The Fleshfull Machine - Shard 1

The First Shard: SHE hasn't left!

                                                                          - 1 -

A scorching shell of golden fluid greedily enveloped Gregory Jolpin's tired complexion. Thousands of needles drilled their way into every square millimeter of his wrinkled skin, eyes and nose, reducing the amber depths to a barely intelligible blur. The frigid ocean seemed like a boundless purgatory, a personal hell of contempt, hollow and bitter. His body, weakened and battered by the uncaring knuckles of a Colossus named "life," was dragged ever-downward by an unbearable weight that coiled around the man's right arm. Forcing himself to squint, a semi-clear image finally imprinted itself upon his worn retinas. A massive, anchor of bone, grotesque and disfigured, poking its jagged shank towards our protagonist. Thousands of beady eyes radiating naught but utter, judgemental scorn pierced the sinking man from the islands of flanking, baked skin located on the abominable weight's crown - their nest. It was as if his mere proximity was toxic to them, which is why they chose such a faraway terrace to gaze safely from. They were like barnacles on the carcass of an abandoned ship. A swift glance upward revealed a spinal whip lodged in his forearm, a hellish umbilical cord edging Jolpin towards his doom. The flesh that barely clung to the limb was raw, pustulated, and inflamed with painful heat radiating from it in a pulsatile manner. The longer he gawked at it, the tighter the monstrous serpent's grip grew.

What was the man waiting for? The gashes and cuts that marked the demonic spine's entry into his system were wide enough to fit his old nails. Gregory's fingers carefully prodded the entryway, only to recoil momentarily from the sheer, scalding sting. Yes, the ravine of tissue would have been a well of torment, a volcano lying in anticipation for that one quake, that one stimulus to shower the world in flame! Yes, it would have been a process drawn and endless like a sleepless night, agonizing enough to make madness seem like a refuge most welcoming! But! With speed and perseverance, one could theoretically stand a chance against this menace! To tear off this subcutaneous chain, and the weight of death with it. All one needs is a simple push!

Alas, the man remained static, believing perhaps that it was too little too late to wish for salvation. Gregory Jolpin passed all the trenches and raced towards the epicenter of the no man's land. Seconds, minutes, hours, years seeped into the void, with Jolpin's Sisyphean attempts at keeping track on them obscuring the rapidly approaching valley of blunt, murky fluid carpeted onto a "seabed." The nightmarish anchor was the first to break through the veil of filth with a metallic roar, rousing clouds of vile masses. The semi-soft embrace of the bottom felt like the touch of death itself, its icy tendrils tearing into and draining each and every ounce of warmth left in his poisoned cells. Roots of desperation wound around the brainstem of its victim, burning out the neurons akin to old light bulbs one after the other. Our protagonist was a sacrificial lamb, utterly powerless towards the whims of fate...

At first it was not but a barely perceivable pulse, oppressed by the crushing weight of the ocean. The second one, however, felt stronger, warmer, more physical so to speak. The murky masses shifted, as if being scared away by this enigmatic anomaly. Then came the third one, stronger than both its predecessors combined, permeating our protagonist with ease. His scorched pupils rolled weakly towards the perceived disturbance, before stopping and freezing on the spot, constricting down to the size of a pinprick. In that moment the fourth pulse smashed into Gregory's face, swiping the entire valley clean of its oily occupants. Before Jolpin stood a radiant entity, a beacon of light, an existence beyond that of man yet so similar to it. The man's dried lips trembled, muttering incomprehensibly at the angelic silhouette observed beyond its shell of light. His eyes saw silky, tawny locks swaying gently in an inexistent wind, small, sharp features and amber eyes bestowing their unforgettable beauty to those capable of witnessing them. Jolpin's desire and thirst for this heavenly figure eclipsed reason, rendered morals into hollow words lost in a cacophony of a crowd, making crimes most heinous seem like deeds most noble and justifiable. Battling with his sore muscles, the man crawled forward, outstretching his hand to touch, to feel the warmth of HER figure once again...

Alas, the only sensation relayed by the neurons nesting in the drunkards' palms was the dead, rough texture of the pavement. Jolpin rubbed his eyelids with his left hand, allowing the pupils within a small respite before forcing them to readapt to reality. The man's gaze was fixated on a faded wall illuminated by a single, flickering lampion. Feeling a rapidly growing soreness emanating from a limb trapped under the body's weight for prolonged periods, Gregory begrudgingly forced himself to stand up and liberated his right arm from captivity.

As the world began settling in, Jolpin began slowly piecing together the events that lead to this very moment. Our protagonist glanced back at a shell of an establishment, mere three steps away. It felt like the walls of the aforementioned structure were deprived of the sweet embrace of fresh paint for decades. The doors and windows, both of which served as frequent gateways into and out of the once respectable bar, were not faring any better. Their exteriors were scraped and flaking, their ancient frames resting on rusty hinges that blessed their visitors with an ear-piercing screech. "Hollow Asgard'' was its name, a bar for the downtrodden, a well of the cheapest ethanol-based poison for penniless ones to drink out of, and Gregory's second home. From afar it seemed more suited to specters than men. A fitting place for our protagonist.

Gregory's head pounded incessantly, while bouts of nausea scorched his throat and esophagus. Struggling to keep his balance, the man took a seat on the cold pavement before taking a deep breath, caressing a silver chain that wound around a bracelet of tawny hair, itself clinging to his left wrist. Lazily glancing upwards, one could clearly make out azure streaks on the eastern border of an otherwise inky sky, meaning in a few hours, the sun would shower these cold streets with the first rays of its radiant glow.

Jolpin's entire body felt like it was submerged in currant jelly, seemingly light yet devoid of balance and fine motor control. He slowly tipped his head downward, as if fearing the possibility of it accidentally detaching itself. Where many would see a mere worn, faded red T-shirt, itself a megapolis of dried vomit stains and holes, Jolpin saw a friend and a companion, an extra layer of skin that clad his body for years non-stop. No matter the day, no matter the season it would remain by his side, perhaps even as a miniature monument to remind the world of tomorrow that he once used to tread this wretched earth. Apart from that, a pair of old, torn jeans and filthy boots adorned his lower appendages. The familiar sight finally awakened the first pieces of the hazy memory - a vague smell of tobacco mixed with the stinging aroma of cheap vodka saturating the air. These sensations were soon followed by a pair of bear paws sinking into his anatomy, eventually culminating in a brief feeling of weightlessness and subsequent collision with something cold and hard. The rest he already knew.

With great difficulty, a trembling hand swum through the viscous air towards a battered trench coat that lay besides our protagonist. Keeping the drunkard's general appearance in mind, it would not be far fetched to assume it belonged to him. Sliding into the piece of apparel with a struggle, Jolpin gave it a few "loving pats" to dust the aforementioned coat off, and spared the Asgard one last cursory glance, before resuming his journey.

- 2 -

A river of stone glistened under the waning moonlight, its massive length and reach smothered by tight banks composed of small buildings that, at maximum, were 3 stories tall. Even though it snaked upward, reaching the highest peaks and plateauing towards the lowest of bottoms of the Town of Okad, in the end this mighty beast was ultimately subjugated and forced to serve the whims of man.

Gregory Jolpin hobbled forward, battling both the crushing gravity and the treacherous elevation, his intoxicated body swaying like a reed in the wind.

Ambushed by a sudden bout of nausea, the drifter froze, retched and dove towards the nearest alley. His chest and abdomen snapped shut like a bear trap, forcing Jolpin to empty the contents of his stomach onto a nearby wall. A bolt of flame shot down the man's esophagus, as he croaked and heaved in pain. Without straightening up he slumped forward, grabbing onto the rusted, ornamented guard rails at the very end of the aforementioned alley. The loosened pieces of neglected metal creaked in surprise, warning the visitor of their unstable structure, and of the grim development soon to follow. Yet the man's mind remained inert to their pleas and threats, too preoccupied with its attempts to recover after what felt like a head-on collision with a wall. A few heartbeats transpired and the seething pain subsided, allowing the protagonist to glance at the picturesque view ahead. The railing was there to provide safety for those who wished to admire massive terraces of Okad, a town built onto the mountainous slopes and the neighboring valleys, Gregory's home prison.

Realizing that only a flimsy barrier separated him from a deadly fall, Jolpin pushed himself backwards a few steps, until a sudden crunch beneath his left boot stopped the man dead in his tracks. A reflective piece of glass, trapped underneath his sole hissed in protest, splitting into dozens of shards. Greg lazily stepped aside, glanced downward and met the gaze of a thousand failures standing beside a descending moon, faded specters trapped behind an old, discarded mirror. Filthy images that seemed somehow distant, but were oh so intimately close. Scornful monuments of tragedies unseen, a quicksand deep enough to smother a thousand lives. Jolpin bitterly averted his sight from their burning glare and pressed forward, trying to phase them out of his mind.

Slowly, the weight of exhaustion began pulling down on the man's eyelids, rousing invisible waves that threatened to intimately reacquaint our protagonist with the cold pavement. If one could salvage a silver lining from this foul situation, they would, paradoxically end up with the struggle itself, which proved to be a strong distraction, shortening our protagonist's painstaking journey towards a nest of nightmares that resided on the sixth story of the "apartment complex N98," on Charon street.

Charon street...

It was akin to an old, malformed artery that erratically zigzagged forward, before eventually fusing with a no less ancient Obol street. On its way it sprouted a myriad of capillaries that slithered through their respective "shells" of apartment complexes, splitting into alleys, courtyards and such before eventually connecting to the offshoots of neighboring vessels. Jolpin gazed at those dreary concrete boxes, mass produced 12 story goliaths, faceless xerocopies, reminders of the days past that clung to this region like hideous scars on a person's complexion. And one of these was the dreaded apartment complex N98.

Jolpin watched the fledgling golden rays fall onto the peak of the imposing ashen behemoth, the bowels of which he was supposed to delve into.

Carefully, the man's shoes tapped the cracked floor, before subsequently moving onto the staircase. He watched the steps flow past him, gazing at the exposed rebars nestled in the gashes on their worn backs. Eventually, he had to lift his sight off of them and brave the entrance of his apartment. The man's hand fluttered like that of a painter holding his bristle brush, as he tried pushing the small iron keys into their respective locks. Within a few seconds, the iron door creaked open, unleashing a miasma of stuffy, dead air out into the world. Gregory gazed into a dimly lit living room, tinted purple by those few ribbons of light that managed to elude the ever-present blinds.

Without disrobing he shuffled into the darkness, and locked the door behind him. Slowly shambling past the lonely rooms and entering the one straight ahead, Gregory Jolpin dropped onto a dingy sofa, at its farthest edge.

Caressing its many stains, Greg's exhausted mind tried recalling exactly when he last treaded these blighted, monochromatic grounds. A semi-intensive search through the valleys of his mind yielded a probable number - Seven days. And seven days more it shall be, Jolpin boldly proclaimed in his head before giving into the sweet call of slumber.

- 3 -

Gregory Jolpin.

If the forces of the universe ever conspired to create the world's most painfully average man, down to the smallest and most excruciating details, it would have been him. An immaculate nobody, a perfect background character to contrast with the protagonists in any story, a clean slate in all of its meanings. An average build, average intelligence, a consumer of average media and goods, working in an average workplace, destined to create an average family to spawn more background characters to contrast with the protagonists of someone else's tale.

However, there was one exception to his plainly unimpressive origin story - the man's infatuation with his wife. Now SHE filled a truly special niche. Soon after the two had met, SHE became the welcoming light that greeted our protagonist whenever he returned from the office, an artist of life that coated the world in saturated colors, dispelling all the soreness, exhaustion and desperation by HER sheer presence alone.

Yet, as is the way of the Colossus named "Life," this was all a serene calm before an earth-shattering storm, an ascent to make the fall that much harder. For every shred glow the woman shared with the outside world, SHE left a growing, festering darkness that took hold inside. A writhing, malignant mass consumed everything on its way, weeds sprouting and multiplying frighteningly fast inside a beautiful garden that was HER body. The woman's life seeped between his fingers like quicksand.

The toll of the inevitable hammered our protagonist like a piece of raw steel...and eventually he buckled. The last few years of his married life and those that succeeded them mixed together into an unintelligible blur, transected occasionally by islands of shaky images.

The slumbering drunkard's eyelids slid apart, revealing a dim glow of sunset throwing weak shade at the furniture of his home. The apartment was deprived of fresh air on an almost constant basis, its stuffiness an alarm that always fell on deaf ears. Jolpin was suffocating here, yet he could not (or did not) bring himself to open a window even for a minute. And so he remained, a neglected pet abandoned to rot in a cage by its irresponsible owners, a helpless whale beached ashore to meet its agonizing end.

His throat was as dry as the Gobi desert itself. Now that impulse he could not ignore. Staining to stand up, the man stumbled over to the kitchen and wound the knob just above the sink. Of course the piping only whined dryly in response, Jolpin hasn't paid his bills in months after all. Dissatisfied, the man's sight glided towards an old iron fridge, with flaking paint revealing macules of chocolatey rust. Its innards were just as unsurprisingly barren as our protagonist's digestive system, only a couple of empty bottles of milk with a few nauseatingly rancid drops in their bottoms - perhaps untouched for a year now; another discovery was made on the middle shelf of metal, a fuzzy mass of fungus growing on what perhaps one day was called "a sandwich." Its doors were subsequently shut with a growl of disappointment. Soon afterwards our protagonist was already rushing down the stairs, excited to leave the dreaded complex for another week or two.

=2

His boots scraped against the aged cement of a hexagonal courtyard, itself walled from all directions by the same, nondescript giants of concrete. The setting sun and an army of barely functional lampions shrouded it in a haze of shadows, something Jolpin could still somewhat navigate. He knew the road ahead forked in three directions, and that the central one widened into a miniature "park" (or more precisely, its neglected remnant), while the one on the right - a cluster of rundown gazebos.

Gregory stepped forward through the darkness, the dimly lit environment allowing his mind to focus almost entirely on other senses. Something was wrong, the air seemed heavier with a much stronger scent of smog. As he approached the aforementioned gazebos, his ears began picking up a tired roar of a truck, seeping from the adjacent Charon Street. A literal truck on these seldom trodden roads? And yet, to his amazement another roar swiftly followed, and then another. One truck is unusual enough, but multiple...

"What the hell is going on here?" Gregory Muttered under his breath, but dropped the line of thought soon afterwards, overshadowed by an anticipation of company and drinks.

An elongated iron sheet with four thin legs, known by many as a "table" stood under a faded and rusted roof, tucked between two long seats of old wood riveted onto the skeletons of metal. One of them was forced to support the weight of a stout man that resembled an oak stump with a few small branches jutting from its sides. Miro, his receding hairline, obese barrel of a torso and lanky arms were a living landmark among alcoholics of Charon Street and beyond. Beside him sat a much thinner, paler man clad in a torn ashen coat - The Mathematician. It seems the colossus named “Life” didn't go easy on them either. The two were engaged in a semi-heated conversation.

"... Just think about it, my friend. Aaah, if only the high heavens blessed us with a young fellow... A "brother in arms," so to speak, with some deep emotional luggage and steep pockets to boot as well. Can you imagine what a mesmerizing pallet of booze could be at our disposal, if we managed to convert him to our humble cause?!" Miro joyously laughed, smacking the thinner, older man's shoulder. He leaned onto the table, examining a small pyramid of empty bottles, topped with sunflower seed shells.

