“I am afraid I have to ask if you have consulted the community of people suffering chronic illnesses before ideating Lyssav. I know this complaint won’t matter sometime next week, but as a sufferer of Fabry’s, I know constant pain, and it isn’t anything good. Why would you create a being that relishes pain without embodying the most despicable psychopathy humanity has to offer? Are you mocking us”

  —Question posted in the New Creation Forums.

  Something stirred deep inside a tumor-like bulge in the Bernese network. It kicked like a baby, but with an intent unbecoming of such. The activity rendered the dogs composing its cocoon uneasy, caused licked noses and whale eyes. What had awakened between them had grown claws larger than its snout, and got its veins rendered into echoes of an active volcano. But the fire didn’t come alone, it didn’t simply carbonize its eyes and dry out its once wet nose. The fire remembered, the flame sparked memories of the ones who had fallen before it. Him, her, them, the pronoun didn’t matter for the flame, that burned steady and free of hatred, but with a vengeful purpose. This drive was pure, unfettered by the shackles of ire. This was no empty wish for retribution, no: The Flame wanted revenge without fostering ill intent towards the object of its obsession. Self-replicating vengeance, that was what it was. A living entity on its own, symbiont of the fire that had once freed itself from Parvov’s control, stared him in the eyes and told him it refused. Two times had Parvov and the flame battled, twice over had he extinguished her. Now the third Lienoga Dragon Terrier had developed into the Flame’s champion, and with eight claws so long and refined he cut through the layers of Bernese mountain dogs, setting them apart as the refulgent abomination was born into the world of darkness.

  He howled in joy, illuminated by the inner sun, eyes ablaze and teeth carbon black. Never had he been dead, and yet twice over had he died. The continuity of the flame mixed with the fragmented finitude of the individual, both devoid of a reason to be, but no less appreciative of life because of said emptiness. As he climbed over the Berneses veins of fire decorated the rippling muscles, a tenuous but continuous stream of ashes leaving afterimages after him, the tips of the hair burning as fast as it grew, rendering his fur a volcanic tundra.

  He took a breath, and orange wisps danced along his blistered jowls. He took a step, using both hands and legs as a dog should, and the smell of burnt hair invaded his charred nostrils. He took stock of the world beyond the bright curtain that constantly ascended over his withered eyes, and realized the battlefield was always the same. He took awareness of the fact that the whole sea was known to him, beyond the Mauling layer, and up to the Barrier of Memories, absolute midpoint of Cynothalassa.

  He, like fire, took.

  “Parvov,” The dog spoke, feeling his old for the flesh and new for the flame vocal folds. Its voice sounded like breaking open the spine of a valley, all cracks and sizzles: someone masticating their own teeth whilst gargling on boiling water could, maybe, hope to reply said voice. “Your eternal rival calls for you, Parvov! Where are you? Where’s the big corgi?”

  On three pairs of plasma wings he soared, chastising the air as his spikes drew lines of light through the damp air. “Come, Parvov! Your untiring challenger has risen once more, Flametamer!”

  The darkness didn’t answer, and he expected that. The summon wouldn’t work so readily. The sea was titanic, and it paid no mind to the clash of her children against the invaders. Or against their father.

  Tides had rolled endlessly since the one where Parvov created the Flame by virtue of his childish curiosity, when he imbued a slightly excessive fragment of his own essence into the sputtering pyre and lost custody over this bastard offspring. The result was this broken mirror that urged to consume him as retaliation for begetting life into the husk of the blaze. Devour the beloved father, so the child can rest in peace once and for all.

  He sniffed the air, and the symbiont of Flame and dog picked up the ethereal scent of Thinker souls, accelerating in their rush through the Bernese layer. They pushed onwards, and the ribbons of light followed. They would always follow.

  The Corship rested over a Samoyed cradle, his hurting joints relieved as he lay on the cushioned surface. Walks were as long as his body heavy, and it had been designed without taking his life, and subsequent sentience, into account. But with Lyssav on board, Pain was short lived, as soon as the servant deigned to ask, the queen acquiesced to soothe.

  Legs hurt, sister.

  Poor thing, let me solve that.

  It took no effort on Lyssav’s part to swallow the Corship’s, or the crew’s, numerous pains. Only a few that didn’t fear telling her “no” retained their little aches, their everyday sprains and tiny uncomfortable details. Among them one could count Dirofil, that sat atop the dorsal of the seventh, out in the sea, and the approaching Seloma, that had decided to go after him despite being clearly unwelcomed by the original.

  “Dirofil,” she acknowledged him as she approached from behind his sitting form.

  But Dirofil didn’t move his eyes, fixed on the mauling layer rumbling above. “Splinter.”

  “Name’s Seloma.”

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  “The moment for me to care has long passed. To behold you hurts me deeply. Leave, if you would be so kind.”

  But Seloma persevered, crouching in front of the Original and poking his neck with an exploratory finger, seeing his slime real close due to a transient eyespot on her finger. “You understand how I see the world, Lover of Shadiran. Why would I let the chance to know you as a friend slip by?”

  Dirofil extended a leg and with it shoved her away, sliding her mass over the scarred Corgite of the Corship’s exterior. “Because you are not welcome to even try.” Dirofil then deigned to stablish eye-eyespot contact, roughly staring at her lack of face. “Peace, Seloma. Let me have a sliver of peace of mind, of soul. Stop your despicable hourglass act, hold your sands still or run them over someone else.”

  “That discomfort is no fault nor problem of mine, Original. I am Seloma, Splinter of your lover, and Doratev’s ex-partner. Pleased to make myself known.”

