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A mortal garden is known to hold extravagant plants of all shapes and sizes. Countless beauties that each need their own special needs in order to grow to the best of their ability.

The Zombie Lily, affectionately called the Cleo Lily by many gardeners, is a difficult flower to care for but if raised right, it will make a wonderful centerpiece to your mortal garden. Once you have acquired the flower's seeds, plant them in soil isolated from all other plants that is neither too warm nor too cold. This flower requires dim, comfortable lighting, randomly interrupted by bright unrelenting light. This combination of soil and lighting, if provided perfectly, will begin to sprout a budding flower of unease and burnout. To further continue the flower's growth, frequently trim it, making it feel as if it can't make any decisions that will make it good enough. Suppose random blazes of light are continuously applied throughout the growing process. In that case, the flower will begin to stretch itself thin, viewing the harsh light as a punishment for not being good enough. The flower will stretch and stretch before inevitably falling. When this happens, encourage it with a harsher light. Repeat these steps until the lily has worn itself so thin it can hardly recognize who they have become.

Cleo grew up in what she had believed to be a loving household, though looking back, she never had been quite comfortable there. Their parents seemed to love them, she was sure of that. At least, that's what they told themselves. they tended to yell at her for every little thing she did wrong.

"𝘊𝘭𝘦𝘰! 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴?"

"𝘊𝘭𝘦𝘰, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳!"

"𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵? 𝘕𝘰! 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰!"

She tried her best to be good enough. She isolated herself from everyone else, focusing on school, chores, and jobs. For a while, it was enough. For a while, their hard work was paying off. It didn't last. Nothing she did lasted, of course not! She just hadn't worked hard enough! Year after year they worked as hard as she could and year after year she burned herself out. All they knew was work. It was their life. She couldn't let herself slip, not again. One day they caught a glimpse of themself in a mirror as they passed by. She stopped and stared at her reflection. Staring back at them was a zombie of their past self.

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The prey stumbled through the forest, tripping over roots and branches, all prior grace of the hunt lost. Martyn trailed close behind, Ren at his side. The prey looked back. A fatal flaw. His foot caught on a branch as he tumbled to the ground. He barely had time to process what had happened before he was surrounded. His death was slow and painful.

Martyn wiped the blood from his face as he stared at the victim's corpse. There was no one left to chase, no one else left to make pay for their sins. Just him and Ren. Unless... no. No, he wouldn't do that- he 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 do that. He glanced at Ren. Was he too clean? Was his axe lacking fresh blood? Had he had 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺 on their victim? No, stop, don't think like that. Ren was his all. He couldn't just betray him as he had the others.

𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴, A part of him whispered. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵.

He turned to Ren. He didn't run as the others had. He just stood there, a sad smile on his lips.

"Run, please," Martyn begged. "Maybe you'll be able to get away."

Ren shook his head. He had no chance, they both knew that. Silently, he held out his axe for Martyn to take. Martyn looked at him, tears starting to pool in his eyes as he accepted the weapon.

"I don't want to do this," He raised the axe.

Ren smiled at him. "I know. I lo-"

The axe met Ren's throat in a clean sweeping arc.

Ren gurgled something to Martyn as he toppled to the ground. Martyn dropped the blood-covered axe, falling to his knees. He gently cradled Ren's body as he died, his tears mixing with his blood.

"I'm sorry," He cried. "I didn't even let you finish your sentence."

Ren's body went limp, his eyes drained of life. Martyn had done it. He had won the hunt.

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Tango watched as his life burned to ashes in front of him. The furnace was scalding hot. He wanted to leave, wanted to scream from all the blisters on his hands but he knew he couldn't. Even if he did escape, where would he go?

The familiar rattle of the minecart filled the small room. The cart was filled with reminders of his home, mementos from the ranch. He began to shovel it all into the furnace. It wasn't long before his shovel hit something soft. By now, he knew the feeling all too well. It was a corpse. As he continued to shovel his life into the flames, he uncovered the hand. It was clenched tight around something. A horn. Jimmy's horn.