"Give it a rest Miro." The Mathematician sighed, scratching his scrawny, pearly beard in disagreement. "No man deserves such life. Even if this "conversion" were to occur, you would be doing it alone. I will not dirty my hands with that sin."

The barrel-chested man scoffed "My my, is that conscience I hear?" He flicked one of the bottles in the middle, forcing half of the aforementioned "pyramid" to slough off and drop onto the table with a hollow thud. The shells soon followed suit. "Mind if I ask, who was that tall, white-haired geezer gleefully sipping Andrei's vodka, or Nickolas's prized family Scotch? Where was your "I will not dirty my hands'' declaration then!?"

The Mathematician averted his sight in silence. The stout one smiled, exposing a semi-barren set of crooked, yellowish teeth. "See? My humble self, for example, never understood the meaning of this "Make believe sainthood" so many people showcase to this day. You people preach the way of piety from your imaginary ivory towers, yet the moment push comes to shove, the desire to cave into your egoism perseveres! It will behead your "morals" like a king beheads his usurpers." One could notice the increasing amount of pride soaking Miro's words. "But I, dear friend, have no said usurpers, for they simply never existed within the confines of my mind."

"Nonetheless, just because I succumb to this...sickness, doesn't mean I cannot condemn it." The Mathematician blurted out in defeat.

"Without sounding like a hypocrite? Regardless, I wish to steer the subject of our conversation towards all The refugees that began flocking Okad!" Miro suddenly sniffed the air in excitement."Those droves upon droves of people, all robbed their homes, lives, stability, left with hollow days yearning for something to fill them. That means, we soon shall have an entire army of lost children to join our flock."

"Ah, good evening, Greg! " The thin man waved towards our protagonist, partially hopeful the addition of a third individual would finally strike up a less morally bleak conversation. Miro only nodded.

"Greetings, gentlemen." Jolpin descended onto the ancient bench, trying to make himself comfortable. "Strange, in all honesty your surprising deficit of " the goods" seems uncharacteristic." He glanced at the empty bottles.

"Damn right you are, mate." The stout drunkard snorted in dissatisfaction. "It is something we must fix! And look at that, our beloved Maths teacher is volunteering to grab us a few beers from the local store!

Mathematician recoiled in surprise. "Why me?!" He exclaimed in protest.

"Because you're the one with pocket change, ya senile geezer!" Miro growled and then chuckled to himself. "I'd go myself, but my missus barely spares yours truly a penny! I'll treat you mates whenever I am able to."

That's what he always said.

"Hey Jolpin, got a few scraps to share with our snow-capped friend?" The humanoid stump turned towards Gregory. "Come on, Greg, you have to have at least a bit to share, right?"

"Barely." The protagonist dug his hand in his pocket demonstratively, pulling out a few coins. "You know I am unemployed, which reduces my sources of income to bare minimum." That's what he always said. In truth, Jolpin has been slowly leeching off his life savings, taking out just enough to buy the cheapest booze. Armed with this pragmatic philosophy, he made absolutely sure that the remaining years of his life would always be accompanied by a supply of cheap ethanol. He was not about to let Miro's incessant nagging and whining pressure him into buying anything above the bottom line. Gregory passed them to the older gentleman, who then hurried off beyond our protagonist's line of sight.

Jolpin never committed Miro's words to mind, allowing them to flow past him, rendering himself inert to their toxic influence. "Then why do you commune with this individual?" It is a simple question that demands a multifaceted answer. Gregory and Miro had a history that reached into early childhood, which rendered him something akin to family. The second reason was a bit darker, and more pragmatic. By "converting people'' and being a social butterfly among ethanol connoisseurs, the stout man surrounded himself with a well-stocked tap of booze, meaning that being in his vicinity was always a winning choice.

Thankfully, their smalltalk needn't last too long, as an emerging image of the Mathematician, with two bottles of beer tucked under his armpits put it to a swift end.

"Only two?" Greg remarked, slightly curious, when the geezer sat down.

"Tragic, yet unsurprising." Miro frowned. "I am almost certain one can find the culprit among our unwanted guests."

"I've been out of the loop these few weeks. 'Suppose the trucks riding through this place and the lack of beer are a recent development?"

"Indeed. " The older one nodded, while his short companion downed the golden, bubbling fluid. "Remember Kalsten, our neighboring city?"

Gregory nodded.

"As with all "great migrations" the details are a little hazy, contradictory, asinine and such. But one thing everybody agrees on is that the city got completely emptied. Something tells me the space in this town is about to get much smaller."

" I bet it's a bioterrorist attack!" The other drunkard interjected. "Or a full on covert invasion by a foreign army, and soon Kalsten will turn into an enemy stronghold!"

"Bloody hell, mate. There's no sin in silence, especially if you have nothing of value to add." Gregory spat, watching Miro shrug, mutter something under his breath and upturn a bottle of beer. He then turned back towards the thin man and gestured at him to continue.

"Nothing more to add, now you know just as much as we do. However..." The Mathematician cursed. "I could not bother with our new guests enough, but if their increasing presence is to inversely correlate with the amount of booze on the shelves, I will take up arms and retaliate!"

"Arms? You?" Miro burst out laughing. " You'll flail like a reed in the wind, if a breeze ever so lightly touches you! Simmer down old man, don't give those already stressed animals a reason to tear you apart!"

Sensing another petty argument in its early stages of maturation, Gregory emptied what little remained in the second bottle, choked out a belch and stood up.

"I'll be taking my leave then, friends. I need some fresh air."

"Off to go running off to your secret drinking nest, eh?!" After a brief period of silence, the stout man's question caught up with our protagonist. He almost sounded upset at Jolpin for his dishonesty. Gregory didn't answer, just waved without looking back and made his way onto the main road of Charon street.

He was going home, he was heading towards Asgard.

- 4 -

The Hollow Asgard. The first greeting it offered was a veil of cigarette smoke thrown into the faces of its visitors. It was then followed by soft, mellow music just barely loud enough to not drown in the cacophony of the bar's patrons. Facing the entrance stood an ancient bar table of oak, darkened by generations of loyal service. Behind it stood a brick house of a man, grizzled and pale by the decades of life spent on this soil. His pearly hair and beard contrasted greatly with dimly lit surroundings. Jolpin hobbled forward, maneuvering around islands of old wooden tables, trying to unacquaint his gaze with those thrown by a myriad of shady characters. Moving towards the farthest edge of where the grizzled one stood, Gregory gently slid into the bar stool. The former moved towards our protagonist, placing his massive, hairy arm onto the table whilst sliding the other one beneath it.

"The usual?" The man asked, his voice deep and raspy, his single, healthy eye peering through our protagonist.

Jolpin only nodded in response. The bartender pulled two bottles out, both old and devoid of any labels barring a few numbers inscribed on their surface with a black sharpie. Simultaneously, the drunkard slid a few pieces of paper money out of a hidden pocket, located in his coat's sleeve.

"Thank you, Lars." Gregory whispered, when his hands felt the cold sting of the aforementioned alcohol containers. The massive man only nodded in response. For a heartbeat, the latter looked towards one of the other clients, allowing our protagonist to admire the yellowish highlights trapped in the forked ravine that ran from Lars Argus's left brow down to his cheek, passing straight through his eye. In spite of frequenting this establishment, Jolpin could never take his sight off of the bartender's visage. The hideous scar that nested on his face was somehow captivating, a unique gem in a valley of its banal contemporaries. These thoughts occupied Gregory's mind while his dirty fingers wound the bent lid off of one of the bottles. The few remaining shreds of manners occupying our protagonist compelled him to pour the homebrew fluid into shot glasses, instead of emptying the bottle in one go.

The first shot slid down his throat, feeling like a molten piece of iron. It was blazing, harsh, unforgiving, forcing Jolpin to cough and sharply exhale in a mix of pain and disgust. Cheapest poison on the shelf, that's for sure, he thought. As the scalding alcohol slowly set his stomach ablaze, Gregory fell deeper and deeper into his own thoughts. Soon a second shot came, then the third, heralds of a golden haze that slowly circled our protagonist, steadily blurring the bar, the noise into a singular indistinguishable mass. The only beacon of normalcy that stuck out of the developing amber seas was Argus himself, a stoic lighthouse that shone through even the darkest of nights. The reins behind his tongue always loosened after the first bottle, regardless how much he tried fighting the words, sentences and feelings that wormed their way out of his lungs. One-eyed Argus was always there to listen, to understand, even though his advices seemed impossible to achieve. Perhaps that is what the drunkard yearned for, an ear that would listen, a mouth that would not regurgitate patronizing sentences that hammered themselves into his brain stem. Perhaps, Lars was no different from those people, but he simply gave up trying to save the drowning man that admired his facial deformity oh so intensely?

"Argus, anything interesting on your end?" That's how he always opened the conversation, exactly one bottle in.

"Apart from the fact that this ancient bar has seen more regime changes than the generations of its proprietors? Nothing much." And that's how the bartender always started. "Asgard got hit by a small wave of new patrons-"

"Let me guess." Jolpin cut him off with an annoyed sigh, already well aware of what his poison seller was to say. "The entire population of Kalsten? Seems to be the only thing plastered on everyone's tongues these days." His speech already began showing hints of slurring.

"And you don't find it intriguing in any way, shape, or form? An entire city emptied in a flash. I'd say give me a weapon, and let me loose in that sandbox of a ghost town, maybe sprinkle in a few fools to poke holes into...aah, the thought of it alone takes me back..."

"Would you have gone there, were it not for the fact that you're the sole heart keeping this place alive?" He inquired, before downing a shot and stifling a cough.

"Were it not for the authorities who would plant a bullet in my arse the moment I left the perimeter!" Argus chuckled heartily. "I'm no longer the spry fighter I used to be, meeting my end while branded as a marauder does not sound enticing in the slightest. Speaking of things that sound enticing..." He quickly shifted the subject. "How's your wife doing?"

"Ah, SHE's great as always." Jolpin would always answer, always following it up with something akin to "A dedicated housewife, that's what SHE is." Argus would always follow it up with something akin to "And yet you chose to always spend nights here instead of in her embrace?" Consequently, Jolpin would always dodge the question, and Argus would always shrug, unconvinced and would always hover over to take care of other patrons, always destined to return after a few minutes to spark up a conversation yet again.

Around this hour of the night, the second bottle of that home made toxin was already emptied, prompting our protagonist to relinquish more of his funds for two more doses of that bottled death. Now the golden ocean was raging, its semi-corporeal waves smashing into our protagonist's back with reckless abandon, seeping into his mind, drifting him away from reality. Once more the demonic anchor wound around Gregory's arm, and once more he plunged towards the abyssal depth. Stranded in the amber masses, sinking towards the bottom. However, the flow of events deviated greatly from the norm. A pair of manly paws broke through the water, sinking their massive digits into Jolpin's worn back and yanking him back into reality. Jolpin stumbled backwards in shock, trying to reorient himself in a mixture of awe and surprise. Gregory was definitely not used to snapping out of his dream-like state in an upright posture. The only reason the back of the man's skull was not smashed against the bar floor was the brick house of a man, One-eyed Lars Argus.

"You alright there, Greg?" The bartender asked, his deep thunderous voice echoing in Jolpin's head.

"Yeah, somewhat. How come you didn't teach me how to fly like yesterday? Like you always do?" He asked in a mixture of humor and upset.

"Good question. One could consider your unusual receptiveness to be the main reason. To my surprise you didn't stuff your brain to the very brink with that poison. What deep contemplations plague Gregory Jolpin's mind tonight, I wonder?"

For a few heartbeats the drunkard did not spare any answers, instead opting to simply caress his bracelet of hair in silence. The man's face betrayed sadness and deep thought. Gregory nodded in appreciation, (a gesture reciprocated by the one-eyed Argus) and shuffled off towards the exit. The rusted hinges screeched their farewells, as yet another intoxicated individual drifted past their grasp.

The all familiar, winding, serpent of a road snaked ahead, supporting the boots of an all familiar alcoholic. Yet there was a curious change, something that peered through the veil that blanketed Jolpin's mind. The lights! Like an army of fireflies that nested inside the bones of great beasts, breathing life into their otherwise lifeless shells, these once barren streets were surprisingly populated! He could hear the faint echoes of laughter, sorrow, cries of anger and such echoing within the worn carcasses that boxed the serpentine road in. And, even in this late an hour people shuffled past him, all caught up in their own little worlds, worries and sorrows. The city was changing, the massive serpent was shedding its scaly skin, and Gregory feared that like the plague itself. The thought that these waves of change would one day grow, and eventually threaten to send him adrift into the oceans of the past chilled our protagonist to his very half-rotten core. Joy, pain, suffering, bitterness, all lost and unseen akin to tears in the rain, shed in silent torment.

Left behind by the world.

- 5 -

8 days have passed, yet the army of trucks and buses that flowed through the streets only grew in number, their innards spewing more and more unwelcome inhabitants into the streets. Stray bees of all sizes infested the mummified regions of the city, each building their own miniature hives. Okad was experiencing a begrudged second wind, but for our protagonist, its bite proved to be a tad too harsh and unwelcome.

=3

A four-faced clock, mounted onto a thin black pole, lodged into the pavement informed the passers by that it was quite early in the morning. The sky portrayed the shades of iron, bitterly gray and unremarkable. Gregory descended on one of the many sloping terraces of his home city, fighting the acceleration that pushed his body forward, and a nasty hangover. It was in the midst of this battle, when Jolpin noticed a peculiar sight.

In the distance stood an old, three story house brandishing a no less ancient, albeit lavish entrance. Before it stood a woman, perhaps in her mid twenties, clutching a large suitcase in one hand and the hand of a little girl in the other. At first, neither Gregory nor the pesky hangover clinging to every tendon in his body desired to pay much attention to the two. The pair wouldn't burn with desire to associate themselves with a roaming drunk either.

Slowly, our specter in a worn, drenched trench coat shuffled towards the woman who obviously struggled with the hefty weight of her luggage. The semi-slurred words spoken were dulled and ineligible for Gregory, but they seemed to have carried his intentions across. The only question now was "why?" He wouldn't answer, for he too was eluded by it. Perhaps it was a mere spec of decency from the bygone days, or a faint remnant of a dreamt future that nudged the man to offer a helping hand. The three made their way into the structure, passing the doors of moth-eaten wood embedded into beige walls, ascending the aged spiral staircase, all without exchanging a single vowel, something Jolpin was plenty contempt with. That day even a task as simple as this seemed like a herculean feat. The bells in the man's ears rang loudly enough to wake a nation, the weight on his mind strong enough to crush an army, while the contents of his stomach threatened to burn a hole through their owner's chest.

Reaching the end of the stairs, the young lass gestured towards one of the doors, and Gregory gently lowered the heavy load onto the floor. The two exchanged a nod, perhaps understanding that verbal communication would prove ineffective. However, just as the man began his descent, something broke through the stupor that warped the drunkard's world into an unintelligible blur. A phrase, whispered by the child.

"Mommy? Why did the monster look like grandma?"

"Monster?" Blurted out Gregory, instincts mounting his tongue instead of reason (a frequent phenomenon as of these past few years). The woman shouldn't have been surprised by a local drunkard's ignorance towards the current events. And the words she uttered were nothing short of asinine, mere ravings of schizophreniac, sentences torn from a book of science fiction! Literal nightmares given flesh! A mixture of meat and machine that grows and perverts an entire city! Monstrous abominations? Flesh sprouting from the soil itself? And what a name it had! “Metastasis,” they called it.

