Nothing But Blue Skies

"From everything you love."

Even through the lower screech of the extended alarm, John's words haunted Deanna. For a time, the lonely girl had been mesmerized, doing nothing but hearing and feeling the alarm and the rumblings of the earth as her imagination ran wild. Why were they still on high alert? What did this John person mean by intending to save her from things she loved? Why did he occupy her thoughts in such... strange ways, akin to her feelings for Sir Krieg yet... somehow more? Less? A warmth spread through her as she tried to figure out her own heart.

She had remained sitting before her easel, cradling a jar of black paint with some alleged intent to put something on the new, blank canvas before her. Her palette remained dry, despite the urge to paint. What would she paint? What happened to the Hospitaler that John had originally come with? The specter of his visit was inescapable. Were they in danger?

“What if... Daddy’s in danger?” The black jar slipped from Deanna’s grip and shattered on the ground. She gasped as she stood away from the broken shards half-sunk into the darkness; the paint spread like the night over twilight, and the impression, the idea of the changing skies she read about, but was never allowed to experience, suddenly felt very real to her. The pitch oozed in every direction with tendrils like fingers groping and sinking between and under the bottoms of her toes.. The paint glistened as it reflected the lights above. A dark nothing... a reflection of the ceiling... and Deanna’s face. A void as she had originally perceived it. She had no intention to paint... or rather, this was all she could paint. Why?

Deanna's eyes, orbs of inky black in their own right, squeezed shut as she tried to ignore the urge to puke. Nothing. She needed to paint nothing. Why? Her mind flashed with impulses and images that didn’t make sense to her; she occasionally took those inspirations for her canvas, but now... now she could only tremble. What thing was coming to hurt her father, to hurt everyone? Why was she so sure? More, what could Deanna possibly do?! “...What would Lady Ariel have done?”

Deanna’s back straightened. Her body shivered, but she held her resolve as she walked through the paint and towards her door. Her dread, borne from the sensation of some new, horrifying gravity, called to her; it was the lure of a precipice, and beyond it was something waiting to be born, realized, known to a soft mind that could not possibly comprehend whatever this was. The prints of her feet stuck to the ground as she stepped; the light sundress she had put on felt weightless as her body felt heavier than stone; her hand paused over the glowing panel next to the door.

She was being disobedient... but then, so was the holy Lady Justinia when she charged that knot of fiends that might've walked the Earth if not for her hearing the Lady's true wish. Perhaps this was for Deanna as it was for that legend: the Lady whispering a destiny no one else could know. Deanna’s heart lifted and she pressed her fingers against the simple panel, opening the hallway...

... to an array of corpses. Deanna stood frozen in the doorway as she looked at the Knights and the clergymen, each one unmoving. Her heart began to carve the image’s details into her mind... and paused as she finally noticed the rapid rise and fall of an old priest’s chest.

They were alive.

Deanna rushed to the nearest Knight, an unfamiliar female, and put her ear close to the woman’s mouth. A gentle breath tickled the moist flesh of the half-merfolk's ear. She started to whimper, and then weep, with a mixture of relief that they had survived... and new fear of whatever did this.

“Uuuurraaaaagh! DAMN IT, JOHN! LET ME GO!”

Deanna’s tears rolled past her continuing series of surprises. Slowly, she tracked the complaints to their origin: a hole in a massive prison door number 04. Suddenly aware of her surroundings, Deanna looked behind her: large, brown stones and boulders now littered the normally sterile hallways of this level, and every camera Deanna could see had been shattered or imploded. She swallowed hard but found her feet slowly moving towards the gap blown into the steel; the soft purr of a machine was the first noise barely heard over the alarms, followed by Deanna catching sight of the machine that so purred... followed by finding herself staring at a naked redhead pinned to the wall by two melted metal rings. Dozens of tendrils led from the bindings to the happily churning machine. Stranger still was the golden relic pinned to the woman like a magnet: Deanna thought it was a perfect match for the legendary Shield of the Order, that hallowed relic the Brighton line guarded through the centuries and used to protect the weak from the horrors of the Abyss. But only Wardens could carry that, of course.

Moira stared in shock at Deanna's presence. Deanna, in turn, suddenly recognized Moira. "You're that girl Daddy brought yesterday!"

Moira glared at the “daughter” her father had kept...

“You-?!”

... and the pure, faithful heart that glimmered inside her. Deanna was already flinching away, intimidated.

