Tezca finished his donut and then sucked the powdered sugar off each of his fingers.

  “Gather round, lads,” he said to the five Jaguars, who were still rummaging through the burnt remains of the Oubliette.

  Tezca’s clones lined up in the same order as always: Head, Claws, Body, Legs, Tail.

  “We will not be able to hide this from Yuma and the Leviathan. From here on out, we must treat every meal as if it could be the last.” Tezca wiped away a tear, and let his hand linger beside his face for an overlong moment.

  “Now. One of you must die for this mistake,” he continued, fixing each of the clones with a stern look. “Who shall it be?”

  As he often did, Head spoke up first. “It’s my fault, Self. I am the avatar of the damned brain, after all. What am I now, Thirtieth Generation? Let’s just get it over with.”

  Head was half as tall as the true Tezca, but his head was three times as large. He wore thick spectacles that magnified his eyes and made him look like a housefly.

  Tezca nodded solemnly. “Yes, your perpetually bad attitude leads to consistently poor decision-making, Head. Your domain is not just the brain, but also the ears, the mouth, the eyes. You are the best equipped to prevent such a tragedy. However, you are still a part of me, so I will exercise kindness. And I would be foolish not to consider every option.”

  Tezca extracted a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his sweaty forehead. Then, with two pinching fingers, he smoothed out the single lock of hair that grew from the center of his bald head, making it stand up straight.

  Just as the platter-artisan selects the right hors d'oeuvres and arranges them in the correct manner in a perfect blend of art and sustenance… Tezca must adopt that mindset.

  The Elder Warden looked at Claws, his scarred face, his jaguar-skull helm, his claws. Three to each hand—razor-sharp steel, fifteen centimeters long with a slight curve—the blades were affixed to the ends of each of his first three fingers via brackets incorporated in his gauntlets. Claws was muscular, built like a warrior, and easily the finest of the clones. That Tezca considered him at all was only a formality in the interest of fairness. Punishing Claws was out of the question. Not only was he the public face of the Warden in the eyes of the Malikauan servants, but he was also the most skilled fighter among the clones. Killer and defender.

  Hmmm… Did that not mean that Claws should have murdered these intruders before they committed this atrocity? Perhaps. But alas, the intruders still needed to be killed, and Claws was the one best suited to that grisly and taxing task. He was off the table.

  Next, Body, who looked the most identical to the true Tezca, the only one who matched his girth. They were practically twins. That was a useful trick that Tezca kept close to his chest. A trick that he’d likely be utilizing soon.

  The avatar of the stomach? ‘Twould be sinful. Absolutely not.

  Legs? Another non-starter. Legs was so tall and thin, with quadriceps and calves that would make Aphrodite blush and fill Adonis with envy.

  Gods, how Tezca hated walking. Whenever King Yuma came to Malikau, Tezca asked him for one of those floating chairs. The bastard ignored the request every time.

  It had been five hundred years since Tezca became Hallowed, earning the ability to spawn these clones. Not once in those six hundred years had he ever killed Legs. He was the only clone still of the First Generation.

  Finally, Tail. Skinnier than the true Tezca, but otherwise normal, except for the abominable tail that grew out of his ass. Disgusting. Tezca insisted that Tail always wear trousers so he could keep the appendage securely tucked away. The thing stuck out abhorrently whenever the clone wore robes.

  Keeper of balance. Well, things were certainly out of balance now.

  Tezca, who his people held more dearly than their dead goddess, would be forced to flee across the World like a refugee. With my tail between my legs. He chortled to himself.

  He seriously considered killing Tail… But no. He would need balance in order to survive this journey. They would likely travel by boat, and boats were often wobbly.

  Tezca removed a deviled egg from the slotted container he kept in his pocket and popped it into his mouth, chewing as he mulled over the situation. Mayonnaise was well known to stimulate the mind.

  Whichever clone he picked, he would need to generate a new one, and would be stuck with an infantile, stupid version that would take a year to reach adulthood. A necessary pruning, like cutting off the mold from a block of cheese.

  The true Elder Warden clasped his hands. “Alright, lads. We will decide in the old way. Take a moment to prepare your arguments, and then each of you will state your case in turn. Head, you begin.”

  Head sighed. “Well, Self, what I thought was that we’ve been living here for over five hundred years and there’s never been a single intruder. I assumed that the Oubliette would be safe. I didn’t consider that there would be a threat. And why—”

  Tezca snapped his fingers, though, due to his hand’s pudginess, the sound was closer to a clap.