𝘕𝘰.

Tango dropped his shovel to the ground with a clang. He began furiously digging through the different memories piled into the cart, trying to uncover the face of the corpse. It couldn't be Jimmy. They could take his ranch, his most beloved memories, his sanity, but they couldn't take Jimmy from him.

Finally, the face was revealed. It wasn't Jimmy. Tango let out a sob of relief. It wasn't Jimmy, he was still out there. But was he safe? How long would it be until he would arrive to Tango in one of the minecarts?

Fear washed over him as he picked up his shovel off the ground. One shovelload of memories cast into the fire. Then another. Then another. Finally, all that was left was Jimmy's horn. Oh how he wanted to keep it as a reminder of the one he missed so dearly. He wanted to hold it close to him forever and never let go. His hands hesitated.

𝘋𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥, A voice inside him said. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵.

Tango let the horn fall into the inferno before him. The minecart rattled away, leaving Tango alone to watch his memories disintegrate.

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Death had always followed Jimmy. He could feel it breathing down his neck, wrapping its bony fingers around his soul, day after day. When he was just thirteen, the fingers squeezed for the first time.

During a long family road trip, Jimmy suddenly began to feel dizzy. At first, he played it off as being car sick or something he must have eaten, but then he began coughing. It started with small coughs, which eventually turned into a hacking, blood-producing cough. Jimmy's parents rushed him to the nearest hospital as fast as they could, but before they could arrive, he passed out. When he awoke, he was in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by doctors. The doctors told Jimmy that he had developed a blood clot in his lung that had nearly killed him. He was lucky even to be alive. A week later, Jimmy stumbled across a news article saying that one of the doctors who had saved him had tragically died due to a lung clot. What a horrible coincidence, he thought.

Six months passed before Jimmy found himself in the hospital again. He'd had a sudden heart attack, though the doctors didn't know what had caused it. He was lucky to be alive. Three days later, a renowned doctor was reported dead of a heart attack.

Over and over, Jimmy would find himself in the hospital, "lucky to be alive", and over and over, someone who had helped save him would die. At first, Jimmy tried to prevent these deaths. He knew they were somehow connected to him. He lived the healthiest life he could to avoid health complications, he even tried warning his doctors. But Jimmy still ended up in the hospital, and no matter how much he begged and pleaded with his doctors to take precautions, they always wound up dead.

As the years passed, Jimmy grew accustomed to the death that followed him. He began to make a life for himself. He fell in love, got married, bought a ranch, and he was happy. It wasn't long before Jimmy had another episode that sent him to the hospital. It was a cancer, this time, though they had caught it soon enough that he would be just fine. He was lucky to be alive. After his discharge, Jimmy noticed there was no news of any doctors dying of cancer. Strange, he usually heard the news by now, but he brushed it off. It didn't matter, he was still alive.

As time passed, and there was still no news of any dead doctors, Jimmy noticed his husband getting sicker and sicker. He played it off, telling Jimmy he was "fine, just a bit tired". But then he started to lose weight for no apparent reason, and then he seemed to have a constant fever. Jimmy took him to the hospital as soon as he let him, but by then, it was too late.

This wasn't how it worked. He was supposed to be lucky to be alive, not be forced to watch the love of his life dying, knowing that in some unexplainable, supernatural way, this was his fault. A stranger was supposed to take his place, not the person closest to him.

Day after day, he waited beside his husband's hospital bed. He begged his husband to forgive him, though his husband didn't know why.

"You couldn't have stopped this, love. Just promise to watch over the ranch for me when I'm gone, okay?"

Jimmy knew, deep down, that there must have been a way he could have stopped this. He'd gotten so comfortable in his little routine that he never once thought of the what if's and how to stop them. But it was too late to change the past.

Sitting in an empty home was worse than death, Jimmy decided. And for once, he wasn't lucky to be alive.

