58. Jammy

Dim red lights pulsed above the corridor, casting long shadows that crept like veins across the walls. The air was cold—too cold for the underground halls of Vanguard South Quadrant. Mary Janet walked ahead in full gear, a matte-black coat swaying behind her Vanguard armor. Hana Kraves followed close, lips trembling, her grip tight around her stun-lance.

They were headed for the artifact chamber. Earlier that morning, PCS A~69 had burst out from there—screaming, blood on his face, and never stopped running. He hadn't been seen since.

"Why'd they assign us for this…?" Hana mumbled, hugging the stun-lance to her chest. "Wasn't this supposed to be low-level? Contained?"

Mary kept her pace steady. "Everything's contained—until it isn't."

"Right," Hana whispered. "That helps."

The hallway ahead loomed like a throat, swallowing every sound they made. Each step echoed back tenfold.

Mary glanced back. "You alright?"

Hana nodded too quickly. "Yeah. No. I don't know. I didn't sleep much."

Mary gave a dry smirk. "First mission in red zone?"

"First mission anywhere but near a cursed object?" Hana muttered. "I was trained in archives. Filing, scanning… the safe stuff. I don't know what was wrong with that cape person. I just want to go home and meet my brother."

Mary slowed her steps until they walked side by side.

"I used to be logistics," she said. "Shipped gloves. Tagged corpses. Watched security camps for one months straight. I thought I'd go numb. Then… a patrol team went missing in Sector 8. No backup. I volunteered."

"You wanted to help?" Hana asked.

"No," Mary said flatly. "I wanted to feel something. Anything."

Silence stretched between them.

Hana swallowed. "I just want to survive this. Then maybe go home, bake a pie, paint my cat in oil colors. Something normal."

Mary chuckled under her breath. "You ever try doing normal after seeing what's behind a sealed door?"

They stopped at the rusted steel entrance of the artifact room. An odd pressure clung to the air like the whole chamber was holding its breath.

Painted in faded red letters,

A~69 STORAGE.

The place where all objects and files are kept about the certain PCS.

Beneath it, faint scratch marks streaked the floor.

Hana whispered, "Do we really have to open that?"

Mary placed her hand on the panel.

"Yeah," she said. "But you don't have to be brave. Just follow me. Breathe when I breathe."

The wind howled low through the broken teeth of the ruin, carrying the scent of damp stone and something else—something rotten and sweet, like spoiled nectar. The moonlight barely reached through the hanging vines and cracked domes of the overgrown facility. Every shadow pulsed. Every corner twitched with menace.

Mary Janet pressed herself against the lichen-covered wall, fingers tight on the grip of her batons. Just ahead, a shattered staircase spiraled into darkness, its edges slick with slime. She motioned to Hana Kraves, who followed close behind, her boots nearly slipping on the wet stone.

"Do you see that?" Mary whispered, tilting her head toward the far chamber.

Hana nodded nervously. "That trail… it's fresh. It's still secreting."

Thick gelatinous residue glowed faintly on the ground wet, translucent, and streaked with iridescent veins. It crawled in a serpentine path into the heart of the ruin.

A soft squelch echoed nearby.

Hana froze. She held her breath.

From the ceiling above, a long tendril slithered down, brushing the floor with the grace of a spider's leg. It twitched once—twice—then retracted, as if sensing movement.

Mary grabbed Hana's arm and pulled her into a shattered archway just in time. They crouched, silent, eyes locked on the shifting mass within the dark hall ahead.

It was there. A~69.

The creature looked like a floating jellyfish birthed from a nightmare. It's body translucent but filled with twitching nerves and pulsing lights. Dozens of black tendrils dragged beneath it, brushing the ground like fingers seeking warmth. It floated unnaturally, as if not bound to the air or gravity. The moment it paused, the entire ruin seemed to inhale with it.

"It shouldn't be this big," Hana murmured, voice trembling. "In the lab, it was only half this size."

Mary frowned. "It's been feeding. Maybe off ambient energy. Maybe… something worse."

Suddenly, two thick tentacles slammed the ground beside it, cracking the stone. It let out a low, wet hiss—not from a mouth, but the diary hanging above.

Mary and Hana ducked deeper behind the cover.

"We need to get closer," Mary said. "Identify the core. That's the only way to disable it."

Hana hesitated. "I don't think it has one anymore."

Behind them, a fresh tendril slithered from the ceiling—its tip shaped like an eye, blinking.

Watching.

Mary gritted her teeth. "It's hunting us too."

Then, that thing turned into a rat and started running away.

