As he approached the basement’s entrance, John considered his options. Ultimately, the goal here was to convince these people to get the hell out of Watford, and the method by which he went about achieving that had been the source of some debate in the planning stages of this operation.

  It basically came down to the carrot or the stick, and that came down to the two categories of people he expected to face: friendly (or at least neutral) or hostile. Thing was, he couldn’t know which of the two they were until he tried to talk to them.

  Therein lay the problem: talking to people. He’d made great progress with his comrades of circumstance, and was rapidly reaching the point where he didn’t feel completely uncomfortable talking with them. A little lurch in the stomach hit him here and there, and he had his moments of anxiety which he tried to put out of his mind, but things were improving when it came to Doug, Lily, Jade, and Chester.

  Unfortunately, he quickly found that growing confidence didn’t necessarily apply to these new strangers, especially when he knew he had to convince them of something, and his nerves were playing tricks on him again, pulling his thoughts in a thousand different directions.

  The time to think beforehand was the problem, in John’s estimation. If he’d just been confronted with the conflict immediately, he would have been forced to adapt on the spot, sink or swim, following the script they’d outlined in their planning session—the others had gone to such effort to make sure it didn’t sound like they were coaching him through it, aware that the implication he needed such a thing might have detrimental effects on his Aura.

  Anxiety reared its ugly head and coiled around his brain stem, whispering questions from the inside of his skull: what if you forget what to say? What if they pose a question you haven’t prepared for?

  It was coming to a point where he kind of hoped they’d be hostile, which was awful of him.

  It’d be so much easier, though. Just beat them up and drag them to the edge of town, where the others can handle negotiations.

  Still, he was well enough versed in fake it til you make it at this point that he kept his shoulders squared, chin high, and hands in his pockets as he reached the entrance of the basement. Hopefully, they would see nothing more than a guy in a trench coat made of billowing shadows, looking unbothered by the apocalypse.

  What he could see of them, through Clairvoyance… He didn’t know what to make of any of them.

  The basement itself was a cramped storage space that had clearly been repurposed into a shelter. Stacks of crates and boxes formed makeshift walls, creating a warren of narrow passages between piles of looted supplies. Sleeping bags were rolled up in one corner, arranged in a neat line that suggested some attempt at organisation. Empty cans and water bottles were sorted into separate piles. A battery-powered lamp sat in the centre of the space, casting weak light that barely reached the walls.

  Seven people huddled in this den of scavenged survival, and each of them was, in their own way, completely bizarre.

  The first was a white guy who looked to be in his early twenties, wearing what could only be described as an unholy amalgamation of different anime cosplays—a red jacket from one series, blue trousers from another, mismatched gloves, and what looked like three different belts crossing his chest in an X pattern. His blue hair was styled in that deliberately spiky way that defied both gravity and good taste.

  Next to him sat a young Asian woman in a beautiful traditional kimono, deep red with golden embroidery depicting cranes in flight. She held a hand-fan that she kept half-raised to her face. Her posture was impeccable, her expression serene, but there was something in her eyes that he was becoming all too familiar with, a spark of self-loathing and indignation that clashed with her otherwise serene persona.

  A woman in full goth regalia occupied another corner, a black dress with multiple layers of lace, white face makeup applied with theatrical precision, dark lipstick, jet black eyeshadow, the works. She sat slumped against a crate, radiating an aura of despair that would've been comical if it didn't seem so genuine.

  The tall, skinny bald man wearing a blank white mask and nondescript grey suit stood perfectly still near the lamp, his posture so rigid he might as well have been a mannequin. The mask was completely featureless, not even holes for eyes, which raised the question of how he could see anything at all.

  Then there was the clown. A blond man in full costume oversized shoes, a rainbow wig, and red nose, who was quite literally bouncing in place, his movements jerky and manic. John could see the fixed grin on his face from multiple angles through Clairvoyance, wide and strained.

