My eyes turn fiery. 

With a wave of my hand, the vermillion copepods rush up the walls and creep over the sable to take point. From my past experiences, I presume the vermillion will have little effect, but Mithridates should not know that. 

Noticing the vivid vermillion wave, Mithridates freezes in place. 

Due to my hoary eyes, the harsh color contrasts make details challenging to discern from a distance, but I can make out some things. From his back sprouts a pair of insect-like appendages that slink over each shoulder. His inky form seems to constantly be shifting shape, just barely maintaining a person-like outline. He appears to wield what resembles a crossbow, except a square block is fastened to its stock, and a lever juts from the back. 

This is all I can comprehend before his two brownish-yellow eyes shift to a gray. 

Brandishing his crossbow, he begins running backward. At the same time, I place a hand over the cage, veiling my kiln’s violet flame further than it already is. 

He pumps the lever, causing the square block to slide up, out, and then back to its original position. [1]

I glimpse a yellow streak of color as a dart hums through my left calf. ‘Thou hast made thy first mistake.’ My palm is scraped away as I thrust my hand against the ceiling and issue a command to the hoary copepods. ‘Climb atop thy vermillion brethren, and spread along the ground! Our target shall be his left leg!’

Another streak of yellow passes through my calf as dozens of copepods skitter up my back and arm.

Mithridates tugs something on the crossbow and takes aim. A yellowy flash accompanies eight streaks of light. Each streak strikes and buries itself in the walls around him. Mithridates turns to retreat, leaving behind the sound of cracking bones.

Enormous fly legs sprout from whence the darts struck. Dozens of carapace swords cut and slice at the empty air, daring me to advance. ‘Curses!’

The copepods are too simple to pursue Mithridates without me, so I hold the line and command a group of hoary copepods to merge with the base of the fly legs. 

Watching the root of the legs wither, we push forth.

As our front line nears, the legs swing, creak, and then snap, casting themselves in every direction under their own momentum. Exerting my will upon cattail’s cords, I force them to rewind and seize one of the twitching legs for my own purposes. 

We renew our pursuit as Summer’s voice crackles over the device. “Fairy and target have separated. Target is moving down West 46th Street, heading East toward Times Square. Fairy, you’ll need to take a right and then left to resume the pursuit.” 

As she says, I take a right, finding a tunnel filled with smoldering ash and the charred remains of flies that are as big as hounds.

Summer’s voice continues, “Be advised, Times Square is where Lorcan, Norman, and Dylan entered and are still located. They wish to engage at first sight of the target. Beep once if acceptable, twice if not, three for assistance at your location instead.”

I press once. 

“Gotcha, then stay out of the tunnel, or you might take a stray bullet,” she replies.

Stopping at the end of the tunnel that leads to the place ‘Times Square,’ I take the enormous fly leg I snagged earlier and thrust the end of the glass skewer into its broken trunk. A green mash oozes out of the leg as I hear the blast of firearms from the end of the tunnel.

Bullets hit the wall, and bits of stone skip about while I attempt to concentrate.

Placing my hand above the fly leg, I recall the piece of starfish glass I gave Leo several weeks ago. Slivers of haze slip from my sumpter and invade the leg’s interior. With a snap, six skewers set in a circle rupture from the walls of the leg’s carapace.

I raise the leg and give it a few swings. It’s the worst sword I have ever held, but I have only ever held one other blade; therefore, I have an open mind.

The sound of gunfire recedes, echoing far down the tunnels, and then Summer’s voice comes through the device. “Fairy, Lorcan says he’s in a tight spot, and he’s requesting your assistance—immediately. Please be aware the target is still there.”

With the vermillion and their twelve hoary riders taking the front, we round the corner and recommence our charge. I press the red circle once to inform them I am advancing. 

Nearing the area, I hear Lorcan yelling, so I squat and block my kiln with the fly-leg sword in case of a sneak attack.

There’s a cough. “Norman… Norman, can you hear me?” I hear someone say in a weak, muffled voice. 

I look over, discovering a man I met at the meeting, Dylan. He wears the attire of a firefighter, but they have been stained in blood. In his abdomen is a fly leg that has torn all the way through him.

Overcome with frustration, the man kicks his legs and curses. “Normmmaaan!” he screams with one mighty breath, sending his voice echoing to every corner of the tunnels. Blood spurts from his mouth. Slapping his hand over his mouth, he attempts to stop the spigot of blood. 