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Lizzie stood on the edge of the floating island, looking down into the vast nothingness. The void below her stretched and twisted its arms towards her, begging her to join it. Lizzie teetered on the edge, nearly losing her balance. She gasped, catching herself before she could fall into the void. Her chest tightened as her heart beat wildly. Her world spun around her, and she could feel her legs locking up. She closed her eyes tightly, hoping it would make her feel better. And then she began to fall.

She didn't know where the island had gone. It should be right above her, shouldn't it be? She swiveled about aimlessly in the air, unable to determine which was up and which was down. The wind beat at her from every direction as she flailed around in the air. The nothing was embracing her, claiming her as its own.

Lizzie felt as if she couldn't breathe. How long would she fall? How long had she been falling for already? A few minutes? A few seconds? Forever? She would eventually hit the ground, wouldn't she? Or was she now stuck forever dreading the landing but never actually reaching it?

The void was cold. Far, far colder than she thought possible. She shivered violently, teeth clattering so forcefully she thought they would shatter. How long would she be forced to endure this? How long must she suffer the fall?

The void slowly began to squeeze Lizzie. A soft, gentle pinch at first that quickly escalated to a deadly grip encircling her. The air was stolen from her as the crushing became worse, making her lungs scream out in agony as if on fire. She wanted to scream, to cry, to beg for help, but the nothingness crushed her voice before it could even leave her mouth.

Which would kill her first, she wondered. The cold, the pressure, or the landing?

It wasn't long before she had her answer. In the distance was a small dot. Miniscule at first, but quickly growing. Another small floating island was rushing towards her. Or rather, she was rushing to it. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the impact.

She hit the island with a sickening crunch and the void finally released its grip on her. She gasped for air, lying broken on the ground. Blinking tears of pain out of her eyes, she tried to move. She was quickly met with a wave of excruciating pain flooding her every sense. She lay on the ground, breathing heavily for what seemed like forever. And then, her body began to repair itself. It hurt like hell. Sinew and muscle began to sew themselves back together and her bones snapped back into place. Lizzie tried to scream, but the void captured her voice, silencing her. Finally, she was fixed.

Carefully, Lizzie picked herself up off the ground. She was exhausted. Every inch of her felt sore, right down to the core. She stumbled across the island, though it was completely barren, save for a few scattered pale yellow rocks. Not watching where she was stepping, Lizzie tripped over one such rock. Lizzie toppled forward, barely catching herself on her hands as she crashed to the ground. When she looked up, she was on the edge of the island. Lizzie picked herself up and gazed down into the void.

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Doors, doors, doors. Endless doors lined an endless hallway. Was the hallway straight or curved? BigB couldn't tell. It had to be straight, he'd be walking down this hall for what seemed like forever. Yet the hall had an odd curve to it. Could it be a spiral? No, he'd certainly had reached the center point already if it was. How long had he been here anyway? His watch was malfunctioning, telling him it was five one minute and two another. He felt like a fool for leaving his phone behind, although he knew it wouldn't have done him any good anyway.

Every so often, a door would be replaced by a mirror. Mirrors were a curious thing in this place. Whenever he came across one, his reflection would always be distorted. Though the distortion would change with each different mirror, sort of like the mirrors you'd find at a carnival funhouse, it always seemed to elongate his fingers and his smile. They stretched and twisted in ways that seemed inhumane, and once, BigB could have sworn that he felt his fingers begin to twist.

The doors were all locked. BigB had tried to use them as soon as he had arrived in this place. He knew that there had to be a way to get out. Perhaps there were clues. The positions of the doors, the types of doors he passed, the pattern in which the mirrors appeared- there had to be clues somewhere. But it was no luck. There was no consistency in the way the doors faced nor in the material used to build each door. The mirrors seemed worse, showing even less of a pattern. BigB could travel for what felt like ages only to find two mirrors side by side, of different sizes. He was beginning to lose it. there had to be something, anything that would clue him of the way out. The lights, maybe? Yes! It had to be the lights! Perhaps they were blinking in morse code, or perhaps they were blinking in a pattern that would somehow lead him the the exit. He laughed; he was a genius!