  Dirofil remained sitting in place, still lost in the image of the drooling and barking layer far above. A thread of saliva landed on his face, and he didn’t bother to wipe it. “Bothersome would be a most appropriate name for you.”

  Their little chitchat got interrupted by the sighting of a distant white-red glow that quickly grew closer. And after the light, the sound battered them, repeated calls of a single name, in a voice as abominable as whatever was proffering it.

  “Parvov! Parvov!”

  Dirofil stood and wrapped himself in his cape, which he had found discarded outside of Lyssav’s new quarters. A few of the teeth had been broken, and now their sharp ends lay scattered somewhere inside the ship. A nuisance, but not one Dirofil had the luxury to mop about. Perched onto the ship’s dorsal, the Fourth Imagined advanced towards the incoming opponent with noble grace, but bones and joints at the ready to get out of the way if push came to shove.

  “State your purpose with my brother!” He shouted, and wondered if his voice could reach the ears of the scorching, flying creature that he could now see clearly.

  The flame carrier landed onto a branch of the Bernese net, folding its plasma wings behind his back and spreading his clawed hands low, letting them dangle in front of his form as he regarded Dirofil with a tilted head. “I speak in behalf of the flame, Thinker. I call for my eternal quarry to come out and face its predator. Go fetch the Captain of the ship now, hurry hurry.”

  “You will address me as Dirofil; and I am afraid the captain that I can fetch isn’t the captain you are looking for.”

  “I think I saw Parvov around, though?” Seloma butted in, waving casually at the menace. “Hi there.”

  “The Flame salutes you, madam. Where’s Parvov?”

  Dirofil stepped in front of her and, glaring at the Splinter through his own flesh, he answered to the mutant. “Gone in soul. My brother Morbilliv wears his body now. He manages the ship.”

  The flame kept its silence for a few twitching instants before letting a pained howl rip out, a sound that distressed the Parvov-model ear of the Fourth Imagined. “He died without me?” The creature took a savage leap and landed in front of Dirofil, who clutched the roof with his talons to avoid losing his balance and maintain his regal airs. The carrier of the Flame wiggled his claws, each longer than Dirofil’s femur, in front of the automaton’s face, curling and uncurling the fingers one by one. “Joke not. Fetch, him. I have no business with you.”

  “I told you The Fifth wears his body. I am no liar. Honest to a fault, you could say, and you would be right. Parvov died, abominable thing. Now go on your way or I will fetch Lyssav.”

  “Call for Morbilliv, in that case. He knows me, and I need to see with these eyes that Parvov is gone.”

  “An understandable need.”

  Morbi, there’s a hotdog here calling for you. He’s horrible, on fire, and most likely quite useful as a heater. Also, I have a thick that goes by the name of Seloma, so, if someone could pluck it off of me, I’d be grateful.

  I can eat her for you :3

  Almost every awake soul on board gasped in horror after receiving the mental image of an emoting Lyssav. Babesi remained impervious, took the slice of Corgite out of her eye, shook her head, and returned to her beauty meditation.

  I’ll go. Eat nobody, Lyssav. Even through the mental links Morbilliv’s voice rung defeated. Dirofil, is this creature calling itself The Flame?

  Eat nobody? Do you need to be reminded that I am fatherless?

  Exactly that. Acquaintance of yours? Dirofil irrupted, ignoring his sister.

  Nephew of us all, we could say.

  Dirofil cut the communication off and stared at the behemoth in front of him, examining it thoroughly. “Morbilliv says I am your uncle. Parvov created you?”

  “Indeed. And it’s only by defeating him in battle that I will fulfill my raison d’être.”

  “We will show you Parvov’s gone, and you will be on your way, unless you have further business —and by this I mean mutually beneficial business— with a member of the crew or several. Got it? The fact we can communicate with you means that, unlike other mutants, you can freely choose to be our enemy. And I’d advise you against it: Four of the Six Originals inhabit this ship now.”

  Five. Seven originals.

  Thanks Corship. Very useful, Corship. But you technically don’t inhabit yourself.

  True.

  “Seven Originals, the ship kind of came to life and even splintered. I am not sure what to think about him yet.”

  Lyssav says I am cute.

  My condolences.

  The creature interlaced his claws and stretched his hands over his head. “Lienoga’s bodies are always getting stiff after being set ablaze. Sadly, other forms don’t serve nearly as well as hosts. Lienogas are intelligent, fast, puissant. A lot of desirable qualities when your goal is to defeat the Fifth Disease in battle.”

  Dirofil took a step back. That moniker was a thing of times past, words only spouted from Parvov’s voicebox. “Long time I don’t hear anyone call The Third Dreamt The Fifth Disease. Nobody but him liked it, as it conflicted with our nobility titles. There may be two original heartworms, but only one is called the Fourth, and that’s me. You truly knew my brother.”

  The Flame nodded, the mane of fire over his shoulder shaking slightly too match the movements of his long head. “From his might I came and by his might I shall perish time and time again, until I surpass my maker.”

  The unmistakable clank of a heavy body climbing the rungs of the bridge’s hatch told Dirofil their little chat was about to end.

  “I am afraid you may have already surpassed him, Flame. I bid you adieu, for I hear Morbilliv coming, and I have no further matters to discuss with you. It was nice to solve things talking for a spell, instead of through violence.”

  “Be on your way, Dirofil. The body yearns for the sweet juice of your spirit, but such simple drives won’t overcome my will and purpose. The Flame will keep the dog in check until the fire wanes.”

  “And if the Flame wanes?” Dirofil asked whilst he turned on his heels and walked away.

  “Then you will all have a very angry and aching Lienoga haunting you.”