  The last two were the ones who made John's jaw clench. The identical twins in golden armor, their ponytail-plumes hanging limply from their helmets. They sat side by side on overturned crates, shoulders touching, both looking utterly haggard; with dark circles under their eyes, and their hands trembling slightly, they looked like they hadn't slept in days.

  Good, a vindictive part of John thought, before he crushed that impulse. Whatever they'd done, whatever part they'd played in Claire's death, he couldn't let himself get distracted by revenge fantasies. He had a job to do.

  John paused to observe with Clairvoyance as the seven below conversed, seemingly debating between themselves.

  The young man in the mismatched costume was the loudest, his voice carrying an over-inflected quality of someone pathetically failing to match the tone of an anime. “I'm telling you, Tomoyo-chan, this is our chance! This chaos outside is the perfect opportunity to strike! We can use this confusion to gain the upper hand, to show everyone the true power that burns within our souls!” He struck a pose, one fist raised toward the ceiling. “The flames of destiny call to us! Will you answer, or will you cower in the darkness?”

  The Asian woman’s fan snapped shut with a crack. When she spoke, her voice had a soft, refined quality to it, each word precisely enunciated. “I will thank you not to address me with such familiarity, Vincent.” The name came out like an insult. “And your suggestion is foolish. Going out there now would be suicide. We should wait until the situation becomes clearer before making any rash decisions.”

  Vincent's face contorted with genuine anger. "My name isn't Vincent! How many times do I have to tell you? It's Tayamotoni Nobutaka! Tayamotoni Nobutaka!" He said it like he was trying to will it into existence. "And we're not cowards, Tomoyo-chan! We're warriors! Heroes chosen by fate to—"

  "My name is Maeda-sama," the woman interrupted, her voice going cold as ice. "If you must refer to me at all, you will use Maeda-sama. And I will not humour your ridiculous fantasy name any more than you will honour my request for proper address. Do you understand, Vincent?"

  John watched this exchange with growing fascination and discomfort. The soft, refined quality to Maeda's voice, and the way she spoke from behind that hand-fan half the time gave him the impression she was playing the role of a stereotypical haughty Japanese noblewoman from some period drama. But there was burning rage in her eyes, and at this point he knew everyone had to be putting on performances to appease their Systems.

  And Vincent was the same. Now that John looked for it, he could see similar despair behind the overwrought anime protagonist routine. The way his hands clenched when he said that fake name, like he was trying to strangle something invisible. The brief flash of self-loathing that crossed his face before the mask snapped back into place.

  They were both trapped in their own personal hells. Forced to play characters they clearly despised, locked into performances they couldn't escape. It made him think of his own situation, his own Aura-farming persona, and he felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for them both. It really seemed like the system was determined to find everyone’s worst version of themselves and force them to act it out.

  Not for the first time, he wondered why.

  Not for the first time, the question had no answer.

  But some day, he told himself, it fucking well would.

  The brewing argument looked like it was about to escalate when the masked man suddenly stepped smoothly forward. His voice was monotone when he spoke.

  “Please, we must continue fighting,” he said. “I am certain we can afford to have divisions in our ranks right now. This is definitely the time to turn on each other.”

  Vincent and Maeda both froze, then turned to look at him with expressions of immediate contrition.

  “You're right, Antoine,” Vincent said, his voice suddenly subdued. “I'm sorry. I got carried away.”

  “My apologies as well,” Maeda added, bowing her head slightly. “That was unseemly of me.”

  John frowned at the way they'd reacted to Antoine's words, treating them as some kind of rebuke. Evidently, this Antoine guy had to say the opposite of what he meant? Something along those lines, at least. The blank mask fit a deceitful aesthetic, now that he thought about it. Maybe his System just made him lie, and he’d found a way to communicate without people having to constantly second-guess his words? Either way, the others knew it, understood the translation automatically.

  The clown guy danced around them during this exchange, his movements jerky and hyperactive, spinning and pirouetting. His grin never wavered, and when he spoke, his voice was nauseatingly cheerful, like every word was being forced through a smile.