BigB sat on the floor of the hallway, staring up at the lights. Yes, yes, it all made sense! The lights, they.... they.... were they even blinking at all? They had to be, didn't they? He was sure that the lights were flickering, yet they looked so steady. They looked colorful. But also harsh white? He laughed. A small chuckle at first, then a roaring thunder of laughter. There must be a pattern! There must be a way out!

The corridor around him seemed to twist and spin, yet seemed oh so steady. Was he going mad? No, he couldn't be; he thought he'd been mad when he'd found that bright yellow door in a cave, but he hadn't! The door was real, so he couldn't possibly be mad! Which meant that there was a pattern he could find. A madman wouldn't be able to find the answers needed to escape. He'd spend his time wandering the halls, wishing for a way out. Yes, BigB was not mad, not in the slightest.

BigB sat on the floor staring at the lights for a long time, yet also no time at all. They twitched; they stood firm; they fluttered brilliant colors; they were a blank sheet of paper. Yes, they would make a pattern, BigB was sure of it. All he had to do was be patient, and the answers would come to him.

Tick tock, tock tick, the only thing that mattered was finding the pattern. Time was a concept long ago and soon forgotten. Pink, purple, blue, blinding white, flittering, fluttering, solid as a rock, the doors drew closer, yet felt miles away. BigB was not a madman, he was perfectly sane. He knew he was just as well as he knew there was a pattern hidden for him to find. He laughed. He couldn't stop himself. His laughter filled the halls, crescendoing into a discordant melody.

His laugh was not his own.

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Skizz crawled. He crawled through a small dirt tunnel on his stomach, getting crushed by the weight of the dirt around him. Was he digging up, or was he digging down? Would he ever be free from this prison of Earth? The burden of the soil filled his lungs, weighing him down, no matter how careful he was to keep it out. He coughed, trying to clear his lungs, but instead he just invited more and more soil into him. His chest ached, squeezing in on itself in an attempt to flee from the pressure surrounding him.

There was no escape. No matter how far he crawled through his tunnel, he could never find any relief. There were no pockets of looser, more breathable soil. There were no areas of freedom or escape. There was just hard-packed dirt surrounding everything, creating an unescapable jail. All you could do was crawl. Crawl and hope there would be an end to the torture one day, crawl and hope the pressure doesn't take you before you have the chance to properly breathe again, or finally see the sky once more.

What did the sky look like anyway? What did freedom feel like, or fresh air? When had this crushing pressure become his world? When had he last been able to stand and stretch, run and be free? Had he ever been free? For as far as he could remember, he'd known this pressing weight. It had always been there, slowly building, slowly taking over before finally rushing over him like a landslide. And then his life had become dirt. Crushing him until there was nothing more he could remember.

Skizz stopped moving. He tried to scoot further, but the tunnel had grown too small. He started to panic.

𝘕𝘰, 𝘯𝘰, 𝘯𝘰, 𝘯𝘰! 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬! 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦! Skizz thought frantically. 𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘴. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘪𝘭, 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳! 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥.

Skizz crawled desperately against the walls of the tunnel. As long as his hands could work, he could dig himself free; he was sure of it. However, the more dirt he dug out, the more dirt filled its spot. Before long, he was completely encompassed by the dirt. The tunnel was gone, and the pressure had increased on him tenfold.

Skizz gave up hope of digging himself free. There was no use, escape wasn't an option. Silently, Skizz let the pressure consume him.

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There was no one for Pearl. Not a single soul to comfort her or protect her or for her to protect. She was alone. Utterly, painfully alone.

She'd find some, every once and a while, but they never lasted. They never stayed.

