and chain moving from the figure’s javelin. Pursuer’s chest rose and fell in sharp, heavy breaths, his tail stiff, spikes raised, muscles tensed. His eyes burned with that same primal hostility right up until they landed fully on Artful, and his teeth slowly lowered back, although he did go back to sending daggers towards the figure. Luckily, just like Artful thought, the lack of noise made them relax a bit into their stance. It was good, but Artful needed this thing to get their weapon away…maybe they could talk?

“Can you understand what I’m saying?” Artful addressed them, his voice low and hesitant. The sound seemed to stir the figure slightly, but they didn’t take him as a threat. Instead, they began making strange ticking and clicking noises, their body twitching in rhythm. Artful’s stomach tightened; he had no idea what to make of it, and the uncertainty left him on edge.

-“Uh…”

-“click...tack… click... click…”

-“...” He was completely lost. Verbal communication wasn't an option. His eyes flicked to Pursuer’s blade. Maybe he could scratch a message on the wall with it? Pursuer caught the glance instantly. He bared his teeth at Artful, low and threatening, making it perfectly clear that he would not give him the sword,  lowering his body and hunching defensively, putting even more distance between them.

Artful froze for a moment, then stepped back, forcing a nervous smile. “Okay… okay, not the sword!” he muttered, glancing around desperately for another option. His gaze landed on something on the ground- a sharp rock. Not ideal, but maybe it would work. He could try scratching the cavern surface with it. He wasn’t sure if it would do any good, but it was worth a try.

So he crouched slowly, picking up the sharp rock, eyes flicking nervously between the figure and the wall. He had to be careful- one wrong move, and it looked like the figure might throw their javelin at him. The way they gripped the weapon, posture tense, made it clear they were seriously tempted to. Artful hesitated for a heartbeat, then began scratching into the cavern wall. The noise made the figure twitch violently, every click and scrape seeming to irritate them even more. Their body coiled, ready to strike and to fling the javelin straight at him, which made Pursuer take out his sword. But then its gaze landed on the words forming on the wall.

‘ Do you understand me? ’

Their reaction clearly was one of surprise as they stood still for a moment, their eye widened, before lowering the javelin and doing the same thing Artful did- starting to write on the wall with it.

‘ 𐌙𐌄𐌔 ’

Artful almost could audibly hear himself exhale with relief when he made out the word- additionally, he noticed that the letters were quite different from English while still looking really close to the language. Pursuer, on the other hand, looked from one wall to another in confusion as he watched the two write.

‘ What about when I spoke? ‘

‘ 𐌍Ꝋ. 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵𐌓 𐌋𐌀𐌍Ᏽ𐌵𐌀Ᏽ𐌄 𐌉𐌔 𐌅Ꝋ𐌓𐌄𐌉Ᏽ𐌍 𐌕Ꝋ 𐌌𐌄. Ꮤ𐋅𐌀𐌕 𐌃Ꝋ 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵 Ꮤ𐌀𐌍𐌕? ‘
[No. Your language is foreign to me. What do you want?]

‘ I was hoping you’d agree to work together ‘

‘ 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵𐌓𐌄 𐌕ꝊꝊ 𐌋Ꝋ𐌵𐌃. 𐌍Ꝋ𐌕 ᏔꝊ𐌓𐌕𐋅 𐌕𐋅𐌄 𐌓𐌉𐌔𐌊 ‘
[You're too loud. Not worth the risk]

Artful slowed down, as he realised he had no idea what that meant, glancing at Pursuer in the process, who was still looking at one wall, then the other like a lost tourist. Was it because of him? What did they even mean by “risk”??

‘ Meaning? ‘

‘ 𐌕𐋅𐌄 𐌁𐌉ᏵᏵ𐌄𐌓 𐌂Ꝋ𐌍𐌔𐌕𐌓𐌵𐌂𐌕𐌔 Ꮤ𐌉𐌋𐌋 𐋅𐌄𐌀𐌓 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵 ‘
[The bigger constructs will hear you]

‘ What? We don't have… whatever you mean by constructs, here ‘

This time it was the figure who halted. They looked at Artful with what seemed like bewilderment, their posture shifting in the process.

‘ 𐌌𐌙 𐌊𐌉𐌍𐌃 ‘
[My kind]

‘ I see you for the first time, and never seen anything like you around here ‘

‘ 𐌉 𐌂𐌀𐌍𐌍Ꝋ𐌕 𐌁𐌄𐌋𐌄𐌉ᕓ𐌄 𐌕𐋅𐌀𐌕 ‘
[I cannot believe that]

Artful found himself at a standstill. He assumed that they probably were afraid of making noise because they were afraid of… constructs? He wasn't sure where this being even came from, but so far, he hasn't heard anything in the newspapers or anything related to said race. But rather than arguing with them and wasting time, he decided to go along with their views for the moment. He thought that if they could reach a compromise quickly, it would help them all get out of the situation safely and swiftly. His main objective was to find a way for them to work together, so he shifted the conversation away from the weird topic.

‘ We need to get out of here, I'm sure you want to. What about this- we try our best to be as quiet as possible, and you agree to work with us? ‘

‘ 𐌉 𐌂𐌀𐌍𐌍Ꝋ𐌕 𐌕𐌓𐌔𐌵𐌕 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵𐌓 𐌐𐌀𐌓𐌕𐌍𐌄𐌓 ‘
[I cannot trust your partner]

Artful almost squealed, “Mon quoi?!” (1), but thankfully, he caught himself just in time, causing Pursuer to glance back at the faint noise. He quickly went back to writing on the wall.

‘ Me and Pursuer aren't a couple ‘

‘ 𐌂Ꝋ𐌌𐌐𐌀𐌍𐌉Ꝋ𐌍 𐌕𐋅𐌄𐌍? ‘
[Companion then?]

‘ Yes, I'll make sure to ask him not to roar anymore ‘

‘ 𐌉𐌅 𐋅𐌄 𐌃Ꝋ𐌄𐌔𐌍𐌕, 𐌂Ꝋ𐌍𐌔𐌉𐌃𐌄𐌓 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵𐌓𐌔𐌄𐌋𐌅 𐌃𐌄𐌀𐌃 ‘
[If he doesn't, consider yourself dead]

‘ Okay. Any ideas on how to get out of here? ‘

‘ 𐌌𐌙 𐋅𐌄𐌀𐌓𐌉𐌍Ᏽ 𐌉𐌔 Ꮤ𐌄𐌋𐌋, 𐌁𐌵𐌕 𐌌𐌙 𐌄𐌙𐌄𐌔𐌉Ᏽ𐋅𐌕 𐌉𐌔 𐌒𐌵𐌉𐌕𐌄 𐌁𐌀𐌃 𐌉𐌍 𐌔𐌵𐌂𐋅 𐌃𐌉𐌌 𐌋𐌉Ᏽ𐋅𐌕𐌍𐌉𐌍Ᏽ ‘
[My hearing is well, but my eyesight is quite bad in such dim lighting]

‘ So? ‘

‘ 𐌉 𐌌𐌀𐌙 𐋅𐌄𐌀𐌓 𐌀 𐌃𐌉𐌅𐌅𐌄𐌓𐌄𐌍𐌂𐌄 Ꝋ𐌍 𐌕𐋅𐌄 𐌔𐌵𐌓𐌅𐌀𐌂𐌄 𐌕𐋅𐌀𐌕 𐌂𐌀𐌍 𐋅𐌄𐌋𐌐 𐌵𐌔 Ᏽ𐌄𐌕 Ꝋ𐌵𐌕 Ꝋ𐌅 𐋅𐌄𐌓𐌄, 𐌁𐌵𐌕 𐌉 ᏔꝊ𐌍𐌕 𐌁𐌄 𐌀𐌁𐌋𐌄 𐌕Ꝋ 𐌔𐌄𐌄 𐌉𐌕 ‘
[I may hear a difference on the surface that can help us get out of here, but I won't be able to see it]

‘ Got it, we can start by walking further away from here. Stop when you notice something; otherwise, we won't understand what you mean. Also, may I know your name? ‘

‘ 𐋅𐌀𐌓𐌊𐌄𐌍 ‘
[Harken]

‘ I'm Artful ‘

With that, they stopped writing. Harken turned to face them, still clutching her javelin, while Pursuer gripped his sword. Artful wanted to tell Pursuer to put it away, but after a moment’s thought, he didn’t. He couldn’t fully trust her yet. Harken could decide at any second to attack, and given the way she eyed Pursuer, it seemed likely she might strike him first. So he stayed quiet. When he noticed Pursuer about to make a sound again, Artful flicked a finger to get his attention and traced another along his own lips, silently signalling, “Stay quiet.” For Pursuer, it seemed an easy task- he was usually excellent at stalking, keeping his presence and volume low. Pursuer complied, thankfully understanding the gesture, and Artful noticed that Harken seemed to calm slightly, as if sensing the shift. Still, the tension between the two of them was palpable.

She began walking to the right, following the slope that led back toward the way they had initially come from. Unfortunately, Artful could see that the slope wasn’t very long, maybe fifty meters at most, with everything else being water, so the chance of finding anything useful was slim. Nevertheless, he matched her pace, keeping to the opposite side, with Pursuer trailing closely behind. They moved in silence. Harken would pause occasionally, just for a few seconds, to check for any weak points or alternative paths, then continue on.

Artful and Pursuer did the same, though their approach was different: they relied on sight rather than sound. Artful’s concentration wavered, however, when Pursuer swished his tail sharply against the back of his legs. Each time it happened, Artful spun around, thinking the other might need something. But Pursuer appeared completely absorbed in his own business. He did, however, catch Pursuer glancing down at him once. On impulse, Artful brushed his hand “accidentally” along the other side while slightly speeding up, sneaking a glance to gauge the reaction. Pursuer merely gave him a look, mimicking Artful’s “silent” gesture by putting his clawed finger atop his mouth, mockingly, smiling with his set of teeth. 

Artful slowly turned back forward, forcing himself to concentrate on the matters at hand, though the sudden pop-up memory of the fact that Harken mistook them for a… had made Artful feel weird about himself, and over all of them, in general, and…whatever they had going on.

Thankfully, he was pulled out of his spiralling thoughts before they could go too far when he noticed Harken had stopped- longer than a casual pause, and was staring directly at him, waiting for him and Pursuer to do their part. Artful snapped to attention, quickly scanning the dimly lit walls. The faint light made it harder to see, but by now he’d grown accustomed to it, and he was able to pick out shapes and irregularities more easily. Pursuer mirrored him shortly after, noticing that the magician was actively searching for anything helpful.

Artful ran his hands along the walls, hoping to feel a difference, maybe some crack or a hollow, something they could exploit. Surprisingly, after a moment, Pursuer stopped moving, squinted his eyes while looking at a specific place in the wall, before without hesitation, he drove his sword into the soil with a violent thrust. He paused for a few seconds, testing it, then twisted the blade. The section of ground moved slightly- revealing a faint circular line. It was loose, but the mud and dirt packed into the narrow space made it almost invisible, blending perfectly with the surrounding surface. 

With a single forceful pull, Pursuer lifted the circular piece of rock away, shaking it off his blade afterwards. Beneath it was a button, etched with a strange symbol vaguely resembling a… boulder? clearly out of place to be here. Artful and Pursuer exchanged a glance. Carefully, Artful pressed the button.

