Chapter Text
Minx could feel the rumbling and groaning in the earth from where she stood.
She was in another empty hotel, slowly making her way down the looping downtown backways to the Veil over the convention center. Most of the Manburg crew were assigned around that area, particularly the two boys. From the moment they set foot here, she was set on lending them a hand as soon as she could.
Also, there were reports from the other evacuees about people still being stuck inside the complex.
The operation had gone smoothly so far. Damage to infrastructure outside the Veils stayed at a minimum, and so was the loss of life. The Institute's more proactive response had much to do with that. But the continuing commotion from the highway and further southward confirmed what they should expect—trouble was still afoot.
The recent text alerts spelled it out for Minx.
She walked up to a window, peering at the largely emptied streets below. Lightning flashed, illuminating a scene that piqued her interest. A guy in a suit talked to the riders on a truck, gesturing dramatically at the distance. Auxies, no doubt; they were the only persons who would bother going back into the fray. They were probably responding to the alerts.
She hoped none of the guys were caught up in them.
Huffing, she fixed the straps of her tank top and tucked her hair behind her ears as she strode down a corridor. She opened the window, wincing as the wind blasted her face, and hung by her hair to map out where she would go. The gaunt facade of the Alamo frowned at her several feet away. Cutting through its perimeter will save a lot of time to reach the convention center while keeping a wide berth from Interstate 37.
She nodded, then rappeled carefully to the asphalt. Her boots splashed through puddles as she took on a brisk pace, keeping her eyes and ears pricked for threats. Over fences she leaped, listening for other footsteps on the drenched grass while the historic building passed her by in its quiet vigil.
Seeing as there were no signs of life, she breezily raced down the stone path of the Alamo Plaza to get back to the road immediately. As she guessed from the maps they had them check, she found herself back in the maze of stores dotting the heart of the city. A few more minutes, and she should see the Veil brooding over the rooftops up close.
Minx went on, evening her breaths as she continued to jog beneath the canopies of trees. Her boots rubbing pavement remained the nearest sounds she heard over the constant rain.
But then, something heavy and metallic clanged way above her to the left. Her gut clenched, her hair flexing in preparation.
"Heeeey!!" a familiar voice boomed. She stopped in her tracks as a large, topless guy fell to the street, leaving troughs in the asphalt as he scraped to a halt.
It was Jeb.
Ugh, it was Jeb.
Minx puffed as she watched him straighten himself and canter toward her.
"Still alive, I s—"
She yelped as Jeb bowled right into her, wrapping his soaked arms tight around her waist while laughing breathlessly. "Man, I'm so glad to see you! Woah, what happened to your shirt?" he cried into her ears.
Her teeth ground together. With many a snarl, she punched and kicked his stomach to set herself free. Jeb sprang back awkwardly, hissing as he doubled over and then raising his hands ramrod straight when she wagged a finger in warning.
"There," she spat. "You don’t look busy."
With a slight pout, Jeb replied, "I'm done cleaning up my spot."
"Same here, and then some," she said in turn. "I'm guessing you're looking for Tubbo."
Jeb's upraised hands clenched, his look turning serious. "I'm bailing him out and taking him to the truck."
Minx raised her brows at first. But then, she pursed her lips and nodded. "I was more of the mind to help him and the others, but you do you."
She set her sights on the southward road while Jeb slowly dropped his hands. "How bad's the straight road from Rivercenter?" she asked.
Jeb shrugged. "Didn't check. I figured there would be curse users lying in wait. And I'm not exactly in good shape."
Minx scoffed. "Not now, are you? Well, if you're already knackered out of more scuffling, you should stick to my six with your mouth shut."
Jeb's expression soured, though he seemed to move in agreement. He raised his hands, saying, "Fine, toots. You lead the wa—"
"Ah!" Minx cut him off, holding up a fist. That left him with only a grunt to answer.
"How was it?"
"Hmm..."
"Isn't this exciting?" Phil enthused as he and Aphmau walked out of the many doors of the Institute. The sun shone brightly over the great oak in the middle of the complex, painting its leaves and the lawn below in a vibrant green. "Two Special-Class sorcerers. He's young, too. So much potential."
"Sounds like you're about to take him in," Aphmau said with a smile as she trotted to the vast swathe of grass. Phil stuttered, scratching the back of his head.
"Well, I... But he's got family, doesn't he?"
