Content warnings for this episode include: Violence, Kidnapping and abduction, Death + Injury, Blood, Transphobia, Homophobia, Emotional Manipulation, Body horror, Alcohol Use, Smoking, Electrocution, Religious Violence, Beating a child (mentioned)
Intro - Fallen Anthem
You stood for something once. You remember it well. You lent your voice and your music to screaming in search of meaning, and you found your purpose when you noticed the claws of your companies closing around the throat of your world. You plugged in your guitar and turned your volume up to eleven, praying that it would finally be loud enough to triumph over the clamor of the public’s despair. You gave them hope, that things could still change, that there was an enemy worth fighting. The battle was transformative for you; you went from a biker, a smoker, a rebel to a viral sensation, selling out concert floors. When you were singing out to those stadiums packed to the max in one mind about revolution, you thought you could change anything.
But the years have passed, and nothing changed. Some users escaped the Dreaming Boxes, ones who championed your name, but the Botulus Corporation still rose and thrived for its decades. The world wasted away. Your friends died in the north, trying to prevent an ecological catastrophe, and then so did your daughter. But the doom you tried to prevent means that the dead do not stay dead. They come back, wearing familiar faces. You try hard to love them, to choke back the fright you have that something is dreadfully wrong in the world. And you watch a city aflame from the window of your high mansion, and you wonder: what am I supposed to be repenting of? And is it too late now, when the punishment has already begun? Do I regret ever hearing a Hello from the Hallowoods?
Theme.
Right now, I float in a forest I have come to love. It creaks in agony, trees waving, as a blaze of white flame races through the underbrush, fans out into the foliage, and lingers in the leaves like the embers after a lightning-strike, turning the dry edges red and then orange as small fires grow in the dry tinder. The white flame pours in waves from a ghost who came here in a piano, and was set free in the northmost woods, and dreaded ever returning to the Hallowoods, and he fights now against his past, and several silver knives, and the malice that drives each one, and a parade of spirits dancing to the hounding of a far-off organ. The theme of tonight’s episode is Stands.
Story 1 - Old Hauntings
Percy blazed with a flame that he so rarely indulged in; his anger was white-hot and it poured from his skin, the phantasmal threads of his sweater, and rippled around him as if the fire carried over oil on water. The first blast was enough to send the three members of the Quartet—the fiddle mask and the brass masks on the ground, and the piano mask leaping out of the tree—flying backwards; boots and dark robes went end over end as brass and fiddle were thrown into the underbrush, which lit immediately on fire. Piano appeared to have lashed herself to the branch above on a metal cable, and she spun backwards on it, pinwheeling away from Percy. The ghosts at the command of the distant organ, however, were a different story.
He knew the look in the dark eyes of the ghost of Raoul Greenstreet well; it was a helpless condolence, an infinite sadness about what he was being made to do. Similarly for the one with the burning head, the one with the strings running through its body, the four tortured cherubs. The cables that punctured Mr. Greenstreet’s ghost were long, and trailed back to the organ far-off in the woods like he was a life sized marionette. He and the other spirits were barely perturbed by the flame as they soared towards him, and then made contact.
The first wave of their clawlike hands reaching out, passing through his silver-light skin, and retracted, seemed to bring them surprise. They had never fought spirits as spirits before, and the operator of the organ no doubt was limited in their knowledge.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Percy, hovering, a burning flame. “I know you’re not trying to hurt me.”
The seven spirits twisted around him, within a few feet of him in the air, and yet they said nothing. Most of his father’s ghosts had been shattered by suffering, which he understood, but he wondered if perhaps they had been commanded not to speak; the only sound was the whisper of their movements in the air, the crackle of the fire pouring from him, the hymn being played by the far-off organ. And piano mask, whirling back on her cable to swing towards him again, a curved thin silver knife in her hand. Percy dropped suddenly through the air, dodging the swing of her knife as she flew overhead; only found that as he sank almost to the level of the underbrush, there was a sensation he had scarcely known since his death—pain, quite unlike any he has ever felt. It was a cold spasm that split across his side, and he looked down to find that brass had made it back to his side, and raked a thin dagger across the silver surface of his sweater. Where the knife had been drawn, there was a thin black opening, as if he was made of paper with nothing beneath.
