[commentary]

BREAK WEEK NEXT WEEK! REGULAR UPDATES RESUME AUGUST 3RD!

[/commentary]

“Everything that I am is yours to take… Dearest Katalina!” cries a deranged voice from my laptop’s speakers.

“Oh, wow,” Sophia comments, “you really weren’t kidding about that girl.”

“Vira’s great!” I say with a grin. “She’s not on the level of Gasai, but she has the yandere spirit down pat.”

In a minor miracle, Sophie managed to carve an hour out of her schedule to spend time with me, to make up for missing our card game not-a-date. That hour happened to line up with when I was going to play fighting games with my nerd friends, and we don’t exactly have the time to go back to the card shop, so I offered to teach her how to play a fighter. One-on-one, of course, because no way in hell I’m sharing my darling Sophie with those freaks when I have a rare opportunity to spend time alone with her.

The match starts and I mash buttons. I’m actually not very good at fighting games, but I know enough to demonstrate a few different attacks and how to block or counter, and Sophia’s always been a quick learner. She’s incredibly cute when she’s concentrating on learning something. Quiet, calm, and absolutely focused.

“So,” I start, fully intending to break that focus, “what do you think of the characters in this game?”

Sophie graces me with a knowing look before returning her attention to the game. “I’d appreciate Katalina’s design a lot more if her armor wasn’t so figure-accentuating. I prefer it when knights look serious and sensible. Though at least my character is wearing armor at all,” she says as she manages to block another attack from the dress-clad Vira.

“Ah, but there’s a very important practical reason behind Katalina’s boobplate, and the sculpted belly button, and the way that armor hugs her ribcage like it’s skintight.”

“Let me guess,” Sophia says dryly, “is it to attract women?”

My beloved is onto my usual game, but that’s why I always run more than one. I snort and say, “What? No, of course not. It’s to sell gacha.” I pause while Sophie rolls her eyes, and then I add, “Vira dresses like that to attract women.”

Sophia lets out a little snort of amusement, and I immediately capitalize on her distraction to rush her down with a flurry of attacks from different angles—nothing fancy, but requiring different inputs to block or counter. To her credit, she almost survives it. Vira announces my victory with another lovingly manic line read, making me so happy that I was able to convince Sophia to pick Vira’s object of obsession after first trying a few of the other basic fighters.

“Good progress!” I announce happily. “It took me months to be able to block as consistently as you do.”

My darling roommate doesn’t quite have my good humor about it. “I’m trying to internalize that, but it still stings to lose ten matches in a row. Not that I want you to go easy on me,” she adds quickly.

“I won’t,” I promise earnestly. “I know you, Sophie. I’ll give you the challenge you deserve. Just tell me if you need a break.”

“Thank you,” she smiles, that wondrous ray of sunshine. Then she’s back in her analytical mode, head tilted and chewing on her lip. “It seems like the core skills being tested by these games are memorization, dexterity, and pattern recognition, with memorization being the most foundational. Is that your understanding as someone with more experience playing fighters?” Words cannot express how much I love this woman and her big beautiful brain.

I hide my adoration with a shrug. “That’s basically it, yeah. There’s some argument over how much reflexes really matter, and at a certain level it’s more like a guessing game than pattern recognition, but memorization is definitely the root of it all. If you don’t know what move in your arsenal counters the move your opponent is about to pull out, it doesn’t matter if you’re fast enough or if you can predict it, ‘cause you’re still dead when it lands.”

“I see. May I look at the moves list for our characters again?”

I nod and she does so, giving each entry a few seconds of study before moving on to the next. When she’s satisfied, we get back into the games.

Sophia’s counterplay is even more consistent now, and after a bit of back-and-forth she actually manages to take a match from me, so I lock in and start using all the tricks and combos I know. And then everything goes wrong.

I see it coming, but I’m too caught up in the joy of spending time with Sophie to change course. Tightening around the corners of her mouth, around her eyes, her grip on the controller. She says she’s fine when I check in, but I know she’s lying. She always lies to me about that.

I steal a round from her on a tiny sliver of health, and all those marks of tension fall away into cold, stone-faced focus. The next round starts and every move I make is predicted, countered, and punished. No matter what I try, Sophie—no, in this moment I can only think of her as Striga—has the answer lined up frame-perfect. I lose with my opponent on full health.

For one brief moment, vicious satisfaction crosses Sophia’s face. That look flickers into guilt and torment and something darker, and her eyes shut tight and her teeth grind, and then just as quickly her real emotions slide off her face and the mask of control returns. If I hadn’t been expecting it—waiting for it, as soon as I realized what was happening—I wouldn’t have seen it.