Aphmau hummed in reply, plopping to a perfectly prim sit-down with her cheek on her hand. "Did you know they were going to throw him right into the front lines as soon as they got him?"
Phil knitted his brows. "They're that confident?"
Instead of nodding, an odd shade came over Aphmau's eyes as they narrowed. Phil stepped closer upon catching this, feeling a tingle on his nape.
"Apparently, he asked to enter the school instead," she then spoke, her bright voice dimming into a whisper.
"And they let him?" Phil asked in wonder.
Aphmau's pointer dug ever so gently into her cheek. "Mm-hmm."
"Well," Phil began, his eyes sweeping the surroundings subtly. Something in their conversation made him feel naked all of a sudden. "That must mean he's at least humble, right?"
"Humble," Aphmau mirrored with a lilt, tapping her pointer on the little dent she made on her face. "Humble. Maybe he'll turn out like that. But I don't know."
Phil tipped his head forward, zeroing in on her next words.
"The boy's got a dream, Bucket-Head," she continued. A puff of laughter shook her shoulders. "Dream. What a funny name. Dream. The potential's a given. But it's the dream that makes the difference. Hmm."
She went on muttering to herself until her voice trailed off, her eyes focusing on a point in the distance. Puzzled, Phil turned to where she looked and found Eret having a laugh with a circle of staff members. Their faces revealed it was at their expense.
"Umm... you were saying?"
Aphmau started with a jolt. "Oh, nothing! Just remembered a chat I had with Charlie."
"About what?" Phil asked.
But Aphmau shook her head, smiling while straightening where she sat. "Boring stuff. Anyway, I think it's great he wants to go the long way to becoming a sorcerer. I just think we need to keep an eye on him."
That exchange echoed in Phil's mind as he braced himself against the whirling trap he was in.
The Raccoon Racket saved him many times from Dream's surprise grapples and blows. But it did not help him lay even a finger on the rogue sorcerer. As soon as he swung the katana, Dream would dip back into one of his rifts or throw one of the bodies at him to break his stride.
Yes, bodies. The screaming group of curse users fell silent a minute into the fight, slashed or skewered by one of Phil's missed blows or broken by the sheer speed at which they spun between the various portals flashing through the air.
He knew, of course, that they had to be killed eventually. But watching them suffer as living chaff still made his stomach churn. It was cruelty only a curse could come up with on a whim.
Why?
Why all of this?
Why do this with all that potential, that strength?
Why not do the right thing?
"What's with the face?" Dream taunted, his voice echoing from all sides.
Phil held up the Kurokisaki at the ready, his wings folding closer to him. "I'm thinking about how much time you're wasting here," he replied, his jaw feeling stiff.
He heard Dream laugh. "My Mobius Strip's pretty good, though. It got you second-guessing jumping into that stupid pocket space of yours."
Phil thought of doing that as a bluff. But Dream might have an answer for that.
He settled for something more straightforward. "Or maybe you're stalling for time to figure out how to approach me," he said, pointing the katana forward. "Come on, kid. I'm one rank below you. Don't be scared. Let's settle this like gentlemen: my blade against your finger."
There was a pause, and then another bout of laughter, louder than before. Heat surged through Phil's veins, his heart thundering like the clouds above.
"God, you're a cornball!" Dream cackled. "I told you already, old man. You deserve to go out with a bang. Besides, you don't think you'd last a second if I got serious on you, right?"
Then, his voice lowered to a sneer. "Sam and Jordan barely had a chance."
At that, Phil felt everything turn cold.
Before he knew it, Dream crashed into him, scraping his face across the ground. Stifling a cry, he squinted at a rift rushing toward him.
Immediately, he sank into his pocket space, hissing as he swiped the pebbles and bits of scrap cutting his cheeks. The hand that pushed him down searched frantically through the buoyant void. Phil, steeling himself, thrust the katana upward.
It skidded on something stubby yet tough. His eyes widened.
I figured something happened to his right arm. But what is that? A prosthetic? Looks like it got cut clean. He wouldn't lug that around if it wasn't whole before coming here.
But that means—
He jumped back out, ready to grab Dream by the neck.
What greeted him instead was an array of chunks of rebar dropping out of a massive rift, many cut clean from where they were stuck, all pointing toward him.
His thoughts turned to Lovetopia and his marriage with Kristin, so brutally cut short.
Dream flicked his hand. They fell.