"There! Left turn!" Mary shouted, panting beside her. She slid around the corner, baton drawn.

The thing ahead squealed—not like a rat should, but higher, warped, like something mocking sound itself. Its skin shimmered strangely, its tail elongated and twitching unnaturally as it darted down a broken drain pipe.

"That's not a real rat!" Hana snapped. "Its legs are bending the wrong way!"

"Keep your eyes forward!" Mary grunted. "PCS A~69 is adapting. Morphing. It's just hiding in smaller form!"

They rushed into a collapsed chamber—a flooded boiler room, pipes broken and hissing steam. The rat skittered across a pipe bridge above the water, screeching. Its eyes flashed—glasslike, with a red glow inside.

Mary hurled a net. Missed.

"Damn it!"

The rat flipped midair, unnaturally agile, and landed on a valve wheel. For a moment, it stared at them.

Hana froze. "Did… it smile?"

It bared tiny teeth. Too many for its mouth. Then it ran again.

Mary leaped over puddles and rusted grates. "We corner it in the locker bay. Only one exit there!"

They chased the rat down a narrow chute. The walls vibrated. The creature squealed, squeezing through a crack in a sealed door. Mary didn't stop—she kicked the rusted hatch open.

Inside an abandoned locker room. Walls covered in fungal growth. Lights flickered, barely functional.

The rat stood in the center, breathing fast. Its limbs were mutating again. Flesh bubbling, bones rearranging.

Mary stepped slowly. "Easy… we contain it now, before it shifts again."

Hana moved left, circling. "You flank, I block its retreat."

She pounced.

The rat screeched and jumped toward a vent.

Mary threw her baton.

Thunk.

It hit the wall, missed again.

The rat vanished into the duct, its tail twitching like a mocking finger.

Gone.

Both women stood in silence.

Hana swore under her breath. "This thing's playing with us."

Mary stared at the vent. "Then we play back. Next time, it doesn't crawl away."

....

The mess hall was nearly empty, save for the buzzing flicker of an overhead light struggling to stay alive. Long tables stretched like silent grave markers, and the air smelled faintly of soap, metal, and stale mashed potatoes. In the middle of the room, a small girl twirled barefoot on the cold floor, her oversized pink hoodie fluttering like a tattered flag.

"I'm a princess of doom! A ballerina of chaos!" Emilia declared to no one, spinning with her arms raised, giggling as she nearly tripped over a fallen fork. "Oopsie!"

She slid across the floor on her socks, arms wide, eyes closed, humming some strange made-up tune. Her cheeks were flushed, a small stain of jelly across her chin from dinner. Despite the silence, she danced like she had an audience of a thousand.

"Ken says I need to sleep more," she said aloud. "But Ken also eats soup with a knife, so... who really wins?"

She stopped mid-spin.

Squish... plop.

Her body stiffened.

Squish... squish...

Slowly, carefully, she tiptoed toward the corner near the vending machine, peeking behind a tipped-over tray cart.

And there it was.

A gelatinous, translucent blob, quivering as if caught in the act of something shameful. It had one blinking eye, stretched across the jelly-like form. The thing shivered.

"Ooooooh my GOD!" Emilia gasped, dropping to her knees. "You're the runaway jiggly guy!"

The blob tensed.

"No no no! Don't run, don't run!" she pleaded, crawling forward on all fours. "I'm not like the others. I'm cool. I like goo. Promise."

The blob blinked once, twice.

Then it burbled.

Emilia lit up like Christmas. "You do talk! In goo-tongue!"

She inched closer, holding out a sticky hand. "Come on, little guy. I won't hurt you. I'm pink. Pink things never kill, right?"

The blob hesitated, then slowly extended a twitching tendril, wrapping around her finger like a shy kitten.

Emilia gasped. "I knew it! You're soft and disgusting! You're perfect!"

She scooped it up into her arms, hugging it close despite the goo sliding down her sleeves. "Your name is Jammy now. You like it? Of course you do. You look like my old lunch."

Jammy gave a low burble in response.

"Ken's gonna be so mad," she giggled. "He told me not to touch anything again after the acid frog thing."

She twirled with the jelly in her arms, eyes dreamy. "But this isn't just a monster. This is destiny. Friendship. Sticky, cursed friendship."

The light above them dimmed once more, but Emilia didn't stop dancing.

She didn't need light. She had Jammy.

Emilia's pink dress fluttered as she twirled alone in the ruined mess hall, the broken beams above her groaning with the wind. Beneath her skirt, hidden in a fold of cloth and warmth, the creature known as PCS A~69 quivered gently. She had named it Jammy—because it felt like jelly and squeaked like jam bubbling in a pot.

