A Hero in the Dark: 2nd Edition

Chapter 72: Patience Creek

~ Number Four's POV ~

I almost manage to spin around in time before three tendrils of black sludge lance towards me, the tip of each one sharpened like a drill bit. One pierces the back of my shoulder, the other shoots through my hip, and the third penetrates my armpit as I raise my hand to defend myself. I cry out as my knees hit the floor.

God, how long has it been since I ran off on my own? How long has it been since I left the conference room? What was I thinking?! And for the second time today, I wonder if this is what Em and Setrákus had planned. After their broadcast, did they mean to ambush us? Have they known all along? Why wouldn't Em tell me? Why didn't she warn me...

It's like being stabbed by something living, something that burrows. These tendrils dig deeper into me. My healing Legacy kicks in instinctually, tries to fight it off, but when it does, an acidic burning washes over my every nerve. I scream and fall to my side.

"We did make him," says a cheery female voice. "But we didn't have to try very hard." I recognize her from the others' stories and that Mog communicator. Phiri Dun-Ra.

I twist around in the grass to get a look at her. Her entire left arm is missing, replaced by a writhing mass of his ooze; it's thick and oily, shaped like a dead tree. The tendrils spearing me... they emanate right from her. I try to pry them out, but the ooze hardens at my touch, becomes razor sharp, and I only succeed in cutting my palms.

Finally, I try to shove her away with my telekinesis. It doesn't work.

Nothing works.

I wriggle at her feet, sparks of Loric energy pouring out of me, travelling up my connection to her, and finding residence inside her arm. Her eyes roll back in her head for a moment, then she holds out her normal arm.

Her hand, it glows. A ball of fire rises from the centre, the flames tinged with purple. "Oh, this is nice, John Smith," she says. "I could get used to it."

Mogs begin to emerge from the trees. I don't know how I missed them. A dozen, at least. But then I see one swooping out of a shadow—literally floating from where there was nothing before—and I realize they're flying in somehow.

Setrákus Ra—he succeeded. Some of these Mogs, like Phiri Dun-Ra, have Legacies. No—I won't call them that. They're sick.

What word did Adam use? "Augmentations." That's what these twisted powers are.

An older trueborn, bald and impossibly thin, comes to stand by Phiri Dun-Ra. His eyes are completely glazed black. He ignores me, staring instead at Mark. I still can't believe he's here. The Thin Mog curls a finger in Mark's direction, and I'm vaguely aware of a sound like locusts moving through leaves.

Mark's oozy skin moves, and he's forced into motion. He stumbles down the steps of Patience Creek, his hands pulling out something from inside his coat, each movement looking painfully forced.

"We heard stories about these Inheritances you Loric received from your dead parents or whoever," Phiri Dun-Ra says conversationally, smiling. "Little keepsakes from your dead planet. Here's a secret, John: Beloved Leader kept some things too. Mementos. Trophies to help him remember his first great conquest."

Mark holds in his hands something that looks like a rope, except it's a deep purple in colour, glistening. I recognize it—of course I do. It's not found on this world, but rather, from a vision of the past. It's the noose that Pittacus Lore used on Setrákus Ra. It's the one that gave him his scar. I remember, in Emily's vision, the material is called Voron. It used to only grow on Lorien, and my Legacy won't heal its wounds.