"For his size, he sure is heavy," Wilbur snarled inwardly as he dragged Tubbo's prone body into the shade of a nearby storefront. He propped Sally against the wall, sprinting to the boy's aid as soon as he saw all the people lying unconscious on the street.
He peered to the side. Techno had just hoisted Ted on the back of an auxie pickup. Cody had apparently urged a passing team to take the long route around and lend them a hand. That definitely raised Wilbur's respect for the guy.
With a relieved grunt, he laid Tubbo's head on a rug he pulled from the store's front door. He began inspecting the boy's face and body for signs of bleeding or broken bones. His fingers passed through his limp arms, feeling reassured at the slight trembling he felt. Then, one hand felt for his pulse while the other laid over his mouth and nose to check his breathing. Both were quick but strong.
Running his tongue through his own teeth, Wilbur peered out into the street again only to freeze.
Techno was unbuttoning his shirt.
What the hell?
Hovering between the curb and Tubbo, Wilbur watched as Techno proceeded to drape his soaked top over his shoulder, jostling the Stetson hanging over his nape by its strap. He knelt and picked up a shotgun from the ground, laying it next to Jordan's corpse. Then, he straightened out his legs, placed the weapon gently on his chest, and crossed his arms over it. He took up his shirt once again, spreading it out before letting it down on Jordan's face like a shroud.
Finally, he wound his arms below the man's neck and legs and lifted him.
Wilbur turned away, huffing against the knot swelling in his throat. He passed his hand over his face, shaking his head while wrenching his eyes closed.
How are we supposed to tell him this?
He sat there in that one thought for ten seconds, listening closely to the shuffling of the truck in the distance as Jordan's body was ready to be hauled away.
When his eyes opened, his gut felt like iron. He took Sally from the wall, positioning it on his back to free up his arms. Then, he did as Techno did with Tubbo, puffing until he hoisted the boy in his arms.
He shuffled his feet for a moment, testing out the weight until both his limbs felt even. He struck out for the truck, nodding at the auxies as they waved urgently at him, Techno still standing by the side with a heavy expression.
He felt his shoe catch on something that clattered. Looking down, he found the Glock glinting under a flash of lightning.
Right.
He spread his legs for balance, then knelt. Air whistled furiously through his lips while his fingers wriggled for the gun. To his chagrin, his shoulders started crackling before he could even scrape it.
Suddenly, the air shone bright as day. Wilbur jolted, looking up in dread at what new, fresh hell awaited them. But instead of a wave of fire or a burst of more lightning, he found himself squinting at a shower of star-like bolts hurtling through the great rolls of storm cloud. A few collided against strange flying objects, creating a massive salvo of explosions that broke first before echoing into the streets below.
The auxies cried out as the ground began to quake from the long drone of distant impacts. Wilbur looked back down, bracing himself against the shockwaves.
That must be Claus's technique. About fucking time.
It's getting much hairier, then.
With this dire turn of thought, he allowed himself a huff of triumph once he grabbed the Glock. But before he could take off, he heard noise far off to his right. A grating, high-pitched voice, followed by the clanging of metal.
"Will? Will! Over heeeere!!"
He heard the squelch and crunch. He saw the sparks. He watched the rebar quiver from the sheer speed at which he launched them.
But Dream knew better than to relax. Ex-agent Phil Watson had a reputation for being slippery, even in the most life-threatening circumstances.
His left hand remained stiff as he turned his face upward. The blazing in the sky was too consistent to be a freak barrage of lightning.
He squinted. Gigantic figures were flying around missiles of light, reeling this way and that only to eventually explode as they got hit. His facemask crinkled at his groan.
The deal's off, then. At least Claus saved me the trouble of finding him.
A trembling smile grew on his lips, elation bubbling in his chest.
That's number three. One down, two—
A sudden shuffle made Dream's throat tighten. He peered at the debris below, locking on to the flickering energy signature pinned down by his projectiles. His portals fizzled out as his focus shifted, leaving the corpses to be dashed on the piles of rubble and spill their contents.
He was sure it was the sorcerer's. And yet.
Moving closer would only position him for sneak attacks.
There was someone there. But was it...
Fuck!
Dream ducked at a swing from behind. The beat of wings and rustling of chains told him Phil was right there.
He zipped back down, landing on a heap of crushed concrete. The back of his head stung, and his fingers came away with blood after touching it.
He fumed. "A new trick of yours?"