Percy was thankful, then, for Ratty teaching him how to fight properly. Efficiently. A flaming knee drew up intangibly through brass’s arm and then solidified only the kneecap into the masked chin; as brass went stumbling backward, Percy slammed a flaming fist into his throat, double-sparked it to send him exploding fifteen feet across the forest floor, and then vanished and twisted through the air to avoid the silver knives of piano dropping from her cable to try and pounce on him. Then he was back up into the air, with brass and piano on the ground, and a swarm of ghosts around him, and they dug their hands through his surface again but found no purchase… at first.
There was a twinge, then, and he felt a mote of dread. They were learning quickly. Spirits could not strike each other unless they both burned enough flame to become solid, but they could hurt each other in other ways. Namely, one of the cherubs had sunk its teeth into him, and its fingers ran through the skin of his leg, and it was drinking his flame, siphoning it away. He shrieked, and kicked off from the flock, but they were relentless in the chase, and he took a long loop to whirl around the clearing, taking a quick stock of his situation. He was not going to be able to stop moving now, lest they catch up with him.
Piano tracked him, mask tilting from where she stood far below, waiting for him to descend back into easy stabbing distance. Brass was just rising to his feet, and Percy gritted his intangible teeth and swooped down with the flock of ghosts tailing him by inches. Piano went jaunting toward him, dagger outstretched, but Percy grabbed the back of the brass-masked member and did not let go; he dragged someone as heavy as a full-grown man across the clearing, kicking and cursing, and then lifted him off the ground entirely.
The man’s gloves found no purchase as Percy screamed, burning enough power for the both of them to sail, and flew into the thick of the forest with him, crashing him through the pine branches, leaving a trail of burning boughs behind them. His hands burned so hot that they sunk into the metal of the mask, turning it red-hot, and brass finally managed to slash up with a silver dagger, slicing a long black scar over Percy’s hand. Percy shrieked, and dropped the man twenty feet; brass crunched through several sweeps of the pine branches and then rolled across the forest floor, and reached up to fling the mask away from his face, groaning. Percy looked behind him; he seemed to have lost piano and the congregation, although his flaming trail through the trees was not exactly hard to follow.
The wound in his side spasmed and flickered, as did the one on the back of his hand. He drifted over to the person who sat hissing on the ground clutching his face; the hood was pulled down, the mask glinting off in the underbrush nearby, and he could see a bundle of black hair, a beard. He came to float in front of the man.
“Recognize me?” he said, lowering his hands. His face was weathered, brows dark, and his face had been imprinted with scalding red patterns from the inside of the mask of saxophone plates and keys. It took Percy a long moment.
“Ben?” he said.
“Long time no see,” said Ben Alder, rising to his feet, curved knife in hand, a defensive stance. “We left you to rot in that house. But I should have known you can’t get a ghost to stop haunting you that easy.”
“Ben, how long has it been?” Percy said. “You were a kid when I last saw you.”
“That’s right,” said Ben. “A frightened little boy hoping that for the first time I could remember, we’d have a peaceful home. But then dear old dad, ever the hoarder, stole a piano, and we could never shake you off.”
“Listen, if I ever hurt you while I was trapped there, I’m sorry,” said Percy. “I wasn’t myself. I was in pain. I lashed out at anything. What had happened to me is exactly what you’ve done to these people.”
“I was in pain too,” Ben rumbled. “And all of my siblings. Because we were trapped in that house with a monster. One that gave me nightmares every night, burned messages into the walls, played the piano when no one was around, dragged us across the room, threw us down stairs. It wasn’t only that. Your father knew you were close. He was always around after that. Leaving bodies for us to find.”
“I’m different now,” said Percy. “I’ve grown. I’m not like that anymore. I’m not a destructive little shit afraid of getting hurt. I’ve changed.”