Jolpin couldn't help but stifle a bout of laughter. The woman didn't seem the mad type, or perhaps Delirium tremens was finally settling in his mind? The surprises, however, did not end there. It seemed that the little girl, dissatisfied by Jolpin's skepticism, chose to divulge another peculiarity. A rumor that "the big uncles” exchanged shortly after her arrival. Those long dead and buried tread the soil once more. Jolpin assumed he said "I see. Thank you," before making his way out of the building.

"Those dead and buried tread the soil once more." Even under a thick blanket of ethanol, those 10 words reverberated within his head like an echo of melody inside a rundown theatre. Hell has parted its hideous maws and its inhabitants walk the earth? Perhaps it was a mere wench who began confusing reality with fantasy on the soil of stress and sleepless nights, herself accompanied by a child with a vivid imagination. However, on account of Gregory having nothing better to occupy his day with, he chose to pursue this curious lead... Once the hangover loosened up, of course.

In order to accelerate that process, one had to employ a solution both ancient and counterintuitive. Our protagonist's palm effortlessly pushed a door of glass into the interior of a small grocery store next to a non-descript alleyway. His filthy boots left streaks of mud onto the cracked, white floor tiles of fake marble, as the man made his way towards the massive skeletons of metal, the shelves of which housed bottled fluids of all sorts and sizes. Gliding over to the section which proudly showcased a wide array of clear liquids caged within the bottle of glass, Jolpin tried his best to resist their sweet, tempting allure and only grabbed a stout, 150 milliliter flask. It was a genuine surprise for our protagonist, seeing ethanol repurposed into a tool to induce sobriety and not utter, senseless intoxication. After all, the task at hand called for a state as foreign for Gregory, as rain was for a desert - a clear head.

Naturally for someone of Jolpin's ilk, this measly amount of booze was akin to a single gulp of water during a heatwave, but It proved to be a true miracle worker. In approximately half an hour, the smog inside Greg's mind began to clear, rejuvenating his brain's capacity to adequately process information from the outside world. The hangover-based radio silence was finally over.

Firstly, he had to discern what lay at the root of this unexpected mass exodus. What better way than hearing the stories from the horses' mouths? He turned back, pacing up the sloping streets in hopes of diving back into the same store by a non-descript alleyway. Such miniature establishments always offered some amount of odds and ends on the side. There, he purchased the cheapest notebook with an ugly, black and white cover of a shelled street, and a ballpoint pen so cheaply made, it threatened to snap in half, if a feather as much as brushed upon its exterior. The next step of the plan was to find the former denizens of Kalsten willing to disclose information regarding the events leading up to their departure from the city, whilst writing down the most important bullet points, alongside their names and occupations. The latter would be used as a reference to gauge the believability of those accounts.

The plan was simple. It entailed approaching pedestrians at random and asking them a few questions. Much to his surprise, a lot of Kalstenians disclosed their stories quite generously. Mostly, the academics, the former businessmen, teachers, university students spoke of strange strings of disappearances, a bizarre rise in military presence, quarantines and such that escalated over the past months. Some did, however, occasionally pepper their accounts with stories of eerie noises, strange figures skittering from shadow to shadow, under the veil of the night. Many students spoke of nonhuman silhouettes within the university campuses. Collectively they described it as a "Metastasis" that crept through kalsten. The temptations to once again dismiss such claims were overshadowed by a shocking avalanche of reports by the dozens of tech shop clerks, housewives, repair shop owners and such. All of the mentioned clerks separately spoke of the same anomalies that began plaguing their respective workplaces. The television feed would glitch and distort at random. Occasionally, disturbing images and shots of cities none of them knew of would play for a few minutes before disappearing. Curiously, descriptions of the sights witnessed were mostly identical: Clouded sky, massive pieces of unidentifiable architecture, occasionally silhouettes of otherworldly creatures imprinting in the distance. Some kids pulling a city-wide prank perhaps?

Another strange occurrence was the appearance of "disgusting meat-like growths" inside telephones, televisions and such. The latter was mentioned by a technician that Gregory encountered soon after, noting the fact that "the strange flesh seemed to have fused itself with the wiring, becoming its irreplaceable part. “It’s like a Metastasis," they called it.

The housewives spoke of a variety of viscous sludges that began overflowing from all the faucets in their homes, a few days before evacuation. The consistency of those viscous fluids ranged from that of "old motor oil" to the one uncannily similar to blood. “It was as if a disease was spreading through my home - like cancer, a metastasis," they called it.

Unsurprisingly, the most fantastical tales and fables fell onto the shoulders of the plumbers, and the metro station workers. The latters claimed observing literal veins the size of pipes slithering across the walls, distorted, cancerous growths obliterating the insides of wires, fuse boxes and generators, strange, almost inhuman squelches, squeals and wails being heard in the tunnels, the very same ones that dozens of their colleagues disappeared in. The stench of burnt flesh plagued many a station, with veins sprouting in the tunnels growing towards the electrified tracks. They saw lights arcing within the blood vessels, highlighting their massive, interconnected network that grew from the unseen darkness. After all that transpired, it was of no surprise that none of them had the courage to venture deep into the dark paths, to witness where this malignancy stemmed from. Luckily, the army announced a full scale evacuation of Kalsten soon after the anomaly's appearance. The "Metastasis," they called it.

After hours of strenuous investigation, of questions and answers, hundreds of written lines of text, Gregory chose to take a pause to summarize his findings. The man's calligraphy was a travesty in the making, but it did get the point across - The point he was not looking favorably at. Something was genuinely wrong in Kalsten, a situation that demanded full-blown military involvement. Sneaking into it most likely would prove dangerous and highly illegal, were he to attempt it. It would not be entirely illogical to assume such stories disseminated through the population, possibly inspiring dozens of thrill seekers, daredevils, marauders, and those desperate to find something within this "Metastasis." Many would certainly start seeking routes of entry into the city, provided they haven't done so already.

- 6 -

At the very fringe of Okad stood a station, a branching aorta that facilitated entry into the farthest of the city's depths. A rectangular monolith of glass and concrete denoted the entry into its domain. There in the distance it stood, an island surrounded by the sea of flat cement, its bottom covered by a living, pulsating and unsurprisingly restless “moss.” Gregory saw its edges stretch and break off towards the settlement. The masses were uneasy, hurried, impatient, giving off a chaotic buzz that stung the ears of bystanders even a hundred or so meters away. Most certainly an uninviting obstacle that beckoned our drunkard to give navigating it a try. He almost momentarily regretted this daring move.

The answers lay beyond that organic sea, Jolpin thought as the speed of his footsteps grew and the shore of concrete grew closer and closer. He collided with the tides of flesh, and they consumed him whole. The experience could only be compared to being forcefully flung into a different world.

Were it not for the monolithic rectangle, an X of concrete encased in glass that reflected the monochromatic skies, the waves could easily convince a man that they truly were adrift in an extraterrestrial, organic ocean. Its unending hum formed an impenetrable barrier that overpowered the ceaseless ambience of the city, while the stench of ash and sweat assaulted the nostrils and rendered its victims nauseous and weak.

Jolpin stumbled and struggled to keep his balance, trying to cut through a throng that all but threatened to trample him into his grave. It felt like an eternity, but Gregory finally broke through, into the shade of the aforementioned rectangle. He saw the faint outlines of doorways, engorged and congested by the mass that seemed to endlessly pour through them. Daringly squeezing past two older ladies and receiving a coldly spat insult as a reward, our protagonist finally managed to lay his eyes on the station's innards. He saw bars of iron snaking across the walls and the ceiling akin to arteries within a hollow organ, he saw the elevated platforms as the conchae of bone, between which nestled the aged and rusted trains, themselves leaking the biomass that fed this sea of meat.

However, from that tired throng, from that ocean of human bodies jutted curious constellations of jet black islands, firmly rooted into the aforementioned platforms. Gregory pushed towards the nearest one, in hopes of making out their details. What he saw was an omen, a memory of an old conversation with One-eyed Lars Argus roused like a cloud of toxic dust in the far corners of his mind. It was a creature smothered in protective armor, gear, magazine pouches, a rifle slung over its shoulder, its visage obscured by a hideous, inky black gasmask. Gregory knew that beneath all of those man-made tumors was another protective layer - an airtight suit. Such apparel was worn by soldiers during a suspected use of a biological weapon.

"What the hell is going on here?" Gregory spat under his breath, before approaching the black figure. "Excuse me..."

"Move along, citizen." A distorted voice commanded our protagonist. "Don't stall your fellow passengers."

Gregory realized that his shoddy exterior camouflaged him as a Kalstenian. Thinking quickly, our protagonist chose to put his acting skills to test, shining his tragic expression straight into the black lenses of the gasmask.

"But - but sir." He pleaded "During the evacuation, I - I lost something very important. I absolutely have to return to Kalsten at once!."

"This is a one way trip, sir. You've been warned beforehand. " The figure's metallic voice was stern, commanding and utterly emotionless.

"But I left a very important bag..."

"Then get a new one. Now shove off before I have to use force!" The man raised his voice and moved closer, tapping the polymer handgrip of his rifle as a warning.

Jolpin nodded in feigned disappointment, before mixing with the masses and disappearing. He could have strung up a more dramatic lie. A daughter lost in the crowd? A dying parent in need of medicine that was somewhere in Kalsten? Perhaps, yet if the soldier pressed any further, it could lead to trouble.

The drunkard flowed with the others for a short period, before taking a sharp turn on the right, and fighting his way towards the ticket booths. He approached a compartment encased in a gray pillar, walled off from the outside world by a thick sheet of glass. Inside sat a shaved, plump man with beady eyes, clad in a faded blue jacket that accentuated his role.

"Yes? How may I be of service." The man's voice was high pitched with a slight rasp, his words long, drawn and bled dry of any interest and life. The plump one tilted his conductor's hat upwards and fixed our protagonist with a tired glare.

"Good sir." Started Gregory, "I have an urgent matter to attend to in Kalsten. Is there any way to arrange that?"

"No pass" declared the overweight conductor. "Government orders specifically forbid any rides towards the quarantined city."

"But surely there has to be another way?" Gregory tried to give off a sly grin to suggest his intentions, which ended up inadvertently blooming into an awkward grimace. The conductor spared him an uninterested glance, as his finger glided towards a button that sat under an aluminum microphone.

"Security!" The man drawled, his eyes glaring in anticipation of witnessing another penny-less begar being thrown off the platform into the ocean of people. How dare they assume this respectable man to be a cheapskate! Eliciting a knee jerk reaction, Jolpin momentarily fired off a barrage of "NOs," pleading for the man to reconsider such an act. "I have money, a sum that a gentleman such as yourself will surely find interesting!"

"That's what they all say." The plump man in a blue jacket scoffed mockingly.

"Then tell me, do "they" also sport such fine pieces of jewelry?! " Gregory spat hatefully and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the masterwork of silver that wound around a bracelet of tawny hair. Even in this dim tomb of a station, it glistened joyfully, hand crafted chain links bridging the space between beautiful white pearls, themselves engraved with runes and flowers with stunning degree of detail. One could possibly theorize that this nigh-fantastical creation was meticulously carved under a microscope. Much like HER, a piece of masterfully crafted art, the only truly worthy companion that reflected the extent HER captivating looks.

Its charming allure did not slide past the conductor as well, who eyed it like a predator, even going as far as extending his obese arm towards it, oblivious to the fact that a piece of glass separated him from that masterpiece.

“Give it to me!” He bellowed hungrily.

“No! You’ll only receive the sum it will fetch.”

In the distance, a hurried pair of figures ascended onto the concha of metal, azure clad men heading straight towards our protagonist. He had to act fast.

“They’ll surely wrest it free from your sickly hand, old man!”

“Wrong! This fine piece of artistry will be long gone, before anyone else can even so much as lay a finger on its captivating exterior!” Jolpin jeered, clutching into the fine bracelet, hinting that in a mere moment, it would be reduced to a constellation of pearls that were destined to roll off the platform akin to dew from the blades of grass, slipping past thousands of hurried steps. “Make a choice, either we both benefit, or no one does!” One could not tell if the man behind the wall of glass smiled from astonishment, from the drunkard’s sheer boldness or growled in frustration. The button under the microphone clicked once again. "False alarm. The gentleman has already left." The figures, clad in light blue uniforms, stopped dead in their tracks just as they were to lay their grubby hands on the roaming drunkard’s shoulders. The conductor waved the guards off dismissively, his unsightly demeanor and tone disappearing with them.

Gregory coughed. "I will part with that money without hesitation, if you can guarantee that there is a transport that can take me to Kalsten."

The man's eyes lit up like a pair of lighthouses. He leaned forward and whispered. "Bring the cash, and you won't need to worry yourself any further. When do you presume our "transaction" can take place?" The few words were crowned with a crooked grin.

"Tomorrow perhaps."

"Two hours after sundown, the section of the station with all the buses, six platforms to our right." The man poked in its direction. "Pay up front and the trip will begin."

"Tomorrow after sundown. I'll be there."

The plump one tipped his old hat and showed off his crooked teeth once again. "Then we have a deal, Mr... Ah, willing to remain Incognito? Very well then, Mr. Incognito, until we meet again. Now move along."

Jolpin did just that.

=4

The blazing orange disc that tirelessly tended to our world descended further and further towards the horizon, painting the skies and the surrounding clouds with shades of warm pink and desaturated purples. Soon it was to disappear behind the station, adorning its already surreal shape with a stunning, picturesque halo.

When our protagonist finally decided to glance back, the bizarre, rectangular monolith was the size of a shot glass. Even at this distance, its mere existence seemed to fill Jolpin's starved heart with something other than self-pity, contempt, and painful indifference towards any and all. No! Gregory was curious, excited, and maybe even... hopeful! The drunkard was not even aware that his mind had a leftover capacity to experience such emotions after SHE transcended HER mortal coil. He wanted to see this fantastical "Metastasis," witness the flesh that grows and corrupts the world around it, observe its anomalous presence, and maybe even search for a way to bring the centerpiece of his fascination back into our world! But as of that moment, the first memorable day after these years called for a single conclusion. A celebration! "Tomorrow the voyage shall begin. Tomorrow it is! The crusade of longing!" Emboldening thoughts swirled in his old heart, as Jolpin's body paced upwards, heading towards his home, towards the Hollow Asgard.

- 7 -

The amber waves were notably calmer that night, lighter, comforting even, not as scalding as before. Perhaps the reason for this change of pace was booze of higher quality? Maybe he should switch to this stuff, savings be damned? Gregory gazed upon the anchor of flesh, the beady, scornful eyes and felt unusual calmness emanating from them. As if he was gazing at an old friend, a toxic one for sure, but loyal nonetheless.

Our protagonist understood that it wouldn't be too late before the beast named "reality" would begin to imprint among the calmer waves. Gigantic, ever-present, endlessly coiling through the golden masses, restless in its anticipation of a single command uttered by the Colossus named "life." Within a millisecond, the monster would flash its thousands of tumorous eyes, each brighter than the sun, the ravines between its enormous gills would spew clouds of black smoke before the creature snapped its hideous jaws apart and gnashing armies of needle-like teeth of metal and stone, its throat a bottomless abyss of cold nothingness, yearning to swallow our protagonist whole. Then the nightmare would end.