Though I hesitate to confess it, my hoary form makes it difficult for me to feel sympathy as the presence of the living causes my kiln to hurt. ‘It sounded as if a fierce hail of bullets was discharged. This tunnel is not wide, so I cannot understand how Mithridates made it through such a volley.’ I exert my will and suppress the hoary’s numbing. ‘...I am sorry this happened to thee, Dylan.’

Blood seeping between his fingers, Dylan looks over and examines me while battling to keep his eyes open. “Pale as the angel of death, hair so long it drags on the floor, and you ride around with an entourage of phantom bugs. ...Are you the Fairy?”

A drop of red passes in front of my eyes, causing me to turn my head upward. There I find the other man, Norman. Like Dylan, a fly leg has run through his abdomen, except instead of the wall, he is pinned to the ceiling. My eyes drift to his chest, where a fat dart is planted.

“That… that thing shot him with that screwed-up crossbow.” Dylan takes a shallow breath and asks, “Is Norman really dead?”

Pointing at a hoary copepod, I command it to blend into the dart before it transforms into a fly, as I have seen them do in the past. As the hoary copepod scrambles up the wall, Norman’s firefighter attire slackens, and muffled buzzing arises from within. A pair of wings sprout from the dart, but the hoary reaches it first.

The dart withers and Norman’s clothing distends downward. ‘Good lord!’ I hurry out of the way as a stew of dead flies and red slop pour from the suit’s neckline. ‘Thou foredoomed man, forgive me! I… I shall do my best to avenge thee as well!’

“My fuckin’ god! N-Norman!” Dylan heaves, shouts, and then grabs his belly. 

I reach out and allow a hoary copepod to mix into the fly leg that pins Dylan. 

The leg splits, and Dylan barely manages to catch himself. “Listen!” Dylan points at the ground, where there is a trail of little green droplets. “I think Norman might have wounded the target, but then something hit me, and I-I blanked. So, I don’t know what happened, just watch your back and go help the lieutenant kill that freak!” he cries, striving to keep the fly leg in his belly from moving.

Nodding, I heed the man’s wishes, depart, and follow the green droplets that are presumably from the injured Mithridates.

A few hundred feet later, the droplets fade to nothingness as soon as I enter a cylindrical room. Here, I witness the peculiar scene of Lorcan brandishing Proximo’s pickaxe in one hand and a pistol in the other, both pointed at the wall.  

He notices me, spins around, and points the pistol at me. “...Fairy, did you change clothes? And god, how many of those rollie pollies did you pick up on the way here?” he mutters under his mask. Then, lowering his pistol, he resumes eyeing the area. “Be mindful. There’s something here, but I… I can’t see it.”

I nod and join his search.

The room is a fork that has a higher ceiling than is typical, at least nine feet, with a rounded floor and ceiling. Along the walls are pipes of various sizes and alternating heights. The pipes suggest that water would ordinarily coalesce in this room and then flow down whichever one of the three forks runs downhill. However, carpets of algae, insect carcasses, and heaps of rubbish have plugged all of these pipes. Now there are naught but sluggish trickles of water that cling to the walls.

Everything I see here lacks color through my hoary eyes, save for one pipe at the very top that drips putrid, yellow droplets. ‘Have we returned to Mithridates Domain...?’ I shake my head and then gesture at our empty surroundings. ‘Either way, those pipes are inaccessible, and I see no sign of any spiritual presence.’

As if he understands, he snaps back with a harsh whisper, “I know it’s fuckin’ here. I… I saw, like, a rod hovering in the air with yellow fire around it. It was, I don’t know, one of those batons a cowboy puts in a campfire and then uses on their cattle in old movies.” 

‘Cow-boy?’ My head tilts. ‘Doth thou mean a boy cow, as in a young bull?’

“Listen. I might be talking to a mute, cloud fairy or whatever right now, but I know I’m sane.” He steps to the side and nods his head at the floor where a firearm lies engulfed in brownish-yellow fire. “Cause it melted my rifle!”

Behind Lorcan, a man in brilliant robes flickers into being. A golden branding iron bearing the symbol “𐏋” slides from his sleeve and into his fingers. [2] 

The brand erupts in jaundiced flames—this is an Interface, wielding a Kiln’s fire.

I flinch, point, and race toward Lorcan all at the same time. 

Lorcan whirls around, and an ear-splitting bang reverberates. A bullet strikes the wall behind the man, causing no harm to him whatsoever.

With a rude, deep laugh, the Interface stabs at Lorcan’s pistol, setting it aflame.