You used your power to beat me, right? I don’t mind. You can do whatever you want to me, Sophie, and I’ll never complain. I just want to know: why is it, my love, that every time you activate that power in front of me, I can see such hate in your eyes?

Sophie forces a little laugh, winces at me sympathetically, and lies, “Wow, that must have been some brutal beginner’s luck. I don’t even know how I did that.”

“Me neither,” I lie, forcing a smile and a sense of mirth that isn’t real. “Want to take a break and celebrate before we go again?”

She checks her phone and sighs. “If only. Sorry to do this to you, Rachel, but we’re coming up on my deadline and I’d rather end on a high note than walk away after you kick my ass another half-dozen times.”

I chuckle. “No worries, I get it. And, hey, Sophie.” I drop the mirth and put as much love and sincerity into my voice as I can. “This was a lot of fun. Thank you.”

Sophia waves me off, embarrassed, as she puts down her controller and rises from the couch. “I’m just glad it didn’t get interrupted like last time. I should be the one thanking you, really, for letting me make it up. You’re always there for me, Rachel. That means a lot.”

How could I not? You’re my everything.

We say our goodbyes and she takes off. Maybe she has genuine vet work lined up, or maybe she’ll be hunting for more signs of Echidna with her Vanguard helpers. I guess I’ll find out when I check all the sites and servers that report Striga sightings, like I always do whenever Sophie leaves the house.

I’m kicking myself for not catching Sophie’s mood shift and doing something about it, but stewing in those emotions won’t do any good. I plug my headset into the laptop, disconnect the second controller, and join the voice channel where my nerd friends are all hanging out.

“—take an axe to your skull and cleave it in twain,” says Femur, who just got zoned out by Mordacity in a different fighting game.

“Ha! I can’t believe that worked,” jeers Mordacity. “This character is awful, I love her.”

“New person who this?” asks Mike rhetorically, having heard my entry ping.

“Your beautiful and terrible witch queen has returned to you,” I announce to the chat. “You may bow and offer sacraments.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Femur says with great exaggeration. “Expect moldy bread in the mail, provided your venerable customs agency doesn’t take offense at the brownness of my name and mistake the loaf for a bomb.”

“That’s a good one,” Mordacity admires. “I’ve gotta steal that for my book. Also, hit rematch goddammit.”

“I’m waiting for Alex to get in the lobby! Fuck you.”

“Do we have to play that one?” I groan. “Under Night is cool but it’s also complicated and I just grinded out like forty games of Granblue so I kinda need something where I can just mash buttons and hope.”

Mordacity chimes in, “What if, and hear me out, Melty—”

“No,” Femur and I say in unison. Femur continues, “You’re too annoying as Neco-Arc, and I know you don’t care about any other character in that game. No Melty Blood. Let’s just play Street Fighter.”

“Your agenda is transparent to all of us, Diamond-ranked player,” Mordacity complains. “But yeah, sure, that works.”

Mike, who does not do fighting games even a little, says, “So we’re going to talk about the Ossuary, right?”

That gets everyone’s attention. As I boot up the game and Femur sets up the lobby, I say, “Right, yeah. Ossuary. I’m going on Halloween. Gonna show up in the outfit I bought yesterday, transform inside after scoping out the ground floor—they’ve got back halls that lead to private rooms, I’m told, and the veil is even stronger inside than out. Oh, and Ferromancer told me that the Morrigan can hear anything spoken in her domain but can’t read minds. And there’s the photo thing, but I already knew that.”

The Ossuary does not permit recording of any kind within its boundaries. This is enforced by the Morrigan reaching into your phone—or other device—and replacing images, videos, and voice clips with pure nightmare fuel. In extreme cases, she outright destroys the offending device.

“So the interesting thing here,” Mordacity says, “is going to be when you get to the upper levels and start mingling with other witches. There’s very little information about what that part of the Ossuary is like, but we know at least one faction—the Coterie—has a dedicated private chamber thanks to their positive relationship with the Morrigan. I would assume the upstairs setup has both a ‘public’ space for the social experience and various secure backrooms for private deals.”

Mike asks, “Mord, when you mention the ‘social experience,’ what exactly do you mean by that?”