  “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! This is so exciting! We're having such a wonderful time down here, aren't we, friends? Everything is just absolutely perfect! I love being stuck in this basement! It's the best thing that's ever happened to me!” The words tumbled out in a manic rush, and even though he was smiling, even though his voice was bright and enthusiastic, it was akin to watching a person having a breakdown while being forced to entertain at a child’s birthday party.

  “Yeah, sorry, Simon.” Vincent turned to the woman in goth gear, who'd been silent throughout the exchange. “What do you think, Aisha? Should we risk it?”

  Aisha raised her head slowly, her movements lethargic, and when she spoke, her voice was thick with despair. “It doesn't matter what we do. We're all going to die anyway. If not today, then tomorrow. If not from whatever's out there, then from starvation. Or thirst. Or from each other. Everything ends. Everything fails. Hope is a lie we tell ourselves to make the inevitable slightly more bearable.”

  John blinked. Right. Another one forced into a role, chronic depression or doom-saying, from the looks of it. Same with the clown guy; it was obvious even to a complete stranger who regularly missed social cues that the guy was not the bundle of joy he was trying to present.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  Throughout all this, the twin golden-armored women watched on, not contributing to the conversation. They just sat there, looking haggard, those dark circles under their eyes making them look almost corpse-like in the dim light. If he was being honest with himself, they looked less like unrepentant killers and more like people on the edge of despair.

  With Maeda and Vincent calmed, the group went back to discussing what to do as John observed.

  Some advocated for sitting tight and waiting for the chaos to blow over: Aisha insisted it was pointless either way, Simon proclaimed how absolutely thrilled he was at the prospect of sitting tight and waiting for the big nasty things outside to go away, and Maeda advocated for an excess of caution.

  Meanwhile, Vincent continued with his speeches about showing their enemies the power of their friendship, and Antoine claimed decisive action was the dumbest move they could make, because being reactive and on the back foot had consistently proven to be the best strategy.

  John decided that was a perfect moment to cut in. And as he prepared to do so, a good idea hit him for handling the negotiations, one that would minimise the risk of his anxiety sabotaging him entirely.

  He pulled up his menus and navigated to Skills, finding what he needed almost immediately.

  Unlocked Ventriloquist!

  -1000 Aura

  The Skill settled into his mind with that familiar sensation of sudden knowledge, like he'd always known how to project his voice. This was one of the generalist Skills, providing him, well, actual skill, of sorts, rather than some special ability that didn’t count as a Spell, for… reasons?

  Thus, he understood immediately how to throw his voice, but not quite in a way that would let him force it down into the basement, detached so far from his current location.

  However…

  Upgraded Ventriloquist Level 1 -> Level 2

  -2000 Aura

  Upgraded Ventriloquist Level 2 -> Level 3

  -4000 Aura

  Upgraded Ventriloquist Level 3 -> Level 4

  -8000 Aura

  Upgraded Ventriloquist Level 4 -> Level 5

  -16000 Aura

  Why not? he thought. I have the points to spare.

  Current Aura: 293,150

  John snorted softly to himself. Yeah, understatement of the century. That purchase barely made a dent.

  The change in the Skill was immediate, pumping up the instinctive knowledge now implanted in his mind and in his muscles to a level that was bordering on supernatural. Once it was confirmed to synergise in the way he was hoping for, it went well beyond supernatural.

  Clairvoyance was still letting him see and hear what was going on down in that basement, after all, and that was a massive boon that the new Skill could work with. If you had the understanding of sound that let you project your voice out, having a supplementary ability that gave you crazy amounts of information on the sound in a massive area was a huge boost.

  Perfect.

  John focused on the space just above the battery-powered lamp in the centre of the basement, right where all seven survivors would be able to hear him clearly. He took a breath, made sure his voice would be deep and smooth via Biomancy, and spoke, projecting his voice from his diaphragm.

  “I can offer you a third option,” his voice said, emanating from the empty air above the lamp. “Leave Watford. Leave for good. Right now.”

  All seven survivors went rigid, heads snapping toward the sound. Their conversation died instantly.

