by Lee Isserow
“Good work,” Faith grunted, with a pat on the back that was very unlike him.
“Are you attempting to cajole camaraderie?” Shana found herself asking, as her eyes flicked over to his open palm.
He nodded, with a grimace on his brow.
“It is not necessary. Not only am I already in your team, but I am also enthused to be doing work for the Circle. . . However, there are others that could perhaps be reminded that teamwork does not pursue the desires of any one individual. . .” her eyes meandered over to Raven as she rejoined them.
“Are we getting a commendation?” Raven asked, with a sly smile. “Fifth one since the Atlantic, barely a mundy scraped in the process. Make a good team, don't we?” she shot an elbow into Shana's ribs, which was not appreciated.
“No commendation,” Faith sighed, “just congratulations on a job well done.” He patted her on the back, and she raised an eyebrow at the gesture.
“Right. . . So, goin' underground?“
Faith nodded. The call had already gone out. the Circle was convening, and one by one his operatives and operators left their stations to descend into the bowels of the earth to participate in the grand ritual to un-write the happenings in Nebraska.
Every memory was removed, every second of footage filmed on a phone was deleted, every news story reported was blinked out of existence. As far as the mundane world knew, at no point did a man step upon a ferris wheel, and proceed to command it to walk through the streets.
As much as he tried to keep his feelings to himself whilst connected to every magickian involved in the ritual, each of them could feel how perturbed he was at five of their number having been so very damaged by their deaths and rebirths.
He lobbied the group to act on behalf of the greater good, to seek out the damaged individuals that were amongst them and heal their psychic wounds. The murmurs rippled back and forth amongst those assembled, some stood by his side, rallied to his cause, but many did not. It would involve entering the minds of their fellow operatives, changing who they were as people. Some had been returned to life and did not react as destructively as those that were now in counselling. Some had actually become better people from being brought to the brink of oblivion and returned anew, reborn with a greater understanding of just how precious life was.
The Circle could not come to an agreement on what was to be done regarding these individuals, and thus nothing was to be done, not magickally at least. Faith resolved that they would continue to be kept from active duty, given more extensive counselling. . . Which was exactly what had been happening thus far.
He took a breath, and was certain to block the rest of his feelings from those assembled. He couldn't help wonder how many others were scarred by their deaths and rebirths―not just those at the Atlantic, but all those over the years. That didn't even begin to touch upon all those that were traumatised by having seen an Old One in the flesh. . . The mere notion of the ancient creatures, let alone hearing them, or laying eyes upon them was enough to drive a mundane individual mad, and he couldn't help fear that the incursion sowed the seeds for instability in those that worked for him.
Standard operating procedure at the Circle had been to remove all memories of death and rebirth from mundanes. And yet that same procedure had not been put into action with magickians. He thought about proposing it, as an amendment to the way they operated―not then and there, but in the future. There was no reason not to have the same policy for operatives as for average men and women, no reason but the often present hubris that magickians had over mundanes.
The five traumatised individuals proved that it was a serious concern. . . but it was not something that would be easy to convince the others of, even him attempting to broach helping those that fell at the Atlantic was responded to with hostility. . . He would have to come at it from a different angle, and that was certainly not whilst the Circle was already in session. There were too many emotions there, and opinion was too divided on the issue of how to help those that died facing the Lurker at the Gates.
As the ritual ended, and he returned to his office, once again doubt clouded Isaiah Faith's mind. He had felt it before, the fear that he had not―and would never have―the same degree of control over his agents that Comstock and his predecessors had. And although they most certainly respected him for passing operational control to Tali and joining them on the front lines, he needed to prove himself as a leader. . . and as much as he had taken steps to amass power, working off the Circle's books to prevent another incursion―and be prepared for it should those steps fail and one occur―even that would not be enough to cease the doubt that sat in the minds of those he commanded.
A new normal would have to be instilled, one in which the status quo could change for him to be more respected, to the point that those in the ritual had no choice but to concur with him. But for that to happen, there would have to be another crisis that threatened the world at large. . . One that he and he alone would be responsible for averting. And if that would so happen to occur, maybe then, he hoped, he would finally have the respect garnered by those that came before him.
4
Seeds of their own destruction
HAMBURG, GERMANY
Clouds began to coalesce in the night's sky over the mouth of the River Elbe. The water began to take on a darker shade as something slicked through it, a flurry of movement at its rear as it propelled itself through the murky waters, just under the surface. The tide licked up against slim rocky beaches on either side, and the creature dropped to the depths of the river bed as it passed a lighthouse at Brunsbüttel, the beam casually skirting over the water would have been sure to spot it, if it remained just under the surface―and it could not risk being seen, not yet, not until the time was right.
It felt movement ahead, some fifty or hundred metres, not that it understood such measurements. Choosing such a place to come to land would violate the one objective that lay in its mind, to remain undetected. It slowed its movement, continuing towards the port, keeping its eyes out for a more suitable place to come to land. The width of the river shrunk the closer it got to the port, and it passed between two slim islands, that gave way to more islands as the port of Hamburg got ever closer.