Ben glanced back to the trail of fire Percy had carved through the forest, which now was beginning to climb up the needles and bark and give off a thick smoke.
“Wouldn’t be so sure,” said Ben.
“What about you?” Percy said. “You think you’re going to get rid of all the monsters in this city? Don’t you see that you’re the worst monster here? You were afraid of what my father did, why are you trying to be just like him?”
“I didn’t understand until I got older,” said Ben, beginning to pace through the leaves, keeping an equal distance from Percy as he went to pick up his brass mask; it was melted where Percy’s fingers had sunken into the sides, warped and scarred the metal. “What his mission was. What he was trying to save us from. Your father understood that there’s only one way to change someone, to really change them, and it’s fear. He killed people that were sinners, and he bound them to a nobler purpose. And those on the fence, the average people, kept their backs straighter. Kept their guard up. He was a flaming sword, and his presence commanded discipline. It’s what drives every religion. Fear of death.”
“I’m dead,” said Percy. “But I’m not afraid. Of you, or any of your buddies. We’re going to end you. Burn that church organ down. You can either turn yourselves in or we will kill you.”
“I think you misunderstand,” said Ben, putting the melted mask back on, a temporary hiss of breath as it connected with his burned flesh. “I don’t know what rock you’ve been hiding under for the last decade and a half. But things have changed since you haunted this city. People are afraid of the dark again. Afraid of the monsters that live under their bed, in their closet, in the tailor-shop down the lane. People are starting to wonder why we chose a degenerate society, one that worships evil. We are the sword of God, come to cleanse and avenge his people. We are blessed, not because we believe, but because we are commanded by a true messenger of God. Scout City is not your city anymore. You are the unwelcome one here. No one missed you. No one cares about you, except for us, because someone needs to hold you accountable for your crimes.”
“You really are just like him,” said Percy, twisting his neck. “Hateful monologues and all. You seem to picture some version of this city you’ve made in your head that doesn’t exist. Look at it. It’s in a tree the size of a skyscraper. It’s never going to be ‘normal’. It was founded by people who believed in love, no matter what you looked like. In acceptance, no matter how scary you were. As long as you didn’t hurt anybody, anyone could come to the Scoutpost and feel home. That was what brought this city together, that is why people stayed.”
“It’s going to be beautiful,” said Ben, “and the day is coming soon. Sodom and Gomorrah will be cleansed, and something blessed will grow here when the curse is gone from the soil. You can’t stop us.”
And Ben turned away, went walking back in the direction of the chapel. Percy looked each way, and found that he was alone beyond the man in the mask receding into the trees, and the flames lighting the trees. And he cursed, then, because he had lost track of the other three members. He lurched between his options; to chase after Ben, to go burn down the chapel, or to follow after Ratty and Vincent, who were no doubt immediately being pursued. He called after Ben, although it burned flame and he was feeling incredibly drained.
“We know who you are now!” he shrieked. “We know where the chapel is! We’ll bring them all out against you!”
But Ben’s words echoed in his mind—it’s not your city anymore.
He turned, and fled quickly through the trees, invisible and dwindling. Ratty and Vincent would not be easy to find amidst the ocean of huge black pines, and he hoped that she knew where she was going, that they had not already been caught up to by piano, by fiddle, by drum. The fight of his life, and of his death, was just beginning.
Interlude 1 - Last Stand for Humanity
Do you believe there will be a last stand for humanity, dreamer? That some battle will be waged to determine the future of your kind, and sooner or later, that battle will be lost? This is perhaps more melodramatic than the truth. We do not see last stands and heroic triumphs to guarantee the survival of a species. We see, well. What is playing out now for you. A slow changing, of your flesh, of your genetic sequence. Adapting into a spectacular new environment. The rise of other species, like Froglinkind, ascending so rapidly while your own progress seems to stall and falter. You are parallels now, dwelling side-by-side, and you both share the world with the unimaginable life that steeps in the blood of creation and wanders through the underbelly of the Hallowoods, stranger by each passing year. But this gentle decay, certainly is more pleasant than the planned implosion of half of your planet by the rebirth of Marolmar and the rising of the spring, so in some ways a last stand can do something.