Moira calmed herself; now was hardly the time nor was Deanna the proper target for her frustration. “Ugh... forget it, please, just get me out of here!”

“Oh, sorry... I-I... I’m not even supposed to be out here, b-but I got worried and...”

“Deanna, right?” The black-eyed girl nodded as tears continued to dangle at the edges of her eyes. “Deanna, I am Moira Brighton... and... I need your help to get free and try to save... everyone...” Moira’s words trailed off as Deanna’s expression slowly grew into open-mouthed shock. “Did... did Father tell you about-”

“Moira?!” Deanna cried as she rushed at Moira, her arms stretched out. The Warden braced even though her shield, still virtually magnetized to her body, didn’t slide to defend her. Deanna leapt up to clasp her slick arms around Moira’s **** torso. The slightly moist sundress outlining Deanna’s chest pressed against the rags outlining Moira’s. Deanna rubbed her slick cheek against Moira’s, earning a disgusted grimace from the prim and proper Warden. “Sister!”

“Sister?!”

“Oh Lady be praised for her mercy and bounty, generous is She to the faithful, hallowed be Her-!”

“D-Deanna, what are you doing?!” The girl jerked her head back in surprise that sunk into sulking. Quietly, she climbed down, filling Moira with guilt. Why the Hell should I feel guilty now?! “Deanna... I’m sorry, just... I’m surprised that you’d call me that.”

Deanna glanced up... or at least Moira thought she did. The inky black of her eyes made her gaze hard to read. Quietly she stuttered, “W-Why? I know I’m not a Warden, but we have the same daddy, and that makes us sisters, right?”

The high, British innocence of the creature was too much for Moira. She nearly grumbled, “I suppose so.” Deanna brightened up instantly- “But please, right now, I need you to get me out of here!”

“B-But, you’re the Warden,” she replied with naked confusion. “You’re stronger than a thousand men! If you can’t get out-!”

Moira growled until she finally quit with a sigh. “Pull the lever there on that device,” Moira urged with a shake of her head towards the mana-drinking engine, “and pull it towards you, not away!”

After some hesitation, Deanna beamed her smile anew and complied. Only now had she finally started to look around at the room: the walls were mostly stripped of their metal, and a shattered machine leaned against the far wall, discarded. The lights above flickered forebodingly, but Deanna persevered and pulled the lever as she was asked. “Like this?”

The machine’s buzz died away... and Moira sighed with relief as she felt her mana rapidly returning to her. “This day... could be no stranger,” Moira sighed.

Something about that statement felt... wrong to Deanna. She shivered as she grew lost in thought and then quickly rebounded towards Moira. “Done! What now?”

“Now,” Moira said with a bit more confidence, “I need you to stand back.”

Deanna cocked her head in confusion... until a growing halo reflected like beads of gold in her obsidian eyes. Deanna complied unconsciously; her feet took her away from the beautiful terror of the halo of the Warden... and though she couldn’t know why, her body began to tremble anew in its presence.

Moira thought to her prayer book, thought to the many spells she now could command, if only she would memorize and practice them anew. She thought to her present restraints, solid as parts of the wall proper, as chains... and with that recalled one she could never do before meeting John.

But much had changed since then. “The Lady stands tall, and I with her; unbound and unstoppable, free from evil’s hold, WE STAND!” Her glowing outline filled the room with light... and the wall and rings of steel expanded with the sudden, kinetic explosion that rang out from Moira. Her shield flung away momentarily before dashing back. Deanna, standing a clear ten feet away, yelped as she was shoved onto her butt by the wave of heated air that slammed into her.

The glowing heat of the Warden dimmed to the color of embers on her flesh. Wincing, Deanna struggled to follow her sister’s squatting form as it stepped out from the gnarled bindings that once pinned it to the wall. The golden shimmer of her heater shield joined the halo around her head, and a fierce incandescence burned in Moira’s eyes as she looked down at her “sister.”

“Thank you,” Moira whispered... and, worrying that her appearance was scaring her faux sibling, “... um... sis?”

Deanna’s slack-jawed wonder slowly grew into a huge, toothy explosion of a smile.

Then reality... shifted. The change had been slight... but to Moira's new world of senses, the world may well have gone from red to blue. "No," she quietly pleaded as she looked up and through the ceiling, "I still need to talk him out of this-!"

---

Something more than a minute ago...