  The golden twins exchanged a fearful glance, and John saw recognition flash across their faces. They knew his voice. They'd heard it before, when he'd torn through their little death squad. Again, he had to consciously tamp down on the vindictive satisfaction that wanted to bloom in his chest at their discomfort.

  The others reacted in ways that were somehow both predictable and absurd, given what he'd observed of their respective curses.

  Simon the clown exploded into motion, spinning and dancing even more frantically than before, his grin somehow widening. “Oh wow! Oh, gosh! A mysterious voice from nowhere! This is the most wonderful thing ever! I'm so happy, I could just die! Meeting new friends is literally my favourite thing in the whole wide world! This is amazing! Spectacular! I love this so much!”

  Maeda recovered her composure with impressive speed, her fan snapping open as she drew herself up to her full height. Which, sitting cross-legged, wasn't particularly intimidating, but John had to give her credit for the attempt. “You will show yourself immediately,” she demanded, her refined voice carrying clear authority despite the tremor John could detect underneath. “It is cowardly to hide while addressing those above your station. Come forth and state your business properly.”

  Vincent struck a pose, one fist clenched at his side, the other pointing dramatically at nothing in particular. “Yes! This is it! The moment we've been waiting for! A mysterious enemy appears to test our resolve! But we won't back down! Not now, not ever! The bonds of friendship are stronger than any steel, more powerful than any magic! Together, we can defeat anything! Our courage will light the way through the darkness!” He was breathing hard by the end of this speech, and John could see his hands shaking. His eyes were wide, too, flickering around, searching.

  Aisha didn't even lift her head. “We're doomed,” she said flatly. “Whatever this is, whoever this is, we can't win. We never could. Hope is a trap. Resistance is futile. We should just accept our deaths and get it over with.”

  Antoine's masked face turned toward the sound of John's voice. “I believe our group will have serious trouble defeating any enemy,” he said in that flat tone of his, though there was a faint French twang to his words creeping through. “Clearly, you shouldn’t show yourself immediately so we can fail to destroy you. I definitely don't recommend staying hidden.”

  John considered his next words carefully, thinking back to the rudimentary script they’d planned out. He needed to establish dominance, make it clear this wasn't a negotiation. At least, not one where they had any real choice. But he also needed to avoid coming across likea complete dick. These people were already clearly traumatised, forced into degrading performances by their own Systems. There was a line between intimidating and outright cruel, and he had to trying his best not to cross it.

  Most of all, they’d decided, it was best to keep things simple. With the advantage of being able to see them without them seeing him, plus with Biomancy working on his physical reactions, he felt a lot more confident.

  “I'm the one causing all those explosions you've been hearing,” John said, his projected voice calm and steady. “The monster waves are being eliminated. The portals will be destroyed. I'm here to liberate the victims of Watford's death game, and tonight, I'm clearing a path for you to escape. All of you.”

  Maeda's fan snapped shut again, and she lowered it enough that John could see her deep frown. “And if we require time to consider your... generous offer?”

  "I'm not leaving anyone a choice in this." John injected what he hoped was a hint of steel into his voice. It was hard to tell. “I'm determined to end Watford's death game tonight. All of it. The monsters, the portals, all of it. And that means every survivor leaves. No exceptions.”

  “But what if we don't want to leave?” Vincent asked, and for just a moment, the anime protagonist mask slipped, revealing genuine confusion underneath. “What if we've got reasons to stay?”

  “Then I'll make you leave anyway,” John said flatly. “I'm not asking. I'm not bargaining. I'm telling you how this is going to go. The question is whether you walk out of Watford on your own two feet tonight, or whether I have to drag you.”

  There was a long moment of silence. John watched through Clairvoyance as the seven survivors exchanged glances, a whole conversation happening in looks and small gestures. The golden twins were trembling now, their fear obvious. Simon was still bouncing, but his movements had become more erratic, less controlled. Aisha had curled further into herself. Antoine's head tilted fractionally to one side.