Over on our side of reality, the stoic caretaker of Hollow Asgard meticulously wiped the lonely tables, purging their surfaces of liquor stains and cigarette ash. At this hour, the bar was deserted save a single individual slumbering at the bar table. Every swipe, every breath, every step that roused a tired creak of the wooden floor felt a decibel too loud. Lars Argus was a patient man, waiting for Gregory to snap out of his nightmares, as always willing to exhaust every alley of options to peacefully see the drunkard out of his establishment. The problem was that the downtrodden man before him would always cease up in a stubborn stupor, necessitating a more hands on approach.

"The dawn is breaking, Greg." The bartender's massive paws nudged wisps of sense into our protagonist. "Asgard will close soon."

"Just a few minutes more, Lars." Gregory muttered under his breath. "Just a little while longer and I'll be on my way."

"My friend, please." Lars sighed. "You know the rules. Don't make this any harder that it needs to be." That's what he always said, a prelude to the well of his patience running dry. "Besides, aren't I well overdue a few good pictures snapped on top of Kalsten's skyscrapers?"

"Skyscrapers?!" Jolpin choked out a short laughter. "Everybody knows Kalsten doesn't have any skyscrapers. Who in their right mind would burn cash in such a ludicrous amount for that semi-arid hole?!"

"Whatever the case, how are you supposed to finally kick off your "Great crusade," without first sobering up a little and departing from my Asgard?"

"Oh get off my back will ya? I said "tomorrow!" I've an entire day to prepare!" The Drunkard whined, head still semi-sunk into the ocean of oblivion.

"That was ten days ago." The One-eyed man spoke bluntly and in a span of seconds, the atmosphere grew heavy with the dead silence. Jolpin visibly paled with disbelief.

"Impossible." He whispered. "I..."

"Have been binge drinking for more than a week straight, yes." The man interjected. Upon first arriving, Greg laid out his "master plan" to bribe the local conductors and bus drivers to smuggle himself past the cordon and into the Metastasis!

Gregory could not believe his ears. Have 10 days really slipped by him like quicksand through fingertips? Jolpin tried reaching into the depths of his mind, throwing hooks upon hooks into the pitch black pits in hopes that some reminder, some shred of memory would bite. He desperately searched for that very fragment, for it alone could expose Argus as a liar, but all our protagonist got in return was a hollow gap, devoid of a single lucid interval. And while he struggled to latch onto his failing memories, a pair of large hands latched onto his shoulders and in a single, smooth movement tore the drunkard off of his seat. Like a feather-light puppet, the Bartender held our protagonist, escorting him towards the exit, a usual conclusion of their meetings. It was a spectacle of embarrassment, that which nobody else was around to either witness or interrupt. Lars Argus's heavy footsteps inched Jolpin closer to the border of the former's domain. In a few moments more, and the massive man would gently fling Greg's body like a sack of feathers and disappear behind the gates of his rundown palace. In a sense, this move never felt to prick at his heart. A regular customer, with whom the massive bartender shared so many heartfelt moments and conversations with, only for their meetings to be crowned with such a cold finale almost every night. Then again, who knows what unsightly acts and tactless sentences he bestowed upon the host of this "fine" establishment, while inebriated? Well, there's no going back, might as well keep the tradition going. Jolpin winced in anticipation of a brief weightlessness and an eventual collision with the pavement.

However.

A minute or so has transpired, yet Gregory was still firmly standing on his feet! What's going on here, he thought.

"Where do you live, old man?" Argus's voice broke past the wall of Jolpin's confusion.

"Wha-"

"House, you got a place to stay, right? No need to say a thing, just point the bloody way!"

Gregory was at a loss of words. Not in a thousand years would he expect such a radical shift from the established norm of their "relationship." Thus, instead of meandering with the slurry of sentences that would otherwise seep from his facial orifice, Gregory decided to promptly shut up and point in the general direction of his apartment.

Rays of light crept across the cold, uneven pavement, cutting into the strange duo's eyes and making the trip that much more grueling. The closer they got, the stronger the feeling of shame took hold of our protagonist. Akin to a cyst that rapidly filled and expanded, encroaching onto the neighboring organs, a constant discomfort that only grew with each passing second.

In a span of forty or so minutes the men were treading the twisted vessel of cement and apartment complexes, the much-dreaded Charon street. Gregory was not too dissimilar to a small, hesitant dog being forcefully pulled on a leash. The drunkard wanted to resist, come up with an excuse to go on by his lonesome and spare Lars Argus the unsightly view of his neglected apartment. However, the booze still held the man's tongue, muscles and tendons in a paralyzing, iron grip. It puppeteered his fingers, forcing them to contort and show the way continuously, whenever Lars asked.

The two were already scaling the cracked concrete stairway within the apartment complex N98, and the sizzling anxiety within our protagonist began to near its peak. His heart raced and breath was ragged, as the two neared the end of their journey.

"The keys, Greg?" Asked the bartender, after ascertaining that the metal door ahead was indeed what the duo was searching for. Gregory only exhaled deeply, pulling a chain that wound around a pair of old keys and passing them to his companion. Lars was not prepared for what was to come when the gates of Jolpin's sarcophagus slid open. "Bloody hell!" He cursed in shock and surprise when the suffocating stench set fire to the one eyed man's nostrils. "By God, have you not opened a single window in five years or something?"

"You're not too far from the truth, in all honesty." Jolpin blurted out in response, now standing in a doorway, watching Argus hurling the windows open one after the other. Beams of light illuminated the flat that all but forgot its warm embrace. Only now the glistening membranes of dust that clung to every corner and piece of furniture revealed themselves.

Soon after the atmosphere became compatible with life, Argus dragged our protagonist towards his dilapidated bathroom. Within a few seconds, the drunkard found a seat in its far left corner, a basin walled by short, ceramic plates. Lars grabbed a faucet, pointed it away from his companion and rotated both handles, only to spit a trio of expletives upon realization that moisture was but a forgotten fable in this damned flat! Rushing out towards a greyed table in the living room, he excavated dusty files that crunched like pieces of chalk.

Within an hour, our groggy protagonist felt the lukewarm water unpleasantly nibbling at his body. Argus, of all people, knew the detrimental results the extremes of water temperature can do to an intoxicated individual. Attempts to resist and straighten up were futile.

"Finally back into the world of living? Don't struggle, old fool. That clothing of yours could also use a little wash. Frankly I'm afraid your skin will peel off if I try to remove them."

Gregory spared the Bartender a tired, bitter glance.

"If this colorless purgatory is the world of the living, then I'd rather hang myself with my own belt right here, right now."

"Is whining all you ever do, my friend?"

"At least I keep to myself, mostly."

The two remained silent for a short duration, until Argus saw a shred of sobriety in Greg's unamused, thousand yard stare. The flow of water died down.

"You need a clear head, my friend. If the stories some people spout in my bar hold a grain of merit, that "Metastasis" of yours can prove dangerous, lethal even." Lars spoke slowly, with iron conviction, unshakeable seriousness and...a speck of compassion?

"Never would have thought the concept of my death was something the great keeper of Hollow Asgard cared so much about." The drunkard forced a chuckle out of himself. Silence. A few seconds of serene silence.

"You're a corpse with a pulse, Gregory."

The Keeper answered casually, as if stating a mundane fact. "I harbor no illusions that a day will come when the leftmost seat in my humble establishment will no longer support the backside of a particular man, who frequented it for years. Afterwards, perhaps a few weeks, maybe months will flow by, and a story, carelessly exchanged between intoxicated patrons that a strange man in a faded trench coat, and a bracelet of hair was found slumped over on some random bench, drowned in his own vomit. You're treading a bridge that stretches over a ravine, and both of its ends are burning fast. Personally, I much rather know that the drunkard had swapped an aimless purgatory for a pursuit of one last daring adventure. You wish to bring HER back, who wouldn't, in your place?"

Gregory averted his sight, both relieved and embarrassed that the obvious truth finally crawled out into the light with its malformed limbs.

"I'm neither a gullible fool, nor deaf, Gregory. Your tragic marital life was never a secret to begin with. While you're locked in a prison of your own dreams, my ears catch the tiniest of whispers. Many speak of people retrieving technology, one which is distinctly human, yet simultaneously alien. Monsters, others claim, machines and flesh united in a twisted communion. And then one mentions "The Fleshfull Machine," that which beats in Kalstein's heart can grow those that departed from our world. They are always silenced, "you're spouting nonsense" they hiss, as if their stories are not utterly unhinged as well!"

The one-eyed bartender got up from a small stool that painstakingly supported his body during Jolpin's involuntary "bath," making his way towards the exit.

"I've left a small gift in your freezer, don't drink it all in one go, old fool. Today, you shall make a choice. Should we see each other tonight, then it means you're naught by a foul windbag, who glaringly shows off his powerlessness to best his own self-destructive instincts. A pig left the rot in the pit of its own shit, one that makes those suffering from impotence look like the most virile of men! Make a choice, Gregory Jolpin! Breathe your last in a dingy alleyway, or brave the "Metastasis," and let HER tread the soil once more! Farewell, and good luck."

Gregory sat in silence, listening to heavy footsteps slowly dissipating in the distance. The damp clothing sent waves of chills throughout his body. In a matter of 10 minutes or so Gregory had made his way into the living room, bathing in the golden light. His clothes lay before him, resting on the dingy floor, drying in the sun. In that moment, a strange sense of serenity hung over our protagonist. For a split second, Jolpin felt the caress of the bygone days, a melody long forgotten, a house drenched in colors of warm light, its every corner tended and cared after. And that scent, that aroma of longing that seeped from just around the corner.

"Wait for me, my love." He whispered, as a tear rolled down the drunkard's cheek, a tear of sorrow, a tear of hope. "I'm coming for you."

An aged safe creaked open, shrugging off its mantle of dust and revealing its contents to the world. A stack of documents, rolls of money held by thin bands of rubber, a small metal box on a tiny column of faded memories snapped in the days long past. Gregory's thumb and pointy finger snapped around two of the aforementioned rolls like an oversized pincer, securing a price that would surely prove satisfactory for the obese lump of flesh Jolpin had a displeasure of meeting. Then came the turn for the metal box, the contents of which were laid out on a table, that mere moments prior had the dust brushed off of its surface. A pistol with a black, steel slide and a polymer frame lay there, untouched for almost half a decade, alongside two magazines with an entourage of two dozen bullets.

The drunkard's lips curled into a faint smirk, as he would finally find use for the weapon and the hours of training received upon its purchase. Slowly, one by one, the cartridges of brass slid into the magazine well, clicking melodically against their brethren. After the weapon was fully loaded, our protagonist gently flicked the safety on and hovered over towards the kitchen. Forcing the heavy, metal door of his fridge open, Gregory's pupils constricted down to the size of pinholes. On the baren shelves of rusted iron stood a bottle of clear fluid, much higher in quality when compared to his usual poisons. The drunkard gulped hungrily, feeling the chest tensing with desire to consume the liquid gold before his eyes. Greg's shaky hand grabbed the cylindrical piece of glass and hastily unscrewed its top.

"...don't drink it all in one go, old fool. Today, you shall make a choice..." The one-eyed man's words resurfaced in Jolpin's mind when the cold lip of the bottle touched his. In an instant, Gregory felt like a starved animal eyeing a nice, crisp piece of meat, something every cell in his body yearned for. The tremble in his arm grew stronger, a symptom of a war raging between the waning will of our protagonist and the forces of his addiction. If there was but a slim possibility of bringing HER back into the realm of the living, emptying this container of glass would promptly reduce it to absolute zero. This would be a declaration of Jolpin's ineptitude, weakness, his pathetic nature.

"No." He muttered sorrowfully, placing it near the sink after a few minutes of ceaseless struggle. Soon afterwards, one of the kitchen drawers was deprived of their permanent tennant, a scratched cylindrical flask with a plastic lid to shield its contents from the elements of the outside world. Two thirds of the ethanol container was emptied in it, with the rest being banished back into the frigid wasteland of a fridge.

The dry clothes rested onto the dingy couch, next to the loaded pistol, next to the spare magazine, next to the rolls of money, next to the old thermos, next to the lock of HER hair. Gregory was ready. Well, almost.

With a few more hours to kill, our protagonist dared to breach the unseen innards of his old bedroom. Here it was, the throne of slumber deprived of its one simple raison d'etre. Our "Intrepid crusader" approached it, rolling the dust-encrusted sheet caudally, revealing pale white blankets, clean and untouched. Gregory's fingers caressed the fabric with longing, vainly hoping to feel, to experience the moment HER beautiful digits, sickly and drained by that twisted sickness folded them last. The dark recesses of his mind tingled with sadness, as if trying to establish a link to the past, to commune with HER through these neglected and forgotten bed sheets. It was absurd and painful, an established lie absolutely everyone knew was nothing more than a fabrication of someone's broken mind. It all felt so tragically funny. And so, Gregory laughed, and laughed, but of course there was no joy in that cackle, more and more erratic, until his throat went dull and muscles of his chest ached, until the bitter tears of sorrow began flowing down his face, until the moment it morphed into a wail, twisting into a cry of anger and pain, as the man fell into the white mass, curling up into a shape resembling a fetus discarded onto the valley of snow, weeping ceaselessly until the soothing embrace of sleep reestablished the deathly silence the bedroom was oh so intimately acquainted with.

- 8 -

The sun had already sunk behind the horizon, leaving but a tiny streak of gold as its fleeting heir. Gregory quickened his pace, his destination lying in the vicinity of the monolithic station on the fringes of Okad. The light disappeared almost completely, leaving the star-studded night skies to claim their place. The station's eastern border fenced off a bus depot, an army of old, metallic beasts that were allowed reprieve after the whole day of strenuous work. At least officially they did. Gregory glided the fingers of his left hand across the porous nest of steel, slowly approaching a small group of individuals that flocked near the depo's entry. From afar they were not too dissimilar to small birds circling a hungry, blue alligator. That grotesque mass of flesh turned out to be the painfully well known conductor, somehow looking even more disgusting now that his entire body was unveiled in its abhorrent grandeur. If a drop of fat, clad in a disheveled blue coat, grew lanky arms and stout legs, it would have been him. His spindly fingers gluttonously swallowed the rolls of paper money, snatching them away from the grasp of unsure, desperate, and intrigued hands.

=5

Jolpin wearily approached the miniature crowd, the loosened sleeve of his jacket obscuring the medallion and the lock of HER hair. The "blue alligator" turned its oak trunk of a body around, his horrendous visage displaying signs of obvious surprise. "Well, well, well, Mr. Incognito." The conductor grinned loathsomely. "I almost gave up hopes of our reunion."

"Some... Unexpected hurdles reared their ugly heads at the last moment. I am here now."

"The fee?" The conductor poked his sweaty palm in our protagonist's direction.

"Hope this is enough." Gregory answered, while the spindly fingers counted the bills one by one. The conductor's puffy lips slowly curled into a false smile, no doubt somewhat displeased at the sum. However, it seemed to have been sufficient nonetheless. He then proceeded to split the collective sum into multiple stacks, each smaller than the last, before allocating them to the different pockets of his uniform.

"Attention, children!" The skin-clad mass of fat called his flock. "20 minutes more and we shall move. Remember, keep quiet, do not look at each other, do not stray from the group lest you want to be left behind. Any questions? No? Perfect."

