Mydia's End

by Sean Davies

  Her magical tome was currently in the form of a medium-sized black leather-bound diary, decorated with a silverwork motif of crashing waves on its corners and spine. In the dead centre was a silver emblem of a sea serpent coiled around a pair of crossed Katanas, her home archipelago’s characteristic curved sword from the ancient times. Constance couldn’t remember where she’d seen the emblem, but she had always liked drawing it since she was a child and couldn’t resist ‘willing’ her magical book to incorporate it onto its cover. Connie picked it up, made it shrink into the size of a tiny notepad and slotted it into her handbag beside her purse.

  Connie looked at her watch and cursed herself for putting off the packing, swearing for the thousandth time that she’d change her ways next time as she ran down the stairs and grabbed her keys from a small row of hooks beside the front door. Constance still had one last trip to make before her departure. She left her house, locked the door, and embraced the gloriously sunny day around her.

  Constance’s homeland was the Tropican Archipelago situated beside the western tip of the Continent of Tropica. There were dozens of inhabited islands linked together by bridges and small harbours, and several smaller ones that were home to only plants and animals. They were famed for their exotic beauty and fish-packed coral reefs.

  Since Winston had restored the world to its rightful state by merging the Gloom sub-dimension with reality and dispersing the once removed magic throughout the planet, the Archipelago’s allure had only increased with the addition of magical foliage and wildlife. However, the island she was headed to stuck out like a sore thumb.

  As Connie hurried down the picturesque row of houses to the bus stop, a six-winged purple bird swooped down from the mauve-tinted blue sky and landed on a nearby white picket fence. The creature was a cross between a parrot and an eagle, standing over two feet tall and with a wing span of almost double that. The species had been dubbed a Regal Squawker by the locals due to its royal colouring and the crown of small feathers on its head. It cawed a deep ‘hawwo’ repeatedly at Constance.

  “You’re going to have to find someone else to scrounge off,” Constance said as she fished out a cereal bar from her handbag. “I’m heading to Central Isle today.”

  “Awww,” the Regal Squawker grumbled.

  Connie unwrapped the bar and threw it towards the bird, who caught it in its long black beak and performed a wave with one of its six wings before soaring off into the distance.

  For a moment she watched on wistfully, imagining how amazing it would feel to fly high above the ground, until the distant sound of heavy-duty breaks screeching to a halt snapped her out of her daydream. The bus had arrived at the stop down the road. Constance rushed towards the big yellow vehicle, glad she had chosen smart black shoes over high-heels, and managed to reach it just before it pulled away. Panting heavily, Connie waited for the double doors to slide open and staggered on board. She made a mental note to start training physically as well as magically.

  “You know I wouldn’t have pulled away without you, Connie,” the stout white-haired driver said with a smirk. “I saw you running down the road.”

  “Hindsight’s… a bitch…” Constance panted as she caught her breath.

  The bus driver, Ronald, had been ferrying Constance around the Archipelago since she was a kid, but it was only until after Connie had found her book that his true identity had been revealed to her. The hairy tan-skinned man had a pair of feral yellow eyes, the tell-tale sign of a Werewolf. It always made Constance chuckle that he had chosen to be a bus driver, but assumed that a great many other Supernaturals must have taken up mundane roles in lieu of sporting their superpowers for a more dangerous or challenging occupation.

  “So, where you heading? Wastewater, as usual?” Ronald asked as Connie unnecessarily flashed him her bus pass like she always did.

  Connie nodded. “Yeah, please. It’s going to be my last bus journey for a while.”

  “Oh, of course! You’re shipping out today, aren’t ya?” he asked excitedly.

  “Sure am, so you might not see me about for a while—well, except for the return bus trip home later,” Constance smiled.

  A woman sitting near the front of the bus coughed deliberately, to rudely indicate that they had remained idle for too long.

  Connie shot the woman a quick sneer before returning to her conversation, but Ronald was already pulling off, so she held onto his seat as she asked, “Tell me Ronald, why did you become a bus driver of all things?”

  “As opposed to running through the woods howling at the twin moons?” Ronald chuckled gruffly as he guided the big yellow bus down the smooth island roads. “I like cars, buses, bikes… anything with a motor really. I had a garage for a little while but thought I’d mix it up for a decade or two.”