The Kurokisaki whined in the air. "Like I'd tell you!"
With lips pulled back, Dream summoned another portal to swallow up the rebar. At the same time, Phil flash-stepped while swiping down, clipping Dream's sleeve with the blade.
With a flicker of thought, Dream opened a new rift right next to Phil, aiming to pincushion him sideways. But as soon as the purple lightning belched forth, a long, spindly, and black hand shot out and grabbed him by his face. His eyes widened as it bore down on all sides of his skull like several clamps.
He immediately shut off the rift, but the source of the arm already slunk out, pieces of rusted metal still jutting out of its horrendously stretched body. Its head and face were nearly featureless save for the violently purple eyes and gaping mouth, out of which a long, rattling breath came out to send chills down his stomach.
Phil!
Beast Epitaph: Enderman
"Look familiar?" Phil muttered darkly behind the restrained sorcerer. "Don't worry. It's not quite the real thing."
He limped toward him, blinking away the cold and ache running up and down his body. His fingers still held the Kurokisaki, though it felt slick in his grip due to more than sweat and rainwater.
Exhaustion. This new form was creation-based, meaning it would stay solid even after Phil no longer poured cursed energy into it. But in exchange, it took out a lot of his current stores.
But he was no stranger to exhaustion. He licked his lips and steadied his hold on the katana.
Meanwhile, the faux Enderman bore down over Dream, wrapping each of his limbs with its own while screeching into his face. He watched the sorcerer's green eyes burn upon turning to him.
"Not using your rifts? You might blow it away if you try," Phil went on, holding out the blade in preparation for a clean cut. "But now I'm gonna show you the proper way of doing things. My blade, your finger. Let's see who's faster!"
I'm sorry. You've brought this to yourself, kid.
Phil shifted one foot forward. The Enderman clenched all over to lock Dream further in place, drawing an angry snarl from the latter. Blue fire rang across the edge as a great boar head formed in its many tongues, its mouth agape in a savage cry.
Both of us will atone this way.
Up went the blade. Something cracked; Dream had ripped out his left hand by force, breaking many fingers yet pointing it at him.
But Phil was faster.
Down, down it went, and then...
A deep throb ran through both their chests.
Phil fell to the side, the flame sputtering out as the katana clanged uselessly. His wings rapidly faded into dust, and so did the faux Endermen.
The man hoisted himself up by the hands, gagging and blinking away tears. Every beat of his heart was punishing as it banged against his ears. Through bleary vision, he watched Dream lurch hard from the coughs wracking his chest.
Both of them had just drained their cursed energy reserves.
Both would need a few seconds to have even enough to use for basic cursed energy manipulation.
Both knew those things as they glanced into each other's eyes.
Phil quickly picked up the Kurokisaki and stabbed frantically at the ground. Dream rolled away, missing each stroke by an inch until one skewered his right ear, at which he screamed.
Phil stumbled forward just as Dream kneed him in the stomach. He grabbed the leg and flung him down the heap, sliding along his trail and then straddling him on the chest. Without hesitation, he punched the sorcerer in the face, not stopping until he broke his nose. Then, he grabbed the katana once again, aiming to slice his neck.
Dream answered by thrusting his one elbow up. The blade bit nearly to the bone but stayed stuck. Phil glanced at it and hissed at the mad look on Dream's swelling face.
Then, he watched the broken fingers struggle to form some form of complicated gesture. That surprised Phil. All Dream needed to do was point. Was it a new form of his technique? Cursed energy welled into it, and Phil only had a few blinks to deliberate.
For nothing; Dream coughed hard again, this time with blood. It painted his facemask with a thick, red line, a grotesque facsimile of a smile.
Phil blinked away a surge of pity. He pulled out the blade, shifted the angle, and thrusted down.
A bullet flew past him, nearly nicking his brow. Pulling back, he turned and saw a random curse user holding a gun, trembling and whimpering where he stood.
Pain dug into his stomach as Dream kicked him and crawled like some clipped yet ravenous beast toward the guy. "Do it," he heard him groan.
"B-But I can just shoot him."
"No! I'll kill him! Do it now!"
Squealing, the curse user complied and clapped his hands together. Immediately, Phil found himself lifted into a space made of twisting barbed wire. The spikes felt dull, but they were many and dug into his skin all the same, making him cry out in pain.