  Head’s lifeless body melted as he collapsed into a puddle, like a cracked-open egg. His flesh turned stringy, peeling apart, dissolving into pink goo.

  Shimmering white vapor rose from the remains. Tezca shivered as Head’s life force returned to his soul. And then he waited for the words.

  ‘A knife in the eye in the moon in the brain.’

  Tezca rolled his eyes at the Deathwish—always so nonsensical. A curiosity that occurred with the death of any Hallowed, a divine voice whispering cryptic words in the mind of the killer. He knew, of course, that there was likely some secret meaning to be uncovered, but to him, the messages were just inscrutable drivel, and he was not so ambitious as to dig deeper. But Tezca always logged the words, for he suspected he was unique.

  Surely there were not many who possessed the ability to summon an unlimited number of Hallows that could be killed without consequence. Why, he could write an entire book of Deathwishes, if he so chose. No one, not even any of his clones, knew of this gift.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The other clones applauded and laughed, giving each other high-fives and claps on the back. Tezca joined them.

  It went this way nearly every time. Head was just so boring, his arguments circular and full of nonsense that was at once banal and blithering.

  The man was full of nothing but excuses, ego the likely culprit. He was an amateur line cook, not cut out for the demands of the proverbial white hat.

  “It is an honor to inter one of my clones in this Oubliette,” Tezca informed the Jaguars. “This is a sacred place, after all. Very important, if I’ve understood the mythos correctly. A key to the ending of the Apocalypse.

  “Anyway, let us go deal with these intruders. Claws, you will murder them, I hope?”

  “Certainly, Self.” Claws saluted, and in doing so, sliced open his forehead with his own claws.

  For hundreds of years the man wore those weapons, and still he managed to cut himself multiple times a day. Tezca ignored the blunder. No need to embarrass him. Despite his gruff exterior and his fighting prowess, Claws was very self-conscious.

  “Good, good. Please do. If I end up having to dispose of you, then our escape will be very difficult to manage with only myself, Legs, and Tail.” Tezca coughed. “Ahem. Erm, yes. And Body, too, of course.

  “Now, let’s be off. I have a bowl of buttered popcorn waiting for me at home.” Tezca sighed and his cheeks blubbered. “Lads, the times they are a-changin’. It reminds me of the famous tale of the innovative Veirgian sous chef from the seventh century A.L. Her name was Wanda Krambofferson, and, following the untimely—and suspicious—death of her head chef, she had her back against the wall. Ohohoho, the legendary Wanda thrived under pressure, and she re-invented her lord’s favorite dish, pom frit, by replacing the potato with minced salmon. Add some cheese curds, and you have one of my most favorite dishes.”

  ***

  Glowing red eyes set within black masks. They looked like shadows, their brimmed helmets distinct in their silhouettes.

  Bowlheads.

  They moved in perfect harmony, not missing a beat despite their sudden arrival through the teleporter. The ten Leviathan stormtroopers formed up into two squads of five, laser guns raised and ready, swiveling to cover their every angle. The first group fanned out through the dome; the second went to secure the exit hatch.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Cort?” Leira shrieked. “Get over here!”

  Cort ran to where she stood at the teleporter’s control terminal. As he moved, he glanced over his shoulder.

  Those three warriors were still just standing there at the chamber’s threshold, gawking like fish out of water. They sure as hell didn’t seem familiar with this sight.

  “You put your brain back in?” Leira snapped.

  “What do we do?” Cort’s eyes darted between Leira, the terminal, and the troopers.

  Before Leira could answer, the teleporter activated again. An instant of utter blackness; a numbing coolness raking through the air.

  Cort shivered as red-eyed, black-clad figures filled the platform. A hundred stormtroopers.

  “Smash the fucking computer!” Leira screeched. “Smash it!”

  Brown spores poured from her eyeflower, covering the control panel as she beat on it with her hands. An acidic substance chewed through the plastic components, sizzling and bubbling. Leira slumped over, foamy puke gurgling out of her mouth.

  Cort moved her aside and then raised his hammer and brought it down. The control panel folded and sparked.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Leira was going feral.

  As he continued demolishing the terminal, Cort caught sight of the lead bowlhead, steps away from the dome’s hatch.

  “Leira! The door?”

  “I locked it,” she said, still retching. “They’ll have to blast their way out. The cables. Just get the cables.”