We go now to one who is not standing yet.
Story 2 - A Gentle Life
Yaretzi sat at the dinner table with her feet across the legs of the Countess. The past days—the battle with the Knights of Saint Loris, surviving the sinking of the East Wind, being saved from the depths by Mort and ushered safely to the shores of France—were not quite the most exhausting she had ever been through. Those days probably had been the ones just after her covenant with Who Guards A Thousand Suns had been written in fire and the flames of her home, or on some of the more taxing demon hunts she had been commanded to, or after fighting Rick Rounds on the shores of New York where Lady Liberty rested in pieces. But it was close, and she was drained and it had been a whole era of her life since he had dined on the heart of a demon, and the gold was sluggish in her veins. She wanted very much to finish her wine, and listen to the droning conversation of her companions, and then curl up into a large furry ball by the fireplace or remain small in a bed upstairs, depending on how comfortable she felt.
Mr. Silver, Mr. Spade, Marco and Brooklyn were discussing what plans lay before them. Olivier had excused herself a little after dinner. Yaretzi found their ideas of what they planned to do with their lives in Europe quaint, and why they had left intriguing, as she and the Countess had departed North America with Mort in much the same vein.
“Well, we were never completely welcome in Scout City,” said Marco. “And I know you felt it too, just a little, Buck. Don’t get me wrong, everyone was really welcoming. They allowed us all to stay, after all. But it’s just human nature to remember where someone’s been. I don’t think many of the folks who came in from Fort Freedom, which was totally at war with the Scoutpost at one point, have ever quite been looked at the same as Scout City’s favorites. And same with Brooklyn and I coming in from Botco. I mean, when the mayor is one of the biggest anti-Botco activists out there, it’s hard to explain why you and your wife stuck around working for Lady Ethel Mallory for half of your lives.”
“And then there were the death threats,” Brooklyn said. “Which is one thing when you’re on your own, but when you have a kid…”
“It was almost certainly my fault,” said Buck. “Although I was not able to determine who was leaving notes for us, messages. Certainly someone tied to someone I must have put behind Scout City bars. One of our many mysteries.”
“We’d been dreaming of trying Europe for some time,” said Marco. “So it just seemed like the right time to start a new chapter. Hope is… well. We hoped it would be good for her to expand her horizons, a little. See that there’s a bigger world than just Scout City.”
“I hoped for something similar,” said Yaretzi, shifting in her chair. “For Mort, we lived by the oceanside for a while, but his only company was whichever fish he did not accidentally absorb. He has been upset about losing the hotel, losing the friends he made on his arctic trip, for years. I think it is good for him to see new places, new waters. Make new friends.”
“It is so peculiar to have run into you on this voyage,” said Buck, breathing out from a lit pipe. “I truly thought when we hopped into that carriage bound for Liberty City, it would have been the last note we heard of the Hallowoods. But it has met us again and again on the road. I begin to wonder if some destinies are inescapable.”
“Don’t say that,” said Brooklyn, rubbing her eyes, glasses on the table. “We just got here. New life. New start.”
“The question is whether you’ve traded frying pan for fire,” said Dashiell. “I’m familiar with the kinds of threats you see in Liberty City, and in box-cities. But what’s gone down out here, how the black rains have affected Europe, what’s left, what the survivors are like, that’s a whole new field to me. But unlike you I’m not looking to make this place home. I need to track down the Daedalus. See if I can get in touch with it. Once I find Belladonna we’re going back to America.”
“That does rather assume she wants to return to America,” said the Countess, with a cold hand on Yaretzi’s shin under the table edge. “She may wish to stay doing whatever project she wants. It can be difficult to let your children go on their own experiences. But it is important for them.”
Dashiell seemed to consider this, and breathed out smoke from his cigar. “If that’s what she wants. I just want to see her. There’s so much we haven’t gotten to talk about. I’ve missed out on half of her lifetime. I just don’t want it to be that way for the rest of it.”