The surrounding walls began to groan and tremble, loose pebbles rattling down as the ground beneath their feet shook. All three immediately tensed, instinctively shifting into guarded stances. For a fleeting moment, Artful panicked, thinking the slope might collapse and send them all tumbling back into the water. But just as abruptly as it started, the shaking stopped. Silence followed.

Then, with a deep grating sound, the rocky wall in front of Artful and Pursuer, one he had earlier traced with his hands, split open. Stone parted slowly, revealing a spiralling staircase descending into darkness. Pursuer and Artful both stepped back cautiously, exchanging a glance before looking toward the other side. There, the same thing was happening. The wall had opened before Harken as well. Unlike them, she didn’t hesitate. She approached it without a word, her tall silhouette framed against the dim light as she stepped onto the stairway. Then loud steps followed as she disappeared around the first curve, out of their sight.

“You think it’s a good idea?” Artful asked, even though he already knew the answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the spot where Harken had vanished. The stairs went down, not up, deeper underground rather than toward the surface. It didn’t feel reassuring in the slightest… but it was also their only option, strange as it looked.

No answer followed his question. Artful turned his head, only to find Pursuer already descending the steps.

“Pursuer!” Artful half shouted, scrambling after him. 

A few steps down, darkness enveloped everything. Artful had to cling to the wall, moving slowly and carefully, stretching one foot out each time to feel for the next solid piece of ground. Each step felt like a gamble, especially with the wetness and humidity present in the space, increasing the chances of slipping up. Pursuer, meanwhile, moved ahead with far less struggle. Artful could only tell where he was when the other let out something similar to a snort, coinciding with the exact moment Artful nearly fell, frustrating him in the process.

“Si tu n'as rien de mieux à faire que de te moquer de moi, aide-moi plutôt!” (2) Artful complained, waving one hand toward where he’d last heard Pursuer’s snort. He made a clumsy attempt to feel for the other’s arm or shoulder- though in truth, he only wanted to annoy him enough so he’d walk ahead and stop finding this funny, leaving Artful to descend the stairs in peace. If anything, the gesture was meant to bother.

Instead, something caught his wrist. Artful immediately panicked, regretting his actions and yanking on his arm, heart jumping to his throat. Mind racing with every terrible possibility; Pursuer dragging him off balance, shoving him, or just hurting him because Artful was basically defenceless in this pitch-black stairwell, unable to even see- the sensation feeling ten times worse. He tried to wrench his hand free, but only met with steady resistance.

A low, irritated growl rumbled in front of him. Then, a sudden rough tug pulled him forward. Not enough to topple him, but more than enough to make him stop fighting. Artful went rigid, breath catching in his throat. He was seconds away from starting to beg for Pursuer not to kill him if the other was thinking of doing so. But before he could say anything, there was another tug, not as hard as the previous one, only directing and forcing him to take a step by step, along the staircase. Exactly along the path Pursuer was taking. Artful’s mouth slowly closed as he followed, taken aback by the fact that Pursuer was actually guiding him. From then they descended in silence.

Artful kept wondering how long the stairway could be. After what felt like endless minutes of stepping downward, at least the slope made the climb easier, less exhausting than scrambling up or across uneven terrain. Near the end, faint light began to filter through, spilling across the stony surfaces. When they finally reached the bottom, they stopped at the last step, at the sight before them. It could only be described as an underground temple. Torches flickered in scattered sconces, their flames likely the source of the light that had illuminated the last few stairs. Vines draped in patches across the whole area, some crawling along the walls, others dangling from the ceiling, giving the place an ancient, overgrown feel, as if it had long been forgotten.

Artful took a step forward, then remembered that Pursuer was still holding his wrist. He glanced down at the contact, feeling a flicker of awkwardness, before gently tugging on Pursuer’s grip. Pursuer looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable, and then released his hold. Artful said nothing, only gave a slight nod in acknowledgement, and continued walking forward. 

Pursuer’s gaze lingered on his own hand for a brief second before shifting to Artful’s back. With measured steps, he followed, keeping pace with the magician as they ventured further into the temple.

The first thing that met them was a large moss-covered rock, atop which sat a flickering lantern. They carefully made their way around it, soon arriving at a massive wooden bridge. Along its sides, what appeared to be stalagmites glinted faintly in the dim light. Artful glanced to his right and noticed another path that wound around a dug-out ditch filled with water, resembling a narrow river that cut across the ground almost to its end. Near the far edge, the river curved, looping back on itself. In the distance, an additional bridge could be seen, likely built as a shortcut across the water, its rough-hewn planks hinting at the temple’s age.

They crossed the bridge slowly, the wooden planks creaking faintly under their weight. When they reached the other side, they found themselves in front of a small structure set atop a slightly elevated platform. At the side, stairs had been carved or built to allow access to the surface above. 

What struck Artful as odd, however, were the few pickaxes resting against the stony railing and a helmet lying nearby. It was clear these belonged to some civilians, in the past perhaps? As if a miner or explorer had been here before. The sight made him pause for a moment, curiosity winning over him as he reached for it from below, inspecting.

-“...uh-ugly…face…”

Artful turned to look at Pursuer, who pointed at a huge boulder, a yellow one at that, right behind a wooden palisade that he missed. It had a carved face on top of it, which almost seemed real while facing them.

-”Maybe someone carved it on? Although I have no idea why someone would do that- wait, what are you doing, Pursuer??”

Pursuer approached the palisade, already stretching his hand forward, wanting to touch the boulder out of curiosity, but neither of them expected the boulder to move back, rolling away from Pursuer’s claws. And it wasn’t as if something had pushed it, that would’ve been impossible. No one could move a rock of that size, not even if they tried with all their strength. For it to shift on its own was simply absurd.

Yet what was even more absurd was the fact that the boulder’s face came back into view, turning to stare at both of them. Pursuer shot his hands out to hold onto the palisade in anger at the movement. Artful stepped forward, trying to pull him back, but he grimaced too the moment he noticed something sitting on top of the boulder. His hat- the one and only hat that was supposedly gone because of the water flow- how did it even end up here?

-“C'est mon chapeau!”(3)

The scene probably looked like a joke: Artful and Pursuer on one side, and the boulder on the other, with Artful’s hat perched proudly on top of it, as if this were a zoo exhibit and both parties were separated by a fence. 

Speaking of that palisade, Artful briefly considered jumping over it, but the ends of the wood were sharpened to nasty points. And he definitely didn’t want to touch it either; the timber looked mossy, damp, and suspiciously rotten. With his palms already bruised, he’d probably get an infection from just brushing against one of those spikes. Pursuer wasn’t eager to jump over, either- not because of the hat (he couldn’t care less about that), but because of the boulder’s face, which irritated him to no end. He very much wanted to scratch it off.

Artful sighed in defeat. There was no way he’d reach his hat like this, and without his wand, he could barely do anything anyway- Wait. Maybe he could find a stick around here?

“I'll go look around for a good stick…want to come with me, or you’re good?” He asked simply out of politeness, already suspecting that Pursuer would do anything but that. 

The latter just gave him a glance from the corner of his eyes, before shaking his head in a “no” manner and turning around, going back to sending daggers the boulder’s way. It looked quite…silly; a small smile made its way on Artful’s face that he didn't become aware of, quickly disappearing when he went the opposite way. He headed toward the second bridge, crossing it to the opposite side until he stood before another rocky guardrail. Approaching it, he leaned forward slightly, peering down to take in the entire place from above. At the far end stood massive closed hallway doors. “Vault” was signed atop it. Flanking them on each side were two portraits, both of boulders...

The one on the left was green, its surface carved with a wide, toothy mouth and two eyes. Beneath it, in chiselled text Artful had to squint to read, was the name “Greg.”

The portrait on the right depicted a blue boulder, its face made of two large black dots for eyes and a broad smile plastered across its surface. Underneath it was the label “Not Greg.”

In front of the doors and the portraits behind them was a staircase leading downward. Artful glanced at the floor below and spotted none other than Harken. She stood there, silently but frantically turning her head, checking every direction with a sort of cautious panic. He decided to head down. His hands slipped off the guardrail, fingers briefly tracing its rough surface as he walked around it to the left and reached the staircase. From there, two more portraits came into view. The first was labelled “DRAKOBOULDER”, a red, toothy boulder with two eyes, strangely similar to the green one he had seen earlier, only crazier looking. Next to it hung “Mother Sylvia,” a pink boulder with an unnervingly wide smile and two blank, dark eyes staring straight ahead. 

It occurred to Artful that the arrangement of the frames looked… oddly close to that of a family display. Which was ridiculous, considering they were portraits of boulders. But whatever, maybe someone decorating this place had an eccentric sense of style. Or maybe they just really liked boulders for the gig of it.

He looked to the right, spotting the same boulder that was shown in the “Not Greg” portrait. At this point, it genuinely felt like all the boulders he had encountered so far- the yellow one, the blue one- were actually alive. (And considering the yellow boulder had moved entirely on its own earlier, that wasn’t even a stretch.) Artful turned away and quickly descended the stairs. Harken instantly snapped her head in his direction, then relaxed once she realised it was just him. She began making the same clicking and ticking sounds as before, none of which meant anything to Artful. So he raised both his hands and gestured for her to stop, pushing his palms forward in short motions. She quieted immediately, realising it was futile.

He glanced around again and noticed a tree root sticking out of a cracked section of the wall. It was far out of his reach, so he pointed at it quickly. Harken followed his gesture, looked to the side, the root was practically at the same height as her head, then turned back toward him. Without hesitation, she grabbed the root from its base and carefully handed it to Artful, who muffled a barely hearable “Merci”(4).

Unlike a regular stick, or even his old wand, the root was long and crooked, with thin offshoots sticking out in every direction. Not ideal, but it was all he had. He tried to snap off the excess without getting too many splinters, wincing as the rough bark scraped against his already injured palms. One by one he picked away the unnecessary smaller roots, until it was almost clean. Finally, he broke off the last narrow extension, and the root actually began to resemble a wand.

He gave it a cautious test swing. To his relief, the spell worked: a small notebook and a pencil flickered into existence in front of him. Harken watched the whole thing, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and impatience. Artful tossed the makeshift root-wand aside without ceremony, no longer needing it, she assumed- and immediately began scribbling into the notebook. The scratching of the pencil wasn’t irritating to her, more like a strange, tingling noise that made her relax. At last, Artful turned the notebook around.

‘ 𝐻𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝒶 𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝑜𝓊𝓉? ‘ 
[Have you found a way out?]

Harken stared at the handwriting for much longer than she had back in the cave above. This time, she was actually struggling, Artful’s cursive letters tangled together, beautiful as she noted, but not quite obvious to her. They stood in silence for several seconds before she finally began ticking and clicking again. Artful opened his mouth to answer, only to register a beat too late that he needed to write, not speak.

“Maybe you can take the root? Je n'en ai plus besoin,”(5) he said anyway, lowering his voice and trying to keep it steady. Harken reacted only faintly, still not understanding too well the verbal variant of the language,  but she did reach down and retrieve the discarded root after seeing Artful looking at it. He stepped back, glancing at the floor, more sand than stone, no bricks at all, and watched as she slowly began to write.

