Jayson’s eyes snap open to a world of gray. The empty factory stretches around him. There are no fires, no smoke, no people. Only silence. His body feels weightless as he pushes himself up, noticing the absence of pain and injury. He also notices that the concrete beneath his feet lack texture, and the air carries no scent. He furrows his brows and paces in a circle, searching for signs of life, but finds nothing.

  “Hello?” calls Jayson. He walks in another big circle, his steps barely touching the surface. He cups his hands to his mouth, and yells, “Hellloooo~! Lexia! Derrick! Anybody!”

  Silence.

  Jayson continues looking around, finding ruined vats and collapsed walkways, gray and frozen in place. A sudden flicker of light catches his attention, and he looks to the source and sees a figure standing between two collapsed pillars. The stranger is tall, still like stone, and their form radiates a gentle white light. Jayson is compelled to walk towards them, like a smaller object being guided by a far superior gravitational force.

  As Jayson approaches the figure, their features become clearer. A humanoid shape without a face, their body wrapped in flowing white orbs that move despite the absence of wind. Behind the figure is an elegant door, decorated with an ornate carving of a heart wrapped in a scarf. This being, this… Angel, unfurls the wings on its back, displaying feathers of fire and creating stark shadows where its light does not touch. A golden book appears in its hand, glowing softly, and it opens the book to thin pages, never looking away from Jayson.

  “Nope,” says Jayson, turning sharply. “Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Not dealing with this.”

  He tries to walk away but comes to an abrupt stop when he realizes the Angel is standing in front of him, holding the book open and the same heart decorated door behind it. Jayson turns again, but once again the Angel and the door are in front of him. He tries again and again and again, but no matter where he turns, the Angel and the door are there. Jayson growls and tries yet again, and just like the ten previous times of trying, the Angel and door are in front of him.

  “What kind of stupid dream is this?” says Jayson. He slaps himself. “Wake up.”

  The Angel keeps staring, and Jayson pinches himself.

  “Wake up.”

  That doesn’t work, so Jayson goes to a vat, grabs it, takes a deep breath, and slams his head against it. He feels nothing and his head barely taps it. Jayson groans irritably and tries repeatedly to slam his head against it with the only result being an invisible force stopping him from colliding.

  “WAKE UP!” screams Jayson. “I NEED TO WAKE UP! I HAVE WORK TO DO!”

  “You’re not in the Book,” says the Angel.

  Jayson snaps around, sneering. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re not in the Book. There is no Heaven for you.”

  Jayson steps away from the vat, shaking his head and wagging his finger. “Oh no. That’s not gonna fly. You see, in dream worlds, the dreamer is the master. And me being the dreamer means that I have free reign of the dream. Like that movie, Mind Heist, directed by Nolan Christos. I know you know what I’m talking about because you are a projection in my subconscious, and that means-”

  “You’re dead,” says the Angel.

  “I’M NOT DEAD!” cries Jayson. He paces in a circle, steps heavy and breathing ragged, and vision clouding up. He wipes his face, finding moisture on his fingers. He makes a broken chuckle and turns to the Angle, showing his wet fingers. “HA! SEE! WETNESS! GHOSTS DON’T CRY!”

  “Yes, they do.” The Angel steps forward. “Tears of joy. Tears of sorrow. Tears of torment.”

  The Angel closes the Book with one hand and with the other, gestures to the heart decorated door. The doorknob twists on its own, and with a click it opens, bleeding red light into the gray realm. Screams of rage and agony clash with thrashing water, roaring flames, and clashing metal.

  Wailing bodies collide with each other in the bloody river. Each tugging, punching, kicking, biting, drowning, ripping, slashing. Anything they can do to harm each other, they are doing. Some are impaled on sharp tree branches or poles, their bodies writhing and mouths wide open from their agonizing screams. Some are gouging out eyes, tearing out tongues, biting off flesh, or breaking bones. Some are holding their victims down so the bodies beneath can pull them further under.

  Hanging from the dark clouds are chains that stop just shy of the reach of the mutilated mass. Many try to grab them, and the few that manage are pulled down. But worst of all, standing in the doorway, is a black mass with wide, white void eyes and a broad white grin nearly splitting their face in half, looking right at Jayson, her bloodied hands extended to him.

  “There you are, Jayson. Come see with me,” says Lexanne.

  “NO!” screams Jayson.

  He attempts to run away, but Lexanne’s arm stretches out and her sharp hand wraps around his ankle, tugging him hard. He crashes face first against the concrete, feeling that. Jayson screams again and claws at the ground as Lexanne slowly drags him to the door.

  “I can’t go back! I have a promise to keep!” says Jayson, his voice cracking and vision blurring with tears.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to see the real Lexanne? She’s waiting for you! Should I tell her that you betrayed her again?” cackles Lexanne.

  “You leave her alone!”

