Mydia's End

by Sean Davies

  One house stood out like a sore thumb amongst the deliberately decrepit domiciles, situated beside the calm yet repugnant water a great distance from the other Alt residences. It was an ultra-modern two-storey building constructed with light wood panelling and huge glass windows, and even featured a trendy first floor balcony that overlooked the black waters and was large enough to host a small party, which Connie and her TMF friends had indeed put to use on a few occasions. The house had been built from scratch by Constance’s best friend, Stitches, who had quickly brushed through some home life magazines, architectural instructions, and blueprints, and handled the rest himself.

  Connie was giddy with excitement as she approached Stitches’ front door. She’d been keeping the surprise a secret for so long it was becoming unbearable, but she knew the look on her Alternative friend’s face would make the wait more than worthwhile.

  Stitches and Constance had met in Tropica City, when Queen Azalea had followed her instincts and allowed Winston Reynolds to merge it with its grim Gloom equivalent, claiming that it was the will of Fate. When the dilapidated bare concrete towers of the Colonies had fused with Tropica’s beautiful skyscrapers, the buildings and streets had been filled with concerned citizens and frightened slave Alts. Azalea had taught Winston how to use his golden quill, a powerful ancient artefact that could manipulate the fabric of reality, to restore the city to its former splendour.

  Connie had been visiting Tropica’s capital city with her parents at the time, and together they watched real life magic unfolding before their very eyes. Azalea had already expertly unified the Supernatural and human inhabitants of her self-acquired Queendom while the War for Reality tore through the other two continents, but to see an entire city merge with another dimension and then repair itself had been an incredibly astonishing experience.

  Someone had timidly tapped Constance’s shoulder, causing her to break from her parent’s tight grip and see who had wanted her attention. A man-sized puppet made from light brown material had been standing close behind Connie and was pointing at the ground. It had been dressed in torn rags and held together with beige-coloured stitches, the same type that also made up the creature’s facial features (not counting its round glassy black eyes and its large, real-looking teeth). Everyone had been informed about the Alternatives prior to the merger, but the Lee family had instinctively taken a step backwards in fright.

  “Sorry miss, forgive my intrusion,” the Alt had whimpered, “but it seems as though you’ve dropped your book!”

  “M-my book?” Constance had stammered.

  She had looked down to see a faintly glowing tome sitting beside her feet. Without thinking twice, Constance had reached down and picked it up, and her mind had filled with dizzying flashes of barely comprehensible images, chief amongst them being a sphere of energy that blazed with more intensity than the sun. The nausea passed, and Constance had flicked through the book’s pages and watched in wonder as magical ink had swept across the old paper and filled them with arcane knowledge.

  “You… you’re a Book Wielder, miss,” the Alt had said, both awestruck and full of fright. “Just like the Winston!”

  Constance had said nothing in response, as she was too captivated by the mysterious book resting in the palm of her hands.

  “What’s your name, mister?” Connie’s dad Zheng had asked as confidently as he could muster.

  “I’m number six-zero-seven-nine,” the puppet had replied. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be speaking to you; please don’t tell the slavers!”

  “Slavers?!” Connie’s mum, Angitia, had gasped before engaging in a moment of matrimonial silent communication with her husband.

  Zheng had nodded and put his jacket around the scared slave Alt. “How would you like to stay with us for a bit, number six—”

  “How about we call you Stitches?” Constance had interrupted, finally looking up from her book.

  “Stitches?” the Alt had mumbled. “I like that… but the Commodore will never allow it!”

  “I don’t know who or what the Commodore is, but let’s get you out of here before he finds out,” Angitia had said cheekily.

  As the Lee family had walked towards their car, they noticed that other families were also sneaking shaken Alternatives out of the city. The disapproving citizens of Tropica didn’t have to worry for long though, as Azalea had been quick to free the slaves in her city, and offered them the same protection as her other human and Supernatural subjects. By the time Mydia had been restored and the Commodore’s forces had arrived in earnest, it had been too late for them to reclaim their biggest depository of forced labourers. With Winston and Azalea backing up the former slaves, not to mention Alice Eve’s Justiciars, the Commodore never stood a chance. After the dust had settled, the Slaver’s Basin in Northern Tropica had been renamed to Liberty Basin by its freed puppet inhabitants.

  Stitches had stayed with the Lee family until a few weeks after the planet’s restoration and defeat of the evil Archmage, when he had decided to join his fellow kind on the nearby Wastewater Isle, but during his stay with the humans he and Connie had become fond friends. Constance had pretended not to notice how sad the Alt was that she was leaving for Central Isle, as she had secretly been planning to take her fabric friend along with her.

  After her appointment had been made official Constance had written a letter to the Conclave requesting permission to bring Stitches with her, and she’d received a personal reply from Winston Reynolds himself saying that the Alternative was more than welcome to join her, and that he looked forward to meeting them both. Connie had been overjoyed; Stitches had always taken an avid interest in Book Wielders and she knew that he’d love it there. Her biggest problem had been keeping a lid on the good news, and keeping the likes of Ling and Lauren quiet too.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it, young miss? The serpent god of the tides must be sleeping soundly!” a voice called from the foul black water opposite the house.