  “So you’re a DVO petrol head, then,” Connie said appraisingly. She admired anyone who could tell what was going on with the inner workings of a vehicle. She was most definitely more comfortable with electronics, like her Imperator 7000 computer, than anything mechanical.

  Ronald came to a violent halt by another stop and Constance almost went flying but narrowly managed to hold onto a nearby rail.

  “I’ll go and sit down,” she said as nonchalantly as possible. “Speak to you in a bit.”

  As old Ronald greeted a fresh wave of passengers, Connie took a seat by the back of the bus and studied the scenic houses, well-kept gardens, perfectly trimmed hedges, and beautiful cherry blossom trees as the bus drove past. Birds and insects, of both magical and natural origin, frolicked in the sun, and Supernaturals and humans alike went about their daily routines. Constance sighed, knowing that she would miss home greatly.

  After half a dozen stops, Constance was the only passenger remaining, so she moved up to the front of the bus and carried on chatting to Ronald as they headed to the long bridge that led to Wastewater Isle. The water outside darkened and increased in hue as they travelled closer to the isle, as did the colour of the sky, and eventually the crystal clear Tropican water was replaced completely with a pungent black liquid. The foul black Gloom water encompassed the aptly named Wastewater Isle, and the sky above was a perpetual plate of hazy black and purple fog that clotted together in the centre to form ominous clouds.

  Ronald pulled up to the deserted bus stop, just metres away from a tall steel gate that was situated at the border between fresh and foul water, and said his fond farewells to the Book Wielder just in case he wasn’t the driver that would be handling her return trip. Constance shook his hand and gave him a quick hug goodbye. She hopped down the bus’s metal steps and waved as Ronald turned around on the wide, empty bridge and drove away.

  The air was a strange mix of scents, containing both the salty smell of fresh sea water that soothed Connie, bringing back memories of being on her dad’s fishing boat, and the nose-tingling odour of decay that always clung to areas associated with the Gloom. After a few visits Constance had begun to adapt and could more or less ignore the stench, but she was never able to shut it out completely. She sympathised with the Book Wielders before the merger that had to suffer through an entire dimension’s worth of the foul fragrance when they had to cross over into the Gloom.

  The nearby gate was built into a thick concrete wall that plummeted into the discoloured water either side of the bridge, before ending abruptly at its sides. The wall barricade wasn’t designed to keep those on the other side from leaving, but existed to prevent careless people from wandering in. The concrete, which had been painted a calming shade of beige, was plastered with advisory posters and warnings. The most prominent and repeated was a bold ‘Do Not Drink the Water!’ in big red letters.

  Two guards stood either side of the thick iron doors, wearing full suits of matte white power armour with raised magenta floral decorations lining the edges of their large shoulder pads. Queen Azalea’s emblem, a five petaled pink flower, adorned the centre of their shoulder armour and the top left-hand side of their breast plate, and their fut
uristic helmets featured long plumes of the same colour. They were both armed with rectangular white rifles that sported several black barrels, and short swords were sheathed on their hips. Both guards pressed the sides of their helmets as Constance approached, and after a few mechanical whines and whirrs the helmets expanded outwards, allowing their wearers to free their heads with ease.

  “Connie Lee,” a young man with light brown skin and short black hair beamed. “Please tell me you dressed like that for my benefit!”

  “Not likely,” a woman with vibrant pink hair, which was coiled into an elaborate bun, sniggered loudly.

  “Hi guys,” Constance said, awkwardly hugging their heavily armoured bodies and clapping them on the back. “You haven’t told him, have you?”

  “Course not!” the man replied.

  “We haven’t kept it a secret this long for nothin’,” the woman chuckled.

  “Good, good,” Connie said, relieved that everything was still going to plan. “So, you going to miss me?”

  “Meh, a little bit,” the male guard shrugged jokingly.

  The woman turned to her colleague and narrowed her purple Mage eyes slyly. “Sorry, what was it you were saying about her butt earlier? ‘Best arse on the Isles, can’t believe you won’t be able to check it out anymore’?’”

  “Hey!” the man shouted, before turning to Constance. “I didn’t say that, she’s making it up!”

  “So, you don’t think she’s hot then?” the Mage countered cheekily.

  “What—wait—no—that’s not what I meant,” the poor man stuttered, overwhelmed by embarrassment and confusion.