‘ 𐌍Ꝋ, Ꮤ𐋅𐌀𐌕 𐌀𐌁Ꝋ𐌵𐌕 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵 𐌕ᏔꝊ? ‘
[No, what about you two?]

‘ 𝒩𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝓌𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝒸𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝓉 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒. 𝐼 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝓊𝓂𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓊𝓈.  ‘
[Nothing, we just recently got here. I assume you made your way here before us.]

‘ 𐌙𐌄𐌔 ‘ Harken wrote it down, slightly hesitating. Artful could see it in the way her ‘arm’ moved, uncertain almost.

‘ 𝐼𝓈 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒷𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊? ‘
[Is something bothering you?]

‘ 𐌕𐋅𐌄𐌓𐌄𐌔 𐌔Ꝋ𐌌𐌄𐌕𐋅𐌉𐌍Ᏽ 𐋅𐌄𐌓𐌄 𐌁𐌄𐌔𐌉𐌃𐌄𐌔 𐌵𐌔 ‘
[There’s something here besides us]

‘ 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈? 𝓎𝑒 𝒾 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓈𝑜 𝓉𝑜𝑜, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒾 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝒾𝓉'𝓈 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝒸𝑜𝒾𝓃𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓃'𝓉 𝒶𝒸𝓉𝓊𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓋𝑒. ‘
[You mean the boulders? Ye I thought so too, but I think it's just a coincidence, they aren't actually alive.]

‘ 𐌕𐋅𐌄𐌔𐌄 𐌀𐌓𐌄 𐌐𐌓𐌄𐌕𐌕𐌙 𐌌𐌵𐌂𐋅 𐌀𐌋𐌉ᕓ𐌄 ‘
[These are pretty much alive]

Artful halted, immediately turning his head from the floor and looking at the blue boulder from the “Not Greg” portrait, whose face was turned towards the two from upstairs, where he had initially passed by. Despite the face not moving physically, Artful had a hard time realising that these guys actually were ‘alive’, apparently. But he turned to look back at Harken as soon as he heard her scraping the root against the sand again.

‘ 𐌉 𐌃𐌉𐌃𐌍𐌕 𐌓𐌄𐌅𐌄𐌓 𐌕Ꝋ 𐌕𐋅𐌄𐌌 ‘
[I didn't refer to them]

‘ 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑜? 𝑀𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝓊𝓇𝓈𝓊𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓃'𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒. ‘
[Then who? Me and Pursuer haven't seen anyone here.]

‘ 𐌉𐌌 𐌍Ꝋ𐌕 𐌔𐌵𐌓𐌄 𐌌𐌙𐌔𐌄𐌋𐌅 ‘
[I'm not sure myself]

Artful looked up at her, giving her a questioning look. He had no idea what it was supposed to mean; had she actually seen or heard something that she simply couldn’t describe, or was she mistaken, imagining it all? He didn’t exactly doubt her, given how far he’d seen her hearing abilities surpass his own and probably even Pursuer’s. There were so many possible explanations, and at the same time, it felt like there were none.

‘ 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃'𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒸𝓇𝒾𝒷𝑒 𝒾𝓉? ‘
[You mean, you can't describe it?]

‘ 𐌍Ꝋ. 𐌉 Ꮭ𐌵𐌔𐌕 𐋅𐌀ᕓ𐌄 𐌀 𐌔𐌕𐌓Ꝋ𐌍Ᏽ 𐌅𐌄𐌄𐌋𐌉𐌍Ᏽ 𐌕𐋅𐌀𐌕 𐌕𐋅𐌄𐌓𐌄'𐌔 𐌔Ꝋ𐌌𐌄𐌕𐋅𐌉𐌍Ᏽ Ꮤ𐌓Ꝋ𐌍Ᏽ ‘
[No. I just have a strong feeling that there's something wrong]

Artful sighed, defeated. Harken seemed to also be in a position where she couldn't say anything, and both of them kept standing in silence. 

He had just started writing again when, out of nowhere, everything began to shake. Artful almost lost his footing on the sudden instability beneath him, while Harken’s eye snapped wide open- unlike before, when it had been only half-lidded. He tried to stay calm, rationalising that perhaps some old part of the temple was collapsing, and looked around to see what. Harken, however, was in full panic and immediately drew her javelin, gripping it tightly.

Their eyes were quickly drawn upward- just in time to see Pursuer leaping down, rolling on the ground, and then sprinting almost on all fours toward the closed “Vault” doors. He looked nothing like himself: terror in his eyes, teeth gritted, shaking the doors with urgent force. He even drew his sword, stabbing at the wood and creating a small hole that widened with every swing.

Artful ran after him, keeping a careful distance to avoid getting caught under Pursuer’s strikes. Harken frantically scanned the surroundings, mirroring her behaviour from the first time Artful had found her here.

“WHAT’S HAPPENING? WHY ARE YOU IN PA- WO- WOAH!!” Artful screamed over the noise of the shaking walls, struggling to keep his voice low- unless he actually wanted Pursuer to hear him. Before he could finish, Pursuer grabbed him by the collar of his vest, forcing him to yelp, and pushed him through the hole in the door, which was now almost big enough for even Harken to pass through. Artful stumbled forward a few steps. Before him was not a vault filled with treasure, but a dark tunnel leading somewhere unknown. Pursuer followed right behind, slipping past Artful with a quick glance and a roar “…BIG… SCARY…!” before continuing to run into the darkness.

Artful broke into a sprint, following Pursuer, but stopped for a millisecond and turned back- only to find Harken not following. Through the hole, he saw her overwhelmed by panic, stabbing herself with the spear. Her head split into flowing fragments as she seemed to scream at the pain, while trying to throw the javelin, facing something he couldn’t quite make out behind her. He whipped his gaze back toward where Pursuer had run, but he was already too far; Artful couldn’t see him- SHIT! He had no choice now!

He dashed toward the hole, peeking out and stretching his hand to grab Harken’s (or at least the column replacing it) before freezing in place. Whatever this thing was… it was horrible. A sphere of pure darkness hovered before them, opaque and void-like, with outstretched hands reaching their way. Eyes and jagged teeth jutted from the blackness, sinister and grotesque. Behind it, all the light from torches to lanterns had vanished, plunging everything into an oppressive darkness.

Artful yanked Harken back into the hole with all the strength he had, just enough to snap her attention back and make her realize there was already an escape, even as she tried to defend herself. They didn’t waste a second. Artful ran beside her through the tunnel, adrenaline pumping, somehow managing to cast brick walls with the pencil in one hand to block off a few meters behind them, while clutching his notebook in the other. They ran as far as they could, eventually reaching a split in the tunnel where it branched in two directions. Harken, still frantic and panicked, didn’t hesitate- she bolted to the left. Artful followed without a word. Not that he could have said anything; he was running nearly out of breath.

At some point, Artful fell behind, with Harken continuing to run- but even she didn’t have infinite stamina. He caught up to her in a small, round cave that seemed to have formed accidentally along the path. Harken sank to the ground, shaking, her eye darting frantically in every direction. The light from her eye appeared to disturb the bats, which Artful only noticed when the animals started squeaking and flying wildly, adding to the chaos. The noise seemed to push Harken further into panic; even seated, she flung her “hands” around, tearing into the wall beside her. Artful was far from calm himself. Paranoid, he kept glancing back toward the tunnel they’d just fled, worried that whatever this big…evil and scary thing was, might be following them. Ironically, the very noise Harken had always dreaded and tried to avoid was now coming almost entirely from her.

Artful watched, straining to think. He needed to calm her down; otherwise, the bats and the chaos would never end. Think… think… what could calm her? He paced in a small circle, trying to concentrate, even as the noise started gnawing at his own patience. A bat suddenly flew into his face, squeaking loudly, and in a burst of frustration, he swatted his arms around, forgetting he still had the pencil in his hand. Suddenly, a small music box sprang out in the air from the spell, filling the cave with a soft, melodic tune and slight light. Wait… that’s it, la music!

Most of the bats had already stopped flying, some accidentally crushed by Harken in her fit, clearing a path for Artful to approach. He floated the music box in his hand as he moved closer. Harken’s frantic flailing gradually slowed, her attention drawn to something beyond the chaos of the bats, which themselves were settling down. Artful didn’t get too close. He sat down a short distance away, letting the music box float beside her. At first, Harken tried to smash it away, but the box simply hovered out of reach, moved by the air from her swings. Confused, she paused, and slowly, her eye drooped halfway shut as she relaxed into the soft melody.

Artful finally exhaled, glancing toward the tunnel, “patrolling” just in case, while Harken took a much-needed break. But his thoughts kept circling back to Pursuer.
Did… the other get out safely?

He wasn’t sure if Pursuer had taken the same path they did, but he hoped so. Artful pulled his knees up and rested his head against them, trying to steady his breathing. Despite everything- the fear, his mind kept replaying the moment Pursuer shoved him through the hole, urging him to run. Even in that state of panic, Pursuer had helped him and answered his question with his broken English without needing to or being obliged. And…earlier, the way he guided Artful down the stairs… Maybe it was just his stressed-out nervous system scrambling to calm itself after everything that happened? But whatever it was doing, it wasn’t helping. Instead of cooling him down from the marathon they’d just run, his skin only felt hotter, and his heartbeat- that barely quickened at the thoughts. Pourquoi fallait-il que ce soit lui…?(6)

Artful flinched when Harken’s “arm” suddenly touched his shoulder. She seemed fully calm now, her gaze steady on him. Then she picked up a small rock and began to scribble on the floor. Artful quickly took out his pencil and notebook, just in case he needed to respond. Thankfully, the music box proved useful for more than calming her down- its soft glow lit the cave enough for him to see both the ground and his paper.

‘ Ꮤ𐋅𐌙? ‘
[Why?]

‘ 𝒲𝒽𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉? ‘
[Why what?]

‘ Ꮤ𐋅𐌙 𐋅𐌀ᕓ𐌄 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵 𐋅𐌄𐌋𐌐𐌄𐌃 𐌌𐌄? 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵 𐌂Ꝋ𐌵𐌋𐌃 𐋅𐌀ᕓ𐌄 𐌋𐌄𐌅𐌕 𐌌𐌄 𐌁𐌀𐌂𐌊 𐌕𐋅𐌄𐌓𐌄, 𐌁𐌵𐌕 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵 𐌃𐌉𐌃 𐌔Ꝋ𐌌𐌄𐌕𐋅𐌉𐌍Ᏽ 𐌀𐌔 𐌅ꝊꝊ𐌋𐌉𐌔𐋅 𐌀𐌔 𐌓𐌉𐌔𐌊𐌉𐌍Ᏽ 𐌙Ꝋ𐌵𐌓 ꝊᏔ𐌍 𐌔𐌀𐌅𐌄𐌕𐌙 ‘
[Why have you helped me? You could have left me back there, but you did something as foolish as risking your own safety]

Artful paused. She had a point; he had done something incredibly stupid by running back to “save” her… though even calling it that felt like an exaggeration. Still, he couldn’t deny it: something about her reminded him of… himself. Maybe it was the fact that, in the very beginning, there had been no one to rely on, he was alone. Maybe, without thinking, her situation triggered something in him, a subconscious reaction he didn’t fully understand? Maybe. He didn’t know. Honestly, he had no idea.