I gotta... help... Rave... Travolta's fingers tried to clench into a fist. The blood on them somehow felt too thick to clench. Reagan's... gonna... kill me... if I l... let her...

Za... bij...

Lord Brighton continued a calm, cumbersome fight against Rave and Alysha while the Gorbachevs continued turning the tide against the same. Travolta had to warn them; about the old man's limit, about his absurd bursts of power... about the folly of letting him rest. Travolta tried to inhale. Something sharp inside stabbed him for the attempt; a rib, he guessed. Somewhere outside, Fairy shouted a curse before she ignited the second floor with a weak hellfireball, just enough to wound and panic the remaining forces. Soon it wouldn’t be enough.

Zabij... każ... dą...

Something scratched at the inside of Travolta's head... a familiar presence, a voice, but in a language he couldn't understand. But whatever it was, it lessened the pain; it made his hearing sharper as he heard the new melee rage; it made his heart sink as he heard Rave cry out in surprise or pain. Travolta’s Head didn’t move from resting on his left cheek; his body, drained and broken in several places, slopped at the mouth of a breezeway.

Lord Brighton shifted the air so strongly that Travolta more felt it before he heard the cracking of bones. Nearby and into Travolta’s view, the dark elf's body landed against the opposite end of breezeway frame. She had been tossed carelessly away with both her arms broken, he now realized. Her face was covered in sweat; ivory shards stuck out from both sides of both of her elbows while blue blood poured liberally from the ugly wounds. The implications for Rave were not lost on the leader of Collide.

Alysha did not cry out in pain, even as she shook with the agony of her injuries. She turned to regard the battered human... and, for what Travolta was sure was the first or second time in the three months since they had met, smiled. "A warrior's ****... is nothing to fear, human. Embrace it."

No.

A pained woman's cries... nails upon nails, nails through nails, an agony Travolta could scarcely imagine... but strangled and far away. It wanted to be close... so why did Travolta struggle to hear it, to feel it?

Alysha's left arm slowly drifted to her leg, hanging unnaturally on a hinge of broken bones, and Alysha continued to shake and grunt with the effort. Her fingers finally brushed and unlatched the potion pouch there. She had only one left... and she struggled with a quivering, broken arm to even try and pull it loose, much less eventually raise it to her lips. "Human... if I'm to have another chance at these wretches... you must feed me this potion." Her eyes seemed distant as she looked at the battlefield; Travolta couldn't so much as turn his head to regard the scene. His lips quivered against the puddle of blood pooling from under his head, but he couldn't find words; he suddenly became aware of the taste of iron. The two shattered warriors continued their struggle; Travolta to try and focus on getting up or, perhaps, reaching for his own potions, and Alysha on getting a broken arm to feed her the same. Each quivered as they worked. Travolta urged the voice that seemed to fill him with some bit of vitality, some illusion beyond pain, even if it was her pain that let him ignore his... but whatever brought the illusion was too thin.

Travolta thought to the gift he had acquired just before this entire debacle was set into motion... and to how it had whispered to him every day in that training barrier, and how Magoi had suggested that he could have that “distraction” eased. What did that bastard take away? Was this why Travolta felt no stronger after all those weeks? Travolta was convinced: that bastard had somehow diluted the Blood. Travolta was weak again... and in his impudent rage, he blamed the Bloodfallen, he blamed Magoi, but most of all: he blamed his own insufferable weakness.

None of this moved his body. Slowly, he grew quieter as impudent tears swelled quietly in his eyes.

Before them, Rave continued her struggle. Her breath was getting caught at bad times; her body had to keep phasing in and out of light to avoid being stunned again by the addict-looking Gorbachev's sound attacks, all while the goth chick had resigned herself to buffing and healing him and the old master of the house. Rave's fists of light kept connecting with the old man, but he shrugged off every blow; he in turn continued to try and grab hold of Rave, to restrain her or cover her mouth, and chance phases into light were all that kept her aloft. He missed her again as she bobbed out of the way; his fist plowed a clean hole through the thin wall of the staircase and withdrew as he continued to stalk his prey. Rave bounded across the room and blasted a fist of light into the sound-Gorbachev’s face, nearly killing him, but the goth healed him to full before he even stumbled.