  “You can relax, Ling,” Connie said patting his massive pauldron reassuringly. “Lauren’s just jealous ‘cos she has a crush on you!” she added in a childish tone.

  “Really?!” Ling asked in astonishment, and then quickly shot the Mage a confident grin.

  “Constance!” Lauren chided as she turned bright red.

  “What?” Connie shrugged innocently. “I’m not going to be around to prod you anymore, and you had plenty of time to tell him yourself.”

  Ling let out a deep chuckle. “So, how about dinner tonight, luscious-Lauren?”

  “Shut up, Ling,” Lauren sighed in annoyance, but she couldn’t help but smile. “Fine, okay, but don’t let it go to your head.”

  Ling whooped and cheered. “Nice one, thanks Connie!”

  “Don’t mention it,” Constance replied cheerfully. She’d been planning on setting them up for months. “Now, are you two lovebirds going to let me through or what? I’m pretty sure I’ve got more things to embarrass you about if you’d prefer to keep me waiting.”

  Ling was at the gate’s touchpad interface in a flash. “Opening the gates for you now, Connie. Stay safe, don’t drink the water, blah, blah, blah…”

  “The power has gone to our friend’s head already,” Lauren joked to her fellow trooper.

  The hidden mechanisms chugged as the large gates slowly slid to the side. They inched out of the concrete supports so that the thick steel barriers were eventually suspended above the murky waters, leaving the wide road free for Connie.

  “Thanks guys, have a nice date,” Constance said as she strolled past. “Oh, by the way, Ling… Lauren likes being kissed on the neck, just beside her ear!” she called back, unable to resist retaliating to Lauren’s earlier comment.

  “How does she know that?!” Ling asked eagerly.

  “Connie Lee!” Lauren the Mage roared as the gates firmly clunked shut.

  Constance chuckled as she jogged down the road. She checked her black and silver watch and saw that she was still making good time. Despite her poor forward planning on the packing front, it seemed as though luck—or Fate—was on her side.

  Constance had made friends with Ling and Lauren during her many visits to Wastewater Isle. She had been reluctantly talked into a night out with the Tropican Military Forces (widely referred to as the TMF for short), and had pulled herself away from her magical and alchemical studies to party with them in Tropica City. Constance found that she enjoyed the experience far more than she’d imagined and had made a habit to cut loose with them at least once a fortnight. Connie had lost most of her friends during the transition from secondary school into college, as her more laid-back pals had considered her to be ‘married to her coursework’. The few friends that had stuck around had faded out after she’d found her book, claiming that Constance was ‘married to her magic’. As such, the fledgling Book Wielder was grateful that the TMF had convinced her to take it easy once in a while and taken her under their wing in the socialising department. Connie planned on partying with them whenever she revisited the Archipelago.

  The warm air was replaced with a foreboding chill as the Book Wielder progressed towards Wastewater Isle, but she didn’t feel an ounce of fear. The water beside the bridge was black, but Constance could still make out dark shapes moving beneath the surface. Every now and then a monstrous multi-coloured fish would reveal itself for a few seconds, pouncing above the water to catch a fang-filled mouthful of unsuspecting water-skating bugs.

  Constance smirked as she approached the island’s rickety signpost, suspended proudly above the road by an archway constructed from steel frame supports that were twisted and broken in places. Beside the wonky sign were two large portraits: one of Queen Azalea, and one of Winston Reynolds. The large out of place pictures always made Connie giggle.

  Winston had long been a celebrity amongst the Alternatives, the puppet-like reflections of humanity that had once been confined to the Gloom, ever since he had first accidentally introduced chocolate to the bleak dimension. It turned out that sweet substances affected the strange beings in the same manner as drugs affected humans and Supernaturals, and the denizens of the Gloom couldn’t get enough. At the time Winston was the only Book Wielder who could understand the more civilised humanoid puppets, an ability he didn’t even know was unique to him, but after setting up a trade of candy for alchemical reagents between the two dimensions, the weird creatures and everyone else had learnt to communicate with each other. The Alternatives, or Alts for short, saw Winston as the deliverer of sweet treats and the saviour and protector of their kind. As overzealous as their perception of the young man was, it wasn’t that far from the truth, as no one had done more for their misunderstood kind than Winston Reynolds.