Scott had been the first. The first days were wonderful, as they played games and cared for one another. They were a team, inseparable. Life was carefree and harmonious, and just for a moment, everything seemed as though it would be just fine. As a team, they could survive, they could win, they could be happy. "Tilly death do us part," Scott had said, and Pearl had believed him. But it was no sooner than he had spoken those words before he was running off with Cleo. The first time was the worst. The heart, previously unbroken, gains its first crack. It's a bloody mess, the first crack. The heart hasn't had time to harden yet, and so it bleeds and it bleeds and it bleeds. The betrayal stings you like a million fire ants suffocating you. Pearl wanted to scream, she wanted to cry. 𝘞𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥! But Scott wouldn't listen. His mind had been made up.

Then there was Martyn. They were in the same boat; Cleo had left him for Scott. Together, they patched each other up, and they became a team. Martyn understood her, he felt her pain. They laughed and joked, and swept their pain under the rug, and for a time, the pain went away. But then he left, too. He barely said a word before he was gone, and suddenly the pain was back. A new crack formed down her heart. What had she done wrong? Had she not been good enough? Hadn't he been through the same as her? Did he not care that this was breaking her?

Next was Ren and BigB. They took her in, they were kind to her, they tried to patch her up. She refused to get too close to them; she never fully exposed her heart to them. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴, her brain would tell her. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘱, her heart told her. As it turned out, she didn't even have to open up to be left alone once more. One false move had cost her everything she had begun to build. She was kicked out, just as always. The pain had begun to harden, but the cracks still formed.

She moved to the woods, living with the crushing weight of her heart in her chest. Loneliness was consuming.

The day her dog died was the day Pearl lost it. The one soul that hadn't left her, that had stayed loyal to her, was gone. She couldn't feel the pain, though. Her heart had become as solid as rock.

In the end it was just her again. No one left in the world but her. Each person had dropped like flies until it was just her and Scott left together. She had felt a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, she could fix things between them. They could be a team again, allies, friends! She wouldn't have to be alone anymore! But just as before, he had left with a simple "Tilly death do us part."

Pearl screamed at the stars above her. They seemed to dance and mock her pain so far away and out of reach. She screamed at whatever was behind all of this, cursing them for making her suffer so much. What had she done to deserve this?

𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶! 𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴, 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨! 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘬? The sky did not respond.

Pearl crumpled to the ground in frustration. She felt her heart cracking in two.

𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥... Pearl said, her voice cracking.

Pearl began to cry. No one heard her, she was all alone.

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I wasn't always this complete. There was once a time when I was empty. So much potential was almost wasted.

I was once like everyone else. I worried about others' opinions, I worried about costs, and I worried, worried, worried. That was my life before I found my purpose, my home.

There had always been something in the attic. I had known since the day I had moved in, but the door had been locked. I didn't try to get to what was behind the door at first. It was locked for a reason, I would tell myself. But then it began to sing to me. It was a haunting, hopeful song. It sang to me praises, it sang to me promises. Promises of being one, promises of being loved, promises of being consumed by what loved me.

Their songs followed me, even when I wasn't at my home. All day I would listen to their songs and fall into a wonderful, blissful trance. People at my work began to worry. They said I wasn't acting like myself, but how could they know? I had never felt more me then in those moments when it sang to me.

After a while, I decided to free what was behind the attic door. For nights on end, it had sung to me promises of having a purpose or being a home. It was too beautiful to be trapped behind locked doors, I had to free it. It begged me to free it, to become their home.

I searched high and low for a key but found none. I tried everything I could think of to get the door open, desperate for the love and purpose I was promised behind the door. I managed to get it open.

The attic was completely empty, save for layers of dust and the most beautiful object I have ever seen in my life, sitting undisturbed in the corner. It was a wasp's nest. Its surface twisted and shifted in wondrous patterns, and its beautiful song rang throughout the entire room. I slowly walked over and knelt beside it, cradling it reverently.

The nest exploded in my arms, releasing a wave of worms that covered my body head to toe. They nestled into my flesh, finding comfort in my warmth. I was a part of them now, and they were part of me. They had been right. I had a purpose now, I was loved, and I was home. And I will continue to care for them until my very last breath. For I am their home, their protector, and I am loved. I will not let them down.