‘ 𝐼𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒶 𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓊𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇, 𝒾 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌. ‘
[If you want a genuine answer, I don't know.]

‘ 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓁𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂, 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁, 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒. 𝐼 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓊 𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓊𝓅 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒, 𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓉𝓇𝓊𝒸𝓉𝓈 𝓇𝑜𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹. ‘
[You clearly are not from, well, here. I don't know how you ended up here, as it seems you still believe there are things like constructs roaming around.]

‘ 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓁𝓈𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓉𝓉𝒶𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝓊𝓇𝓈𝓊𝑒𝓇. ‘
[You also have your own reasons for attacking me and Pursuer.]

‘ 𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝐼𝓉'𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝓊𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈, 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓂𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓁 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽. ‘
[But it's not my business, I have my own problems to deal with.]

‘ 𝒮𝑜 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝒶𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽. ‘
[So take it as you wish.]

Harken read the sentences slowly as Artful held the paper out to her, her big eye drifting from one side of the page to the other. Then she turned away, looking thoughtfully at the floating music box before finally standing and starting to walk. Artful followed beside her. Neither of them said anything. The silence felt… comfortable enough as they made their way forward, the music box lighting their path with a warm glow and saving Artful from walking straight into several long, sharp stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Harken walked at a deliberate pace- slow enough that Artful could keep up, but not so slow that it was obvious. She tried to hide it, but he noticed anyway.

Both of them soon noticed light- actual daylight, coming from ahead as they continued forward. Artful felt the air change from the heavy, humid cave air to a fresh, early-morning breeze. Had they really been down here all night? Time had passed strangely quickly.

But as they neared the exit, Artful’s steps began to slow. Harken looked back, and the two exchanged uneasy glances. Mixed with the fresh morning scent was something else: the sharp, synthetic smell of plastic, chemicals… and gasoline? The kind of scent that lingered around vehicles and research teams. Harken could already hear voices in the distance, muffled but growing clearer with every step they took. She stopped listening to the music box entirely. Her posture tightened, tension building with each footstep toward the light.

They finally stepped out onto the grass, blinking against the daylight spilling behind them. But the relief lasted only a second.

Spread across the field were four groups of five people each, along with some jeeps and vans. Half wore white lab coats, the other half were armed and in dark uniforms. White folding tables were arranged in rows, covered with laptops, instruments, strange gadgets… and several drones with a shape Artful recognised immediately. His back began to sweat. He squinted, still adjusting to the sudden light, scanning them, until he noticed the detail that made the blood drain from his already pale face.

Government ID cards. Every single one of them. Harken froze beside him, going rigid. The civilians- researchers, judging by their equipment, turned toward the pair. What they saw was a drenched, exhausted magician with two wounded shoulders, hair a complete mess… and a massive sand-being with a single open eye. The researchers, clearly the most vulnerable and untrained for combat, immediately stumbled backwards in panic. A contrast to the soldiers in dark uniforms that stepped forward at once, raising their firearms and aiming them directly at Harken and Artful.

Before either of them could speak, or even breathe, Harken suddenly bolted to the right, sprinting in the opposite direction. The movement startled the soldiers, and they instantly opened fire. The bullets went straight through her, sinking into her sand-like body and dropping harmlessly to the ground. She didn’t slow down. Within seconds, she vanished into the treeline. One of the researchers dashed to his laptop, typing frantically. A few rapid clicks later, a command executed. Six drones, which looked really familiar to the one Artful saw before, shot out from the back of one of the trucks, rising into the air and streaking off after her trail.

He was about to bolt in the opposite direction Harken took, but the soldiers closed in instantly, forming a tight circle around him. Panic surged through him. He tried to cast- anything- but his spells fizzled out uselessly. Why? Why wasn’t it working? Why is everything spinning-? His vision blurred. Something foggy crept into the edges of his sight. He lifted his head, blinking upward.

Two drones hovered above him, releasing a thin mist- some kind of gas. Artful stared up through half-lidded eyes. The soldiers had already slipped on masks, standing steady and unaffected while the fog wrapped around him. Already exhausted from everything that had happened before, the effects hit him fast. His limbs grew heavy, his balance slipping away as if his body belonged to someone else. He dropped to one knee with a muffled grunt after a few attempted steps. Some soldiers rushed forward and forced him to the ground. He barely resisted; he couldn’t. Pain flared when their hands pressed down on his bruised shoulders, and he let out a hiss through clenched teeth.

He didn’t know how long it lasted- seconds, minutes, maybe more. The world slowly became wobbly as it became gradually darker.

Finally, his eyes slipped shut.

Bonus: (These are just colored sketches, so ignore anatomy problems and some missing details!!😅 )

Chapter Text

Pursuer crouched beside the deer’s body. It bleated and snorted as it thrashed weakly on the ground, crying in pain. One of its legs was pinned by Pursuer’s blade, driven straight through muscle and deep into the soil, anchoring the metal tight and destroying any chance of escape. He lowered his head and bit into its flank, tearing off fresh pieces of meat with violent urgency. Pursuer ignored the desperate sounds beneath him. Drool mixed with blood ran down his chin as he devoured mouthful after mouthful, hunger consuming his mind until everything else fogged away.

After he finally reached the cave’s exit, the first thing he did was search for food. His stomach twisted painfully, rumbling so loudly it echoed in his ears. He couldn’t waste any more time, as he had been starving from the very beginning; the hunger only worsened while he was trapped in that Temple.

Once he was left alone with the yellow boulder, he searched the place desperately for anything edible. It didn’t matter if it was a rat or a bat (which he managed to catch and eat a few on his way out through the tunnel). But luck wasn’t on his side; all he found in the Temple was dust, scraps, and insects that were entirely useless to him, as they werent part of his diet. Eventually, in that search, he came face to face with that big, terrifying creature, which led to the events that followed immediately afterwards, with him trying to break the wooden doors and save himself from that thing and, apparently, the magician.

Yet right after he heard the man go back for that humanoid creature, sacrificing his own safety and his best chance at surviving, Pursuer found it incredibly pointless and ridiculous. So, he left without giving it much thought. If the man died, it would simply be his own fault.

But now, mid-bite, Pursuer slowed down. He looked at the deer beneath him. Its eyes were red and watery, staring straight up at him. It reminded him so much of the magician.

In fact, all the animals he had eaten on the way here had reminded Pursuer of him. His first meal had been a pair of rabbits, then a small mouse, then a hare, and even a fox. And strangely, he had ignored every other animal he came across; wolves, birds, even the owl lying helplessly on the ground with a broken wing. Any of those would have been an easy meal as well. Yet he only went after the creatures he unconsciously linked to that man.

Pursuer narrowed his eyes. To him, personalities didn’t exist; he didn’t understand meat (civilians) that way. Instead, He classified them according to behavioural patterns, aligning them with the animals they most closely resembled. Some acted like wolves, following orders and sticking close to their groups. Others reminded him of eagles or falcons, always shouting, trying to come up with some creative method of attack. And so on. 

But in every system, however, exists a hierarchy. Predators and prey. Something that ate everything else. Pursuer naturally placed himself at the very top. Being an apex predator, ideas like forming packs or “friendship” had no value. He remembered the word only because a few hikers had said it to each other, moments before he killed them.

The magician did not stand out much at first. Pursuer classified him easily: a rabbit-type, always on edge, alerted at every sound and ready to leap away if given the chance (which he didn't get, so to speak). Pursuer found it both pathetic and strangely entertaining- especially once the man realised he was being used as bait [callback to chap’4]. Every movement matched the prey patterns Pursuer had seen hundreds of times before. 

Yet the man had also irritated him when he suddenly behaved like a fox, seizing an opening when trying to create what he called an “alliance.” In Pursuer’s eyes, the dynamic shifted into something closer to a symbiotic relationship: both of them doing their part, both providing usefulness. It still favoured the magician more, yet Pursuer acknowledged, begrudgingly, that he was gaining something from it. 

Then the relationship changed once again, only this time becoming something different and far more complicated. Slowly, almost annoyingly, Pursuer caught himself lingering near the man, feeling an unexpected pull to stay near, to spend more time with him. Choosing proximity for reasons he couldn’t clearly define. The pattern no longer aligned purely with utility. 

However, now it didn't matter, with the other choosing to… stay behind.

Pursuer took the last fresh piece of meat from the dead deer, munching on it and swallowing quickly before pulling out his sword and walking away, leaving the corpse behind. At least now he had eaten enough to refill his energy; his stomach was no longer growling.

He moved slowly, with no specific destination, leaving a trail of blood behind him. It dripped from the tip of his sword, from his hands, and from his mouth, staining the cold, slightly damp ground. Yet unlike usual, Pursuer found himself less focused, as if his mind was somewhere else. He wasn’t paying attention the way he normally did. He wasn’t registering or remembering scents or tracking distant sounds, habits that usually kept him perfectly oriented in the forest. His mind drifted somewhere else, unfocused. 

And so, without realising it, he retraced his own steps and found himself standing in front of the cave’s tunnel entrance again. He stared into the darkness, not fully registering how he ended up back here, waiting.

Waiting for Artful to come out. 

The name finally surfaced in his mind again. Artful… Was there even a reason to remember something as useless as a name, especially of someone who was probably already dead?

…

Unless he wasn’t.

Pursuer rarely found himself thinking, if he had at all. But now, the longer the other stayed away, the more he intruded into his mind. Why was Pursuer giving the other a thought when he was clearly no different from the other prey he had eaten? Even when he had tasted the others’ blood and tissue of his shoulder, it had felt strange, almost like an exotic flavour he craved for himself alone because of how sweet it tasted to him. 

Did he want something from Artful? Did he want to devour and kill him? No. It didn’t feel like usual hunger. The craving didn’t come from his stomach (which most of the time was the reason he even acted out).

Pursuer turned his head toward the rustling grass. Two coyotes were passing by. They didn’t seem to notice him, feeling safe with the distance between them and the forest behind them, which could easily shelter them if he decided to attack. The two played as they moved, wrestling and nuzzling each other affectionately. 

Pursuer, on the other hand, remained in the same place, silently observing until they disappeared further into the forest. In that moment, the only thought that remained consistent in his mind was Artful, and the feeling Pursuer had been grappling with, the latter being the cause. 

Although he seemed to have finally found his answer, Artful was… the one he wanted to stay near. There was now this potential that he saw in Artful as a “mate”. Or a couple, as civilians like him usually called it.

At that realisation, he felt a warm, fluttering sensation inside of him. It could be almost compared to the same addictive satisfaction when he was satiated after eating fresh meat, the same feeling he felt when he stayed for the first time at the others' shelter. Only this time, he had fully known the cause- Artful himself. And he wanted to experience the feeling more.

Pursuer looked at the tunnel another time before heading left, quickly climbing slightly uphill as he moved. He had a sense that Artful and that annoying thing had taken the opposite tunnel, compared to Pursuer, which had come through the left one. He judged this by the lack of sound: no echoes of footsteps, no squeaks from bats. An hour had passed since he had come out of that cave already. And he did think that they might be dead, but now he tried to dismiss the idea. Artful was observant enough; the man could have come up with something most likely.