Gregory shifted towards the fence and leaned onto it, obliquely eyeing the merry band of misfits that were united by a singular goal. Unsurprisingly they seemed to have come from all walks of life. First, his eyes scanned a trio of suspicious men, all in various stages of balding, two of them clad in old, torn jean jackets, with the third sporting a black, leather trench coat. A tubular shape with a curve at the tip subtly imprinted on the latter's hip. Law was most likely a hollow suggestion in the Metastasis, it would do good to steer clear of those individuals. Another curious specimen had an entire camping bag resting onto her back. The low light condition and the distance disallowed our protagonist from making out the finer details, including the woman's age, but her restless, springy, youthful movements raised suspicion of her being somewhere in her mid to late twenties.

The third, and the most curious person that caught Greg's eye with his erratic pacing, was an overweight man wearing a pale-azure shirt that stood out like a sore thumb even in these conditions. A few years back Gregory and him would have been close to kinsmen, two desk jockeys that were now surely out of their depth. One could only wonder, which specific straw out of millions finally broke that specific camel's back. Was the desolate life that was thoroughly soaked in intoxicating substances truly a worse fate than being trapped in a sterile cell, in a forest of sterile cells, listening to clicks and clamors of phones, keyboards, xerox machines and printers for days, months, years on end? Locked in a tower of glass and steel six days a week, with no prospect for a better future? Perhaps, the overweight man in a pale-azure shirt was searching for what he either willingly, or unwillingly gave up? Perhaps he even bolted straight from the office towards the station on a whim, without adequately realizing the weight of the situation he was stepping into. That would explain why he appeared wo woefully underprepared. What have you lost, my friend? What do you hope to win back in the Metastasis, that terra incognita, that presumed hell of flesh and machine, that alien realm from which so many fantastical stories seep?

Freedom.

Freedom?

And Freedom, yet again.

And what will you do Gregory, once SHE is back in our world? That is, of course, if the myths and hearsays of the Fleshfull Machine have a truth to them. Perhaps, you'll try to ditch your addiction, reintegrate into your society. And then, mind you, what? What do you know? What can you do? What potential do you have? Will you inevitably trade the shackles of ethanol for the shackles of telephone wires, keyboards and phone lines once again? Will you return to your sterile cell, in a forest of sterile cells, pushing pencils, typing away endlessly, indulging in the white noise, the so called "small talks" with your fellow, hollow men and women, forcing yourself to laugh at your despicable boss's tasteless jokes, six days a week, with no sign of a better future? Or will you show HER what you've become, a slave to your body, a pathetic insect that drowns itself in cheap poison because it is too deep in the no man's land?

"Enough waiting, let us move." Gregory was saved by the Conductor's high-pitched call. "Remember, no talking!"

The group broke past the unattended entryway, heading straight towards the herd of slumbering beasts, bare metal skeletons one could hardly refer to as "busses." It was a maze that blocked out the already scant remnants of light in the sky. "Single file, hold hands if you have to. Any one of you smart arses turns on a flashlight, or something of the sort - you're out!"

Jolpin scrambled to hold onto the individual in his front and rear, ending up with the suspicious man in a trenchcoat (who muttered a few insults, aimed at their guide) and someone with a very soft, feminine hand. Jolpin's dingy, callused hand felt the gentle, youthful caress of thin fingers, thawing the latent memories in his mind, reminding the drunkard of his first love. Innocent like a lily, soft, loving and full of life. He glanced back, noticing a faint outline of what he could consider a young girl in her late teens. Scrawny blond hair, bleached ocean blue by the night, black leather jacket, short skirt that revealed the skin of her small thighs. It was as if she walked out on her punk rock band mere 10 minutes ago, Gregory thought.

The sly conductor was unusually nimble for his size, displaying rare finesse when it came to maneuvering around the sleeping machines, a presumably ever-shifting labyrinth of vehicles pushed a decade past their service life. What a fitting minotaur for this unsightly maze, Jolpin mused.

A few turns more and the group finally left the confines of winding corridors, being rewarded with the refreshing breeze that washed away the stagnant air of smog, burnt tires and fuel that nested among the buses. Ahead stood a small, rectangular structure, the height of a two-story building with dim, cold lights bleeding from the dusty shutters embedded in its upper floor. The group, spearheaded by the conductor, approached what our protagonist believed to be a repair hub, at the gaping maw of which stood a tall, thin figure. Somehow, Gregory knew that the shadow-clad individual was a crone like no other.

"Lady Hecate." The conductor performed a mockery of a bow. "I've brought the freshest of lambs to your humble abode." Jolpin noticed the one in the trenchcoat baring his teeth, clearly unamused by being relegated to such a lowly animal.

"Well, well, well, your haul is as rich as it is bountiful, dear Alexander." Of course his name was something as moronically pompous as Alexander, the protagonist snorted silently. I'm also willing to bet that he never shortens it as well.

"What of the knife that supposedly rests in your pocket?" Hecate spoke slowly, her voice laced with malice and deception. What exactly was he signing up for?

"Almost forgot." Alexander mustered an insincere smile, whilst pulling out a stack of money from his breast pocket. Only now did the woman shift slightly to the side, allowing the dim light to dig into the ravine of wrinkles that nested around her pale, fleshy lips, forming crescent-shaped highlights in the crone's small, almond-shaped glasses. She grimaced in disappointment and held out her hand demandingly. The lumbering lump of fat averted his sight, pulling out a second, smaller stack and handing it to Hecate. Only a few "Tsks" escaped from her old mouth in return, while Alexander blushed like a child that got caught lying before bowing yet again, and disappearing back into the labyrinth of neglected automata. Never to be seen again, hopefully. Just a bunch of bored zeroes making themselves appear as hundreds, Jolpin sighed whilst looking at the others trailing behind Lady Hecate into the bowels of the building.

Alienation, dissociation, uncanny silence, those were the feelings that wormed their way into the back of our protagonist's mind when he laid his eyes upon the unusually quiet, deserted interior of the repair hub. Whenever such places came to mind, they'd always shepherd an imaginary symphony of apparatuses, the steps of dozens of workers echoing in the distance, the endless flow of machines. But that night it seemed so...alien. Inspiring unease, that expanded and grew into downright paranoia. It left like mimicry, a flimsy parody of normalcy, a cancerous cell that hid itself by mimicking its healthy brethren, luring fools and daredevils alike into a false sense of security. There, on the floor of concrete dotted with a whole spectrum of colored liquids, oils and small gears stood a single bus, beckoning its observers to come closer like a bait most alluring. On the cusp of its front door sat a sickly thin, anemic old man clad in stained overalls, scratching his scrawny, metallic beard while throwing the visitors an unamused, exhausted glance. The crone approached and placed half of the paper money in his blackened hands.

"You know the rules. Those that are not broken, won't end up breaking your spine in return." She remarked coldly, her gaze intense and piercing. The man merely hummed and nodded, springing up to his feet and shifting towards the driver's seat. "Up you go, little lambs! Kalsten awaits."

"With all due respect, missy, I'd advise you to watch who you call "Lambs."" Jeered the man in the trench coat, closing the distance between himself and the woman, his hand hovering over the prominence on his left hip.

For a moment a faint flash of fear shot through the crone's eyes, damned to be smothered almost instantaneously. "Sew me!" She shrugged mockingly, well aware that the balding stranger could risk compromising himself and everyone else in the hub, a development nobody wanted or needed. This was Lady Hecate's desolate kingdom, her mimicry of a temple. Even if she bestowed upon her visitors some of the vilest, most derogatory nicknames, the recipients could naught but listen and accept them. Again, just a bunch of bored zeroes making themselves appear as hundreds.

- 9 -

Skeletonized chairs with seats of cheap, dingy leather, half gutted and bandaged with duct tapes greeted our adventurers. The Lambs fragmented in search to claim their respective clutch of metal, trying to maximize the distance between each other. Gregory found his place on its right side, near the border zone between the dingy, oval glass and the frame on the machine.

Sitting down proved a tad uncomfortable, as half of the space beneath the aforementioned seat was occupied by a dimple, beneath which spun a tire. Soon enough the jalopy awakened with a croaking cough, slowly dragging itself out of the hub and crawling past the labyrinth of technology. The "No light" rule still stood, stranding the travelers in nigh pitch darkness pierced only by the faint glow of a few warning indicators flashing below the speedometer in the front of the bus.

They rode beneath the ocean stars, flowing past miniature archipelagos of clouds. One of the greatest pleasures of living in a more or less quiet regions of a country was the fact that the light that polluted the skies, reducing them to a blurry gradient of grey and dark blue, was absent almost completely, allowing one to bask in the most beautiful shades of the cosmos. It was something Gregory could never cease to admire, losing himself into its infinite depths and forgetting the eternal grip of the colossus named "life" if only for a heartbeat.

Jolpin couldn't tell how long the episode of stargazing lasted, he never carried a watch, and disturbing the lonely death rattle of the machine's dying engine with needless questions felt like sacrilege. The scenery did, however, experience a change from the semi-mountainous landscapes and green forests to semi-barren plains that stretched over the horizon. And there, straight ahead, a faint wisp of light began to form. Having gotten used to low light conditions fully, our protagonist averted his sight from the world outside and peered back at his companions, now able to observe them in more detail. The teenager from before seemed to have occupied one of the backmost seats, curling up into a ball, resting her heels onto the dingy seat. The sleazy trio claimed the center seats, spread slightly apart, trying to occupy as much space as their bodies allowed, occasionally glancing at the others akin to wolves. Near them sat a man with broad shoulders, his lower face obscured completely by a thicket of jet black facial hair. Even from a distance, the drunkard could make out three lines of scar tissue running from just below the midline of the stranger's left eye all the way to his distorted earlobe. Gregory knew those furrowed brows hid an intense gaze, something painfully reminiscent of Lars Argus's expression when he retreated into his palace of thoughts. Obviously the Metastasis would prove to be a lawless no man's land, people with military experience would prove to be valuable team mates. Lastly, the protagonist's sight hovered over at the overweight, azure-clad fish that was painfully out of its depth, restlessly clutching into the seat in front of it. Gregory giggled in his mind, amused by this bizarre, lost lamb.

The Wisp began to grow and fragment into miniature sparks that multiplied with each passing minute, allowing dark, triangular shapes to imprint between them.

"All of you, down now!" Rasped the driver grimly, taking a sharp turn left and veering off the road of cement onto the semi-arid, dry ground. "Should any unwanted observers realize something's amiss, your little adventure will be cut painfully short!"

Naturally, the prospect of having to keep their faces just a few centimeters away from the filthy, iron floor wasn't all too alluring to any of the trespassers, but they were past the point where insubordination was a viable option. Some cowered under their seats, others stretched themselves on the walkway. All of them fell deathly silent bar one individual - the plump office worker that in a feat of anxiety and stress panted like an exhausted hound. Within a span of ten seconds, the trenchcoat's well of patience ran dry, prompting him to aggressively growl at the azure-clad man, whilst twiddling his pointy finger threateningly in the worker's direction. The latter swallowed worriedly and slowly began getting a grip on himself.

Minutes of absolute tension stretched by like rubber bands, accompanied by the pitch blackness and groans of the bus's aged engine. Paranoia began curdling inside Jolpin's chest, growing ever more corrosive with each second. Inability to adequately assess the environment most likely meant that the drunkard had to gamble his freedom, or even worse, his life on that sickly thin driver's ability to see the trip through, without it devolving into an utter disaster. The machine stopped and our protagonist's heart sank. His mind already heard an army of heavy footsteps thundering around the machine. Within a few moments a hail of shattered glass would rain down upon the unwanted visitors, before they'd inadvertently look up, peer into dozens of rifled barrels, and hear orders being barked at them. However, the only deviation from the established auditory norm was a faint voice that originated from outside the vehicle, near the driver's seat. Soon afterwards, the geezer spoke as well, something unintelligible yet calm when it came to the tone of the man's voice, followed by a papery rustle. Gregory held his breath for what appeared to be an eternity, right until the conversation ended and his body felt the oscillating movement of the bus once again. Almost every passenger bar a small handful, one of which was the one with the jet black beard, breathed a sigh of relief (some more audibly and annoyingly than others). Within a span of a few minutes, our adventurers dusted off their attires and returned to their seats.

Gregory glanced out the window and saw a forest of tents, walled off from the rest of the world by tall fences, stretching between icosahedral watchtowers, themselves in turn jutting from the soil akin to nails from a piece of wood. In the distance, he observed inky black machines menacingly moving through the structures akin to predatory animals, with the cold moonlight reflecting off of their jagged, angular shells, escorted by an entourage of smaller figures that resembled black army ants. These sights brought associations that were close to the camps that housed prisoners of war, not innocent civilians.

=6

"Trip's over. Welcome to the border zone." Rasped the anemic old man grimly.

The travelers got up without saying a word and began making their exit. The crispy, dry air immediately assaulted the drunkard's nostrils the moment his body left the confines of the neglected vehicle, the cold breeze gently caressed wrinkles in the man's forehead, playing softly with his greying hair.

"Um, excuse me good sir. Will there be a return trip once - " A faint voice, both mousy and weak, reached the ears of our protagonist. Unsurprisingly, it was the office man.

"Not in the deal." Grumbled the driver dismissively. "Whatever happens beyond this here bus is none of our concern. Find your own bloody means of leaving this god forsaken place!" With that being said, the doors creaked back into the frame with a high-pitched shudder and the machine came to life once again, driving deeper into the camp, blowing pungent, oily smog in the direction of our heroes. Gregory needn't concern himself with such questions, for he already knew of the train's existence. That was, of course, if our drunkard was to return from the city alive altogether.

The misfits already began dispersing, with some disappearing between alleys formed by the tents, others following the flow through the main trail. Jolpin stood there for a heartbeat more, enjoying the refreshing, cool air before taking out his thermos and very carefully sampling a small sip from it. The taste was truly special, especially when compared to the toxic wastes consumed throughout the years. Even its sharp aroma evoked the intoxicating scent of mountain flowers for someone who only sniffed plants made from plastic. Hastily hiding the bottled treasure, our protagonist began to move.

From up close, the forest of these hastily assembled housings had shifted into a mountainous canyon, with their massive bodies, peaks of cloth obscuring the skies, throwing off any and all attempts at navigation. One wrong turn risked landing hapless travelers in a sticky situation. To avoid experiencing the sensation of a sharpened piece of metal sliding between his ribs, Gregory preferred sticking to the more populated zones, cautiously throwing glances at passers by. The vast majority of the mountains of synthetic cloth were dim and closed off, but one could spot a few that were more or less well illuminated. He peered at old stretchers that were repurposed into makeshift beds, supporting weights of civilians that were obviously used to better accommodations. Men read books, gossiped among each other or tinkered away at the cheap-looking plastic tables, crafting god-knows what. Women consoled their loved ones, tucked their babies to sleep, or engaged in idle chatter with their tent-mates. One needn't look too hard to see their sunken eyes, circled with purplish skin, their tired and miserable glances...people whose way of life snapped in half akin to a poorly heat treated blade. Our protagonist tried to avoid establishing any sort of eye contact, well aware that most of these people would want nothing more than being left alone.

The impromptu streets were trodden by nigh spectral apparitions, clothed in attires that were in dire need of a wash. Unsurprisingly, hygiene was hard to come by in these places. They shuffled past our protagonist, as if completely oblivious to his presence. The latter was not against this in the slightest. However, he definitely *was* against being unaware of the destination of his next objective. He had to find a guide. The question was: "How and where?"