  A shiver ran down Connie’s spine; the voice sounded distorted, and felt as though it had swept through her entire being. She turned to face the sea and gasped in shock. A human man wearing a steeped hat was rowing along merrily on a small wooden raft. For a split second she thought it was her father, and let out a quick sigh of relief when she saw that it wasn’t. The stranger did share a striking resemblance to her dad and the relatives on his side of the family, though.

  “Get out of here!” Connie called frantically. “The water’s not safe!”

  The man looked puzzled and scooped a handful of the corrupt liquid up in the palm of his hand. “Whatever do you mean, young miss? It’s crystal clear as always.”

  “Don’t touch it!” Constance yelled warningly. “It can change you—”

  Before the man could reply, a faint tremor stirred the ground beneath the Book Wielder’s feet and suddenly it felt as though the air was saturated with dense magic. The feeling was so overwhelming that Connie felt as though her body was being lifted by the raw power radiating from underneath her. She broke eye contact from the strange fisherman and studied her body, expecting to see herself shrouded with energy, but instead saw a rapid-fire series of strange mechanisms flickering across her eyes. A sphere of light called from somewhere far below, emanating an aura of distressed panic and loneliness. Connie could sense its fear and confusion slowly transforming into cold mechanical logic, and shuddered as the ethereal being tested its power. With a head-tilting jolt the feeling vanished, and Constance remembered she had to save the fisherman, but the man and his little raft were nowhere to be seen.

  Connie was shaken, but she pushed the strange encounter to the back of her mind, while trying not to focus on every creepy ghost story she’d ever heard. She turned back to face the building’s white front door and politely tapped, before letting herself in. The house was immaculately clean, which was an amazing feat in an area of Gloom exposure, and Constance wiped her feet thoroughly on the doormat before stepping onto the polished hardwood fl
ooring. The walls were painted a crisp cream colour and were tastefully decorated with an assortment of banners, including a beautifully detailed one that featured three black and white crows on a dark green background, decorated with white and lime coloured interlinked tribal patterns and thorns, but Connie was unsure of what gang or faction it belonged to. The main living room in Stitches’ house had the appearance of a fancy museum that’s focus revolved solely around humanity and Supernatural life, hosting glass-topped display cases featuring everything and anything from rare works of literature to common household items. Constance’s personal favourite was a charmingly retro valve radio from the Great War era.

  Connie made her way into the parlour which was Stitches ‘real’ living room, complete with a large leather sofa opposite a state-of-the-art flat screen television, a pool table, an old vinyl turntable, a modern CD stereo system, several bookshelves packed with books and magazines, and a coffee table surrounded by comfortable blue and white armchairs. The large room was also home to a desk enclosed by all manner of half completed craft projects, and Stitches was sitting there on an antique wooden chair looking through a series of magnifying glasses while carefully tinkering with something small.

  The Alternative had modified himself to appear more human since the Lee’s had taken him in, and now the light brown puppet sported a thick wig of chin-length black hair, which he kept tucked behind the fabric ears he’d made and stitched on himself. He also had a short material nose, and a pair of thin lips made from tight rows of thick brown thread. His eyes were still shiny black spheres, but he often wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles with tinted lenses over them to draw attention away from his inhuman gaze. He was wearing a smart dark brown suit, and at a glance the Alt could’ve easily passed as a human business man, but he had chosen to wear a silly orange tie featuring a goofy cartoon rendition of the Autumn Aardvark feasting on a pile of chocolate acorns.

  “Connie, I’m so glad you came,” Stitches said happily, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on his task. “I’ll be with you in just one second…”

  Constance smirked. “What are you working on now?”

  “A pocket watch,” the Alternative said as he delicately tended to his creation. “I wanted a watch like yours, but thought, ‘hey, why not make one from scratch?’”

  “Because it’s easier to buy one?” Connie chuckled.

  Stitches laughed softly so as not to disturb the tiny gear held in-between his tweezers. “I did think that, but after I visited the charming Watchmaker’s shop in Fusiara high street and seeing her work, I couldn’t resist trying for myself.”

  “Well, I don’t want to hurry you, but we don’t have long until we leave,” Connie teased.

  “Oh, are we going out before you depart?” Stitches asked, increasing his working pace. “Maybe we could go to that little café on Tiancien Isle that overlooks the coral reefs? I could murder one of those giant chocolate sundaes!”

  “No,” Connie giggled as she pulled Winston’s letter out of her handbag. “You’re coming with me.”

  “For real?!” Stitches gasped.

  His fabric hands moved like lightning as they completed the small bronze pocket watch, and he gave the device a short zap of green Gloom magic before pocketing it in his suit jacket. Stitches took the letter from Constance’s hand and read it in a flash. A wide smile grew on his face and spread until it almost encompassed his entire head, and then he hugged the Book Wielder so hard she had to fight for air.