Mordacity clarifies, “I can’t imagine our Archon’s situation being normal, socially speaking. Most witches probably feel quite isolated from their old friends and loved ones, even those aligned with Visage. When you’re bound to a faction of magical aliens that may or not have been responsible for an entire planet’s destruction, who would you trust with that secret? While there are material benefits to networking with your peers, it might also be the only context in which many witches can express their true feelings to each other.”

Femur, who has been wrecking me in Street Fighter for most of this conversation, adds, “Loneliness is a very bitter poison. I have you guys online but I’m completely alone out here in Toronto and it’s physically painful.”

I say, “So lots of witches looking to interact as people with—Femur you’re being so homophobic right now stop anti-airing goddammit—with each other, in addition to whatever professional concerns they have. What can I expect on that front?”

“Recruitment,” Mordacity answers immediately. “Visage wants more stars, Coterie wants more believers, and Syndicate wants more bodies to throw between them and Striga. They’ve all got headhunters constantly on the lookout for independents that can be swayed or loyalists feeling disloyal. The Ossuary is a neutral zone, enforced beyond any of their ability to disrupt, so it’s the best place for witches of different factions to interact. As the newest witch on the scene, everyone’s going to want to know where your heart lies and how they can move it toward their own interests.”

I wonder how that changes with Ferromancer in the equation. I guess it depends how well-known she is outside the big names like Radiance and Lilith. Will the rank-and-file Visage or Coterie witches recognize her?

Femur says, “You should consider whether you wish the favor of Visage or the Coterie while you’re there.”

“That’s true,” Mordacity agrees. “They’ll be offering different incentives and expecting different services in exchange for their support. Playing them off each other and avoiding commitment could benefit you in the short-term, but in my opinion you should make inroads with Visage first for the financial rewards, then leverage your defection to secure a better position in the Coterie.”

“That could totally backfire on you,” warns Mike. “Worst case, you piss off Visage and make the Coterie see you as an opportunist. That could leave you without any factional support, unless you’re willing to go to the Syndicate.”

“Are you?” Femur asks. “Serious question. Mord, swap in so she can think on that, she is just pushing buttons at this point.”

I grumble but don’t disagree; my exchange with Sophia drained me more than I thought. “I don’t particularly see the value to joining the Syndicate. Material rewards can be better gained elsewhere, and I don’t want that kind of attention from Striga. I’m not ready to fight her, and against a Syndicate member she goes for the throat.”

“Quick route to a third and final death,” Mordacity says. “Anyway, you shouldn’t make any decision until you’ve actually entertained their initial entreaties. So I’d like to bring the conversation to the last element of all this: the Morrigan herself. A, you want to take the lead on this one?”

“Yeah, for sure.” My interest in the Morrigan can’t compare to my interest in Striga, but she’s an objectively fascinating witch to study. “Appearing nine years ago here in Forks, the Morrigan is one of the oldest surviving witches and by far one of the most powerful, though her incredible strength is at significant cost; while practically a god within her bespoke pocketspace, the Ossuary, she has little to no ability to affect the world outside her dimension. This makes her a significant player in the Pacific Northwest, but as a broker and arbitrator, not a warlord. Witches go to her for judgment on interpersonal conflicts or to guarantee certain agreements, and it’s known that she has the ability to exact a binding vow from those who consent.” I pause, then finish with, “When she first appeared, the Morrigan could only extend her Ossuary’s reach across the greater Seattle region, but today it reaches into Oregon and Canada. While we know very little of the Morrigan’s personal nature, she doesn’t seem the type to rest on her laurels.”

“Which has fascinating implications,” Mordacity muses. “It’s the nature of any power to seek its own security, but what meaning does geographic influence truly have to an entity sitting in an impenetrable fortress with, by all accounts, post-scarcity resource levels? Phage herself failed to conquer the Ossuary, so it seems unlikely that the Morrigan has anything to fear from peer witches or magical girls.”

Meaning the only threat to her security… would be the Jovians that gave her magic in the first place. I’ve never heard of them deciding to revoke a witch’s power, but it must be a concern for a witch like the Morrigan. Does that make her invested in preserving the status quo, or is she like Ferromancer and straining under the yoke of her masters?

It sucks that I can’t discuss any of that with my friends. I want to talk about the Jovians with them, but it might put them and me at risk. The only secrets I’ve ever kept from my friends have been to do with Sophia, but now… now there’s something new, and terrible, and I hate that I can’t share it with them.

That sense of bitter loneliness Femur described starts to seep in, and it sticks with me all through the rest of our conversation, even when we lapse into focusing on the games instead. I hope that, when Ferromancer and I go to see the Morrigan, she’ll be another ally in this dangerous conspiracy I’ve stumbled into.