As he made his way toward the tunnel, he guessed the two had taken, Pursuer frequently looked down. There wasn’t much height between him and the ground below, but it was useful to keep an eye out for anything moving, or anything coming his way- especially in the morning. He preferred nighttime and dusk, when it gave him more opportunities to remain with his presence low. So he moved quietly, only a few times accidentally pushing a few rocks that quickly fell to the ground, scaring a few smaller animals.

He hadn’t gone far when he stopped, hearing a few trees fall and shake, reminding him of an encounter he well remembered. Birds screamed as their nests were tossed, and a distant buzzing filled the air, sharp and grating enough to make Pursuer grimace and feel immediate irritation. He glanced toward the source and saw a few flying objects. Climbing higher for a better view, he surveyed the forest below. Through the trees, he caught a glimpse of yellow moving swiftly. He slid down, shifting his bones, becoming invisible, and ran after the flying objects and the silhouette, which were quickly gaining distance from his position.

As usual, it wasn’t difficult for him to catch up. He made sure to make no sound as he ran, keeping close. His body, now “invisible,” blended with the surroundings, making him harder to notice. Glancing up, the sun hit his eyes, forcing him to squint before he saw the flying machines. They looked like something civilians might come up with- another useless item. He smelled plastic in the air, the artificial scent making him grimace. Then another smell hit him: sand and cave, a disgusting stench he followed, baring his teeth in revolt.

As he got closer, the noise from the machines irritated him, but it wasn’t only him. The sand figure ran with her head violently shaking, bumping into trees, explaining why he had seen some shake and others fall earlier. But he didn’t care. Where was Artful? Why wasn’t he alongside this piece of sandstone right in front of him? 

He closed the distance, bones morphing back into their usual form as he watched her collide with another tree, falling to the ground with a loud thud this time. The flying objects hovered above, continuing their harsh noises, making her suffer as she desperately tried to block her ears. Pursuer drew his sword and moved with lethal precision, leaping from tree to tree, climbing higher until he was close enough to strike. One by one, he destroyed the objects with his blade. Finally, the sixth fell to the ground, joining the others in a heap, only twitching occasionally with small electric jolts.

Harken seemed to calm as the sound from the drones faded. She slowly opened one eye, finally beginning to understand what had happened as she lay on the cold ground. But her realisation was cut short as Pursuer’s blade hovered inches from her pupil, forcing her to freeze and abandon any attempt to rise. 

Pursuer’s face was half-shadowed by the sun, his whole silhouette hovering above, his eyes small, looking like slits as he silently stared down at her. He practically didn't move as his back spikes were up, a sign that he clearly meant to leave her without an eye if she dared to show any provocation. The sole reason Pursuer hadn't actually left her blind already was that he still needed to know where Artful was.

She started making clicking noises, similar to the ones she had done back in the cave, before the magician had started scribbling on the wall, the two of them probably communicating, while Pursuer stayed clueless because of a lack of reading skills. Now, though, there were no means with which Pursuer could somehow understand her, so he simply stood there and waited for her to decide what action she would choose to take.

Her eye slowly closed as she stayed still for a few more minutes. Then her ‘hand’ suddenly began to dissolve, sand slipping to the ground, the form crumbling at the end where her ‘palm’ should have been. Pursuer turned to look and saw a small white box drop into the sand. It carried a faint scent of Artful and emitted a low sound, something like music, the tune fading as it wound down before stopping completely. 

He looked back at the sand figure, then finally moved his sword away from her eye. She rose from the ground and looked down at him, her hand reforming its shape before she pressed it against the dirt, beginning to draw something.

The drawing itself was difficult to interpret, but eventually it became recognisable. She had sketched a face shaped like Artful’s mask and hat, then a quick box with a single eye in the centre, likely representing herself. The two figures stood before a triangular shape with a dark circle inside it, probably meant to be the tunnel’s exit, surrounded by several other circles. Pursuer felt irritation rising the longer he stared. He couldn’t understand it, and the clicking and ticking she began making only made it worse. He snarled at her, and the reaction must have struck a nerve; her eye snapped open.

He stared directly into her eye, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles went slightly teal. His tail thumped against the ground uncontrollably, a low growl rising from deep in his throat. The sand figure tensed as well, but instead of reacting to his threat, her gaze drifted around the place. She spotted the shattered remains of the flying machines scattered on the ground, noticing one of these was still recording, with a red dot blinking barely visible despite not emitting any more sounds. Then shifted her attention farther out toward two rabbits in the distance, chasing each other.

She raised her hand, shaping it into a javelin, and hurled it at them. Pursuer watched silently as she walked over to the now-dead animals, both killed instantly by the impact. She carried the bodies back to her drawing and placed them beside it, beginning to sketch again, two new faces, hers and his. Above them, she drew two arrows. The arrow above Pursuer’s face pointed toward the rabbit that had been following the other, while her own face sat beneath the second rabbit that led. She paused, tapping the drawing, then looked down at him.

Without a word or sound, Pursuer shifted his bones again, slipping out of sight as soon as he understood that he was being told to do what he did best- pursue. He took a few steps back, watching and waiting for the sand figure to leave. But he grew curious when she suddenly “fell” to the ground, as if struck by something. 

It was obviously an act. Pursuer remained completely still, not moving, waiting as long as needed for something to happen. His attention shifted to the odd beeping sound coming from the object he thought he had fully broken, but he still didn’t move. The sand figure didn’t react to it either (which was starting to make Pursuer suspicious); she simply lay there on the ground.

Nothing changed for what was probably more than an hour. Both of them stayed in the same position, Pursuer waiting for her to move, and her strangely not moving at all.

Then a distant noise came from above, approaching quickly. He looked up and saw what resembled a helicopter, something he would simply think of as a large “bird.” It stopped overhead, lowering a big metallic container attached to it. The container barely brushed any branches as it descended and finally touched the ground. As soon as it landed, the back opened, and four civilians stepped out. They wore fighting gloves and helmets.

Pursuer had to fight the urge to kill them the moment he saw the glint of exposed flesh, but he stayed where he was.

It was obvious they were all terrified of doing anything. They wasted at least five minutes just trying to approach her silhouette, watching carefully and probably making sure she was actually “unconscious,” before one of them finally gestured for the others to move. Slowly, hesitantly, they began dragging her body toward the container.

They barely had the strength to lift her. Their faces turned red from the effort as they pulled with everything they had. Meanwhile, Pursuer had already slipped inside the container long before any of them even stepped into it. He chose the far corner- one barely lit, only making a few faint clanking sounds when his tail brushed the metal wall. The civilians gave the noise only the quickest glance before returning to the struggle of getting Harken’s body inside. They laid her out carefully, doing their best to avoid making noise.

Pursuer noticed how her limbs trembled, reminding him of an animal trying to play dead while still terrified. His eyes also caught a glimpse of the small white box, which he figured belonged to Artful that she had dropped earlier, glinting from within her partially dissolved “hand,” buried in the sand as if she were ‘holding’ it for comfort.

One of the civilians made another hand gesture, and the container door slid shut. A button clicked. The container began lifting back into the air. Harken nearly opened her eye in a panic, but forced herself to stay still. Pursuer, invisible and silent, fixed his stare on the nearest civilian’s back- the one closest to him in the corner, the flesh looking as tempting as ever. The civilian stiffened, visibly uncomfortable, and turned his head, only to see nothing. Pursuer remained completely unmoving, merged with the background as his dislocated bones made barely any sound.

There was a loud clicking sound when the container finally locked back into place beneath the helicopter, and then they began to move. Pursuer could feel them flying above the forest. He glanced outside through the small ventilation holes in the walls- meant for air, but enough for him to see. It allowed him to track exactly which direction they were being taken, memorising the path the helicopter followed as it flew.

The civilians said almost nothing. Only two of them, seated across from Harken’s right side, whispered to each other- something like, “Are you sure this thing isn’t awake?” and “Probably not… I was told we had to come as fast as we could before she starts moving again.” After that, Pursuer didn’t quite catch the rest, barely understanding any of it anyway.

Shortly after, Pursuer spotted a large building. Most of it was white, surrounded by a thick wall that blocked the sunlight and prevented any glimpse of the interior. The main structure was round, with two smaller blocks attached to its sides. The central part had an elevated floor and what seemed like windows, glinting in the daylight surrounding the whole dome. Behind the building was a landing area, cleared of trees, with a road where vans and helicopters could park. The helicopter they were in began to descend, hovering carefully before slowly lowering itself to the ground.

Pursuer’s head snapped back to Harken as he heard her clicking and ticking sounds. All the civilians froze at the sudden noise, watching as her eye snapped open. Her nerves, stretched from holding still so long, showed in her movements. She tried to get up, causing the container to swing slightly. One of the civilians grabbed a radio from his belt and called for backup, requesting available units at hand while shouting, the sound only fueling her agitation. The container rocked violently as she rose, her back slamming into the metallic roof hard enough to dent it.

She looked down at them, and Pursuer saw her raise her arm, preparing to cast a javelin. The swing came close enough to almost hit him, making him growl and swipe it away. He wasn’t about to be dropped from that height and risk death.

He shifted his bones back into place and drew his sword. With precise force, he pierced the civilian closest to him- the one he had been eyeing, driving the blade straight into the man’s heart. Blood spattered across the metallic floor as Pursuer twisted the sword, tearing through flesh before pulling it out with violent force. The body collapsed onto the floor, the sound getting the sand figure’s attention, making her stop.

The others panicked. The civilian who had called for backup screamed, “PUT THE MASKS ON!” and threw a smoke bomb, buying them a little time before the helicopter finally landed and the door could open. The smoke quickly filled the container, escaping only slightly through the ventilation holes, creating an almost suffocating density. Harken quickly punched through the thin metal of the roof with her ‘arm’, making a big hole for the smoke to escape from faster. She closed her eye tightly.

Pursuer, however, didn’t care. He held his breath the moment the smoke poured in, relying on the air in his lungs. Remembering where the civilians had been positioned, he moved swiftly behind their backs, his eyes closed, relying on the sound they made when breathing to indicate their location.

He felt the warmth of the body he was now behind. With a quick motion, he swung his sword in front of himself, followed by a muffled scream behind the man’s mask. Pursuer reached out with his clawed hand, scratching it off. The man coughed, the sound mixed with the metallic scent of blood and choking noises from the lack of air. Pursuer moved toward the remaining two civilians, only to bump into their lifeless bodies.

The stench of blood was everywhere now. He could only hear how Harken’s hand shifted slightly nearby, and the two bodies fell, organs squishing against the floor. Most of it was liver and intestines, a smell Pursuer immediately recognised. He still couldn't see, but he assumed she had pierced the two before he could have the chance to get them.

The container hit the ground with a thud, shaking slightly from the impact. By then, about half of the smoke had already escaped, giving Pursuer the chance to open his eyes again and breathe normally. 

Shouting came from outside, drawing both Harken’s and Pursuer’s attention toward the metallic door. It seemed the “backup” the civilian had called earlier had finally arrived. Pursuer felt the fur along his spine rise as he stared at the door, tail swinging slowly. He then spared a quick glance at Harken. She was staring at the same spot, her eye fully open, twitching at the fact that the civilians outside had gone suspiciously silent.