  “You’re… welcome….” Constance wheezed.

  Stitches bounced around the room and ceiling, defying gravity as he thanked her, and Connie saw the Alternative side of her friend in his strange otherworldly movements and mannerisms.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he cheered.

  “You better get packing, we’ve got to get to the ferry!” she yelled above the constant stream of gratitude.

  Stitches calmed himself and handed back the letter from Winston, adjusting his jacket and removing his comical tie. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” he said, ashamed.

  “Don’t mention it,” Constance said kindly. “People… humans aren’t always uptight, you know.”

  Stitches grumbled as he fished a neat black tie out of his desk drawer. “Yes, but you’re not… that different.”

  “You are what you are, Stitches,” Connie shrugged. “If people don’t like it then fuck them.”

  “Thank you for your kindness, as always,” the Alternative replied warmly. “I can’t wait to see Central Isle, and all those fascinating Book Wielders, and to meet the Winston!”

  “You’re welcome, as always,” Constance replied jovially while looking at her watch, “but we are going to have to get going soon-ish.”

  “Right, right,” the Alt said, prepping his mental packing list. “If we’re against the clock, so to speak, then why did you arrive so late? Wait—did you leave your tasks ‘til the last minute again?”

  “Erm… maybe,” Connie hesitated. “That’s not important now. Let me help you pack!” she volunteered cheerfully.

  The Alt raised one of his stitched eyebrows critically and went to reply, but Constance had already run upstairs to make a start on his suits. Stitches sighed and looked around at the parlour as he wondered how many of his possessions they could possibly carry in one trip.

  “I’ll send for the rest,” he thought out loud as he gazed wistfully at his belongings.

  A short while later, they left Stitches’ house with two briefcases of clothes, and two cases of books and knickknacks that the Alternative couldn’t bear to leave behind, even if it was only until he could arrange for more of his possessions to be brought to Central Isle. Constance avoided looking at the ocean in case the mysterious fisherman had returned

  The Conclave would home them both within the massive amphitheatre at the heart of Central Isle, or one of the nearby facilities, but neither Stitches nor Connie intended to leave their homes in the Archipelago on a truly permanent basis. Luckily for Stitches, the other Alts viewed his house with the same disdain as a human would view one of their dank domiciles, and he knew that no one would set foot within its crisp, clean walls while he was gone.

  Stitches caught Connie looking at her watch nervously. “You know, I’ve got a better way to get back to your house than the bus.”

  “Really?” Constance asked eagerly.

  The Alt nodded. “Follow me into town.”

  Connie was led through dark streets that were painted green by the sickly glow of witchlight streetlamps, towards a wonky grey house and garage at the end of a rundown cul-de-sac. Constance struggled to bat away the swarms of translucent green, violet, and blue Blightmoths that fluttered beneath the bent dark iron streetlamps, as both her hands were holding Stitches’ luggage, and was forced to blow them away with angry puffs of breath. She knew a spell or two that could fry the pesky bugs in an instant, but she couldn’t bring herself to kill the creatures, no matter how irritating they were being.

  A pair of vicious four-eyed dogs sat on the house’s porch steps, glaring hungrily with their deformed orange irises, and they bared their yellow and brown fangs as they growled at Stitches and Constance. Their fur was a dull shade of yellow with black stripes like an industrial warning sign, or a wasp.

  Connie stopped in her tracks and remembered just how quickly the areas subjected to Gloom exposure could become extremely dangerous. She was used to going straight to Stitches house, a journey that kept her on the beaten path and relatively safe in comparison to the dead end they had arrived at.

  Stitches soldiered on fearlessly and yelled at the house, “Baz, are you in? It’s Stitches and I need a favour!”

  “Wait a min, I be right out!” a gruff voice shouted back.

  Without warning, a filthy grey Alternative clambered out of a large crack in the tiled roof and scuttled down the front of his house like a four-legged spider.

  “Good to see you, Baz,” Stitches began.

  “
What you want?” he grunted unkindly, and clattered his big metal teeth in Connie’s direction.

  Connie scowled, placed the suitcases on the floor and clicked her fingers several times, creating intense yellow sparks of magical fire as she did.

  Stitches put himself between Constance and Baz, before reaching into his suit jacket’s inner pocket and pulling out a handful of boiled sweets. The grey Alternative instantly relaxed and stared longingly at the candy with its round black eyes.

  “We need to borrow the car,” Stitches explained, waving the sweets in front of Baz’s dirty fabric face. “It won’t be for long.”

  Baz nodded eagerly and held his hands open pleadingly.

  Stitches placed the sweets in his grubby palms and the grey Alt began tearing into their wrappers with his big fake teeth, though he soon gave up and started devouring them regardless of their plastic packaging.

  Stitches watched his fellow Alt disapprovingly before walking off towards the poor excuse of a garage. Connie stayed hot on his heels, as the two hounds on the porch were still looking at her like she was a walking can of dog food.