A low, mechanical hiss reached our protagonist's ears, tensing him in an instant. A harbinger, a figure dressed in Jet black attire and a gasmask resembling that of a plague doctor suddenly separated himself from the formless wall of shadow mere 10 meters ahead, either having presumably been there all along, or from a side street our protagonist wasn't aware of. Soon, an identical figure resurfaced from the black ocean, accompanied by the aforementioned hiss that seemed to grow stronger by the second. Soon, an angular, elongated beast of rubber and metal menacingly invaded the space between the tents, sparking a war between Jolpin's cowardly instincts and his capability to form logical thoughts, that were positive that Greg's worn and disheveled exterior would work as a bespoke camouflage (a luxury that the "Punk rock" youngster, for example would not possess). The machine snorted and growled as it moved past our protagonist, who tried his absolute best to keep his old face from grimacing. Within a few moments the figures disappeared once again, without sparing our protagonist a mere glance, leaving him off with a fading echo. The white blood cells of this grotesque organism had officially failed to detect an interloping pathogen. Sighing in relief and victory, Jolpin quickened his pace, occasionally stopping pedestrians and inquiring about a guide who could lead him into the Metastasis. These questions elicited a whole slew of reactions and responses, from inability to understand what strain of madness would compel a man to venture into that hell of flesh and concrete, to downright contempt and disgust for even daring to "reopen such fresh wounds." There were, however, a handful of people that directed him towards the center of the camp, allegedly its liveliest and most populous area.

15 minutes were wasted in this bowl of rocks and dust, samey pathways and unremarkable people, that barely proved to be of help. Thankfully, the ratio of light to dark began to slowly tip towards the former, the faint glow working in tandem with growing ambient noise that shepherded the drunkard towards his destination.

Suddenly, a familiar voice and movement registered itself on Jolpin's periphery, wringing out a few swear words from our protagonist, were it the one he thought it was. Gregory swore under his breath again when his old retinas registered a person that was veiled from the light by his black trench coat, that none the less failed to obscure the semi-barren hair that was combed back on his balding head. The man maneuvered around the debris, the dim corners, the guy wires and metal poles that held the tents with unusual finesse, inspiring suspicion that this wasn't his first arrival, something that would clash with his earlier behavior. That is, unless he relied on different methods. Curiosity wound around our protagonist like poison ivy, sinking its irresistible, poisonous thorns in the folds of his brain. You might get shot, you know, he thought. Whatever hid under that old piece of apparel was bound to be beyond just a tool of subtle intimidation. Gregory crept as quietly as he could, clumsily maneuvering around islets of debris, which encompassed crushed cans, discarded plastic wrappings, the usual suspects when it came to needless noise and racket. Following suit, Gregory dove into the space between the tents and caught a shimmer that emanated from a faintly illuminated structure, the only one in that entire "alley." Sneaking towards it, the adventurous drunk saw an uneven rectangular trail cutting through the man-made cloth, arriving at a conclusion that before him stood an improvised entryway, most probably used for masking traffic that would otherwise draw needless gazes.

A dim glow bled through the orifices, beckoning our protagonist to come and take a look. Through the narrow window, he saw a few individuals bunched on the left, leaning forward and examining some unseen object intently, the source of the amber light.

"Feast your eyes, lads. This little treasure was retrieved from the deeper sections of the Metastasis!" Spoke the foremost individual, his voice feigning celebration, yet concealing a hint of sorrow and worry akin to a predatory beast hiding just beneath the surface of water.

"Well, I'll be damned..." Muttered the one in the black trench coat. "I've never seen such a bizarre specimen before, and you're telling me it's functional, uncle?"

"Believe it or not, yes." Answered the "uncle," himself still partially caught up in disbelief. "The lads say it was torn out of a malformed hood of some strange tractor, that was literally "growing out of a mechanical wall..." whatever the hell that means."

"We've all seen simpler, random objects, yes but this is on a different level." Spoke a different figure in fascination. Wouldn't you agree?"

"One could only wonder how much cash some mad collector, or a congregation of eggheads will be willing to fork out for this little miracle."

A scowl flashed on Uncle's face. "Short sighted as always, my dear Sudara." So that's the trench coat's name, our protagonist thought to himself.

"Shan't you ask me about the price we paid for its acquisition, nephew? We've lost Sid, the Marked one, Fang, Ghost, Curie, Semetsky, Maria, and Leshii in this week alone.

"Bloody hell..." Whispered all three of the visitors in unison, visibly blindsided and upset by the news.

"Things are not looking good, boys. Our pool of people willing to delve into that blasted hole is shrinking by the damn hour!"

"The situation is rapidly devolving into a disaster." One in the lighter blue, jean jacket concluded grimly. The men who bunched around the unseen object like vultures on carrion quickly dissipated, with two finding themselves in the ten's center, with the third one disappearing behind the drunkard's cone of vision. Finally, he could observe the strange object that captivated the marauders. It was truly something remarkable. At first, Gregory could not fully grasp what he was even looking at. After carefully observing it for a few heartbeats...he still could not fully grasp what he was even looking at. The semi-alien object on the grainy, cheap table of plastic was somewhat human, yet completely alien in design. Jolpin saw what could definitely be assumed to be a car engine, with its malformed transmission gears, fuel pumps, pistons all winding around and partially fusing into one another, occasionally sheathed by shimmering, rubbery, organic material. The mechanism seemingly had fans the size of one's head, cylindrical turbines grafted onto its bottom (or at least what he considered to be the blasted thing's bottom), ringed by tumors of metal. He saw luminescent fluid coursing between the shadowy spaces of the biomechanical components, shunting some unknown fluid towards the upper portion of the automaton, a pulsating, spherical mass of bone and meat the sides of which spun along their horizontal axis. Miniature vessels slithered from the aforementioned organ, disappearing between the gears, winding around the pistons. However, the object's most horrifyingly fascinating bits were at its hind side. Bundled, interwoven into a formless nest, were thick cables that reached twenty or so centimeters from the table, gnashing their winding, circular organs akin to hellish lampreys, as if searching for sustenance to nourish this enigma of the Metastasis.

As it was characteristic to the whole endeavor, the alien engine felt like an uncanny mimicry of human technology, a poorly concealed cancer cell, a pretender the artisan of which did not entirely comprehend human design philosophies...or perhaps that something saw beyond that of man. Bloody hell, technically speaking that horrifying marriage of metal and flesh was alive! This "engine" was literally a cybernetic organism! Is everything similarly warped and twisted in the Metastasis, our protagonist wondered with a hint of worry. Would Kalsten even resemble the city he once visited on a frequent basis, or would it be an utterly new, alien world with its own monstrous rules and ecosystems?

"Be honest with us, chief." Spoke up a man in a bluish jacket, the golden glow reflecting off of his large, rectangular glasses, obscuring the eyes beneath. "What can be done to salvage the situation?"

The Uncle exhaled heavily, then slowly acquainted his gaze with Sudara's "Two of you will have to make your way into that damned place."

"Two of US!? Have you bloody lost it old man? Didn't you just say that every able body on our damn payroll began dropping like flies!?" Exclaimed the trench coat in sheer surprise and anger.

"Yes, things are that desperate nephew! I can't climb a flight of stairs without suffocating, and our "beloved" debtees will be knocking down our doors very soon! There is simply. No. Other. Option."

"We already have this here abomination that our people clawed out of that hell!"

"And how do we know if its price amounts to a million or a mere tenner? How can we be sure it won't get confiscated, or broken, or dead? We're gambling with our lives here! The ship is sinking, fast. We need more of these artifacts!"

"And which one of us will get the honor of dying beyond the military checkpoint?" Muttered the one in glasses, with a suspiciously self-assured tone.

"You'll stay here, Four-eyes. Your skills as a mechanic and a swathe of connections will prove useful in getting this thing out of this prison camp. Nick will be the one to accompany Sudara."

"Like hell I am." Protested Nick from beyond Jolpin's sight, his voice was low and nasally. "I'm not sticking my head out for some...thing out there to chop it off! First let's pawn that bloody thing off and THEN risk our lives, eh? Or, worse, let's leave this damned place all together, split up and get lost. I'd rather chance it in the world I live in, at least. The whole, "Devil that you know is better than the one you don't" deal."

The old man exhaled again, more sharply, with a tinge of annoyance. "And go where, Nickolas? They will never stop hounding us, and once one is found, once he is cracked...the others will follow suit. And even if we were to breathe fresh air and drop the chains of our obligations, you presume I would abandon every operation we've assembled, controlled, sustained and bled for!? To throw it all away to become some unnamed zero in a faraway place? No friends, no connections, and simply not enough years on the clock to start it all anew? Nail it to your heads if you have to, lads! We're stranded on a burning bridge that stretches over a ravine, and the blazing tongues are literally shooting fumes at our necks! Either we get this handled on a short notice, or our disemboweled corpses will be left out in this shit-colored, arid pit to be pecked away by vultures! Sudara, my dear nephew..." The old man implored. "Please do it for me, do it for all of us!"

An almost palpable silence besieged the tent, with none of its inhabitants making so much as an audible breath.

In a flash the image of an alien-human hybrid mechanism resting on a dingy table of plastic, the dramatic scene of four desperate criminals contemplating a life or death endeavor was swept away into the oblivion, replaced by a black pupil, ringed by a bluish band suspended in an ocean of glossy grey. The drunkard recoiled in a mix of shock and surprise, cursing under his breath as vilely as he could, before bolting back where he came from.

"Mates! We've got an unwanted guest here!!" Nickolas's muffled cry reached our protagonist's ears, half drowned out by the gusts of wind roused from his desperate sprint. A few seconds more and he was flying out of the alley like a startled animal in hopes of losing its pursuers in a crowd somewhere. Soon he would learn the true extent of his regrettable miscalculation. From the corner of his eye, Jolpin caught a figure rushing straight at him, maneuvering around the guy lines with the prowess of a professional athlete. Within a matter of seconds, something cold and solid came down on the man's scalp like a hammer onto a nail, shattering the man's resolve and balance in one foul swoop. The world spun, the horizon assumed a vertical position and our protagonist's wrinkled face acquainted itself intimately with the arid soil, followed by a small metallic thud soon afterwards. Deprived of even a moment's respite, a heavy boot smashed into his belly, forcing a pained croak out of our protagonist.

"Look who we got here!" A hand dug into the drunkard's disheveled hair and forcefully yanked him upwards, ignoring the latter's breathless grunts. "Well, if it isn't the pile of filth that accompanied us to this withered shithole, eh? What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?!"

Pain thundered in Greg's head and flames raged in his stomach, while his gaze was fixed onto the soil, painted in shades of blue by the silver moon. After a second's hesitation, the eyes screwed upward and the pupils shrunk down to the size of pinpricks. Every haphazardly strung up sentence was momentarily choked out in Gregory's throat, when he was forced to confront the smooth barrel of a shotgun, a fresh terror that would haunt our protagonist for the rest of his days. The downed man could do naught but be paralyzed in sheer, spine-chilling fear.

"I said, speak!" Spat Sudara in a mix of annoyance and anger, shoving the barrel straight into Jolpin's sweaty forehead, and as if on command, the latter began to tremble uncontrollably. "Who sent you!? Was it the Doves!?"

What answer could our protagonist give? His facial muscles have hardened into stone, immobile and mute. As if on cue, another one of the smugglers, Four-eyes (as evidenced by the gleam of moonlight in his thick glasses) finally caught up with his volatile comrade, visibly winded, pushing onto his own thighs. The black trench coat's shotgun gestured towards the impromptu hostage, and the newcomer's eyes widened in realization.

"I knew there was something fishy about your sickly ass." Sudara sneered. "Did the cops send you!? You're a pig, old man?! Hah, what kind of pathetic force sends half-dead geezers like you on their own?!" In truth the two were roughly the same age, yet even if our protagonist could overcome the reactive muteness, the smugglers would only cackle condescendingly in disbelief, were Greg to bring this fact to light.

"Bloody hell, mate, simmer down." Four-eyes interjected, coming closer and examining the drunkard. "He trembles like a dog in winter. The pigs have no idea about us, and the Doves would sure as hell not dirty their reputation by associating themselves with such lowly..." He sniffed. "...filth. Most probably our friend here got a little curious."

"And does that aged cat not know what conclusion would his curiosity lead him to?" The balding man peered into his victim's eyes. “Would be a shame to waste such a perfectly fine shotgun shell on a man, when they are worth their weight in gold in that damned Metastasis!" A firearm going off in such an area would surely arouse suspicion, but such thoughts could not break past the lockdown of panic that seized the drunk's mind in an iron grip. The stockless shotgun disappeared beneath the inky coat, letting a glistening piece of sharpened steel claim its place. "Though I could slice you up, real nice behind these tents!"Jolpin's heart sank once again.

"Sudara, please." The man with the glasses once again came to the rescue, smacking his friend's shoulder, scoffing. "We don't have all day, and wasting our precious resources on dispatching worthless rabble would only draw needless bloody attention to us! Unless you're willing to spend vital hours dragging his bony carcass at the other end of this place before dumping it somewhere else!"

"And have you never considered an option of him ratting us to the bastards that patrol this bloody place?!"

"That miserable thing?! Who'll even heed the ravings of a pathetic alcoholic? He'll probably get piss drunk the second we leave his line of sight! Trust me, when you spend years locked in the same four walls as one of those, predicting these broken records' next move becomes second nature."

=7

Gregory could do naught by glare at them with a mix of contempt and relief, obviously overjoyed at the prospect of being able to keep his own life, yet simultaneously furious at the men's reprehensible disposition towards himself. Four-eyes was right about one thing, however, our eavesdropper could not risk "ratting them out," as it would devolve into a bothersome process which would lead to a whole barrage of needless questions and wasted hours. After a moment's consideration, Sudara conceded, unclenching the drunkard's curly hair and stepping away. That is before a curious sight caught his vile eye. A metallic tube rested on the dusty soil, its proximity to the aforementioned eavesdropper being a dead giveaway of its origins. The balding man bent down and picked it up.

"Oooh, what's this?" He asked, feigning ignorance towards the old thermos. "Came over here on a camping trip, grandfather?" Upon seeing a blaze of desperation flashing in Jolpin's eyes, the smuggler grinned malignantly. "Or is this for me? Aww, you shouldn't have. However, you see I do not feel parched at all, maybe I should...vacate the contents of this fine container right here and now, or even better, hold on to it for the journey ahead?"

Jolpin's immobile mask of fear finally began to crack, when the lid slid off of the thermos. "No, please." Greg whined, his voice weak and mousy. The man's grin only broadened, as his hand began to tilt.

"For fuck’s sake, Sudara! Leave that pathetic wretch alone!" Four-eyes called impatiently.

"Fine, damn it!" He barked, sealing the flask, approaching our protagonist and feigning carefulness, placing the thermos next to him. "Keep an eye on this for me, will ya?" He smirked in satisfaction, straightened and turned around.

Joplin lay there, stewing in pain and a new found comprehension of his utter, disgusting powerlessness. He need not return to Hollow Asgard without embarking on this perilous journey to prove his impotence, one had to merely gaze at him in this humiliating situation and understand that this was an irrefutable fact. The colossus named "life" made sure to rub that salt of realization into his wounds with maniacal thoroughness. He had to stand up, he had to regain at least a shred of dignity, to declare to the world that he wasn't a "pathetic wretch" to the bone. Battling against gravity, the nails of pain that pierced his body, Gregory forced himself up, his breath ragged and gait - unsteady.