“H-hot!” Lorcan yells, flinging his pistol to the ground.

Atop my copepod, I join Lorcan’s side. Wielding my weapon like a lance, I thrust it toward the Interface’s lifeless eyes.

The Interface parries my lance with the brand iron, driving me to strike the ground at his feet.

A dart clips my face and sinks into the stone behind me—the rock ruptures as a fly leg slices at Lorcan’s throat.

Lorcan counters, swinging the pickaxe with all his strength. Proximo’s pickaxe proves mightier as the leg is sent skipping into the dark. 

At the same time, Mithridates’s Interface steps to Lorcan’s side and jabs the fiery brand at Lorcan’s breathing mask. 

My cattail creates a whistle as it catches the golden branding iron. I reach out, seize the Interface by the face, and order hoary copepods to spill over him. 

The effect is tiny as he raises the brand and severs my arm.

Seeing this, Lorcan recoils. “F-fuck you, invisible ghost bitch!” The pickaxe’s point accompanies Lorcan’s yell. The tip buries itself in the Interface’s temple and rends their scalp into bits with a hiss. His mouth opens, and his eyes widen. “I hit something! No way, the pickaxe, it’s badass!” 

I slowly nod. Afraid to move, my eyes move up and down the eerily frozen Interface, watching for the most subtle of movements. 

He is clothed in exotic, multicolored robes belted together by a cummerbund. [3] Unlike Earl, he has faded pupils and irises that are rust-color but also glassed over as if he is blind. His long beard is braided and his mustache sharp, a fop of an Interface.

Unable to see, Lorcan scoffs. “Wasn’t so bad.” He wriggles the pickaxe buried in the Interface’s shattered noggin before tearing it from their skull. Glancing at my restored arm, he raises an eyebrow. “No offense, Fairy, but damn, you’re weird sometimes.”

A deluge of dull red blood belatedly gushes from the Interface’s scalp. 

“B-blood! From where!?” Lorcan recoils as the blood smothers the Interface and unveils their appearance to him. “It’s just some guy in a costume!?”

I glance at the flame and then the bloody pool around his feet. ‘Blood. If it’s like Earl—’ 

My thought is cut short when a smile slithers across the Interface’s bloodied face.

The Interface’s thin smile stretches until it is unnaturally huge. As if agreeing with me, he nods, flicks his wrist, and starts drawing the blazing branding iron closer to his own blood-soaked robes.

My fists clench as I double the cattail’s efforts to resist his tug, only for the brand to inch further away. 

Blood still pouring from his shivered skull, he shakes with laughter. “Recommendation:...” he states, finally exposing rows of rotten teeth. “Run.”

At the last second, Lorcan notices something is amiss yet brandishes his pickaxe too late.

The brand touches the Interface’s bloody garments, and they ignite; he swings at Lorcan, sending him toppling backward. 

My cattail releases, and I command the hoary copepods to attack their ankles. When the copepods meet the flame, they sizzle. 

Engulfed in the yellow fire, the Interface increases in height until he is as tall as the room in which we stand. His chest grows broader, his arms bigger, and the branding iron bubbles melting into a blazing staff. The fire reaches their feet, and the Interface dips their staff in the fiery blood at its feet. Hitting the staff against the stone, the blood spurts outward and begins to encircle his position.

I order the copepods to retreat quicker and the vermillion copepods to intercept the blinding flames before they encircle us as well. The vermillion copepods cast themselves into the fire’s edge, barely slowing it down but gracing us with the few seconds we required to move outside the ring. 

Summer’s voice echoes, “Fairy, be advised, Mithridates is fleeing south. We’ve noticed you aren’t movin—”

The Interface frowns. He drives the end of the staff into blood, sending forth a wall of flame. I command my steed and avoid the wall with only a hairsbreadth to spare.

None the wiser, Summer’s words continue, “—s everything okay down there?”

Ignoring her, I glance behind me to discover that the fire has engulfed one of three tunnels I could use to escape. With one of the other three being on the opposite side of the room, I truly only have one passage of retreat left to me. I order all but a handful of copepods to flee.

Through the flames, I glimpse Lorcan’s figure sprinting toward the Interface. He pierces the Interface’s calf. The Interface wails as he stumbles forward.

“Go!” Lorcan shouts, ripping the pickaxe from the Interface’s flesh.

I look toward the fire and Lorcan’s miserable situation; I waver.