The wires sprouted out of several sheets of converging black planes, tapering out into an open space from which the caster could peer inside. Phil watched with gritted teeth as Dream's eyes crinkled at him while the opening began to shrink.
His insides rang with alarm. He felt about for the Kurokisaki, ignoring the barbs as they slowly but surely tore at the skin on his sides and arms. This had to be a barrier technique.
If it wasn't...
I can't fail. I won't fail. I'm so close!
His wife and Lovetopia flashed in front of him again. He pointed the blade forward.
One moment, Dream found himself a space to breathe.
In the next, he found the apparition of a pale woman's head floating in front of him, drawing another annoying squeal from the curse user he sat aside. It looked outward, giving him a view from within its translucent form. Its eyes and lips seemed to be stitched with thick ropes of deep velvet blue, with bits of dried flower petals and feathers peeking here and there as if they strained to pop out.
A ghostly finger appeared and ran across its mouth, which loosened with a drawn-out sigh as the ropes snapped.
"Clear the way, Kurokisaki!"
Dream blinked, and Phil's gray eyes were a foot away from his. A cloud of dust erupted as he felt his back crash against a wall, the curse user following him.
Heat, then cold erupted from the top of his left chest.
Phil panted, watching Dream's pupils blow wide.
He stepped back and pulled out the Kurokisaki, which bore through the curse user's windpipe and ended deep in the crook of Dream's clavicle. The former flopped to the ground, twitching. The latter stood dumbstruck, his eyes stark behind matting locks of hair.
Phil sighed as he watched the blood seep into the other's hoodie. It was hardly a stab to the heart, but he was sure he punctured the lung, maybe even nicked a major artery. A sad, resigned relief trickled through him.
Then, it turned into confusion, then horror, when the zipper dropped by just a few inches.
Something... dark and red and angry had taken over Dream's torso, drawing out the shape of his ribcage and turning his stomach into a swirling, throbbing sheet. An odd stench wafted from it, nearly knocking Phil out right then and there. Bile quickly climbed in his throat.
He raised his eyes as Dream tottered, trying to pull up the zipper in vain. He thought he heard him cough even more, probably from the fluid building in his thorax.
But no. No. He was sobbing.
"Fuck... you..."
A rift appeared. Dream's eyes rolled up, and he fell into it before it shut.
Phil fell, as well. On his face.
The rain let up but continued to fall. Darkness rapidly shut his eyes.
Is it over?
Please, it has to be.
For everyone's sake.
Everyone.
Tommy glanced at his phone. It was nearly 6:30 PM, though it may as well have been midnight since the storm was unleashed. Knowing the actual time made him wonder all the more at all the light and noise coming from far away, creating a ghostly halo of shimmering hues against the towering cloud banks.
“Tommy!”
He zipped back into the corridor, casting one more look at the lonely grotto outside before plunging back into the frowning shadows of Exhibit Hall C.
He and Swagger had no luck in the westward half of the complex. Most of the structures had long been abandoned save for a couple of stray cursed spirits that could be dispatched with a flick. The boy felt the frustration roil off the agent at this. They basically spent precious minutes over nothing.
For this reason, Tommy knew better than to quip or scowl at his slightest command. He felt the same way, too.
They went down a musty hallway, the tilework scoured by columns of footprints and stained by water leaking from the cracks and seams in the walls and ceilings. Tommy snorted at this; the convention center’s impressive size clearly made maintenance tough.
His eyes strayed upon a particularly large blotch, passing by it with no mind. But then, he froze and looked back.
Under the dim and distantly spaced emergency lights, what was a mere patch of water damage on a wall looked like blood. The dread climbing in his throat drained away.
But it left a horrible taste in his mouth.
“Hey, focus.”
Tommy gladly caught up to Swagger, following his stern, steady tracks. He gave his head a couple of sound taps.
Don’t lose it now.
Several dreadful seconds passed. They trudged up a still escalator, their steps tauntingly loud in the rumbling quiet. Upon reaching the second floor, the air thickened, making Swagger jolt.
“The HVAC’s probably swamped or something,” he grumbled.
Swamped.
Tommy’s eyes widened. “Hey.”
Swagger turned to him, already paces away. “What?”
Tommy’s knuckles popped, and he drew breath to speak. But his words faltered under the agent’s scrutinizing gaze.
“I-I thought I saw something.”
Swagger’s eyes glinted over his mask. “Is it a cursed spirit?”