The vibrations through the air were now a constant hum, the port was an obvious hub of activity, with massive man-made nautical behemoths being loaded and unloaded, artificial beasts of burden commanded by weak and frail meat.
It came to a sudden stop, turned to the left and saw its chance, an old, rusting ladder attached to a wall, a gift the world of man had bestowed upon it, an unobserved gateway into their domain. As the first drops of a heavy rain began to fall, its tentacles shot out of the water and wrapped around the rough texture of the metal. The muscle mass across its entire body shifted, pumping towards the arms that held the ladder, and it hoisted itself out of the river. Its body flipped through the air in a single, graceful movement, rear tentacles grabbing on to the ladder's peak, strength shifting once again, as it pulled itself to the cobbled walkway above.
It turned and looked out upon the water, its home, where it was born, where it hoped to return upon its death. There was a sadness it felt, only momentarily. The individuality was not to survive for long, as it had not yet taken a breath. As it did so, it was forced to sacrifice its own thoughts and feelings to delve into the minds of its kin. Another had come upon the land, learned to breathe, then to walk―and so it too knew these things, and took a great breath through many mouths, discovering that it did not have to battle the light-headedness of its predecessors that had come to the world of man.
Its eyes refocussed from the water to the opposite river bank, where a series of old, rusting cranes that sat, seemingly abandoned. Dead and desolate relics that looked to it as though they were entirely preserved skeletons, bones of some gargantuan ancestor of itself. It could not comprehend how they walked or swam, for they had neither legs nor tentacles, just long beaks that stood out, erect. It felt scorn,
or perhaps hate, at the thought of man parading its fallen kin, leaving them as monuments to those that had come before them, those that they had conquered.
This resolve rippled through to its brethren, and they too found themselves hating man all the more. This was a worthy action, they agreed, to take back what had been taken from those that came before them. Man was a selfish and cruel species, and their time would most certainly come to an end.
Its eyes darted to great plumes of white smoke that were being belched up into the sky above, that at some point melded with the clouds, and it wondered if that was how clouds were made. If it was a place in which portents of its arrival were manufactured. It could not comprehend such a thing, not truly, and its master's voice massaged through the back of its mind, correcting the thought. It explained, without words, that the thing it was looking at was not the creator of portents, but rather an example of the world of man polluting its own atmosphere, waging war on the very planet that they resided upon. A hypocrisy of the utmost level, and yet another reason for the collective to be a united front against those that lived in the world above.
Its resolve now cemented, and a reminder of its directive whispered through its thoughts, the creature turned from the water and looked upon the street it had been stood upon. The cobbles were awkward to step on, its flesh seeping into the cracks between them. It flexed the legs it walked with, and made its way towards a sewer grate. It used the rain to lubricate the entry, and shifted its mass around, slipping and sliding until it could force its way into the slim entry to the tunnels under the ground.
As it landed upon the stone floor, it felt as though this place had been made specifically for its kind, specifically for it. There was a shallow current of water that ran through the tunnels, which would keep it moist and its skin pliable, and it seemed as though it were rarely visited by those that lived above. In the most simple of fashions, it mused that they had constructed the very method of concealing it―not only there, but around the world―and their own hubris, the pride at their own creations, would be the seeds of their own destruction.
5
All they could do was pray
LONDON, ENGLAND
“Do. . . you want to talk about it?” Tali asked.
Shana knew this was coming. Ever since the operation had come to an end, there was a creeping regret in her bones at having kept the channel open whilst she told Darius about her near-death experience. But at the time it had never occurred to her that allowing Tali to hear her story would have repercussions. She was solely focussed on helping her colleague come to terms with what had befallen him―but now she and Tali were alone and in bed, there was no escape from the conversation. All she could do was try to divert from the subject.
“Not much to talk about. . .”
“You died. . . That seems like it's something to talk about.”
“It is not, not truly. It was the most mundane of events.”
“Your death?!”
“The events surrounding it. . . It was. . . My father was driving. . . I was young, maybe eight or nine. . . I do not recall it as well as I implied to Darius.”
“But how. . .?”
“It was a drunk, a driver veering from the other side of the road. . . He hit us. . . There was little pain, lasting only for mere moments, and then I was in its embrace.” Shana sniffed with the words. She remembered more than she was able to tell Tali, but even saying that much filled her eyes with tears.
Tali held her close. “It must have been awful, to be pulled from such a beautiful thing. . .”
Shana nodded. “It was. . . devastating.” The lump in her throat forbade any further words from escaping, and she was glad for it. If it had not barred her from speaking, there was the chance she would say more of what had occurred in the aftermath. When the reality of how cruel the Natural World can be set in, and she did all she could to return, and wore those scars to that day, hidden with glamours, from even Tali.