But throughout it, the old man was being conservative. He had something building up... and Rave thought she caught sight of it when he broke Alysha. Rave had to get rid of him before he let loose. She tried again to feint and get to the goth to knock her out; again she was cut off by an uncomfortably naked Moira's dad. Fuck, Moira continues to be a no-show, Baldy’s bleeding like crazy, Tink is my only backup who isn’t AWOL or dying, I’m fighting a Saturday morning cartoon league of villains here, and probably worse than all this B.S., I’m still bald! With a frustrated yell, Rave blasted the ground again, letting loose a wave of light and fury that dazzled onlookers... save for Lord Brighton himself. Rave readied to dodge his grip again... but something flashed in his eyes, his presence seemed to magnify in Rave's senses--

... and his meaty fist opened to slam against her neck before she could revert to light once more. His giant hand closed. Rave's breath caught. Her fingers dug at the former Warden-Lord's closed grip to no avail; his digits were bindings of iron on her throat, and he squeezed everything they found but her spine. She put her final burst of mana into turning her neck to light; it worked, she slipped away before she re-materialized, but his grip had again moved faster than she could react. She had only the hint of a breath before she was cut off anew; all her months of breathing control training were for naught when there was no air to breathe.

"This fight is over."

"Fat chanc- gah!" Fairy was nearly upon Lord Brighton when Victor’s Eyes knocked her out of the sky with vibrations in her wings and bones.

The scene had finally grown quiet... and aside from the grunting noises as Rave tried to breathe, none made a sound.

... until Alysha chuckled. Rave's eyes turned slowly to the dark elf. She thought to gasp a quip, but her fingers could find no purchase to afford her even that much breath as she idly kicked at Lord Brighton’s seemingly invulnerable crotch. More than anything, Rave wished she could get the Hell out of here-

Rave vanished.

Lord Brighton's fingers closed in a useless fist. He blinked at the sudden trick and readied to grab the Lightbearer once more... only she did not reappear. Another chuckle... this time from the flying demon who now writhed on the ground. Fairy's body continued to convulse, even as she laughed. Lord Brighton narrowed his eyes as he looked around his home... and at where the hole he had punched into the nearby wall had been. It was gone, now.

Suddenly, Travolta vanished... and most of the blood beneath him had been gone before he was.

Lord Brighton looked back to where he had punched a hole through the wall of his home... his perfect home, as reflected in the extended barrier. But not through his actual home... not through the actual wall. Lord Brighton’s breaths grew labored as he tried to calm himself.

Fairy continued to chuckle as Victor continued to disintegrate her from the inside. "You c... cunts... are s-s-so fucked-"

Fairy vanished. Alysha stood by her own strength, her arms fully restored, before she too popped out of existence. Lord Brighton rushed outside to look about for his enemy, for the bane of his life of late... but found no sign of him. William glanced up at the sky, now naked and **** to his eyes... and saw one final bit of evidence of his fear.

Something was falling towards the Brighton Manor from far above the limits of the barrier meant to still be raised.

---

About a minute before that...

John hadn’t bothered to identify the objects in the vault; his anger clouded his mind nearly to the point of irrationally charging this enemy. He glanced only once at the man’s information; nothing there deterred him.

Reginald Garrick
Level 31 Butler
<Order of the Golden Rose>
HP: 3,015/3,015
MP: 903/903
Stats: Str 39 Agi 59 End 51 Int 30 Wis 49 Cha 24 Lib 11
Relationship: -178
Status Effects: None
Qualities: The Lady's Shroud
The head of the butlers serving the Brighton Manor and, prior to being married at the age of 39, the Knight-Captain under Lord William Brighton's predecessor. Once nicknamed “the Reaper of Chains,” his talent with exotic and strange weapons was infamous. He now prefers his quiet retirement in servitude and in protecting Moira Brighton, who he has helped raise and cherishes like a third daughter.

You cast Move on the vase!

A small vase holding a number of steel rods, each not so unlike the small golden wands used by the Confessors, suddenly jetted towards the butler. John charged forward as he hoped the enemy was distracted, but Reginald was quick to split his attention; one iron weight flew at the vase while the other beamed for John’s face. John’s eyes could follow their paths, even avoid them... but he didn’t want to avoid Reginald.

John’s hand flew up to catch the weight... but the old soldier had already flicked tiny waves up both chains before John could notice them. The wicked bulb before him flicked downward, and as the Gamer’s hand drifted down to try and catch up, the one intercepting the vase flicked away and then snapped at the projectile to shatter it and bat away the rods, throwing the projectiles and shards in John’s direction. As the weapon sped past his fingers to smash the top of his foot, the Gamer quickly realized that the old man had held back against Greenpaw and Lily.