Because if she isn’t an ally, she would make one terrifying enemy.

---

[commentary]

And that’s arc 2. Thanks for reading, everyone, and I’ll see you again August 3rd to kick off arc 3.

A special thank you to my Grandmaster-tier patrons, whose support has kept food on my table: Lirian, Demi, Natalie Maher, PR4v1 Samaratunga, and CaosSorge.

If you like this story and want to see more of it, please go to the RR page and leave a rating or review! Web serials live and die on audience support, and this one is no exception. The better the story does on RR, the more people click through and read, the more motivation I have (both on a mental health level and on an “able to pay rent” level) to keep writing and to write faster.

The next scheduled break week starts on the 27th of July. That’s NEXT WEEK!

[/commentary]

“I can’t wear that!” I protest, beet-red, at yet another skirt that looks like it would barely cover my ass. This is the fourth item in this store alone that I’ve turned down on scandal factor, so clearly I’m not protesting loud enough.

Bombshell—civvie name Hannah Thompson—pouts at me with eyes like saucers. “C’mon, it’s only a little more revealing than your other outfit, and you’re fine with that one, right? So this is just a tiny hop out of your comfort zone!”

“Because no one who sees me in that one knows it’s me!” I hiss. I hug myself self-consciously and glower at the pushy witch, though I don’t want to make too much of a scene in public. No amount of skimpy clothing can compare to the mortifying ordeal of being banned from the mall—though technically we’re in one of the bigger clothing stores that’s part of the mall complex but not inside the main building, so, maybe not? Beside the point. “It’s easy for you to wear something like that, but I haven’t exactly taken care of my appearance. I’m flabby, I’m plain, and god, I can’t remember the last time I applied real makeup. I’d look like a clown if I tried to dress like you.”

It’s really not fair how good Bombshell looks out of costume. The pink and glittery villainess still sparkles like a star in her plainclothes outfit, a riot of sequins that she somehow pulls off. She’s tried to force me into a crop top and shorts combo just like she’s wearing, but I steadfastly refused.

By contrast, I’m in jeans and a graphic tee and frankly I’m missing my hoodie. I feel so exposed being my rat self next to a model like her. But I did agree to go shopping in the first place, so I can’t say I’m entirely satisfied with my pitiful wardrobe. I want to dress nicer! Hannah and I just disagree on what that looks like. Even this location—a fairly middle-of-the-pack shop on the outskirts of the Nessie—was a compromise between her desire for a “proper boutique” and my desire for the cheapest clothing available.

“Sweetie. Are you telling me you’ve never looked at a scrungly nerd girl and thought, ‘damn, I want to see her in less?’ ‘Cause if you are, I don’t believe you. Think of all the cute weirdos you’re insulting with that attitude! Your dating pool is shrinking rapidly, honey.”

“Hey,” I try to defend myself, “I never told you I’m gay. That’s a baseless assumption.”

Hannah stares at me. “Girl. I’ve seen the way you look at ‘teacher.’ And at me, not that I mind the attention.”

I crack immediately and turn away, blushing. “Okay, okay,” I grumble, “fine, yes, I know it’s obvious, shut up! That doesn’t mean I’m willing to apply the same standards to myself that I apply to others.”

“Girl.”

“It’s not hypocrisy if I admit it,” I say smugly.

“Yes, it is!” Hannah retorts with a roll of her eyes. She shoves a bundle of tops and skirts into my arms and says, “Look, you don’t even have to show me, just try them on in the privacy of the changing room. Give yourself a chance.”

I grimace, but am I really in a position to refuse? “Fine, fine. But I’m not looking at the pink ones, that is not even remotely my color.”

“Pink is everyone’s color,” she preens.

I don’t believe her, but I let her shove me into a changing room with more pink items than I’d like. And then, once the door is locked and I’m certain she’s not hovering outside listening in, I drop the pile in a corner and pull out my phone.

Alexandria: @everyone help how do i clothes good this is a FASHION EMERGENCY!!!

a single femur: Why are you asking us

a single femur: No one here wears women’s fashion

Mordacity: that’s true but i love giving unqualified absolutes

Mordacity: bitch you’re an autumn and you should wear more leather

Mordacity: get ur tits out for the girls

a single femur: Do you actually get off on being muted

Mordacity: you cant prove that I dont

Alexandria: fashion!!!!

Alexandria: emergency!!!!