The boy bit his lip for a moment. “Not sure.”
He closed his eyes as the words he expected flew at him.
“Do you hear anything I’ve been saying?” the agent spat. Tommy’s stomach still shriveled for all his bracing.
“Yes,” he muttered mulishly.
“Then stop wasting our time. Keep your head low if you’re gonna be jumpy.”
Tommy nodded. Then, the agent went on into the dreary halls, the boy quietly tailing him. He knocked his head once again, holding his fist down as hard as he could on the second tap.
Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it.
After a few more twists and turns, the air became so heavy that Tommy felt it deep in his lungs. Swagger fared no better—he could tell from the whistling through his mask. Still, the agent never broke his stride, scanning the surroundings and keeping his arms primed. Tommy found that reassuring.
They eventually passed a sign saying they were close to Exhibit Hall D. At that, Swagger picked up his pace. Tommy followed suit, the Wrangler feeling cold and taut on his torso as he prepared to whip it out.
They came upon a large pair of heavy doors. Swagger skidded to a halt, raised a hand at Tommy, then pressed his ear to the wall. “I hear them,” he panted, a tiny note of relief in his voice. “You ready?”
Every cell in his body ringing, Tommy slowly let the Wrangler fall to the ground, holding one end tightly in his fist. “Ready.”
Swagger gave him a nod as he inched toward one of the doors. “Watch my six, on my count—”
“I keep hearing that. But what does it mean?”
Utter cold stabbed through Tommy’s chest. He dashed toward Swagger, watching his eyes widen.
Blood erupted from his side, splashing across Tommy’s face. Straining a cry, he threw out the Wrangler and lashed it around the agent’s waist, pulling the guy toward him in an instant.
Swagger crouched, clutching his right side. He had the good sense to press against the bleeding, though he looked and sounded shaken.
Tommy tried pulling his hand away to check the damage. “Fuck!” Swagger screamed, swatting him away.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
“Can you walk?” Tommy said, his voice brimming with steel. Swagger’s sweat-drenched face looked up with a questioning expression.
Two pinpricks of vicious green swayed toward them with the patter of feet. Tommy quickly launched forward, untangling the Wrangler to wrap it around his fist. Then, he threw a straight, white sparks flying as he yelled.
Bam it went, sending the thing flying back in a tumble. To the agent’s horror, he briefly saw its face. “Mister Michel?” he uttered.
The thing groaned in the dark, then hooted. “Now I really wanna know who that guy is! This guy's a star!”
“Go!” Tommy barked. “Do that thing with the skates. My technique’s the only thing that can stop this piece of shit. Call in backup. But go!”
“What?” Swagger cried in disbelief. “That thing’s a Special Class. You’ll die!”
The boy turned to him, and he promptly fell silent.
“Thank you for being a trusty guy,” Tommy went on, his voice cracking. “Now, please trust me. I won’t die. And I’ll do my damnedest so they won’t, too. Just focus on what you can do right now. So, go!”
Swagger looked at him as if he was an entirely new thing. He took one look back at the advancing shadow, turned around, and limped away.
“You’re welcome,” Tommy thought with sincere gladness before facing his enemy.
Slowly, it walked up to him, entering a ring of sickly light right in front of the doors. Now wearing a dress shirt, the usual slacks and shoes, and the same nauseating grin, was Slimecicle.
“Baby blue,” it breathed, the face melting in some mockery of joy. “I’ve waited for this day. Let’s give each other a hug.”
“Die,” Tommy replied, the Wrangler ringing in chorus. The curse snickered.
“Don’t get excited. I wanna check if you’ve actually used your time well.”
“You’re about to find out,” the boy growled.
Slimecicle leaned back in satisfaction, then jumped into the doors, blasting them open inward. Tommy ran after him, finding a cavernous hall that was deathly dark. He squinted, sharpening his cursed perception to trace where it went.
But then, he heard something clack aloud. Large lights flared from the ceiling, smarting Tommy’s eyes.
The whole hall was brightly lit. And what he saw made his stomach drop.
“That’s what I like to hear! Now, let’s play…”
There were people. So, so many of them, gathered in a sad, tight circle amid a clutter of stalls, tables, and partitions. Their haggard faces turned up to him as he stood atop a flight of escalators. But his dismayed eyes focused on the cursed spirit, which stood on a platform in the middle of the press of bodies, arms spread out as if to signal the start of a show.
“Hide and seek!”