  Cort clambered over the crumpled heap to get a better angle on the cables that ran behind the terminal. He crushed the thick metal conduits as if he were busting up a rotten tree stump.

  The teleporter activated again.

  Steeling himself, Cort continued his assault. The shredded ends spat blue sparks. Little beads of Kaia exploded, speckling the air with blots of nothingness.

  Cort’s knee buckled as a frigid sensation stabbed through his calf. He rolled away as the Kaia whined like a teapot. It exploded when it hit the crescendo.

  A man-sized gash cut through the side of the dome, an ink-black abyss. That portion of the dome, and the surrounding space, did not exist anymore.

  And Isca claimed she could survive that…

  The teleporter’s flash of blackness came again, this time sputtering.

  “Wahaha!”

  At first, Cort thought Leira was hurt. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw she was cackling like a demon.

  “Look!” Leira pointed at the teleporter’s platform.

  Another hundred Leviathan stormtroopers had arrived. They lay in a twisted heap, their bodies bent at unnatural, boneless angles. Bright blue Kaia gushed out of their bodies.

  More and more Kaia pooled across the platform, bubbling like a pot of chili on the stove. The tide devoured the pile of soldiers.

  Their comrades paid them no mind as they advanced.

  Leira smacked Cort on the back. “Run!”

  They sprinted across the chamber as the bowlheads fired their weapons. A flurry of red lights erupted inside the dome. Cracks splintered through the glass, and a few pieces chipped away, but it did not shatter. Cort’s eyes widened. That’s some strong shit.

  The damage was enough for sounds to get out. Clattering armor and heavy footsteps. Their voices, amplified by the speakers in their masks, were garbled and staticky, discordant like buzzing insects.

  The soldiers fired the next barrage. Cort knew well the thick, moist, zapping sound of Leviathan laser gunfire. The blasts echoed with a resonant hum. The dome deteriorated further.

  Most of the soldiers appeared to be carrying single-shot atomic slug guns. Standard-issue for most stormtrooper companies, the guns fired a high-impact, gelatinous projectile capable of better structural damage than a gaseous plasma gun.

  The downside was that a new canister had to be loaded after every shot, like an Old World musket.

  Cort rolled up his pant leg as he ran—his foot was numb with pins-and-needles. A black divot scarred the side of his calf, like a spoonful had been scooped out.

  “Fucking hell!” he yelled, not because of his leg, but because of the witless storm warriors, still just standing there. “What, are they playing possum? Idiots.”

  ***

  Quez felt woozy. His vision was blurred and splotchy, collapsing beneath the weight of a splitting headache. His stomach churned with nausea.

  He’d been arguing with Lall and Alta. He was ordering them to retreat, and they were ignoring him.

  Quez would stay no matter what. That was his duty as Sworn Guardian. He had taken an oath, and he would rather die than betray it further.

  Their argument ended as all three of them were choked into silence, suffocated by the weight of disbelief.

  A nightmare made real, come to ruin their home. Was this what Tezca and the Jaguars had fought against for nine hundred and ninety-nine days?

  Red-eyed abominations with fire-spitting weapons and bodies made of metallic shadows?

  They had witnessed their unnatural birth. The demons spawned within that gigantic glass womb, and even in their infancy, they breathed destruction.

  Those two-chair wielding demons were but harbingers. Lesser beings ushering their heinous masters. Quez had a wild thought that those two might’ve been corrupted humans.

  A trickle of urine ran down Quez’s leg when he spotted those two humanoid demons rushing straight toward them.

  The sight of that massive hammer… It had crushed so many of his brothers and sisters.

  Quez exchanged a look with Lall. There was nothing to be done. Despite his failure, he smiled at her. Let that be my final act. Let death come. Quez closed his eyes.

  “Up ya go, you fucking buffoon,” the demon-man said in his rough voice as he threw Quez over his shoulder.

  Looking backward now, Quez saw that the more feminine-looking demon, the one with the cursed flower growing from her eye, was surrounded by a cloud of red mist. She had grabbed Lall and Atla by their wrists, and his two sisters now ran in-step with the demon-woman.

  They returned to the labyrinth of perfect metal. Quez smiled. Oh, how wonderful. All his fear melted away. It would be lovely, so lovely, to follow the whims of this beautiful flower woman. So easy and peaceful. No more suffering.

  The hellish shadow demons finished ripping through their mother’s body. They poured forth from her shattered womb.