Her small, dirt-smudged hands clapped off-beat to an invisible rhythm. "Spin, spin, little Jammy. We're the princess and the jelly knight," she whispered, eyes wide and glittering with innocent madness.

The heavy door creaked.

Mary Janet stepped in first, long coat dragging in the dust, her silver badge of Vanguard pinned firm to her chest. Hana Kraves followed behind, holding a flickering detection crystal—its light pulsing red.

"There you are," Mary muttered, eyes narrowing. "Thought we'd find the PCS here."

Emilia stopped spinning, her feet bare and calloused. She tilted her head. "PCS? Is that the name of a jam jar?"

"No, sweetheart," Hana said gently. "It's a dangerous creature. Did you see anything strange? Something squishy?"

"Nope!" Emilia's voice cracked into a squeaky pitch, both hands tugging her dress tighter around Jammy.

Mary stepped forward slowly. "We can't let it stay free. People could get hurt."

"He's not hurting anybody!" Emilia shouted suddenly, her cheeks puffed. "He's my friend! He's warm and soft and hums when I sing!"

Hana looked at Mary, then knelt down with a gentle smile. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Emilia."

"Do your parents live nearby?"

"Nope. I live with Jammy now."

Mary's gaze hardened. "We don't know her. She's not from any registered hamlet."

"She might be a stray from the southern burn lands," Hana whispered.

"Emilia," Hana said sweetly, "how about this if we take you somewhere safe. With blankets. Warm food. And… candy. As much as you want."

Emilia's eyes lit up. "Candy…?"

Mary reached into her pouch and pulled out a wrapped stick of honey-peppermint. Emilia snatched it like a squirrel, eyes darting between the women and the door.

"Will Jammy come too?"

Mary hesitated, then forced a nod. "Sure. Just keep him close."

They began walking. Emilia clung to Hana's hand, Jammy squirming beneath her dress. No one at Vanguard Station knew who she was.

But she was coming anyway.

And so was the thing that loved her.

....

A storm brooded far out at sea, thunder curling over the coast like a warning not meant for mortals. Beneath the shattered crown of the Watchtower of Larrem, Henry stood alone, silhouetted against the moaning winds. The ocean below boiled with whitecaps, a black vastness that seemed to reach for him.

His fedora clung to his head, heavy with mist. The brown leather coat he wore had gone stiff from the salt air, the edges flapping like brittle wings. In his right hand, he clutched a small brass bell, no larger than a fist—yet it felt like it weighed his life.

This was Ritual Two.

He have to carry the bell all night, without pause. He could not place it down. Could not let it slip. Could not let it ring out too sharply or go silent for too long. Every step, every muscle twitch, was part of a fragile thread. If the rhythm broke, the ritual would backlash, turning inward like a coiled snake and lashing into his bones, soul, and memories.

Henry tightened his grip and stepped onto the weather-worn stone circle carved into the floor of the Watchtower. Runes, faint and ancient, pulsed faintly in the wind—responding to the bell's silent presence. The tower shivered. Time itself seemed to warp around the ritual space.

For hours, he stood still. Then walked in a slow, measured spiral. The bell's faint hum became part of his heartbeat. He did not blink too often. He did not dare to sigh.

Lightning cracked above.

Crows watched from the rusted beams, their feathers shifting unnaturally. One twitched once, then vanished—not flew, just blinked out of existence.

Henry didn't look. He focused.

Eventually, the brass bell turned warm in his palm—its core humming like a tired heartbeat. The runes beneath him flared, then dimmed to stillness. He had endured.

Ritual Two was complete.

He placed the bell carefully into a crimson satchel strapped to his side, then pulled out a folded letter from his coat. The edges were wax-sealed with the insignia of the Father.

"Your Third Ritual begins at the dawn tide.

In the City of Morhat, where the smoke never clears.

Seek a box—small, wooden, sealed with oilskin.

It is in the hands of a homeless beggar.

You will take it.

You will not ask why."

Henry stared at the last line.

A beggar? Why him? Why entrust a relic to someone forgotten by the world?

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

Don't question the Ritual.

Instead, he cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders, and stepped to the edge of the tower.

With a silent command, the Feather Trait embedded in his body activated. Soft, translucent feathers shimmered from his back—phantom wings of ancient power.

The wind shifted, caught him like an old friend.

Henry leapt.

Soaring into the storm, toward the docks of Morhat, where madness waited beneath smiles and alley.