Mordacity: if u add those exclamation marks together u get the vriska number ::::)

<Mordacity has been muted for 10 minutes.>

a single femur: I can excuse sexual harassment but I draw the line at homestuck

Mike Trout: Hi, Mike Trout here from hit AMC crime drama Being a He/Him Lesbian

Mike Trout: I have detailed opinions about women’s fashion

Alexandria: i am in need of detailed opinions about women’s fashion

Alexandria: or i will be trapped in this store forever

Mike Trout: So what’s the context here? Are you just trying to freshen up your wardrobe, or do you have an event you’re going to? What are you trying to accomplish?

Alexandria: oh im going to the ossuary

Visiting the Ossuary has been a dream of mine since I first learned of its existence. An extradimensional nightclub run by the strongest witch on the continent this side of the Catastrophes? Yeah, of course I want to see that. But the portals that lead into it change daily, and the mortals who frequent the club are a mix of groupie-adjacent superfans like me and prospective henchmen or business partners, so there’s always been enough of a barrier that I never tried tracking down an entrance. The odds of a witch picking any one person out of the crowd are so low as to be nonexistent.

But now I won’t just be going as a fan; I’ll be going as a witch, to be adored and sought after by all the poor, powerless humans who crave a taste of the glory and grandeur only afforded to the Jovians’ blessed.

…Though, maybe I shouldn’t be so excited to wear that label, given everything that Ferromancer and I talked about.

a single femur: Actually?

Alexandria: ye

Mike Trout: siiiick

Mike Trout: now why the fuck is this the first I’m hearing about it

Mike Trout: “Oh yeah I’m going to the Ossuary no big deal”

Mike Trout: you cannot just drop that shit out of nowhere

Mike Trout: When and how and why

<Mordacity has been unmuted.>

Mordacity: siiiiiiiick

Mordacity: it’s time for new political forces to enter the fray

a single femur: You realize we have to talk about this right

Alexandria: later!!! everything later!! fashion advice now!

a single femur: Fine

Mordacity: you should really reverse the order of exclamations there so it has a sense of escalation instead of deescalation

Alexandria: DEESCALATE THESE NUTS

Alexandria: gottem

Alexandria: mike please you are literally my only hope, im the most princess-coded leia-pilled ive ever been

a single femur: That’s tortured even for you

Mordacity: you dont even like star wars

Alexandria: i have withc powers now i can find where you all live!!!

Mordacity: withc

a single femur: withc

Mike Trout: withc

Alexandria: oh my god

Mike Trout: But seriously I’ll do my best

Alexandria: thank you

Mike Trout: So my question from before is still relevant here. What exactly are you trying to accomplish? Is this about getting a disguise, or do you just want to look nice for the club? Are you planning to flirt with people while you’re there?

a single femur: Wait why do you need new clothes for that? Are you not going transformed or what?

Alexandria: not initially, apparently there are private spaces to shift in

Alexandria: which for the record was not my idea

Alexandria: anyway, right, uh, goals. i dont think im going to flirt with anyone there? but i mean. i do kinda want girls to look at me.

Alexandria: i guess dudes will also look at me but it’s a witch club there’s gotta be a bunch of lesbians

Mordacity: yeah i usually see a good few

Alexandria: wait YOUVE BEEN?

Mordacity: dont you have clothes to focus on

Alexandria: fuck you, yes, we’ll talk about this later

Mike Trout: so my experiences are going to be a little skewed here but I think Portland and Seattle are close enough in culture that the same will apply to Forks.

Mike Trout: there’s a fair few “types” of signaling that I see when I go out clubbing

Mike Trout: Flannels and hair dye are the cliche examples but also completely true

Mike Trout: If you see a goth girl with a sanrio character dangling from her mini backpack, she’s gay and also probably has BPD

Alexandria: my sweet borderline bitches. my kindred souls

Mike Trout: a lot of people will just straight up have a pride flag on a pin or bracelet. bitches love buttons in portland

Alexandria: fascinating

Alexandria: iiiii will think about that and get back to you, ive been in this changing room too long

a single femur: Don’t forget fighting games tomorrow

Alexandria: yeah yeah ill be there

I do, in the end, reluctantly try on a few choice items from Hannah’s absurd pile. The less said about that, the better.

I leave the changing room behind and toss the lot—except for a single skirt that I probably won’t wear but it had really nice ruffles sue me you bastard—into the unwanteds bin. “Alright,” I tell the eagerly waiting witch, “I’ll get the one, but then I have some ideas of my own.”