-108HP

The rods peppered John’s face as he moved forward; reflexively, he closed his eyes as the mace-like head on the chain had already flicked away. He realized it would likely return to Reginald or Lily, either of which John had to prevent.

You cast Move on Lily.

Her nearly-nude red form began to slide to John... until two dozen chains of silver shot out from the hems of Reginald’s pants and grabbed hold of the demon with dozens of barbed hooks on their ends. More blood spat from tiny, vicious wounds as the butler planted his feet and kept her anchored merely a foot from him.

Lily/Ulshat (succubus minimus)
Lvl 1
HP: -13/25
MP: 90/90
Str 12, agi 14, end 20, int 17, wis 12, cha 24, lib 56
Skills: charm person lvl1, drain essence lvl1, drain life lvl1, disguise self, instant dungeon lvl1
Qualities: alluring, demon, flight (disabled), immune to charm, sex eater (disabled), short-sighted
Status Effects: Dying

John’s anger redoubled as he looked around for something else to throw as he ran at Reginald. He knew he wasn’t going to outrun the hammer that now swung down towards Lily-!

You quickcasted Move on Lily.

Lily’s body suddenly jolted towards Reginald, surprising the butler as his leg chains went slack and his hammer cast sparks against the steel of the vault floor. She crashed against his legs as he went toppling; John felt guilty for saving her so roughly, but now the Gamer was a mere foot away from catching-!

The butler snapped his fingers as he let his initial, heavy chain weapons flick themselves upwards.. and wrap around his own neck. From thin air appeared a thicker series of steel links with smooth, polished meteor hammers at either end. “Shit-!” John jolted sideways as the first zoomed by and nearly avoided the second one until one of the earlier maces, now put into motion by Reginald’s shifting shoulders and neck, suddenly swerved into view and caught John on the temple. Stunned for just long enough, the Gamer tried to reach a hand to plant his magisteel on the hammer before it connected-

-99HP
CRIT! -390HP

... but got launched backwards instead. His feet skidded along the floor as he activated his equipment. His green Eye flared as he tried to deactivate one of the butler’s weapons... but even as the silver hooks left Lily to begin loops around the floor, even as two maces made wide arcs at head level solely by Reginald’s gyrations, and even with the absurd meteor hammers now being spun as if they were impossibly light, John could find no spark of magic to turn off. Reginald’s head turned to and fro, his feet quietly danced, and the muscles of his arm surged as he kept this freakish hurricane guard up, never touching the treasures he was charged to protect and keeping John at bay and Lily ever threatened. “Do you understand now, Mr. Newman?” Reginald calmly asked. He took John’s angry silence as an affirmative. “So tell me, for the safety of your fiendish little one: where is Lady Brighton?”

John’s anger turned to despair as he realized he had only put Lily in more peril. He searched the room for something he could use, anything...

... and saw a strange little statue gyrating, like a portal, inside a massive ring of bones.

Greater magical item: the Grasping Eye. Emits a modular illusion barrier that focuses on reinforcing the rules of Earth’s reality while avoiding summoning any monsters from the Abyss. Has no function outside of Earth’s universe. Consumes soul or mana gems to function. Consult manual before use.

It was... here, hiding in plain view albeit in an opened vault. It sat precariously on an oak pedestal with thin legs, it danced and wobbled with fragile-looking pieces, and it... it was only one hurricane of metal away. John’s eyes went too wide to go unnoticed. Reginald knew the score and suddenly leapt up and forward, driving hooks, maces, and wrecking balls towards the boy. John barely raised a finger before each weapon was on him-

-110HP
-98HP
CRIT! -220HP
-133HP...

The messages rained down John’s interface... and the magisteel shot like a spear from his arm to scream towards the device. John had the advantage, he was sure... except Reginald, with naught but a twist of his hip, unleashed yet one more unseen chain: stainless steel and lightweight, it danced to life as its single, railway spike-like end leapt into the solid magisteel's path. The chain wrapped around the spear as the two wrestled in the air... and jolted away from the barrier device mere inches from collision. John hadn't realized it until his back had already crashed into the wall; with a flick of his hand, Reginald had plucked the spear of magical metal from where it had begun to spun upon deflection and threw it back towards John, spearing it like a dart into the wall by John's face. Reginald whipped the weapons as he went to walk in the way of the device in order to prevent any other attempts. He pulled his weapons back to himself, satisfied... until the air near John rippled. Links upon links suddenly exploded... and Reginald's loose armoury of chain weapon ends was now hurdling back into the vault without Reginald’s control.