As Dashiell spoke, the front door swung open, and Hope was in the door, looking rather shaken, with Olivier behind her.
“Uh, guys?” said Hope. Mort blinked and waved from a jar that she held under one arm. Yaretzi raised an eyebrow. “The Saint is alive, and she’s here, and she’s trying to get in the front door.”
Marketing - Mallory-Lution
Lady Ethel Mallory
For too long our happy dreaming family has been pushed around by the Botulus Corporation. Pushed down. Made to do whatever the corporation wanted, forced to accept whatever condition your care gets. This wasn’t what the Botulus Corporation was supposed to be. This isn’t what you deserve. You paid for so much more when you signed on and entrusted your life to our care. Now, a new revolution is beginning. A new Lady Ethel Mallory-lution.
A second dreaming box last night was upgraded into my Prime Dream 2.0. We are fixing supply lines, rebuilding lost infrastructure, making deals that will make us profitable for the first time in twenty years. If you support the idea of getting more from your experience, support me. It’s time we take a stand. It’s time we show the Botulus Corporation that you cannot replace people, and people make this company what it is. If I am the change you want to see, rally behind me. We can make the future yours.
Story 2, Continued - A Gentle Life
Rest assured, happy dreaming family, when we are done replacing the foam on your visors that have disintegrated into your face, then we will repad your dreaming coffin and medicate you for the inflammation of those wires that connect your nervous system to our life support. No greater problems here to see. None at all.
We return now to Yaretzi.
Hope was talking to her parents of the front gates, and Olivier was trying to explain about where to go and not go around the grounds, and Marco and Brooklyn were questioning why she had gotten out at all and through where because there was only one door and where Olivier had found her, and Dashiell and Buck were preparing for war. These conversations bled together in Yaretzi’s ears as her heartbeat quickened, and fur raced across her arms, and her claws and teeth stretched longer than she liked them to be for dining room conversation. She was tugged upstairs by the Countess, and did not have full clarity in her thoughts until they stood in one of the bunk rooms upstairs in quiet.
“I am tired,” Yaretzi said. “It seems as though wherever we go we are followed by hunters. I am not sure yet if I planned to stay here long. But now it seems we will not even be granted the option. In America, and on the water, and now here in France. I want to rest, and sleep for a summer.”
“And I would hold a sleepless vigil the whole summer long,” said the Countess, running a hand into the thick hair and fur that blanketed Yaretzi’s head and neck. “And kill anyone who tried to wake you, and leave their bones in a neat pile by the door for you to gnaw on when you woke. But sleep is a luxury and it seems we do not have it today.”
“I used to be a hunter, once, before I met you,” said Yaretzi, shaking herself. “I ran tirelessly. I fought and killed demon after demon and tore out their hearts. I have fought flame and fire.”
“As have I,” said the Countess. “We are neither of us strangers to fighting.”
“No, but it has become strange to me,” said Yaretzi, looking up. “Especially where these hunters are concerned. They will not let us rest. They will pursue us until we tire, until we break. Until they can peel us from the pack, one by one. It was in Apollyon, and in the Resting Place and the Grand Crossroads that I became comfortable. Living. Not just being seen as an outsider, a force of nature. But as a friend. As a family. I have come to think of myself this way; it has been a long time since I was a hunter. I am running. Why am I running? When did I start trying so hard to prove that we are not monsters that I gave up on showing my teeth?”
“I understand wanting a gentle life,” said the Countess, sitting on the bed beside her. “Rockier periods I have spent fighting knights and priests, accusing me of stealing away their commanders and daughters. I have had peaceful ones too. The Resting Place, or sometimes sleeping in a castle belfry for a hundred years. I wished a little peace for us as well. Which is why I booked this trip. But they are knocking on our door now, and we have to decide. Do we fly? Or do we paint the front doors in their blood?”
Yaretzi put her head against the Countesses’ neck, until her teeth brushed skin.
“It has been a long time since we really fought side by side,” she smiled. “Things were very clandestine on the boat.”