  “Come to Hell and make me!”

  Lexanne makes another sharp tug, dragging Jayson closer, and he squeezes his eyes shut, digs his fingers into the ground, and grits his teeth as he pulls himself forward. He feels the strains in his muscles, and his eyes snap open, bloodshot but burning with determination rather than drowning in fear.

  “I. Won’t. Die!” says Jayson.

  He screams and pulls himself again while Lexanne continues yanking his ankle. Ge feels the broken bones in his body, the rips in the flesh, the heat of the fire and the taste of chemical smoke. He tastes blood.

  The Angel quietly watches him, and Jayson takes a few deep breaths, and then pulls himself across the ground again. This leads to Lexanne growling and grabbing his other ankle.

  “Stop fighting!” snarls Lexanne, her eyes and mouth flashing red as she lefts Jayson’s legs into the air.

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  Blood now covers Jayson’s body, and more oozes from his face and tears in his body. Crimson dots splatter on the hot, concrete floor. Fire and smoke bleed into the gray realm, and with it comes the fiery roars, crackles, and snapping metal.

  “I! Will! Not! DIE!” yells Jayson.

  He screams again and uses all of his strength to pull forward, and then…

  His eyes snap open, and a ragged gasp flies from his blood-filled mouth. Jayson coughs and wheezes as she shifts on the ground, soaking in a pool of his own blood. His whole body is in pain, from the broken bones in his chest and limbs to the gouges in his flesh. The bloody pool steadily grows, and Jayson’s vision swims and pulses at the edges, and his head throbs.

  Smoke and fumes fill the air. The factory ceiling above him has partially collapsed, exposing a rock ceiling above. Gunshots and explosions thud and pop in the chaos, and Jayson sees dark silhouettes of coyotes running through the fog, screaming and cursing and shooting at each other. Their muzzle flashes illuminate patches of the chemical fog, as do the random spurts of fires and explosions.

  Jayson watches the carnage with heavy eyes, every breath sending daggers through his chest. When he tries to move, his muscles scream in protest, and his ribs shift against his lungs. He tastes blood, thick and metallic, on his tongue, and he feels the hot crimson fluid sticking to his body.

  Jayson turns his head, wincing as the movement sends fresh agony tearing down his spine. His cosmic wood sword lies just beyond his reach. The factory’s support columns buckle, the stone and industrial ceiling tiles collapse in chunks as chemical vats rupture, and walkways and flickering lights hang by threads of twisted metal and damaged wires. Fire consumes everything, turning the air into a thick, scorching, toxic fog.

  Jayson’s ribs shift as he tries to push himself up, sending piercing hot pain through his torso. He collapses to the floor, wheezing through broken teeth, blood bubbling through his nose and mouth with each laborious breath. Bone fragments from his leg poke through his pants. He crawls to his weapon, eyes watering from pain and smoke.

  A loud crash draws his attention as another section of the ceiling caves in, showering the floor with concrete, dust, and sparks. The collapse knocks over a cabinet, which spills out its contents. Among them, a cylindrical container that rolls to a stop near Jayson. Its metallic surface catches the firelight, and through the haze, Jayson can make out the bolded letters, spelling: “PLOT ARMOR”.

  Jayson’s eyes briefly widen, and then with a grunt that becomes an aching scream, he drags himself across the hot floor, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. Each movement is agony; each inch gained a battle against the dark hands trying to pull him back to Hell.

  “Come on,” growls Jayson through his teeth, focusing on the container ahead rather than the fire closing around or the dark hands seeping in from the edges of his vision.

  A secondary explosion sends a shock wave through the floor, nearly causing Jayson to lose his grip on consciousness. The vibration knocks away the PLOT ARMOR container by a few inches. Jayson curses and forces himself to keep going.

  Jayson’s trembling fingers finally close around the cylinder, its metal surface hot, and with fumbling movements, he pries open the lid, revealing a small syringe gun and tubes with glowing blue liquid. He immediately grabs the gun and one of the tubes, loads it, and injects the substance into his neck.

  What feels like motel metal surges from the syringe and erupts into his veins, starting from his neck and surging all through his body, with the worst of the burning sensation concentrated on his heart and pulses. Jayson’s back arches, a broken wail bursts from his bloody mouth and his body convulses as his bones snap back into place and his flesh is sealed with dark red scabs rapidly forming and falling off, leaving behind streaks of pink on his skinny frame. His ribs are restored, his punctured lungs are sealed and reinflated, and broken blood vessels and interior bleeds are repaired.

  By the time it is done, Jayson flops on the floor, drooling and twitching, eyes wide, breathing heavy, and vision swimming. His body tingles, especially his legs, his heart races, and his lungs pump rapidly, working overtime to refill him with oxygen. He feels every grain, every speck of smoke, his brain feels like it has been scrubbed clean of cobwebs, allowing him to see and remember everything all at once. It’s giving him a headache. His hands twitch, his fingers snap against the floor, and his newly healed legs are spasming as his feet jab the ground. But with all the pain going through him, it fades away to numbness and with that numbness is the sensation of his bones and muscles being denser.