Pursuer immediately turned invisible and jumped up, latching onto the hole Harken had made earlier for the smoke to escape. He slipped through it just in time. The faint scraping of his claws was enough for the civilians to start firing. From the top of the container, he glanced down. A full squad of armed civilians were shooting at the walls. Harken rammed the front a moment later, the metal door ripping off and flying straight into the squad ahead, knocking several of them over.

The smoke still covered her almost completely, giving her the chance to cast a javelin. It shot forward and skewered one of the soldiers instantly. She burst out of the container after catching them off guard, then sprinted into the forest. The remaining squads rushed to their jeeps and sped down the road after her. Leaving without even realising that Pursuer had also been there all along.

Thankfully, the entire area was surrounded by the forest, so Pursuer quickly slipped back between the trees. Ahead, a few remaining civilians with guns stood beside some of the machines, talking as they inspected the container holding the bodies. He was about to leave- until a familiar name suddenly came up. His head snapped toward them the instant he heard the name he had been searching for.

-“This really turned into a bloody mess… poor guys.”

- “Yeah. I can’t help but feel bad for their families. Absolutely devastating.”

-“Why did they even send them without proper equipment?! That’s a huge miss from the Head- I’m telling you, they’re getting sued after this.”

-“I don’t think they’ll even have time for that. We literally got a criminal this morning, after confirming he was the Artful.”

-“He’s practically a serial killer at this point. It’s been a month, and I’ve already heard multiple complaints asking the government to investigate.”

-“Right, and now the guy’s lying in the medical quarters like he didn’t do anything. I really hope justice gets him.”

-“Most likely will, if everything goes smoothly.”

Pursuer’s muscles tensed, he almost leapt out to kill them on the spot. But he forced himself to stay put as the group walked back toward the building. They approached the walls; the security camera shifted toward them as they held up their ID cards. The door rolled upward, let them inside, then shut quickly behind them.

Pursuer moved closer to the surrounding cement wall, understanding only a little from what the civilians had said, just enough to register that Artful was probably inside this building. From what he’d seen earlier from the helicopter, there was no way to climb over: the wall had a roof covering everything beyond it, and several sections were lined with sharp wires. His eyes darted around the structure as he examined the entire perimeter.

Eventually, he gave up and looked toward the door the civilians had used. It seemed the only way in would be to wait for the right moment to sneak through. And he was ready to wait as long as necessary… after all, there were plenty of meat walking around these parts that he could replenish his energy with.

𝙿𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 : (draft)

𝙰𝙶𝙴 26   𝙷𝙶𝚃 175cm   𝚆𝙶𝚃 **kg   𝚂𝚂#  XXX-XX-XXXX
𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎 (𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝, 𝙼𝙸)   “Jean Degare Fromage”
𝙳𝙾𝙱  ****-**-**
𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 :  𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚎 ☑️  𝙵𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 __

𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝙿𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎/𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝙿𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 : (***) ***-****
𝙾𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 : Magician/ Construction worker (formerly)
𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝙿𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 : [Place holder]

𝚁𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚗 : [Place holder]
𝚁𝚊𝚌𝚎/𝙴𝚝𝚑𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 : European (French)
𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 : French / English
𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛?    𝙽𝚘 ☑️  𝚈𝚎𝚜 __

𝙿𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙷𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢/𝙼𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝙸𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚢: Bilateral shoulder wounds on arrival.

𝙻𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛:
- Bullet wound, estimated to be older than two weeks.
- Signs of inflammation on arrival.
- Wound had been stitched prior, though no medical records or reports indicate treatment at any local hospital.
- Stitches were removed and re-placed properly.

 𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛:
- Presenting with a linear cut extending toward the collarbone.
- A bite mark was observed over the wound area.
- Treated and bandaged; no signs of infection or swelling noted.

𝚃𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚗/𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜: Avoid strenuous activity. No heavy lifting. Limit repetitive shoulder movement. Follow-up recommended for wound check and suture removal_ (typing…)

A woman in a caretaker uniform sat beside Artful’s bed, occasionally checking his condition before returning to type her report on the pad in her hand. She remained silent the entire time, doing her best to stay calm, though her hand trembled slightly. She was still nervous about caring for a patient who was a known killer, but she tried hard not to let her thoughts interfere with her work.

Yet when she looked up at Artful’s face again, she nearly squealed as their eyes met, wide and unblinking. Panicking, she dashed out, quickly closing the door behind her and leaving Artful alone.

Artful, in turn, was in shock. At first, he didn’t even register where he was, only noting that the woman’s eyes were quite beautiful, having a purple shade. But the white light from the ceiling blinded him, forcing rapid, futile blinks. He tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes, but it failed. When he finally looked down, he realised his limbs were restrained. For a few seconds, his mind lagged, barely processing his surroundings, before memories of his capture surged back. Instantly, he lashed out, snapping his arm with all his strength- yet the restraints held firm- it was impossible for him to break free.

Where was he?! Wasn’t he captured by the reinforcements? How long had he been here? What had happened to Harken? Where was Pursuer?!

His mind flooded with questions he couldn’t answer. His head throbbed painfully, and for a moment, he thought maybe this was all a nightmare, that none of it was real. He had to hope so- because if it wasn’t-

The door opened, catching him off guard. A few people stepped in: two of them looked like officers, their arms ready and probably already loaded. Between them stood a man in a white coat. Behind them, the woman he had seen earlier hesitated by the doorway, holding it shakily, even trying to hide behind it when Artful’s eyes met hers. The doctor shifted slightly, shielding her from view.

“How are you feeling?”

Artful didn’t answer. His body felt frozen, like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to do. His gaze drifted to the man’s ID: Doctor Redfill. Slowly, he looked up at the man’s face. Stern, yet softened by the natural redness of his cheeks and nose, he wore casual glasses and sported a long, dark-purple beard matching his hair and eyebrows. Finally, Artful could only manage the word, “Fine,” before falling silent once more.

The doctor gave him a scrutinising look, slightly hunched over as he examined Artful’s shoulder, then straightened and nodded to himself, as if confirming everything seemed alright. He turned to the two men behind him and said something; they exchanged a quick glance before moving to either side of Artful’s bed.

They removed the wrist restraints, replacing them with full-hand cuffs that looked more like shackles. Artful immediately noticed that he couldn’t grip anything with these on- likely done so on purpose, taking away any chance to use anything similar to a wand. The men then went on to free his legs. Moments later, they helped him up, and he now stood with a man on each side. The doctor stepped out of the way, with the nurse now holding the door open to them, slightly relaxing in her posture after seeing Artful get restricted. And so they escorted him out of the room.

They walked in silence. Not that Artful had anything to say, on the contrary, his eyes darted everywhere, searching for anything that might help him escape. The corridors offered almost nothing: a few chairs scattered along the walls, flower pots, and cameras in almost every corner, their red dots beeping steadily as they recorded.

Artful tried to memorise at least some of the locations, thinking ahead in case he got a chance to run. A sharp nudge from one of the officers reminded him to keep his eyes forward; he had been staring everywhere but ahead. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to act less conspicuous. So to relieve the tension (at least for himself), Artful finally asked.

-“How long have I been here?”

-“Two days. You were unconscious the whole time. You are at the research facility the government built,” the one on the left replied, his words dry and edged with hostility. Artful felt the urge to respond but held back, knowing anything he said would likely make things worse.

-“Where… am I being taken?”

-“Cell. You’re obviously detained right now.”

Artful knew deep down that he was already detained. But hearing it confirmed made his heartbeat race, sweat slowly forming on his forehead and back. Even with his hands cuffed, he could feel them fidgeting against each other, shaking- his fingernails pressing lightly into his own skin as he gripped his hands tightly, almost trying to hold himself from going insane.

Thankfully, they arrived sooner than he had anticipated. The room beyond was completely isolated, walls enclosing it fully, no bars. The metallic door had only one wide compartment in the center. They stopped in front of it. The officer on the right let go of his arm, but the left one’s grip tightened in turn. The officer slowly unlocked the door, paused for a few seconds, then opened it slightly to peek inside. “Don’t try anything funny,” he warned.

Artful froze, confused for a moment, before the officer shoved him inside. The door slammed shut behind him. Through the compartment, they removed his cuffs. Only then did Artful turn fully and see a bed across from his own, already occupied by what seemed to be a silhouette of a man. Did they really put him with another prisoner?

Well, it didn’t matter now. There was no point in interacting- he had to find a way out. Artful quickly moved to the empty bed, sitting down and resting his hands on his knees, fingers gripping the sides of his head. Sweat ran down his face as his eyes darted across the floor, scanning for any useful details he might have missed.

He couldn’t cast anything- those cuffs made it impossible to grab anything resembling a wand. Cameras were everywhere. Every door was metallic, unbreakable. Putain!(1) He tightened his grip around his head, trying to calm the rising panic. Then a voice made him freeze, halting mid-thought. It came from the bed across from him.

-“Are you feeling alright? You’ve been banging your leg against the floor rather loudly-”

Artful glanced down at his leg and realised he had been bouncing it without even noticing. He lowered his hands, leaving his head alone, faint red marks still visible where he had gripped it too hard. Then he looked up at the man across from him, who was already sitting- blood pouring from his chest, a sword clearly embedded deep within him-

Artful froze, his eyes widening at the realisation. He was already about to shout at the camera in the corner for someone to get help, but he stopped in his tracks when the man spoke once again.

-“Hold on, hold on! I’m fine- really, I’m fine. No need to call for help. It won’t do any good, anyway.”

Artful stared at him, flabbergasted, before slowly calming down. He remained sceptical, with the man looking all pale, but seeing him breathing normally, speaking without difficulty, and moving without issue was enough for Artful to relax slightly. He studied him more closely now. The young man was dressed in a casual suit- black, almost blending with the blood, which dripped slowly over the edge and onto the floor, staining it faintly. The man himself looked a little surprised, prompting Artful to raise an eyebrow in questioning.

-“Oh! Uh… sorry, didn’t mean to gawp. Just… surprised you’re so composed. People usually aren't when they see me, y’know? Haha…” He laughed it off awkwardly, the British accent getting more evident as he spoke.

Artful didn’t really mind what the man had said, but the sword sticking out of his chest- that was simply impossible. How was he still alive? Still breathing? Those questions swirled in Artful’s mind. And then there was the other oddity: someone who seemed so polite and… well, civil at first glance, sharing a cell with him. That alone was unsettling. Was Artful now just this bad at judging people after being away so long from a civilised place?

-”Ça va…You could say I’ve gotten used to such sights.”(2)

-“I see, well, looks like you’ve calmed down a bit since earlier! Name’s MeQuot, if you don’t mind me asking- what’s yours?”

-”I’m Artful, ravi de vous rencontrer.”(3) At that, MeQuot smiled softly and got up (Artful noted that he was taller than he seemed, even taller than himself), making his way to stretch a hand out for Artful to shake, which he did quite eagerly. After that, MeQuot went back and sat down, trying not to make the bed creak too much. Artful, on the other hand, couldn't contain his curiosity any longer.

-”So how come you ended up here? You seem like a good guy. No offence.” Artful simply was thankful that he didn't feel as paranoid as before, and at least his cellmate seemed to be “normal”. For the most part, at least. MeQuot seemed to halt at the question, slightly getting a more serious expression, but after looking a bit longer at Artful, it softened back to how it was.