The flames rise higher as the blood mixes with the fire, and at the same time, the Interface thrusts their staff at Lorcan. His chest is struck by the staff, sending him sliding to the edge of the encircling fire.

Lorcan leaps to his feet and casts the smoldering remains of the firefighter’s coat to the ground. “I’m stuck, but if the other thing dies, this nightmare ends, right!?” 

Hearing Lorcan’s words, the Interface moves straight into his next attack; I point at the ceiling and command a dozen sable copepods to distract him. 

The Interface flings blood onto the ceiling and sets it aflame with a mocking laugh.

As the copepods dissolve, Lorcan removes something from his belt and presses it—a red light starts to flash. “Fairy, goddammit, hurry!”

I nod and retreat into the single tunnel of escape. There’s a flash as the Interface sends another wall of fire toward me. The fire grows blinding as I veer into a bend. Hitting the wall, the flame engulfs the passage behind me. 

I order what copepods remain to follow, and we march onward with haste.

“Fairy, we’ve received another call for backup from Lorcan. So, unfortunately, we’re going to bite the bullet and ask the Consortium to assist him. But, please, before Galtry lynches me, can you respond, indicating to me that you’re okay?”

In the distance, I hear the echo of Lorcan’s voice, “Tell ma, how fuckin’ awesome I looked!” and then a thunderous boom that shakes the tunnels.

My head tilts downward as I press the red circle.

“Thank god. You didn’t respond earlier.” Summer exhales before continuing, “Alright, you’re coming up on one of the oldest and one of the larger sewer tunnels in Manhattan on your right. It’ll be a double-arched brick tunnel that’ll take you under Broadway on your right. So just take that right, and stick to it for the next six hundred feet.”

Together the copepods and I turn right, heading south below Broadway.

I hear several voices muttering to one another, followed by Summer saying, “We think he might have settled somewhere below the New Year’s Eve skyscraper. God in Light knows what he’s doing there, but Galtry says she hasn’t detected any movement, but she’s also having a tough time tracking him anymore.” She takes another deep breath and then asks, “Assuming you still want to keep up this pursuit?”

Behind me, I hear the voices of Lincoln and Pierce racing toward Lorcan’s location. “We don’t get paid enough for this crap anymore,” Pierce says with a muffled scoff.

“Never did,” Lincoln counters.

‘Despite everything, I am doubtful that an opportunity better than this one shall come again for several months.’ I glance back and then press the red circle. ‘I shall continue.’

“Alright, well, keep a lookout for anything odd on your right. Our maps don’t show any sewer pipes large enough for a person below that skyscraper.” There’s more whispering and then a sigh from Summer. “Some of the drug guys are suggesting there might be something there that’s not on the city’s drawings, but they’re being evasive. W-wait, here comes Galtry.”

The sound crackles as I hear Terra interrogating her men. Her voice comes over the device soon after. “I already knew these Broadway tunnels were used by the Esposito’s to smuggle narcotics on occasion a decade ago. That was before the Galtry Syndicate took over. Recently it was apparently used by someone to scalp money on the side. Just keep an eye out for any symbols or paint, somewhere on the ceiling or high on the walls, so it wouldn’t be scrubbed off. Inform me when you find it.”

As she says that, I notice an ‘E’ drawn in white paint on the ceiling. I see a hollow area in the wall covered in flies. Reaching in with my cattail, the flies perish, and I tug at some type of handle hidden within.

A light shines through as a hatch swings inward with a creak. Commanding the copepods to crawl through the small hatch, we invade the room. I press the circle and tilt my head upon finding the oddly put-together chamber. 

There is jaunty music coming from a device above my head. Next to me, a large box with ‘Cigarette Joint Vending Machine’ scribbled on it along with the image of a happy frog holding a cigarette. Then, in the corner, I notice some type of rotating… room device? It’s similar to a waterwheel, but as if someone replaced its water troughs with tiny single-person rooms.

“If you found it. Can you tell me if the stairwell doors are unlocked? Once for yes, twice for no.”

Glancing around, I notice a single door that reads, ‘stairs.’ I step over and tug at the door handle, finding that it refuses to do more than shake.

With a shake of my head, I press the red button twice.

There’s some whispering as they deliberate and discuss the layout of the room.

A blue wall appears during this short moment of respite.

I push the wall away.