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The air in the town square of Impulse's hometown was thick with a tension he couldn't quite put his finger on. A strange melody began to drift through the square. It was a beautiful, fast-paced tune that rang out against the emptiness. Impulse spun around, searching for the source of the music. Off in the distance, he thought he saw a figure, but before he could fully register what he was seeing, all hell broke loose.

The town square erupted in chaos as people flooded in from all sides and began to fight one another. Shouting and gunshots began to fill the air, but above all the chaos, the melody still played. Someone ran past Impulse, shoving a gun into his hands before running off, shouting for him to not just stand there, but to fight. Impulse obliged, running off into the battle.

People were falling left and right, and on more than one occasion, Impulse tripped over some poor fallen soldier. As he ran through the battle, Impulse noticed the music getting louder and more frantic. As Impulse dodged a man falling to the ground, he spotted her. Across the square was a woman with fiery orange hair walking casually through the active warzone. Her eyes were closed as she walked aimlessly through the fighting, her only focus seemed to be on the song she was playing on a set of panpipes. The chaos seemed to avoid her, as if she had a protective bubble around her.

𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳, Impulse thought to himself. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳.

Impulse began to run towards her, hoping that with her he would find safety. He dodged enemy after enemy, always keeping the woman in his sight. She was moving in the opposite direction from him, so he had to move quickly. Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder, yanking him backward. The man who had grabbed Impulse was large and intimidating, and clearly someone of power.

"Where do you think you're going? We're in the middle of a battle! Have you forgotten our cause?" The man yelled, gesturing to the surrounding fighting. "Get back out there and fight, goddammit!"

"Yes, sir!" Impulse responded before rejoining the fray.

How could he have been so stupid? Chasing off some mystery woman when important work had to be done, he should be ashamed of himself. And forgetting their cause, how could he? This battle was important, because... because... why was it important?

Impulse paused, lowering his gun. What was the point of this battle? And who was he fighting? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 were they fighting? Looking around, Impulse realized he couldn't tell friend from foe. Everyone, as far as he could see, was wearing civilian clothing.

𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺, He thought to himself. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘮 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘦. 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

Impulse looked around frantically, desperately trying to find a way out. Then, through the crowd, he spotted her once again. The woman with the pipes. Impulse sprinted through towards her once again, dodging anyone who would get in his way. The melody riding on the air became more frantic as he got closer and closer to the woman. Finally, as the song crescendoed, Impulse burst through the mass of fighting and tripped right in front of the woman. The tune subsided, and Impulse groaned softly on the ground. When he looked up, the woman was standing above him, hand outstretched as if to help him up. He reached out and grasped her hand. And in that moment, a grenade exploded right beside him.

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No one seemed to notice when Grian changed. No one except Scar.

For as long as Scar had known him, Grian had always had one pair of bright parrot wings, dark brown eyes that seemed to reflect the universe itself, and a signature red jumper that he wore even in the hottest of summers. So when Grian appeared one day with two pairs of stark white wings, a pair of ear wings covering his eyes, and adorned in purple robes, Scar knew this wasn't his Grian.

No one believed him when he asked others if they had noticed the changes. They claimed he had always had white wings. He'd never liked bright colors, so if he'd had parrot wings, he'd want to get rid of them. And a bright red jumper was completely out of character for Grian. Scar of all people should know that Grian hated red. Purple had always been his favorite color. And what was this about his eyes? Dark brown? It was possible, but no one had ever seen eyes; they just couldn't be sure.

Scar tried to convince them. He showed them pictures, videos, even paintings he had made of his Grian, but it was no use.

Scar took to avoiding this Not Grian like the plague. This wasn't his Grian, he wanted nothing to do with him. Whenever Scar spotted him in the shopping district, he quickly went the opposite direction. Whenever he got a text from the imposter, he ignored it, though he was tempted to ask how he had gained access to Grian's phone. After a while, Not Grian began showing up at Scar's house. He'd stand on the front porch and knock for hours on end.