-“Accidentally wandered into a restricted zone run by the government researchers on my way to meet a friend- er, coworker. And since he has something they’re after, and I’m tied to him, they hauled me in for questioning.”

-”Have you…tried fighting back?”

-”No, no, I mean- I didn’t want to cause them any trouble. It was my own fault for wandering somewhere I wasn’t meant to be. They’re just doing their job. And you?” Artful hesitated, opening his mouth and then closing.

-“It’s alright if you don’t wish to tell me, sorry for prying-” MeQuot didn’t manage to finish before Artful interrupted him, finally speaking, his head fell lower into his own hand as he did.

-”You could say we had a similar way of getting here… accidentally running into them. I just- I’ve been in trouble for a while, after an incident that sent everything downhill. I… murdered my audience. And some civilians. Then ran. Cut contact with everyone. A few things followed, and now I’m here…Excusez-moi pour ce coup de gueule.”(4)

Artful breathed out, feeling slightly better after being honest. MeQuot silently watched, his expression almost didn't change, but his smile seemed to look more understanding now.

But they were cut short when a series of hard knocks rattled the door. A muffled voice, the same officer who had dragged Artful here earlier, came through the metal. “Artful, get over here. You’re being taken in for interrogation.” Silence followed, heavy and expectant.

He rose to his feet, his heartbeat steadier than before, but his anxiety crawling right back up his throat. His legs felt leaden as he stepped forward. He pushed his hands through the slot in the door, feeling the cold metal of the cuffs clamp back around his wrists. He cast one glance over his shoulder. MeQuot offered a quiet, “Good luck.” And then Artful stepped out.

This time, the corridor they took was different. Artful could tell at a glance, different flowers arranged along the walls, replacing the ones he’d seen before. The entire section felt harsher, more rigid; the décor shifted from sterile research halls to something unmistakably police-like. Filing cabinets lined the sides, officers moved briskly from one door to another, and the distant murmur of conversations replaced the quiet clinical atmosphere of the previous wing.

He didn’t get much time to absorb any of it. The officers kept a firm grip on him, steering him forward until they stopped at another door.

Inside, the room was much smaller. A wooden table sat in the center, two chairs facing each other, and a large mirror on the wall to his right- one that made his stomach flip the second he saw it. He shifted uneasily as they sat him down, the metal cuffs cold against his wrists, slightly cooling the heat his body was producing. The officers stepped back outside, the door shutting with a dull thud.

A moment later, the detective walked in.

He looked… surprisingly approachable, if Artful could say so. The kind of man who was probably on good terms with most people in the building. And, well, Artful had an instinctive tendency to assume older men and women were nice by default, so that didn’t help his nerves much. 

The detective wore a simple blue jacket with his ID tag on, the sort older officers seemed to favour. He was a little chubby- dad bod was the term, wasn’t it? Brown trousers, a small ring of keys dangling from one pocket, and a pen tucked behind his ear. In his right hand, he carried a small stack of papers; with his left, he pulled the chair back and eased himself into it with a quiet exhale. He put everything down on the table, and after that, he rested his hands atop, holding them together in a grip.

-“Name’s Bonbon. As you can see, I’m here to interrogate you. Here’s my ID card.”
He unclipped it with a practised motion and slid it across the table for Artful to inspect.

At first glance, everything looked perfectly ordinary: standard badge, proper seals, nothing out of place. But then Artful’s eyes landed on the department title stamped in bold at the bottom. His blood ran cold and his spine tightened as if someone had pulled a string straight down it. This man wasn’t just some local detective; he was from the upper tier of the government’s chain. 

Artful swallowed, pulse quickening, suddenly all too aware of how small the room was, before slowly nodding.

-“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning. If you wish.”

-“No need.” Artful’s voice wavered despite his best efforts. He knew there was no escaping the sinkhole he’d fallen into. No point in pretending.

-“Alright,” Bonbon said, settling back in his chair, “then let’s begin. How was your childhood like?”

Artful blinked. That was the first question?

-“Good. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

-“Any hobbies you had- or have currently?”

-“I played the piano when I was younger. Eventually, I got interested in… ‘magic tricks.’”

-“Did you share those interests with anyone? Friends?”

-“No. I usually spent time on my own. Or with my goldfish.”

Bonbon hummed as he wrote something down. “What about family? Any siblings?”

-“I had two. Nothing exceptional between us, not great, not bad. Average.”

-“I see. And speaking of relationships, did you ever date? Any partners?”

-“I dated once. A young woman. It didn’t last long, and we never got past a few kisses. Not because of her- I just felt awkward, and eventually realised I’d rather focus on my… career.” Pursuer's name suddenly popped up in Artful’s head, but he quickly ignored it.

-“Mhm.” Bonbon shuffled through the papers on his lap, slid several photos onto the table. “Do you recognise any of these people?”

Artful leaned forward. Civilians stared back at him, faces he’d seen briefly before, but his mind didn’t latch onto them until his eyes fell on her- #1 fan. His entire body froze. A stabbing jolt went through his head- her hand reaching toward him, her body on the floor, her eyes-

He blinked hard, breath stuttering. Still cuffed, he shoved the photo aside, desperate to look at anything else. But they were all there. Every single person who had been in the audience that night. His breathing quickened. His teeth clenched tight. His whole body trembled as he dragged his gaze up to the detective. Through gritted teeth, he forced the words out:

-“We both know the answer. If you want me to admit I killed all of them. There. You have it. I did it.”

-“Why?” Bonbon asked calmly.

-“In a fit of rage.” It came out hollow, the last thing Artful could manage before his gaze dropped to the floor. He felt himself coming apart, mind screaming, body slumping, everything in him fracturing.  But soon enough, his mind started to tune out when he remembered that the only reason why he reacted that way was that he was scared. Scared of what awaited him after he finally got caught. What would happen now? Would he be able to see the daylight once more after his going to be put behind bars?

Bonbon’s face tightened into a thin line. He quietly gathered the photographs, slid them back into the file, and stood.

-“We’ll take a short break,” he said firmly. “Besides… someone asked to speak with you. We’ll bring in a phone and a glass of water with a straw. Take your time.”

The detective left, and in his place, an officer entered, setting a small wireless intercom on the table. He held the microphone toward Artful, who, with half-lidded eyes, shifted slightly in his seat and pressed it to his ear with his shoulder. The officer nodded once and left, leaving him alone with the line.

Artful barely registered the feminine voice that came through. At least, not until he heard his own name.

“Jean! C’est toi? Réponds-moi, s’il te plaît! J’ai besoin de savoir que c’est vraiment toi…”
[Jean! Is that you? Please answer me! I need to know it’s really you…]

The words came in broken, trembling through the line, his mother’s voice thick with tears and sniffles. Artful couldn’t believe it- couldn’t even summon the courage to speak, after everything that's happened.

“S’il te plaît! Je… je t’appelle! Mon bébé… ça fait si longtemps, je suis tellement inquiète! S’il te plaît! Ils m’ont dit que c’était vraiment toi… pourquoi tu ne dis rien?”
[Please! I… I’m calling you! My baby… it’s been so long, I’m so worried! Please! They told me it really was you… why aren’t you saying anything?]

Artful’s chest tightened, his hands fidgeting in the cuffs. Every part of him screamed to respond, and he did, but his voice came out hoarse, and the only thing he could muster was a small-

“Oui, c’est moi.”
[Yes, it's me.]

“Jean!! Jean! Mon petit bébé…! N’aggrave pas les choses pour toi…oohh, Jean…Jean…”
[Jean!! Jean! My little baby…! Don’t make things worse for yourself…oohh, Jean…Jean…]

Her sobs shook through the line, each word breaking under the weight of her tears. She was barely holding herself together. In the background, he could hear his father’s voice, low and steady, trying to calm her down. Artful sat with his chest tightening, staring at the intercom as his mother’s cries filled the small room. His hands curled into the cuffs, knuckles white. He wanted to reassure her, yet he didn't. As he truly didn't know what was going to happen to him.

At some point, he heard the phone slip from her hands and hit the floor, her sobs rising even louder. Knowing his mother, she was probably standing there, trembling, her face buried in her hands, while his father wrapped her in a tight hug.

Artful hunched over, letting his shoulder drop the phone from his ear, ensuring it landed on the hang-up key. His heart couldn’t have taken another second of this torment. He hated every moment in that room. He hated the detective, the officers, and everyone who had brought him to this point. He had never felt this miserable before- not even when he realised he had never truly felt remorse for killing the innocent civilians and feeling different from them all.

He sat in silence, a single drop of sweat falling onto the floor.

The detective finally returned- after what felt like hours, though in reality it had only been fifteen minutes. He studied Artful carefully, taking in every detail. Artful, in turn, just stared back, his eyes, unlike before (closed), were now wide open, piercing, as if trying to snatch the very soul of the man in front of him. The intensity was enough to make the detective look away, clear his throat awkwardly, and finally take a seat.

-“We are both aware that you’ve committed horrible crimes, killing many innocent civilians. And we both know that you won’t escape a death sentence.”

-”…“

-“But, after consulting with a few of my colleagues and reviewing the footage we’ve received recently… what about a deal? If you cooperate, and tell us everything you know about that humanoid sand thing, we can ensure you won’t face the death penalty. We could reduce it to something less extreme… a life sentence.”

Artful remained silent. All of this- it was just a trap to make him agree. And they knew he would falter at such an offer. Who wouldn’t? after seeing their victims’ faces and hearing their own mother in such distress? She didn’t deserve any of this. She didn’t deserve to be talking to a scam like him, or shedding a single tear over him. Her words now stuck in his head, as he was completely cornered.

-”Why are you so sure I know anything about her?”

-”Her? Well… you’ve already shown that you know more than we do about… her.”

N’aggrave pas les choses pour toi…

-”Alright. I agree to cooperate. What do you want to know?”

The detective leaned back slightly, finally getting the response he wanted.

-”Where did you meet her?”

 -”In the forest, fighting something else, not far from where I…lived.”

 -”Have you succeeded at communicating with her?”

 -”Yes.”

 -”How?”

 -”Not sure myself. I suppose she warmed up to me.” Artful’s voice carried soft venom, restrained out of his best ability to not just snap.

 -”Warmed up to you? What did you do then?”

 -”Spoke softly… and gave her a rose.”

 -”A rose? In a forest? Where did you get a rose-”

Artful lazily, almost mockingly, shook his cuffed hands in front of the detective. The man didn’t look amused, but he seemed to buy the lie well enough. He opened his mouth to speak again- but the session was abruptly cut short by blaring alarms. Both of them froze. Artful heard the rush of footsteps from the officers who had been watching behind the mirror. They bolted out into the hallway, leaving only him and the detective inside the room.

His eyes flicked toward the door. What’s happening out there? Before he could fully process that thought, the first scream tore through the hallway. It wasn’t just a shout. It was the kind of guttural, panicked scream that made his stomach drop. Artful blinked slowly, his daze evaporating as the reality of danger settled over him. Something terrible was happening.

The detective stared at the door as well, body tense, fingers curling slightly as if preparing to stand. For a split second, a thought popped up in Artful’s head: he could knock the man out- easily. The cuffs alone were heavy enough to do real damage. The opportunity was right there, practically begging him to take it. But the deal he had agreed to held him still.