Terra’s voice comes back over the device. “Can you tell me if the paternoster lift is rotating?” [4] I tilt my head, hoping my silence will urge her to explain further. “A paternoster is a looping, doorless elevator. It’s like a revolving door of rooms that you just step on and off of as they pass by. The thing is well over a century old, one of only a handful that still runs, and it’s astonishingly unsafe, so it isn’t usually left to run. Still, that place has its own generator, so everything may need to be switched on. Anyway, click once if it’s running, twice for instructions on the generator, or three times if you don’t understand what I’m talking about.”

 ‘I presume the paternoster lift thing is this waterwheel.’ While watching the rooms pass by, I press the red circle once and then shake my head. ‘Good lord, am I expected to enter this device? Is it called a ‘paternoster’ because I must pray before stepping into it!?’

“It’s revolving and has power? Are you sure?”

Once more, I press the red circle.

“Okay… Well, that elevator goes to three places only: the basement, the room you’re in now, and then the police station that’s on the street level. Since I have lost track of his mana, I imagine who you’re looking for is in the basement and out of my range of detection.” There’s some more whispering as Terra interrogates her men for more information. “Alright, so, down there is something called the ‘ball vault.’ It’s where they keep the retired New Year’s Eve Balls used every year in New York’s ball drops. The Esposito’s used it as a secret opium den for a few years.” [5]

‘Opium den? Why would something like that need to be kept secret?’ I approach the spinning paternoster and shrug. ‘Perhaps they merely wished to avoid taxes.’

“Are you going to go down into the basement?” Terra inquires over the device. “He could be waiting for you; this could be a trap.”

My eyes drift to my copepods just in time to watch the last of my vermillion copepods be swept away by a breeze. Our numbers have taken quite the hit. There are only a few hundred sable, a couple hundred hoary, and then the one hundred heliotropes. 

I look back toward the paternoster and watch as one small room crawls covered in droplets of green mash; similar to the mash, the fly legs tend to ooze. ‘Mayhaps, Norman wounded Mithridates more than I thought. I presume it’s only a temporary injury, but that shall suffice.’

Nodding, I hit the red button once to confirm my intent.

“...Then I’ll meet you at the bottom.” The device goes silent, leaving only the echo of her words.

‘Lorcan is in danger, and Terra is joining me; I should not waste time.’ I hurriedly usher copepods into each of the paternoster’s rooms as they leisurely rotate by. As I do so, I recall a blue wall from earlier. ‘Cosmic System the skill wall, prithee quickly, while I have this short moment.’

While reading the wall as fast as I am able, I begin to pace. ‘Knight! I do not care if I am a squire; that merely implies I am a knight in training! Though, now I wish I had waited to look until less solemn or hurried times. ...Curses. This situation offers too many rare opportunities to swiftly advance a skill such as this one, so I should not savor it, but rather, select one now.’

My eyes swiftly dart across the wall as I separate the minor differences between each of them. ‘So, I would be in training to be a Black Knight, Wraith Knight, or the odd Sprite Knight that has the mysterious inclusion of a pair of parentheses.’ 

I push away the obstructing wall and then wave a hundred sable copepods into a descending room. They skitter in and take shelter on the ceiling.

Hopping from the back of my sumpter mount, I gesture for them to enter the lift. ‘The differences between each skill is hard to parse, and just this one time, I would fancy the skill that does not make me sound astonishingly evil. Besides, being referred to as a glittering squire seems rather elegant, and I am a fool for the mysterious.’ 

As the last of the copepods move into the paternoster’s rooms, I prepare myself to follow them. Shaking my arms in anticipation, I wait until the following room is perfectly aligned with the floor and then race into the lift at full speed. My makeshift sword and I hit the wall with a thump as we begin to descend deep underground. 

With my last moments of respite, I question Earl to see if she knows the differences between the three types of knights. The Black Knight she knows naught, but I presume it is the more conventional of the three—if only because the other two are far from it.

What I learn is ‘Wraith Knight’ and ‘Sprite Knight’ both seem to have a partial focus on spirit-based strikes. Both of which can create wounds, not of the flesh, but of the spirit. That is the extent of what she knows, though ultimately, she recommends Wraith Knight.

Yet, this is my childhood dream bearing fruit for the first time, and when I reflect on those rare days of pleasant dreaming with Sir Mouser, what I remember most, is how the air glittered.

The lift arrives at the dreary basement. ‘Prithee, Cosmic System!’  My chest pokes out as I march from the lift and spread my diabolical fog of deadly hoary haze. Then, hoisting my twitching insect sword toward the unfathomable blankets of cobwebs above, I declare, ‘I shall be a majestic Glister Squire!’