Every single hook, mace, spike and hammer had been cut loose.

Cursing, Reginald kept his body anchored between the approaching projectiles and the machine. Silver hooks planted themselves into his shoulders, one of the maces smashed against his forearm, and he barely flinched as the meteor hammer struck his abs. Some of the weapons were nearly landing on Lily; each such one exploded into steel dust. Reginald tried to whip the remnants of his chains once more; more explosions broke the links closest to his body, leaving him with barely two feet of any of the chains. He spotted the creature that ruined the weapons from the hall: a blonde woman in all black, her body riddled with hideous red eyes, who was all too familiar to the old butler. Tricia Gorbachev... so you have truly betrayed us as well. In vain, Reginald now realized, he had hoped the quiet young woman hadn’t gotten roped into the Warlock’s madness as reported... but the plain anger worn on her face made her intention clear.

For a moment, Reginald considered grabbing one of the magical weapons of the vault to try and save the vault in a more conventional fashion. He knew the Sword of Tentacles was somewhere-

The second cannonball Reginald had swung about had rolled past him harmlessly, escaping his notice... until John caught sight of it.

You cast Move on the broken meteor hammer.

The sound of its takeoff from the ground was quickly followed by the crunching of bones and delicate metal instruments. Reginald’s face twisted in the shock of realizing what had happened without even turning around. Behind him, wooden splinters and pieces of a centuries-old artifact tapped the ground in a useless mess.

The sea of open Eyes on Tricia subsided. John's hands tapped the air as he raced against Reginald’s senses. Lily groaned as her wounds all closed... and she vanished from the vault to reappear behind John. Greenpaw stirred to consciousness as John tapped a heal into him without either moving from where they stood.

Reginald looked to a sword handle sticking out from under the cage of the quiet bird. The tenacious old soldier lunged for it-!

... and fell on through into a bright and beautiful sky.

---

"... Lady help us, that's-!" Lord Brighton ran to try and catch, or somehow break the fall of, what appeared to be his head butler falling from several hundred feet in the air. With a leap and the remaining power he had to channel the forgotten Rose, Lord Brighton took to the air to catch him.

But a portal opened beneath the butler... and he was soon falling up through a nearby bit of sky and then up through a third portal inside the house. The Gorbachevs watched as a half-naked butler with trails of chains streaming from his body nearly hit the tall ceiling of the mansion’s entrance, arced his trajectory, and landed stomach first on the bannister above. With the wind knocked out of him, Reginald rolled forward and onto the second floor as startled Knights rushed to his aid.

The portal winked out of existence. Victor glanced outside and all around as he muttered, “Who the fuck are we dealing with here?”

---

Brenda Newman remained terrified and stressed as the war outside her bedroom—her cell, if she had to guess at the intentions of the men and women who now held her—slowly died off. She still wore the casual blouse and dress pants she had put on that morning to do groceries; now she was being held under suspicion of plotting against the United States?

She could not pretend to understand how John’s exchange student girlfriend could be a terrorist, or how John got mixed up in her business, but she was quickly fearing that it had all been a pretense to kidnap and sell her in some horribly complex trafficking scheme. They had flashed FBI and Homeland Security badges at her; had those been fake too? She found herself hoping more for John’s safety than her own escape.

Her last attempt to get out proved the windows were shatterproof and the guards outside her door were armed. Brenda hugged her knees as she tried praying for the first time in many years. The air changed... something pressed into her hand-

... and she was suddenly sitting at the mouth of an alleyway downtown. Brenda looked around in a dream-like state. Had she passed out? Snapped? Did she fall asleep and have a nightmare... and if so, why didn’t she recall leaving her house to come... downtown...? “W-Wait, this is-!” Brenda shot upright, wild-haired and still dressed in the dirty day clothes she had been "arrested" in yesterday. The city was in full swing; no one bothered to glance at her save a wide-eyed child who would never be able to justify the memory of the instantaneously-appearing woman from Durgan Alley. As her nerves threatened to finally push her over the edge... she looked down at her hand and at a package she clutched.

John's backpack... and sticking out from its largest zipper, piled atop thousands of dollars in moderate bills, was a rolled-up sheet of scrap paper from his artbook.