"Hey!" He called, trying to sound brave and unphased by the events that had just transpired. No, it was all a piece of fiction, a remnant of an old film playing in some rundown cinema. The smugglers stopped. "Listen, you're right, I need to find my way into the Metastasis. If you could point the way towards a guide, or something of the sort, I'd be appreciative!" Jolpin fought to steel his crumbling voice, a damn on a brink of collapse, yet still somehow able to perform its intended function.

Sudara glanced back, visibly annoyed. "Had you known to mind your own bloody business, I might have considered giving you a hand." There was an unexpected tinge of respect in the man's voice. It was akin to saying: "You've got the audacity, old man. I'll give you that much." The balding contrabandist waved our protagonist off with a single remark. "Follow the noise, you nosy old bastard, and you'll find a chaperone into that pit soon enough."

A heartbeat has passed...then two...then three. The criminal duo disappeared from our immobile protagonist's view, yet he stood there regardless, rooted in the soil with ragged breath, sweating rivers. He bent down with great difficulty, snatching the coveted container from its tomb of dust and soil. The ground surrounding the tents was slightly elevated, forming a cylindrical basin, shaded from the cold radiance of the silver moon. Through great hardship he took a seat on that elevation, trying to catch his ragged breath, hopeful that damage done to his body was not excessive. There he was, a quivering wreck debilitated from pain, wallowing in his own misery and weakness, sitting on a basin of dirt, and clad in a mantle of dust. No! Suddenly the old body sprung upwards ignoring the whines and protest of the worn sinews and joints. Gregory could not allow himself to wait for pain to subside. He had a guide to find.

- 10 -

Ignore the ache, just go. Breathe in, breathe out. These were the thoughts that trudged through the drunkard's mind, as he moved closer and closer towards the center of this unofficial prison colony. The lights igniting the interiors of the pale tents multiplied and grew in number exponentially, and so did the passers by, who seemed to have at least somewhat higher spirits when contrasted with the outskirt dwellers. Soon enough, an unexpectedly lively square stretched itself before our protagonist. If one squinted just enough, it all would seem reminiscent of some remote bazaar, with an added aroma of urine and other examples of human waste.

Gregory flowed between figures that more resembled human-sized streetlights clad in unusually large, worn coat shells laden with a whole assortment of plundered objects for sale. Questioning these individuals about potential guides prompted the merchants to size up the stranger, before scoffing and waving him off. Greg would always shuffle away, hissing a swear word or two before resuming the search.

To escape the stinging cold, many of the inhabitants resorted to creating makeshift fireplaces with whatever they could get their hands on. Tongues of flame, surrounded by makeshift basins of stones, bricks and other bits of rubbish offered a refuge to many a denizen to stay, rest, share stories and make the never ending wait flow just a tad faster. They proved to be somewhat more generous with information. In spite of pointing the way in radically different directions, they spoke of a whole line of acquaintances, acquaintances' acquaintances and such, an entire genealogical tree of connections that one had to navigate before the prospect of a guide even began to appear over the horizon. It all seemed like an utter headache, a search through a massive haystack for a needle that was attached to a thread that merely led to another massive haystack. Repeat ad infinitum. Henceforth, the drunkard opted to find other, simpler leads first and return to the wild goose chase should all other attempts fail.

Thankfully, the Colossus named Life chose to loosen its heavy grip on our protagonist just a tad, blessing him with a serendipity. Blazing inside an alley of tents was a shallow pit of fire, dug by someone using a rusted shovel with a broken blade that now lay beside it. Around the aforementioned cavity sat only two individuals, both engaged in a heated, yet ultimately quiet conversation the contents of which Jolpin could not quite make out. Upon closer inspection he saw a woman, clad in a dingy jacket, gazing semi-blankly at the dancing tongues of flame from her sunken left eye socket, massaging the bloodied bandage that wrapped around the right side of her face. The other one, a male sat facing his velvety coat-clad back towards the roaming drunk. The former suddenly grew silent upon hearing the stranger's weary footsteps, craning his neck to the left to see who it was. Old, shaven, perhaps in his early sixties, Jolpin thought. The woman tossed our protagonist a suspicious look, in tandem with an insolent smirk.

"Can we help you, sir?" The woman called coldly, without a hint of courtesy or decency, maintaining an unbreakable eye contact with her visitor.

"Yes, good evening. You see, I'm searching for a guide who would be able to lead me into Kalsten..."

The shaven one snorted in annoyance, the female suddenly thrust her back on the rusted, skeletonized chair, the creak of its rusted hinges being drowned out by the woman's hearty chuckle.

"Another mad old man on a suicidal march! Arturo, this makes it ten tonight alone! I'm keeping the count, you owe me a beer again!"

"Could you not have chosen a different campfire, my friend?" Arturo shook his head in bitter regret. "For almost two weeks she's been bleeding me dry of the few scraps of cash I've left. Mind you, booze in this pit isn't cheap."

"Hey now, we made a bet! If anything, you got your own "unshakable convictions" and stubbornness to blame!"

"Piss off."

The bandaged one turned her gaze back at the roaming alcoholic.

"Look, I was raised to respect the members of the previous generation..." Jolpin was barely older than her, five years at maximum. "So, I'll spare you a word or two of advice. Turn back. All that hogwash you've been fed in the outside world? Forget it! Because there? In that hell?" The one-eyed woman pointed at one of the tents, presumably the city's general location. "There is nothing, N O T H I N G apart from death and suffering. So your best bet is to turn your bony backside around and go back to wherever you came from. It sure as hell cannot be worse than what's in there!"

Gregory stepped closer, his unshaven face an emotionless mask unable to betray the lingering traces of pain and frustration. "Not an option. I have to get into that city, even if it means walking through the desert alone. Again, do you know of anyone who can guide or at least show me the way?"

"Persistent." Arturo scoffed.

The sunken eye socket's expression changed into that more grim. "There are much more pleasant and less painful ways of killing yourself. Hope you're well aware of that."

Gregory did not answer, merely taking a seat beside the woman and throwing a semi-hollow glance at her. "I'm waiting."

"You'll have to wait for a while then, mate." The all-familiar smirk of insolence flashed back on the bandaged woman's face. "I'm not running a charity here! Would be unwise to offer information for free. You see, mister? I am parched, and you can be well assured that sewage water tastes like fine wine in comparison to the overpriced horse piss Arturo manages to dig up."

She knew. Of course she did. A smell of booze clung to his skin akin to mold to the walls of seaside houses, something even a team of professionals would struggle to scrub clean.

"Perhaps a fine gentleman such as yourself has something more...substantial to wet our mouths with. Ethanol does have a quality of instilling honesty into people. And that honesty could be more than worth your while."

Gregory paled a little, tensing up, an expression of hesitancy forming onto his face. Information these people claimed to possess, theoretically, could propel the stagnant investigation forward. On the other hand, the duo could be naught but a couple of bored windbags hoping to snatch a proper drink and make fun of the desperate drunk. The liquid platinum that sloshed in the man's thermos was worth its weight in gold, almost lost to the clutches of that damned Sudara. Now, he was contemplating willingly giving up such a valuable resource, unaware whether or not he'd get a chance to refill it in the metastasis...provided that hellscape didn't claim Jolpin outright. Within a few seconds, a difficult decision was made and our protagonist's face contorted in anticipation of bitter regret, as the scratched flask ended up in the dingy hands of the one-eyed woman.

"I'm Greg, by the way." He added, as the aforementioned female tossed back the thermos and inhaled sharply afterwards.

"That's the stuff, old man!" She grinned jovially and passed it to her companion. It was the third moment in one night, when Jolpin's heart sank deep into his abdomen. One could not tell exactly what amount of that precious, coveted fluid would be lost forever. "Delilah. Delilah Ebisana, and that geezer you already know." The newly acquainted individuals shook their hands.

"Quality stuff, a damn rarity these days." Arturo coughed and nodded in approval. "In this shit hole, one could probably have better luck finding a concept car than this wonderful vodka! Well, promise made, promise kept. Ebisana, shall we?" The flask returned to its rightful owner soon after these words were uttered. The gamble had paid off.

Delilah exhaled, sounding somewhat pained. "When I said there are much more pleasant ways to kill yourself, I meant it with utmost seriousness. If hell is real, then Kalsten’s become a gate that leads straight into it. The horrible, cruel, downright inhuman and maddening sights seen there are bound to haunt my dreams..." Ebisana rubbed the bandage again, trying to feel the lacerated sensory organ underneath it, one that would never see the light of day "...and my body until death graces me with its visit." She shook her head swiftly, as if trying to force these heavy emotions out of it, reendowing her disfigured face with the all familiar, sly, insolent smirk.

"Oh, in comparison to many I am still considered to be a lottery winner! Yours truly, at least managed to claw her way out of that pit of corpses and horrors. You wouldn't be surprised at all to hear that a whole heap of unfortunate raskals drew short straws! And you know the real kicker is in the idea that perhaps this all could have been prevented had we paid attention to the signs. Yes, don't look at me like that old man! Many claim this...disease, they call it is a recent development, an unnatural disaster that one day just up and dawned on our poor little Kelstenians! " She feigned pity to accentuate her point. "Bullshit, we say!"

"The symptoms have been present for far too bloody long, my friend." Arturo Chimed in. "And just like with any disease, they were mild, unseen, often ignored. Cough, malaise, fatigue, as the infection slowly worms its way through the myriad of its host's structures. At first, technology acting up for no reason, strange sounds in the alleys, tunnels, phone lines, then bizarre rumors,. Afterwards, disappearances, gruesome strings of murders. Finally, when the government decided to pull their heads out of their back entryways, entire apartment blocks were quarantined, cut off from the world! Any attempt at escape or entry - BAM! A bullet to the skull. As months crept by, entire districts were silently closed off, but roots of this metastasis ran too deep. Eventually an entire city was vacated."

"Oh please, as if you believed in any of that." The One-eyed one scoffed loudly. "The rabble is just bored in this hole, so they make up silly rumors and delusional events to keep themselves entertained!" She lowered her pitch, trying to parody her companion. "Most probably it's a massive chemical leak, a threat of a terrorist attack or something of that sort! I'd be willing to bet, it is exactly one of those reasons Kalsten is being bled dry of its inhabitants. Bled dry indeed, vacated of everyone that didn't have their phones cut, televisions silenced and radio - muted! Because guess what!? Absolutely nobody bothered to break it to those few hapless bastards that were cooped up in the quarantine zones! We literally waded through a massive frying pan full of searing oil only to realize the freedom that lay beyond its metallic borders was massive pit of fire!" Delilah chuckled heartily and smacked her own knee. There was not a single ounce of genuineness in that act.

"How she and a few other crafty whoresons managed to brave quarantine, the metastasis and reach the very last evacuation site is beyond me." The shaven man mused aloud.

"Ah yes, especially when you were one of the very first to run with your tail tucked comfortably between your legs. How your bony arse has not yet been called to be shipped off of this damned place like cattle, is also beyond me." The woman retorted.

"Back to the topic at hand." Gregory leaned closer to the fire. "What else did you see there?"

Delilah went quiet for a moment, once again caressing the bloodied fabric draped over her nonfunctional eye. "Meat and steel, in unison growing out of the walls. I'm no expert in medicine, but flesh and metal are not supposed to be fused to each other...or growing out of the ceiling for that matter. Have you ever cracked your joints, hearing that dull echo pulse through your entire body, Greg? Soon after the fleshy metal began spreading through the apartment complexes like sores and boils, the same sound of "cracked joints" began to echo at night almost ceaselessly. I've lived in that place for almost twenty years, when the echo appeared, it began to change overnight. Walls began to crumble, hallways were either overgrown shut or began to lead in drastically different directions, the staircases were bent and twisted, the lift doors were overgrown with some mucus. And that was the first night alone, as our homes began transforming into prisons, isolated from the outside world. And then they came...born from the circular holes that wound through the spaces between walls, breaking through the flooring as if it were paper-thin ice, nesting in the ventilation shafts." For a moment, Ebisana shuddered. "A whole ecosystem of abominations began making their way into the apartments, new tenants of that new hell. Within a few days, our prison was a fully fledged jungle of concrete, steel, muscle and blood."

"Sounds like rambles of a delusional Schizophrenic, I know. However..."

"I'd be inclined to agree were half of the Kalstenians I questioned not speaking of similar, or even more outlandish tales."

"And you'd be some of the more intelligent ones I've had the displeasure of sharing a seat with!" Spat the woman. "For the naysayers and fools got to learn of the sheer error of their ways while staring at the pitch black maw of some nightmarish beast! But don't take my words as a declaration of some charlatan, old man! Look!"

The woman exclaimed, carefully taking out an object wrapped in a moist piece of ripped cloth. Slowly and gently, Delilah unwrapped the cocoon of fabric and fished out what appeared to be a weathered, round yellowish-green electrical socket bored deep into a torn piece of some hardened, rounded carapace that glistened joyfully under the light of the flame. Its interior was moist, smooth, covered in grooves that slithered in its outer margins, diving into smaller and smaller rivulet beds. The surface directly behind the socket was a nest comprised of a plasticky frame around which wound wires of metal and greyish tissue, the latter of which, theoretically would reach deeper into the structure the piece was taken from before branching akin to a nerve. Jolpin examined it intently, shuddering at the thought of what this bizarre biomechanical piece could belong to.

"What was this torn off of?!"

"One of the Metastasis's "beautiful children," of course." Ebisana swiftly covered the alien flesh in cloth and hid it away.

"You may be asking yourself, what twisted horrors have conspired to bring forth this abomination? And I shall give an answer. This carapace belongs to man's former best friend, now twisted into such an ungodly marriage of hound and insect. Their appetite - veracious; Their packs - large; The copper coils around their fangs - A hellish fountain of electricity! You can damn well be sure I've seen entire groups of men overwhelmed by the hordes of these quadrupedal monsters! What's even worse, a friend of mine, Pyotr, theorized that these may not even be their adult forms! He pondered that these...uh - Grub Hounds molt into creatures that somehow are even more unsightly than their juvenile incarnations! And yet these Grub Hounds are but a single act, a drop in an ocean, a chapter in a massive library of terror that is the Metastasis! Even at gunpoint you'd never be able to force me to be near it. No sir, no! A bullet to the head is mercy in comparison to that place."

Jolpin felt an icy grip wrapping tightly around his spine, as he struggled to fend off the welling worry and fear, and disallowing it from imprinting upon his old visage.

=8

"Since you have that chunk in your possession, does this mean these "hounds" can be killed by conventional means?" He finally spoke after a moment of pondering.

"Indeed. The shell's a bit tough, but a few, well-placed shots are more than enough to take it down. Yet, one needs to remember that where there's one, there's many more. My advice? Stay away from subterranean structures that are frequently shrouded in the dark, the hounds frequently nest in such things. Good god, I still remember how a literal service tunnel opened up beneath the lift shaft on the ground floor of my apartment. We, the desperate bastards naturally went in to investigate, and in the following minutes learned the preferred nesting ground of these abominable hybrids. Here's a bonus for you - The scent of rot that grows exponentially stronger upon each step. The fiends love to hoard bodies, be it human or otherwise." The one-eyed woman fell silent, visibly exhausted by the ceaseless river of knowledge and emotional burdens that flowed through her.

For a minute or more, only the crackle of the campfire and distant echoes of the bazar reigned undisturbed. Arturo gazed blankly into the blazing pit, before screwing his eyes upward a tad, fixating onto the unshaven man with bushy, disheveled hair.