“Clandestine. What a word,” said the Countess, a cold shiver, and then she pressed her forehead to Yaretzi’s. “Well then. Tonight, let’s be monsters.”
Outside, fog rolled on the surface of the Atlantic ocean, and the lighthouse-eye of Abbey Saint-Loris swept across the yard and through the mist as two detectives, a bodyguard, an assistant, a witch, and a child detective strode out through the gardens towards the front gates, where a congregation of abbey inhabitants had gathered to hear the case of the Saint returning to her namesake in their time of desolation. In between the beams of light from the searchtower, a great black wolf rushed like a force of the night itself through the shadows, bounding over one shingled roof after the next and then going to stalk along the wall high up in the fog. A great bat, folded out of space and black leather, floated silent above her, descending in a windswept circle.
Far below her there were knights, armored and with swords that she was sure would hurt like Fort Freedom knives. But, first they shall have to hit me, she thought, as she leapt from the top of the ramparts, sailing alongside the Countess, and spread her claws, bared her teeth. And death was fast. Death was fierce. Death was named Yaretzi. And they would learn what happens when death was denied her sleep.
Interlude 2 - How Much Scratch
Since being nominated to the Council of Heavens a very short time ago, I am forced to reconsider some of my feelings on the nature of revolution. There was a time—and not a time that I would like to remind the Council of—when Marolmar spoke to me of setting fire to the universe, wreathing it in green flame, and beginning something new from its ashes. I am perhaps more indisposed to see a universe made new than most, I am not terribly attached to the way it exists presently outside of your world. But if the titans were to be felled, there are complicated implications for what would happen to the vacuum of space, the organization of matter and elements, the continuation of life on thousands of worlds across the universe.
Would these things collapse if their stewards were gone? Or disintegrate slowly into complete disrepair? If the Council of Heavens were to suddenly disappear, there might be other problems that would ensue that would present a challenge to life on Earth. And so I am now facing questions that I once mocked Xyzikxyz for contemplating—how do we improve what we have? Is there any fixing it? We may have to pursue a more constructive course if arson is not an option.
We go now to one who does not want to see it all burnt down.
Story 3 - Playing With Fire
Shelby managed to make it out into the street before Mulder had fully walked away from their house.
“Mulder,” she said. “Wait. Please talk to me.”
He stopped, and turned back to look at her. Betrayal lurked there beneath his eyebrows; he was lit by the orange haze of the clouds that billowed out from the fire only a district away.
“I was hoping they were lying,” he said. “The papers. Shelby, what on earth have you done?”
“I’m chasing something big here Mulder, and it’s going to shake up everything you know. Please just hear me out,” she said.
“What happened to making him pay?” Mulder said, stepping a few quick steps back towards her, coming to face her in the street. Around them in other houses, residents of Scout City came hurrying out from their houses, loading bags or wagons to clear out for the oncoming fire. Shelby breathed in smoke, and breathed out the ash of Mulder’s trust. “Why is the thing that killed our parents standing in my home?”
“It’s what he does,” Shelby said. “It’s what he does. He looks horrendous Mulder and he smells like death, but he kills bullies, abusers. Our parent were beating us in the street the day he killed them. That doesn’t make it right. But it’s why.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Mulder, gritting his teeth. He pushed back his hair over his shoulders, stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “I remember that they loved us. So much that they came up here, so we could have a better life. That’s what they wanted. The animal inside that room killed them with a cleaver and cut them into pieces. I was hoping… this sounds horrible. I was hoping he had you hostage or something. That you didn’t want to be here with him. But you brought him here, didn’t you? It’s not too late, Shelby. If you turned yourself in, I think it would be for the best. You could escape this.”
“I’m so close Mulder,” Shelby said. “I’m so close to nailing the entire Quartet.”
“How many more Scout City deputies are going to need to die to make that happen?” Mulder said, and looked back. “How much destruction?”