  Jayson’s eyes flick around, and stop when he sees Lexanne standing nearby, her dark form blotting out the fire behind her. Her normal demented smile is gone, as is the white. Instead, she has burning red eyes, and her round mouth is a thin line. They stare at each other for a few seconds before she speaks.

  “You left your wife alone in Hell again,” says Lexanne.

  Jayson’s eyes narrow.

  “Where is Jayson? Why won’t he save me?” Lexanne puts her hands together like prayer, her black mass breaking and splitting into fragments that dissolve in the air just to be rolled back into her. “Where is God? Why won’t He save me? She asks that every time I see her, and neither of you dare to show your faces.”

  Jayson grabs his cosmic wood sword and uses it to stand up, his eyes darkening and the world plunging into darkness around him. Lexanne’s red eyes and mouth gradually shift to white as her thin sneer turns to a smile.

  “So caught up in your own selfish desires to be a hero that you left the one soul that truly loved you to be tormented on your behalf. How low. How selfish. But then again, what more can we expect from Wrath Incarnate? It is much more fun to play noble up here to satisfy your nature than to suffer with the one you killed,” says Lexanne.

  Jayson roars and charges Lexanne, his weapon primed for a strike. The wooden weapon pulses, the world slows to a crawl in the blue aura as Lexanne’s white void mouth widens. Right as Jayson is about to hit her, she vanishes, and laying where her feet were, is Mortimer. In a blink, Jayson changes course, tripping over himself. The weapon hits the ground, out of his grip, and the aura disappears while a brief, directional wave erupts from the tip, hyper aging a vat into a rusty mess.

  Jayson lands on top of Mortimer, his torso on top of the fox and his face in a trail of blood leading from a broken desk to where his rival is now. He also hears faint breathing from Mortimer and sees small twitches on his face. Mortimer’s raccoon mask is gone, and his scarred face is broken open.

  Jayson scrambles off Mortimer and stares at him before looking at the container of PLOT ARMOR. There are plenty of containers left, but Mortimer has tried to kill him more than once. Leaving him to die would be a smart play. One less Mama Bear Fixer to worry about. But Lexia is still out there with Ramsey, and so is Claribel. And fighting Ramsey by himself left him at Hell’s doorway while Lexia and Claribel were violated and carried off. Attacking Ramsey again by himself won’t work, and he doubts Derrick will be able to do much.

  “Damn it,” groans Jayson. He grabs the syringe gun, a fresh needle, and a canister of PLOT ARMOR, returns to Mortimer, and lays his back against his chest as he aims the syringe at the fox’s neck. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  Jayson injects Mortimer, and the fox instantly convulses and screams in pure agony, his eyes bulging and limbs flailing and jerking. Jayson holds him tight, watching in wonder as Mortimer’s injuries are mended in seconds before his eyes with audible thumps, cracks, pops, and wet pulls. In a matter of seconds, all of Mortimer’s fresh injuries are gone, replaced with pink lines, and he is breathing heavily, his hands patting frantically against Jayson’s arms. When he looks up, Jayson looks into his eyes and offers a sheepish smile.

  “Hi,” says Jayson.

  Mortimer screams again and wiggles his way out of Jayson’s grasp, his broken gloves and battery pack sparking. He points at Jayson with a shaky finger, sparks zipping in and out of his body.

  “What did you do to me? Where is Claribel? Where’s that freaky no-face, wing burning thingy and that freaky door? WHAT THE FRICK IS GOING ON!?” rambles Mortimer breathlessly.

  Jayson grabs his cosmic weapon and stands up, placing it between his legs and tilting his head up slightly to meet Mortimer’s wild eyes.

  “I saved your life with PLOT ARMOR serum. You’re welcome,” says Jayson.

  Mortimer pats himself all over his body and looks at Jayson, bewildered. “Why would you do that? I’ve been trying to kill you for weeks!” says Mortimer. He looks around again, flinching as another explosion shakes the factory. “And where is Claribel?”

  “Alright, I’m going to make this quick,” says Jayson. “I revived you because I need help defeating Ramsey, and I know you’ll help me because I saw him rip off her clothes and carry her away like a tentacle monster straight from a hentai.”

  Mortimer’s wide eyes are frozen for a few seconds. Then they narrow. His fur bristles and sparks erupt from his body as he marches towards Jayson, his veins throbbing and nostrils flaring. When they are toe to toe, he grabs Jayson’s jacket and tugs him towards him, so they are nose to nose.

  “Where. Is. Ramsey?” growls Mortimer.