"Scar! Scar, are you home?"

His voice was wrong. Scar couldn't explain it, but it was off. It felt more... dark. Nothing like the sweet, warm voice he was used to.

Weeks went by with Scar successfully avoiding the impostor. Then one day, Scar came home to find Not Grian sitting primly on his couch. Scar felt every muscle in his body tense up.

"How did you get in here?" Scar asked coldly.

Not Grian didn't even look at him. "With the house key you gave me, silly. How else?"

"I gave that key to Grian, not you."

"I am Grian, Scar."

"What did you do to him?" Scar asked, disregarding Not Grian's claim. "Did you kill him?"

"I told you, I 𝘢𝘮 Grian, Hotshot."

"Don't call me that," Scar said, his voice dripping with venom. "You're not him. I know you're not him, no matter how many times you lie. You may be able to fool my friends, but you'll never be able to trick me. So I ask you again, what did you do with him?"

Not Grian sighed as he stood up, and despite the wings covering his eyes, Scar was positive he was staring right at him. "I was really looking forward to living his life, you know. It would have been quite fun to destroy. But no, you just had to ruin my fun."

"Who are you?"

"Who aren't I? At the moment, I'm Grian, but blink and I could be Pearl, or Mumbo. Hell, I could even be you." Not Grian made his way towards Scar at an agonizing, leisurely pace. "As for what I did to Grian, I didn't kill him. I simply erased him and filled in his absence."

"So, he's gone?" Scar asked quietly, backing away from Not Grian as he approached.

"Yes, boo hoo, so sad." Not Grian said, waving the question off as if it were unimportant. "Do you know how much work it goes into erasing someone? Hours of work, undone because one person remembers the previous Grian? I simply can't have that."

"What are you going to do?" Scar's back hit a corner, and it wasn't long before Not Grian had him trapped with no route of escape. Scar could have fought him, he was significantly stronger than Grian, but this Not Grian? Something told him that was a poor idea.

Not Grian smiled as the wings that covered his eyes slowly moved to reveal eyes that seemed to shift between shades of purple. The moment Scar saw them, he couldn't look away. It was as if he were hypnotized.

"You'll find out soon enough."

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BDubs hated the dark for as long as he could remember. He was never one of those children who begged his parents to let him stay up later than his bedtime. In fact, the moment that the sun began to go down, he would race to his bed, trying to beat the darkness.

It wasn't necessarily the darkness that scared him, but rather the monsters that used the darkness as their shields. He never saw them, but he heard them. They would scream and break things and make loud noises when they thought BDubs was asleep. He knew the monsters would one day get him if he were alone with the dark. So he basked in the light of the day, knowing that no monsters could harm him, and once the light began to retreat, he would chase it straight into a new day.

But sometimes the monsters were extra loud and woke BDubs up in the middle of the night. They must not like him skipping the night when they could torture him. BDubs didn't care what the monsters thought; he hated it when they tortured him with their loud sounds.

One night, there was a monster right outside his door. It woke him up with its loud, slurry, unintelligible speech yelling outside his door. BDubs panicked, pulling the blanket high over his head. Maybe if the monster thought he was asleep, they wouldn't hurt him? As BDubs cowered in fear, listening to the monster getting closer and closer to his door, he suddenly heard his mother's voice begging the monster to leave him alone. A small scuffle happened, but in the end, the monster retreated. His mother had saved him!

The next morning, BDubs ran down the stairs and hugged his mom tightly. She looked confused at the sudden embrace, but hugged him back nonetheless.

"Thank you for saving me from the monster last night!"

His mother paled at his words. "What do you mean, sweetie?"

"Last night," BDubs began explaining. "I heard a monster outside my bedroom, and I heard you fight it off. That means you saved me."

His father had a deep frown on his face. "There's no such thing as monsters."