She swallowed hard, and nuzzled into Tali's embrace. It was an adequate simulacrum of the warmth of the embrace she felt in the beyond. Not perfect by any stretch, but it would do for the interim. She had accepted that she must live her life to the best it could be if she was ever worthy to return to that place. And when it came down to it, to love and be loved in return felt as though it was a miracle in and of itself, a part of that agreement with herself, to strive to be the best 'her' she could be. Tali certainly made her feel like a better version of herself.
“Raven,” she croaked, trying to change the subject. “I am worried for her. . . The state of mind that she has since her return to service is not. . . healthy. . . “
“We've got people keeping an eye on her, you don't have to worry.”
“But I do worry. . . She is far to ready to resort to violence when there is no need for violence. . . Are they certain that she is of sound mind?”
“To be honest, that's how Raven always was. . . gung-ho to the Nth degree. . . that's Raven in a nutshell. . . Nothing to worry about.”
Tali hugged her closer, as if to reassure without words that she had no reason to fear for Raven's mindset. And yet she did worry, and not just about Raven. . .
“Do. . . do you think we were successful. . . I am perturbed that we have not heard from Shaman. . .”
“We did what we could to bring him back. . .”
“But his demise was months ago, and yet there has been no sign of him. . .”
“You felt the same thing I did when we were part of the ritual. . . he wasn't here when we acted. . . he'd have been reborn on the other side, there's no way to know if he can survive in the abyss. . . What I saw of it was a nightmare, no air, no life. . . it's a place of monsters. . . There's every chance that our efforts to bring him back just condemned him to another death. . . Maybe now, he's in the light's embrace too. . .”
Shana's tears finally fell, not for herself, but for Shaman. She desperately hoped that his fate was not so cruel as to die to live just to die again. There was no telling whether the light could reach through the veil to the Outer Realms. All they could do was hope. . . And she felt that same hope radiating out of Tali's aura too. If they remembered him, thought of him, said his name, then there was a chance he could survive. . . There were so many tales that such actions bestowed gods with power, that increased their strength. . . and given what they both knew he had inside him, all they could do was pray that it might work for him too.
6
Remembered
Shaman was remembered.
He was thought of.
He was prayed for.
Tears shed in the desperate hope of his survival on the other side of the veil. And he felt every one of those thoughts, those prayers, those tears.
Much time had passed since he was reborn anew and shed his earthly form. Countless years, decades, millennia, and he had grown weak. He had attempted to conserve energy, using a single tentacle-thrash to propel him, for years at a time.
There were vast distances to traverse in the Outer Realms, and it was proving rare to come across another of his kin without intentionally travelling to where they sojourned. And time itself, he realised, did not pass in this reality as it did in the Natural World. He had spent his first centuries in this place turning back on himself and burrowing through the body of Yog Sothoth, hoping and praying with every passing moment that there was still a gateway buried deep in the ancient creature's body, that it was still operating. All he found were guts. At one point, he thought he saw the mere glimmer of a doorway between the realms, but it was so small, a single pinprick of light, and he dare not attempt to traverse it. To squeeze through such a slim opening would surely tear him apart, leave him useless on the other side, simply to die all over again.
He had considered praying to the ancient Old One, to will its recovery in the hopes that the gateway would grow in size as a result―but he could not allow himself to do such a thing. To give the god strength might encourage it to attempt another incu
rsion―and if that were not enough of a caveat, there was the more pressing concern that if he was to return, it would have to be in one piece. He could not allow himself to be weakened as so many of his ancestors had been by their crossing through the gateway that opened within that great beast.
But now that he was thought of and prayed for by those that anchored him to the Natural World, he felt reinvigorated, and despite his entire body still aching from exhaustion, he pushed himself onwards, whipping all of his tentacles behind him to thrust himself forward through the abyss. He had visited several creatures that purported to be capable of traversing the veil, and all of them had proven themselves as frauds. Yet there were still some he had not engaged with, and with this new burst of energy, he pushed himself to search for them in the hope that one retained the knowledge he sought, and could finally reunite him with the realm he had vowed to protect.
7
Stained red
NEW YORK, UNITED STATES
With so many of its children having taken their first steps into the world of man, and a complete lack of interference thus far, the master of the tenticular beasts was spurred on to be bolder with placing troops above the water and around the globe.
If there had been a discovery of one of them by the mundane populace, or any kind of retaliation from the Circle, it might have caused concern or a change of plans. But it appeared that no such event was forthcoming, and so emboldened, the first creatures made their way from the Lower Bay into the Hudson river. Thick clouds followed their path, as eight of them swam gracefully through the waters. The clouds split as two splintered off for Staten Island and New Jersey, and again as another made its way towards Brooklyn. Three headed down the East River, where the clouds split again over Queens, Long Island and New Haven, and a final two continued down the Hudson to Manhattan and Jersey City.