“The Quartet started this the minute they began killing in Scout City,” said Shelby. “I’m going to finish it. Shank and I are in this together. They’ve hurt us both—look at me. Look at me! My hand? Clementine? They’re not going to stop until they take everything I love. I have zero doubt that they would hurt you if they thought they could get to me, Mulder. We can talk about what’s right or wrong or forgiveness later. Just give me time to finish this. Don’t tell the Coda where we are.”
Mulder looked up to her, surprised.
“That’s what this is about,” he said. “The fucking Coda?”
“I know you’ve been in with them,” said Shelby. “I don’t know if you can trust them. Lies and the truth are getting blurred.”
She shuddered, then, as an impact connected with her; Mulder’s arms wrapping around her tightly, and his head against her shoulder.
“Shelby,” he said. “I can’t lose you. Do you understand? I cannot lose you. We’ve lost mom and dad. You and I are all each other have. You are putting yourself in the worst possible place. I love you. You’re an idiot. Please get out while you can. The question of, you or the Coda? I’m on your side. Always. But I need you to recognize that you are playing with fire. It’s going to burn you like it burns this city.”
“I know,” Shelby said, and he let go of her. “I’ve known for a long time.”
His eyes narrowed. “Know what?”
“Playing with fire,” she said, looking up to the haze of flame over the rooftops. “I can’t help myself. Once the case begins, it’s all I can see. All I can think of. I can’t leave. I’m always going to be chasing it. I’m going to finish what I started. And then I’m going to get Shank far away from here, where he can never hurt anyone. And then I’ll come home. And I’ll never pick up another case again.”
“You promise?” said Mulder, looking back to the door, and then to her. “After this. You’ll be done. “
“Promise,” said Shelby, and nodded. “Where are you going?”
“The city’s on fire, Shelby,” Mulder said, shaking his head, and he almost smiled before he turned away from her. “Don’t know if you noticed. When you get so fixated on the goal, you miss what you’re doing. To everyone, to the world. Like usual, I’m going to go clean up your mess. It’s going to be a long night.”
“Thank you,” Shelby said, and sighed, watched him make back off the road through Badger District, back towards the front line of the firefighting effort. She turned back for the door, and found Diggory, Riot, and in the far back Shank watching. She was worried now that even with the smoke and commotion, she’d been spotted on the street. Glancing at the clusters of residents and the dark windows, there was no way to tell. She found her way back through the apartment door.
“He won’t tell the Coda. Not for a while at least. Are we doing this?”
“Doing what exactly?” said Diggory.
“Diggory, if you can get there quietly, break into Valerie’s and tell her what’s going on. I think we need her on our side and right now whoever’s whispering in her ear is not,” Shelby said. “Russell, Arnold, Riot, I like the idea of trying to bait the quartet. So let’s do that. What do you have that can help us?”
“About a warehouse full of monster-hunting gear,” said Riot.
“And a lot of expertise in how to use it,” said Russell. “Between the three of us.”
“Good. Then we can’t give them time to prepare,” said Shelby. “We keep moving. We catch them off guard. When Shank and I leave here, they’ll pounce. And we had all better be ready for the fight of our lives.”
Outro - Stands
Stands. Oh that life were all green hills and rolling daisies, and roads through deep forests with no sound of humankind, and birdsong through misty mornings. Oh that it were a gentle thing, and full of pleasantness, and that there was never need to raise a voice or an arm against a red-burning sky. But there is smoke in the air, dreamer. The forest is burning. And if it falls, it may never come back, or at least never come back the same. Is it time yet to do something? Is it time yet now? Is it time yet now? Is it already too late? Until you and I hold up the falling sky together, I am your loyal host Nikignik, waiting defiantly for your return to the Hallowoods.
The bonus story that goes with this episode is called ''Brimstone' and is available on the Hello From The Hallowoods Patreon. Consider joining for access to all the show's bonus stories, behind-the-scenes and more! Until next time, dreamer, please be wary of any small lemonade seller positioned on a front lawn. Try to get a sideways view and make sure that the seller has feet rather than legs that grow directly from the soil. The lures of lawn anglers can be surprisingly realistic, short of these small details.
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