"Your father is right, honey. You must have been dreaming." His mother responded a little too quickly, though BDubs didn't notice.

"But what about the marks on your arms?" He asked, pointing to an array of bruises scattered across his mother's arms. "Didn't you get those from fighting the monster?"

"No, sweetie, I'm just a bit clumsy, is all," His mother stole a glance at his father, hoping her excuse was satisfactory enough. "Why don't you come help me in the garden? I think there's a new type of moss growing on one of the stones, and I know how much you love moss."

Each night, the monster attacks seemed to get worse. The monster got closer and closer to opening his door every night, but his mother always swooped in at the last second to save the day. In the morning, she always denied her heroic acts, and his father would always tell him that monsters don't exist. But BDubs knew the truth, even if his parents wouldn't admit it. Monsters were very real, and one tried to get into his room every night.

Eventually, the monster made it into his room, and he heard his mother begging and the sound of a slap. BDubs dared a small peek from beneath his covers and was shocked to see that the figure of the monster looked eerily similar to his father.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳! He thought to himself. That would explain why is mother only ever scared it away instead of killing it.

The monster got close, far too close for BDubs' liking, before his mother finally dragged it out of his room and closed his door. BDub's couldn't fall back asleep until the early hours of the morning that night. The monster kept trying to get into his room, and even after the monster stopped, the sounds of his mother sobbing in the hallway kept him up.

The next morning, BDubs ran into the dining room and proudly presented his discovery to his parents.

"Monsters are real, but they can shapeshift, which is why we don't think they're real!"

His father exploded at that. "There are no monsters, you idiot! You just can't keep your imagination and reality separate! You're making shit up and expecting us to play along with your silly little games!"

BDubs sat down at the table, shocked. His father had called him an idiot. His father had used a 𝘯𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 on 𝘩𝘪𝘮. Worst of all, his father sounded just like the monster outside his door, if he could understand the monster.

An idea began to form inside his head. Monsters were real, he was sure of that. But maybe monsters weren't shapeshifters. Maybe monsters weren't some strange creatures that only appeared at night. Maybe monsters were humans, just like BDubs, and his mother, and...his father. Maybe monsters used the shield of nighttime to show who they really were. And maybe, monsters tend to be closer than we think they are.

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Mumbo stood in the center of a stage. On all sides, he could hear an audience, but the lights above him were too blinding to allow him to see them. He could make a run for it, but where would he go? Beyond the lights was an endless expanse of darkness, as far as he could tell. He took a step forward, and a thin, red line wrapped itself around his leg.

"Please," He whispered. "Not again."

A distorted voice boomed from all around, though it seemed as if only Mumbo could hear it.

"But Mumbo," The voice said. "The crowds love you! You can't just stop and deprive them of their fun!"

Mumbo felt like sobbing. How many times had he been through this? A hundred times? A thousand? How many times would he have to go through this? Another line shot out from oblivion and wrapped itself around one of Mumbo's arms.

"Please, I've had enough," Mumbo begged.

"Then leave," The voice said. "You have free will, don't you?"

"I don't know anymore. Did I ever have free will?"

The voice sounded quite pleased by his answer. "Ah, now that's quite the question!"

Two more lines shot out, holding Mumbo aloft like a puppet.

"What have I ever done that was my own doing? Have I ever been in control?" Mumbo asked sullenly. The crowd cheered.

"That's the spirit!" The voice said. "They love you!"

The lines began to puppet Mumbo into an intricate dance he knew all too well. He twisted and turned as reminders of his life popped up around him. He had never had control, had he? These objects were proof of that. There was always something bigger in play, something else controlling him. He had never had free will or a life of his own.

By the time the lines set him down, Mumbo was sobbing. The crowd loved it.

"Fantastic work, Mumbo." The voice boomed. "Do you hear that? 'Encore,' they're saying! Well, we must not disappoint our audience."

"Please," Mumbo sobbed. "I just want a break."

"No can do, I'm afraid you have no choice."

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