Even if he escaped now, by some miracle, he would be wanted again, caught again, and eventually killed after justice gets him. At least with the offer on the table, there was still a chance. A chance to live. A chance to-

Blood splattered across the foggy window of the door, freezing both Artful and the detective in place. The detective slowly rose, drawing a gun from inside his jacket, and pressed himself against the wall beside the door, ready to fire at whoever came through. But neither of them saw it coming when a clawed, familiar hand smashed through the glass, and in a single, lightning-fast motion, it gripped the detective’s face, claws raking across his eyes. The man screamed in agony. Pursuer proceeded to open the door, before closing it off and taking his sword out, holding it in a position ready to slash the man's head off.

“PURSUER, WAIT!”

In the last moment, Pursuer altered the swing, redirecting the blade. It pierced the detective’s shoulder, pinning him to the wall. The gun clattered to the floor, and a scream of pain ripped from the man’s throat. Pursuer turned, meeting Artful’s wide-eyed gaze as the magician stood up from his chair and went around the table, standing in front of it, facing Pursuer.

They stood in silence like that for maybe five minutes, both looking at each other, yet Pursuer took the initiative and quickly made his way to Artful, who was still in shock, trying to understand what was happening. He let out a quick groan when the other suddenly cornered him against the table, wrapping his arms around his whole body, gripping at his ass and waist, while inhaling Artful’s scent. As the two of them stood, with Pursuer leaning closer, there was no room left in between them, forcing their crotches to rub against each other by accident. Artful, ashamed, couldn't help but feel his own pants become tighter gradually. 

With the last pieces of his sanity, Artful shoved against Pursuer, forcing him back, heart hammering. The other persisted as ever-(Artful…not exactly minding it if not for the situation and overall the sudden weird behaviour from the other) but finally halted when he felt Artful’s cuffed hands pressing against his chest. Pursuer’s eyes narrowed, studying him for a moment, before easing his grip. Almost completely letting go, he kept one clawed hand wrapped around Artful’s wrist, trying to guide him toward the door with firm but controlled pressure.

But Artful didn't budge. Pursuer looked back, clearly questioning the other's actions. Artful looked at the detective, who was still watching with his eyes practically on his forehead from what he was seeing.

N’aggrave pas les choses pour toi…

-”I…I can't go.”

Silence from Pursuer.

-”I got a good offer and-”

-”Artful.”

Artful was momentarily taken aback that Pursuer had pronounced his name correctly for the first time- but the surprise quickly dissolved into anxiety as he saw the look in Pursuer’s eyes. No smile, only a gaze, pupils so wide that the teal of his sclera was almost completely invisible. It was the first time Artful had ever seen such an expression.

Pursuer released his hand and strode toward the detective, yanking the sword free from the man’s shoulder, prompting another scream of pain. He then turned back to Artful, raising his sword above him. Instinctively, the magician raised his cuffed hands in front of himself, feeling the wind of the swing. The impact shattered the cuffs, sending them clattering to the floor. Pursuer slid the sword back into its usual place on his back, his gaze never leaving Artful.

He harshly grabbed Artful’s arm this time, pushing him forward until he was right in front of the detective, who barely managed to steady himself. With his second arm, Pursuer guided Artful’s right hand toward the detective, and after that, he lay atop Artful’s grip around the man’s neck.

Panic and confusion surged through Artful. He opened his mouth, ready to protest. Pursuer stood silently behind him, pressing close, eyes fixed on Artful’s expression as he watched him closely, as the detective was being choked.

-“Pursuer, what are you doing?! I said-”

Artful’s words caught in his throat as he realised: Pursuer wasn’t actually forcing his hand to do any of it. He was simply guiding it. Artful himself was choking the detective. Sweat rolled down his temples and cheeks as he struggled for breath, each exhale slow, watching the man falter, suffocating under the lack of oxygen. Yet Artful felt weird satisfaction; his anger towards the detective finally dying along with the cause itself.

He could feel Pursuer’s smile return in content, still watching Artful closely as the magician slowly comprehended what he was doing. Then, with intentional force, Pursuer’s fingers pressed further, piercing the detective’s neck with his claws. Blood spattered across Artful’s hands and clothes.

When it became clear the man was dead, Pursuer released him, letting the body crumple to the floor. Artful stood frozen, paralysed by what had just occurred. Pursuer’s tongue traced along Artful’s trembling, outstretched, bloody arm before he finally turned and left the room, casting one final glance over his shoulder. Giving Artful the space he had wanted before.

After a few more minutes, Artful’s hand finally gave out, falling limp at his side. His whole body felt strangely light and dull at the same time, like something inside him had snapped clean in two.
There was no return now.

He had killed another government official- again. And Pursuer had made sure of it. Of course, he had. He knew Artful was too far gone for “redemption,” whatever that word even meant anymore. Even if Pursuer hadn’t known Artful would choke the man himself… the moment Artful tried to choose something that might distance him from Pursuer, the other simply hadn’t allowed it. He didn’t understand him. At all.

And what even was that, at the start?! When he pressed himself against him like that- pouah.(5)

Artful let out a low groan, head tipping back before he dragged a shaking hand over his burning face. The motion tugged sharply at the fresh bandage wrapped too tightly over his shoulder, making the whole thing even more uncomfortable.

He needed to get out of here. Now.

Artful left the cabinet, only looking back for a few seconds at the intercom, longingly, before leaving.

The corridors were an absolute mess- shattered glass and blood smeared across the floor and walls, like something ripped straight out of a vintage horror film. A few limp hands stuck out from half-open doorways, belonging to bodies that lay collapsed inside, motionless and already cooling. Thankfully, no officers were in sight.

Artful slipped into one of the open rooms. Files littered the desks, computers still were on, screens flickering with half-finished reports. He rummaged through the drawers, searching for anything even remotely wand-like that he could use, now that his hands were free. But everything inside was useless: file folders, staplers, paper clips, cheap office supplies. Nothing that would conduct magic. He clicked his tongue in mild disappointment and backed out of the room.

His footsteps echoed faintly behind him, pretty loud compared to the silence around. He hurried down the corridor, trying to retrace his path by memory, back toward the medical section where he’d been patched up earlier.

Some panicked shouts echoed down the hall, but most came from caretakers calling desperately for extra hands as they worked on patients who were on the verge of death. Many of them were officers and reinforcements who’d had the misfortune of crossing paths with Pursuer.

But as Artful passed them, something felt… off.

Not all the injuries were grotesque slashes or bite marks. Some bodies had cleanly broken limbs, twisted at impossible angles- and others were simply missing an arm or a leg entirely. As if the limb had been erased rather than severed. No blood, no wound, just… absence.

He swallowed hard and kept moving. The caretakers barely registered him, too overwhelmed to care. The few researchers who accidentally met his gaze flinched and immediately fled in the opposite direction, assuming he might hurt them- (which would’ve been impossible anyway, not without his wand… not that he wanted to.)

He turned down another corridor, thinking it might lead to the main building’s exit- before he halted when a familiar voice drifted around the corner. A British accent… mixed with another one he couldn’t quite place. MeQuot? Was he talking with someone? 

Artful turned the corner, only to spot MeQuot strolling casually with one hand stuffed in his pants pocket as if nothing was happening around, sword still stuck inside his chest. Beside him walked another tall man, dressed in a red check-pattern sweater layered over a gray long-sleeved shirt, a tie tucked neatly underneath the collar. Beige pants, black shoes, and dual-lens glasses completed the look atop his head. He was idly spinning a shiny black box on his finger. Both of them walked in front of Artful, with their backs facing him as they were probably also heading for the exit.

-“You love wasting my time, huh? Why didn’t you tear into them when they took you? You sure didn’t hesitate when you damn near sliced my face off. What, I’m the only one you save that crap for?”

-“Well, as i said, it wasn’t exactly their fault… I’d have been released at some point. As for that- you were the one tugging the sword out of me, and you know it hurts. But… you're right, apologies for the scar; that was terrible of me.”

-“Man, I can’t stand how you’re always apologising. No bark at all. Also- do you know the dude behind us, or is he just a creep?”

Artful came to an abrupt stop, surprised- he hadn’t expected to be heard over all the chaos surrounding the place. Devesto was the first to turn, shooting him a look (probably because he was still in bloodied clothes), while MeQuot did the same shortly after. His expression, however, brightened instantly when he saw Artful.

-”Artful! I was wondering where you were! How did the interrogation go, then?”

-“Ah… it went… fine.” He looked up at the man beside MeQuot, feeling clearly unwelcome under the intensely suspicious gaze- not to mention the guy’s ridiculous height, taller than MeQuot and probably even a bit taller than Pursuer.

MeQuot already wanted to felicitate Artful, thinking it truly did go well, but was interrupted by the man.

-“Wait a minute, aren’t you that focus-pocus guy from the posters I saw a few months back? What the hell-” His eyes narrowed as he started to recognise Artful’s face.

-”Devesto.” MeQuot looked at him.

-“What? I thought he did tricks for kids or something, no way this dude ended up here for no reason- No, wait- better question, how the hell did he even survive with that rabid dog tearing everyone around here apart” 

Artful was about to snap back at Devesto for not taking his performances seriously, and acting rude overall, but the mention of the “rabid dog” made him pause, a flicker of hope rising that maybe they’d seen Pursuer. He…needed to know if he got out safely-

-”Are you speaking of Pursuer?"

-”Who?”

-“Tall guy with a white face and a sword on the back…”

-“Oh yeah, I was about to fling that thing off- thought it was gonna take my whole ass finger with it- but SOMEONE,” Devesto shot a glare down at MeQuot, who didn’t even flinch at the raised voice, “decided to stop me, and that thing bolted outta sight.”

-“You’re overplaying it- no offence.” MeQuot added at the end.

-”Huh, if you ask me, it seemed like it clearly was asking for a fistful-”

-”Artful, are you familiar with it perhaps?”

-”I- well, it's uh complicated- but he is my friend, sort of…”

-”Yikes.” Devesto gave a disgusted look.

-”Oh-” Even MeQuot was taken aback, though not as dramatically as Devesto. He let out an awkward cough. “Sorry, that just threw me a bit, didn’t mean to sound rude… Yeah, Pursuer’s headed for the main exit. We were on our way there as well. Fancy coming along?”

-”Ey ey, hold your polite balls back- I never agreed to any of this-”

-”It won’t do you any harm if he comes along. Also, I have a fair idea where they’ve stashed your old clothes Artful- i think you should change the outfit, if you want to, of course.”

Artful simply nodded and stepped past Devesto, falling in line with MeQuot, who gave a quick thumbs-up, signalling him to go ahead. Luckily, the changing room was along the way to the exit, as he guessed, so they wouldn’t be wasting too much time.

But Artful glanced back when he noticed MeQuot fall behind for a few seconds. All he caught in time was MeQuot slapping Devesto’s hand away while rubbing his neck with the other, slightly annoyed- Devesto, meanwhile, simply smirked.

MeQuot finally rushed forward, and the two of them went ahead, while Devesto went straight to the Exit, not interested in tagging along.

Bonus: (Please don't kill me for anatomy mistakes...You get the joke? haha...sob😭, anyways Devesto and MeQuot references) 

Now PursuerxArtful (Artful is the equivalent of "I can change him" but he gets UNO reversed💔)