  Finally, Maeda spoke. “Very well. We will... accept your offer. It seems we have little choice in the matter.” Then, quieter, soft enough that he doubted he would have heard it standing a few paces away from her: “I’m hardly going to complain about finally escaping this godforsaken shithole.”

  John allowed himself a small smile that they couldn't see. “Start gathering your things. You've got five minutes. Pack light. Only bring what you absolutely need.”

  The seven survivors started moving, collecting their belongings with varying degrees of efficiency. They weren't going to try anything stupid, he didn't think. They were scared, traumatised, and exhausted. They just wanted out.

  Which left him with a new problem: presentation.

  Some time in the next five minutes, these seven people were going to climb up out of that basement and meet him face to face for the first time. And John had no idea how to present himself. Should he go for intimidating? Friendly? What was the right move here?

  Overthinking it, he told himself. You're overthinking it. Just... be what they expect. You've been doing that voice-from-nowhere thing, all mysterious and powerful. Just keep that going. It worked fine with Jade, Lily, and Chester.

  But how?

  His mind raced through options. He could just stand there, arms crossed, trying to look cool. But that seemed underwhelming after the mysterious voice trick. He could float in the air, but that felt like trying too hard.

  John looked around, assessing the scene, and an idea hit him. It was over-the-top enough that part of him recoiled at it immediately. But the part that had been farming Aura for the past several days, recognised it for what it was: perfect.

  There was a streetlight nearby, miraculously still standing despite the devastation around it, though it tilted at an angle that suggested it wouldn't be standing much longer. It was tall enough to be impressive, but not so tall that he'd be hard to see. Perfect for a dramatic reveal.

  John activated his Dragon Wings, feeling them unfurl from his back. He grabbed his scythe and katana from his Inventory, too. Then he used Flash Step to position himself at the top of the streetlight, balancing on the lamp housing with perfect precision thanks to Catfall.

  He adjusted his position, making sure his coat was billowing properly, making sure the shadows that clung to it were visible and dramatic. Then he shifted his stance, turning slightly to one side, chin tilted down, one boot on the very edge of the lamp, the scythe held loosely in one hand, the katana in the other.

  This is so fucking stupid, part of his brain screamed. You're going to fall. You're going to look like an idiot. This is the dumbest thing you've ever done.

  He cut off that train of thought by pretty much deleting the panic-inducing brain chemicals with Biomancy, forcing his breathing steady, his heart rate calm. He couldn't afford anxiety right now.

  Soon, the basement door opened, and seven figures emerged into the burning light of the apocalypse’s new sky.

  What they saw was this: John, standing atop a precarious streetlight, wearing his black leather coat that fell halfway down his calves and billowed with captured shadows. Sunglasses despite the eternal red twilight. A black tee with a white skull barely visible beneath the coat. His body angled slightly away from them, head turned just enough that they could see his profile. An ornate scythe clutched in one hand. A katana in the other, its black blade drinking in the hellish light. And from his back, great draconic wings spread wide, their membrane catching the wind, shadows dripping from them like oil.

  He let them stare for a long moment. Let them take it all in. Let the image burn into their minds.

  Then he spoke, projecting his voice so it was deep and resonant, letting it carry that calm, unbothered quality.

  “Are you ready,” John intoned, “to leave this accursed town?”

  The seven of them were rendered speechless. Mouths open. Eyes wide. Even Simon had stopped bouncing, frozen mid-motion like his motor had finally, mercifully, shut off.

  They could only nod.

  Satisfied with his performance—and trying very hard not to think about how absolutely cringe that entire setup had been—John spread his wings wider, feeling the power in them, the way they caught the air. He lifted off from the streetlight with what he hoped looked like effortless grace, rising into the crimson sky.

  “Follow the direction I fly,” he called down to them, angling himself toward the west, toward where Doug and the others were waiting. “Stay close together, and don't stop moving. I'll clear a path through any monsters that try to block your way.”

  He rose higher, Clairvoyance still keeping watch on them, making sure they were moving. He saw Vincent staring up at him, mouth hanging open, and heard the young man mutter something.

  “That's just not fucking fair, man.”

  +2000 Aura