"As you can see, we delivered our end of the bargain...well, with Ebisana doing most of the heavy lifting." The shaven one started. "Therefore, if it doesn't turn out to be a massive issue, I wish to inquire about one simple thing. Honesty for honesty, if you catch my meaning." After Jolpin gave a slight nod, he continued. "You, Greg, neither strike me as a marauder, nor a thrill seeker. Taking age into consideration, I suppose I am correct. You also seem a smidge too determined for a man willing to take his own life. Hence what, I ask, are you searching for? What twisted centerpiece draws your ambitions and reckless abandon?"

Jolpin averted his sight, paling a tad, his expression grim and serious. "The Fleshfull Machine." He finally declared, coldly.

Both of the refugees whistled in surprise.

"The lights are on, and nobody's home." Delilah commented dryly. "The mythical wish granter at the epicenter of that cancerous growth of a city?"

"Throughout my stay in this place, neither me nor my companion here have found ANY physical proof that the place exists. That rumor's spread is slow and stagnant, but persistent it seems. Do you not find it strange that everyone who repeats such tails (not unlike trained parrots) are completely unable to provide an accurate description of the place? No need to answer, it's a rhetorical question. Even if that thing exists, that Fleshfull Machine, as claimed by many of these buffoons, is the literal epicenter of this infectious disaster. For all intents and purposes, our friend's heartfelt tales of tragedy, and blood curdling horror may seem like bed-side stories in comparison to what you risk facing there...provided you even make it past the outskirts of Kalsten!" The drunkard was as silent as a grave. "Do you not have anyone to return to? Someone, near and dear that will be devastated by the news of your suicidal march?"

Silence yet again. Jolpin was a broken instrument, incapable of producing a single note. His head was turned sideways, the mortified expression obscured partially by the thick, black shadows. The man's hand caressed the bracelet off hair, entwined with a beautifully crafted necklace.

"My wife..." The instrument finally began to sing a somber, yet ultimately insincere melody. "SHE is at home, SHE will be waiting. SHE knows I have to do this. To make us whole, again."

The other two didn't press on, Jolpin's tone was an ample indication that this avenue would yield no further information. The tongues of flame and echoes dominated the auditory throne once again.

"Thank you, both of you for the information. It was an enlightening experience, truly." Gregory spoke after a lengthy episode of quiet, before straightening up and patting the dust off of his coat's lower half.

"You're not going anywhere, old man." Sneered Delilah Ebisana, slowly getting off of her chair, stretching her legs and hissing softly. "You got any cash on you?"

"What, you're trying to charge me extra?"

"Har har. Do you always condescend to people who are willing to lend a hand? How much?"

Gregory didn't feel like parting with that information, especially considering that the roll of paper money in his left, inner breast pocket was meant to pay off the services of a guide, and possibly be used as a way to leave the refugee camp, should all standard methods fail. He showed it to the woman nonetheless, but snatched it away when she got too close.

"Easy, Greg, easy." She reassured in her usual insolent manner. "I was just sizing it up..." Upon inspecting it for a few seconds, the woman sighed slowly and shook her head. "Arturo? Keep the fire burning, I'll be back shortly. And you?" She pointed at our protagonist. "Follow me. You wanted a guide, correct? Then it's your lucky day! I may know just the right man who can chaperone you into that no man's land!"

A faint smile of surprise flashed on Jolpin's grim exterior, as he nodded in appreciation.

"Farewell, Arturo." Now a few meters away from that faithful pit of flame, the drunkard turned back and smiled subtly. "And thank you."

"Farewell, my friend. Safe travels... " The man in the velvety coat waved, before murmuring to himself "...and may you rest in peace, you sad, sad fool.

- 11 -

The echo of the bustling center of the camp began to fade out once again, as Delilah, relying almost exclusively on tight pathways trodden by the very few, led our protagonist in the general direction of Kalsten.

"Just so you're not entirely clueless, with the situation. See that small hillock over there?" The bandaged one pointed towards a miniature protrusion in the distance, that stuck out like a small mountain from a massive forest. "That's where we're headed."

"Understood."

It didn't take too long for them to reach the said hillock. The streets they trod were uncharacteristically dark, and unnervingly silent. For a moment, Gregory began to worry, whether or not the night would indeed end with a knife intimately acquainting itself with his ribcage. Perhaps Ebisana was luring the drunk away from everyone with the intention of robbing him blind? Jolpin's chest tightened when a faithful turn to the right, revealed a dozen or so individuals bunched in the shadows. They could jump at him at any second! Chase him down, beat him senseless, or worse! Perhaps they would merely take Gregory's belongings and let him walk away? Why would anyone need a dead body on their hands in this pit, right!? With the heart pounding madly, the nerves burning with anxiety, and abdominal muscles pulverizing our drifter's intestines, a mad desire to simply bolt out of there shot through our protagonist. Why not? Perhaps that head start would allow him to break line of sight quicker and disappear in this labyrinth? Nonsense! What if, these people are not a threat at all, but will get ticked off of something being fishy, if he actually dashes away out of the blue?! The logic once again collided with the cowardly instinct of simple flight. No! Gregory steeled himself, ready to face whatever obstacle was to come head on! Taking a deep breath, dawning his best poker face possible, the unshaven man in his disheveled coat approached the group with his companion.

Like a drop of ink, separating from the rest of the blot, a singular figure split off from the shadowy, bluish-blackish mass, heading on a collision course towards the two visitors. Stepping over the sharp zone that demarcated the end of darkness's domain, the tall, thin man unveiled himself under the silvery moonlight. He was a cold, shrewd, sly-looking fellow, with a clean-shaven head and beard, his inky-black, thin moustache and a miniature soul patch beard being akin to lonely brush strokes on his sickly-pale canvas of a face. He sported an oversized, puffy winter coat, a graveyard of lacerations, its sleeves rolled as far back as the man's lanky elbows.

"Delilah! My friend." The baldy called joyfully, his small, predatory eyes boring into the woman, and later, the outsider beside her.

"Pyotr, you hairless bastard!" The two locked their arms and embraced. "Surprised to see me so soon?" She sneered.

"After hearing you'd consider a century well spent if my existence wouldn't be, as much as mentioned throughout its entire bloody duration?! Yes! I sure as hell am!"

Delilah feigned ignorance, shrugged. "I've no idea what you're on about mate. However, I do recall being acquainted with a tall, shaven man who may or may not owe his current disposition, and structural integrity of his skull to humble Ebisana."

"God, you never let such things slide, do you?" Retorted Pyortr. "Spit it out then, does that debt somehow involve Mr. Bushy over there?"

"Name's Greg." Hissed Mr. Bushy, reigning his tongue as to not let it slip a few coarse expletives. "I'm looking for someone to guide me into the metastasis."

Pyotr spread his arms mockingly. "Well you came to the right place then, my friend! You can join the squad of misfits in the back, provided the fee is paid, of course." The man rubbed his pointy and middle finger with his blackened thumb and grinned hideously. Gregory took out the very stack he showed to his new companion at the campfire and tossed it towards the smug guide, who deftly snatched it in mid-air. Birds of a feather, these two, the man thought to himself. Hastily tossing off the rubber band, Pyotr began to count the bills at the speed of a well-oiled machine, before his lips contorted into a frown of disappointment.

"Sorry, mate. This barely covers half of my fee."

"Bullshit!" Mr. Bushy snapped. "That hefty sum is barely half of your fee?! What kind of con artistry are you dragging me into, Delilah?!

"Pipe down, geezer!" Ebisana waved him off, before turning to her companion and smiling sinisterly. "So, about that solid you owe me! Since I intend to move out of this hole...eventually, and the prospect of never seeing your mug for the rest of my life is enticing, to say the least..." The female nodded towards her companion. "Give this generous old man a discount."

"What? You know I don't do that!"

"Then return the money and take him for free. As a friend of a friend."

"But...

"Or you'd rather I hadn't risked my neck saving you from that army of chirping, insectoid maws?! Fuck's sake, man, its just a single old sod, who knows when to keep quiet. You won't tell anyone, right, Mr. Bushy?" The woman winked at her companion.

Jolpin, blindsided, dumbstruck, taken aback by this sudden gesture of kindness, could merely muster a nod. While his face was a stony mask, the man's eyes, however, were like wide-open windows into his mind, and the sheer astonishment that raged within.

The tall one shifted from one leg onto the other, spat and looked away, displeased. "I guess half the fee doesn't sound like the end of the -"

"No, that train has already departed from the station!" Delilah cut in, grinning spitefully, venomously. "You'll take him for free."

It was as if a rug was pulled from under the drifter. Could it be that perhaps he judged her too harshly? That this sly woman who spoke with such an insolent, mocking tone harbored some truly respectable character traits? Then again, who wouldn't express bitterness and brashness in her place? Someone who survived against all odds in that hell, only to stagnate in this semi-arid swamp of cold, and dust. Soon after, sadly, the pleasant thoughts began to rot, turn sour, unpleasant to say the least. Gregory saw her expression, that grin of an ultimatum, that twinkle of victory that shone in her good eye. It could neither have been charity, nor the kindness that arrived at the eleventh hour, the dark thoughts that spread throughout his body like tar through a river hissed and whispered. She merely wanted to spite that tactless pole of a man! Nothing less and nothing more, they called. You were merely a convenient tool of petty revenge, perhaps a comeuppance for misdeeds within that hell given flesh and concrete!

While Jolpin was still processing the situation, Pyotr and Delilah continued their negotiations, the former of which, try as he might, could not hide his fouled mood.

"You cheapen my services, mate. Greatly so. When a king bestows the privilege of one wish upon someone, only a fool or a madman would wish for a single apple."

Ebisana scoffed. "You've nothing to offer to me, Pyotr. Hell, it still puzzles me how you can keep a straight face and make regular trips back into that hell, after we barely fled from it by the skin of our teeth."

The tall reed of a man turned his back bitterly, stepping into the shadows once again.

"It's a free market, my friendly neighborhood cyclops, you of all people should know that there's always a line of Bushmen in search for a guide, men and women willing to part with their funds. And money -"

"Can make hell itself seem like a hospitable place."

"Exactly. Listen up people!" The frustration previously present in the guide's voice was hastily smothered, as he turned to the shadowy blot that was waiting for him impatiently. "We've got a new member in our squad. I’ll grant you 30 minutes to take care of whatever bloody business you've left! I will not wait, and there certainly will be no refunds to those left behind!"

Delilah and Jolpin remained quiet for a few heartbeats.

"Why?" He finally blurted out.

The woman chuckled and shrugged.

"Too many reasons to count, in all honesty. For one, it would be a shame to miss that one last chance to wipe that ever-present smugness off of that bastard's mug. Also, apart from that..." Delilah turned to her companion, her voice warming up a tad. "For some reason I looked at you and thought "damn, that man sure looks like nobody has done a good deed for him in forever." Might as well break that tradition, no?"

"I..." Gregory stammered, not used to such kindness being thrown his way. First Lars Argus, now her. One could wonder what magnetism our protagonist exuded that attracted the compassion of one-eyed people.

"Don't sweat it, old man." She patted his shoulder. "One advice though, that hillock I mentioned earlier? The incline's not too steep, and the pleasant view will help you examine the situation, whilst making the wait go by faster."

"D-Delilah, I am wholeheartedly thankful to you."

Ebisana tilted her head and smirked. "Got any more vodka in there?"

A small jolt of tension thundered through the drunkard, the chains of his addiction winding around his arms akin to serpents. Jolpin momentarily smothered that whining sensation, escaping any further humiliation and uncourteous behavior. Gregory handed the flask over, she downed it, hissed joyfully and wiped her lips with her sleeve.

"Ah, that's the stuff. Well, best of luck to you, Greg. May you find what you're looking for in there."

"Likewise, farewell."

They waved each other off and within a few seconds, Delilah Ebisana merged with the darkness and vanished within the labyrinth. Gregory was left alone. He waited for a few seconds before succumbing to the anxiety that bubbled on the surface of the swamp that was his mind. He hastily unscrewed the scratched lid off of his thermos, aligning its lip with the luminescent celestial body, before grimacing. At least half of the coveted liquid has run dry! Gregory gasped in sorrow, averting his sight from the tragedy that unfolded in the flask of metal, before taking a very careful, nauseatingly calculated sip before moving forward.

Scaling the hillock wasn't a complicated ordeal. The monolithic rock that jutted from the soil akin to a crudely constructed obsidian blade was riddled with an army of cuts left by the ceaseless, grating winds. Jolpin struggled to reach its summit, panting and using the aforementioned orifices to force his way upward. After five or so minutes of struggle, he finally situated himself on its miniature summit, breathing in the fresh, cold wind that only grew stronger. The drifter couldn't help but sigh in relief, once unaware of the miasma of stench and stuffy air that prison of a camp exuded. He wished that moment of refreshment to stretch for an eternity, secluded from the cruel and unforgiving world below, a tranquil island separated from an industrial hellscape of a mainland by a seemingly-vast ocean. And so he stood there, breathing deep, eyes shut, basking in the silvery moonlight. The euphoria that dawned upon the drifter soon began to sink behind its imaginary horizon. He knew the eyes would have to screw themselves open sooner rather than later.

For a moment Gregory merely gazed at the mesmerizing ocean of stars, gently caressing the eerily flat horizon. Soon however, he shifted his sight to the right and paled like a corpse. The circular city of Kalsten. Even though anecdotally referred to as a "semi-arid pit," the settlement once used to be quite a bustling industrial town, boasting a formidable population. Those decades of utilitarian grandeur, however, blew past its vast factories and armies of apartment complexes long ago. Now, its silhouette resembled a rundown castle, its army of blemishes and imperfections veiled by the makeup of darkness.

That was the Kalsten Jolpin knew, as his younger version skittered through its aging, neglected arteries of cement, paved stone and concrete akin to a little ant on a semi-frequent basis.

The assortment of structures observed in the present was no longer Kalsten, it was something far more insidious, a vile, foreign, cancerous mass that gestated and twisted its innards. An insect puppeteered by the strings of mycelium belonging to a foreign invader. And as the subtle oppressor gathered strength beyond its opposition, that very threat finally began to manifest, baring its hideous visage and breaking through the shell of the infested city much akin to the stems of the cordyceps fungus breaking through an insect's carapace and reaching towards the skies.

Jolpin's pupils shrunk.

From afar, he saw massive tubes arched like spines, coiling around the city's western border, the barely perceivable, uprooted buildings clinging to their enormous bodies akin to dew. Abnormal, fleshy growth stretched between the buildings, anchored to their neglected exteriors akin to gossamer between transistors of a circuit board. Its northwestern region, known for many of its metallurgical factories, appeared to have disappeared completely, sunken beneath the forest of buildings. But these foreboding oddities were not the ones that managed to steal our protagonist's breath, chill his blood and make his jaw drop - that honor belonged to the "Stems of the Cordyceps" themselves. Towers...dozens of them, skyscrapers reaching towards the heavens, moonlight dancing on their vertebral exteriors, glinting off of warped intervertebral windows, glaring off the metallic tumors growing outward in all directions, mixing with enormous fans, glowing vacuoles, gigantic strands of wet, malformed muscles, and so much more. Kalsten ceased to exist long ago, now - only Metastasis reigned.

Gregory eyed this monstrous canvas in utter shock and terror, his voice trembling staccato. The words of his only friend rung through his mind akin to a death knell.

"But Kalsten doesn't have skyscrapers..."