  Queen Azalea, the former Inquisitor General, had freed the vast majority of the Gloom population of Tropica from an eternity of servitude under the cruel whip of their own kind. The upper-class Alts, residing in the aptly named ‘Slaver’s Basin’ in northern Tropica, had subjugated the entire continent, known simply as ‘The Colonies’ in the Gloom. However, once the worlds had been merged, Azalea couldn’t bear to watch the slavery continue and neither could Winston. Together, the Tropican Military Forces along with the newly founded Conclave and Justiciars had overthrown the Commodore, the rude, snobby and heartless leader of The Colonies. His forces were defeated and either killed in battle or sentenced to a humiliating three-hundred-year sentence of community service. Although the Commodore escaped and received asylum with the Mayor on the Continent of Rura, the Demon Glutonix—the creature that the slaver leader used to make his possessions, weapons, and military appear spotless and function flawlessly—had been blasted to smithereens. As a result, the once proud Commodore, who always wore smart admiral’s attire, was now a filthy old ragdoll in a rank sailor’s outfit with a big bushy white beard on his material face. Winston thought it was funnier and far more punishing to keep the slaver Alt alive to wallow in his squalid misery, where he was forced to play the piano in the Needle Maiden-owned Stitches and Britches Bawdy House for tips to pay his rent and upkeep.

  The beautiful portrait of Azalea was a careful copy of the original by the Book Wielder and aspiring artist Chloe O’Kelly, whilst the one of Winston was originally painted by an Alt named Kelly O’Chloe, the Mayor’s favourite artist and Chloe’s Gloom double. The artists’ names were al
so a source of amusement for Constance, and she often wondered if she was one of the rare few people to have a twin in puppet form somewhere in the world.

  Constance quickly powerwalked beneath the creaking archway and into the Alternatives’ town. She passed by buildings that were constructed out of dark wood and plates of rusty metal, and waved cheerfully at the grubby black-eyed residents. The Tropican Monarchy had offered the Alts proper building materials, but the puppet-people had kindly declined—all except for one Alt. The fabric, porcelain, and wooden men and women returned her wave and smiled at the Book Wielder. To begin with, Connie had been terrified of the Alts and their creepy and menacing mannerisms, not to mention their foreboding homes, but her best friend had helped to quell her fears.

  As she walked along the uneven pavement, brass-coloured Spidercars plodded down the roads on their four brassy legs with Alternatives sitting on the padded seats on their backs. The Spidercars’ glowing circular witchlight eyes acted as their headlights, painting the cracked and crumbling road ahead of them in a sickly green hue, and steam chirped and hissed from their joints as the strange machines ferried their passengers around the dark town. For a moment Constance drifted off into a daze as she recalled a strange dream she’d had about enormous brass and copper coloured machinery that shared the Gloom vehicles mysterious mix of steam, clockwork, energy, and regular fuel technology, but took it to a different level of complexity entirely. Connie remembered she was on a deadline, shook herself out of her reverie, and continued walking to the very edge of Wastewater Isle.

  Towards the far end of the isle the houses decreased in number, and the blackened soil and patchy purple grass became host to a variety of flora that was once only found within the Gloom. Farmer Alts were tending to fields of blue Nightmare Nettles (the chief ingredient in the hallucinogenic drug Dreamleaf), black and white corn stalks guarded by horrifying living scarecrows that were leashed to their wooden posts like guard dogs, brittle hedgerows that were host to the snake-like Psychothorn vines—caged on all sides to prevent the plants from escaping—and rows of fungi, including large grey Ashrooms that sighed clouds of knock-out spores. Popping up from among the other plots was a hill of dry earth topped with a demonic red-eyed tree, a savage face carved into its bleak black bark. It had extremely long thin branches tipped with frighteningly sharp white scythes; however, each one was held in place by several thick iron chains that were attached to sturdy metal stakes impaled into the ground, and a huge slab of metal covered the lower half of its trunk. Connie knew it was a Deathscythe Tree, and that underneath its huge copper muzzle would be a grinning maw lined with razor-sharp wooden stakes. An Alt made of pale fabric was harvesting the evil tree’s brittle roots, as they were the key ingredient in Vitality potions which were invaluable to every aging Mage. The farmer waved his hat cheerfully at Constance when she caught his eye.