The rest of our shopping passes in a blur, and by the time we sit down in the food court for a late lunch—no sign of my intrusion weeks prior, as is typical for Forks—I think I’ve seen the inside of nearly every shop in the entire Nessie. I spent a dizzying sum on new clothes, but I guess that’s just something I can do now.

Thanks to Ferromancer’s work, the money I stole from the bank was successfully laundered and put in a secure checking account. She then went the extra mile and got me a fancy credit card that gets automatically paid off on a fixed schedule from said checking account, so that I never have to think about the money except for really big purchases.

Financial independence is… it’s weird. It’s new. I went from going to college on my parents’ dime to crashing with Sophie and largely living off her generosity. For years I’ve watched my spending money shrink and shrink as gigs fell through and I lost the will to keep up the grind. I didn’t see a world where I could just have the things I want.

Makes a girl think.

“So, like, oh my god where do I even start? You get the basics of wrestling, right?” Bombshell asks me, pointing her sandwich vaguely in my direction. We picked out a cheesesteak place and Hannah immediately went for the spiciest sandwich she could concoct: a buffalo chicken sandwich with banana peppers, plus a drizzle of ranch because it “makes the perfect sauce with buffalo.”

My own humble treat is a kimchi cheesesteak with extra cheese, because it was new and I like trying new things. The flavor profile’s pretty unique, which I appreciate. “I think I do,” I answer Hannah. “Throw two-to-four people in a ring and make them pretend to beat each other up over soap opera drama plotlines.”

“Basically, yeah. It can be more than four but that’s not important. Soap opera’s good! The thing that always grinds me gears is when people say ‘wrestling is fake.’ Do you watch Star Trek, adjust your nerd glasses, and smugly brag about how you could tell all the aliens were just human actors in heavy makeup? No! Wrestling is TV where you get to watch criminally undersupported athletes risk real injury while babbling about zombies and cults because that’s what gets ratings this month.”

“And that’s an upside?” I raise an eyebrow skeptically.

“Yes!” the witch says earnestly. “You have no idea how funny it is to watch grown men talk about wrestling bloodlines and the honor of their forefathers as a preamble to sitting on each other’s faces. The ancient Greeks were onto something, I’m telling you.”

I snort. “Okay, sure, I buy it.” I take another bite of this admittedly quite good sandwich. I should find more foods with kimchi.

“The thing that makes wrestling interesting for our context,” Hannah stresses, reminding me that all of this was meant to go somewhere, “is a pair of terms useful enough to have seen use outside of wrestling itself: face and heel.”

“Oh yeah,” I comment through a mouthful of kimchi, cheese, and bread, “I’ve seen those on TV Tropes.”

“I’m going to ignore that,” she announces graciously. “To put it succinctly, faces make the crowd wanna see ‘em win and heels make the crowd wanna see ‘em lose. When management tries to push a heel in the role of a face, you get a Roman Reigns and people boo your ‘hero’ worse than they boo any villain. And this is the framework that Visage uses.”

My interest sharpens. “I thought they imported a bunch of idol stuff from Japan?”

“Oh, they do that,” Hannah waves, “but Japan has wrestling, too, and you can’t get by just on the idol racket when your idols are regularly getting into property-destroying deathmatches. If you want to control—and profit from—the whole game, you need to account for that back-and-forth between magical girls and witches and sell it as a narrative.”

Bombshell’s insightful commentary on the inner workings of Visage only lasts so long before devolving into excited rambling about her favorite wrestling matches, which I only half manage to pay attention to. We finish our food, grab the bags, and make our way back to Ferromancer’s hideout.

I’m looking into getting a private apartment to store any purchases I can’t quite justify to Sophie, but that’s a problem for future Rachel. I want someplace nice that I can call mine, and paying rent twice demands a certain stability of income that doesn’t quite reflect my current situation. Bombshell has a few ideas on that front.

For now, I’m keeping my luxuries in Ferromancer’s workshop. When I officially accepted the apprenticeship, she set me up with a side room to serve as a study. It has a nice storage closet and dedicated space to do private experiments with my magic.

“We’re back!” I call to Erica as we bring our haul inside.

The other witch is hunched over a table fiddling with some gadget, but she looks up at our entrance and waves. “Ah, perfect timing. I’ve just finalized arrangements with the Morrigan. I have the date and time for our trip to the Ossuary.”

I rush over in excitement. “Ooooo, when is it?”

“Halloween night.”

---

[commentary]

New Mike Trout lore enters the fray… also something about going to the Ossuary on Halloween night or something, idk I don’t read these.

A special thank you to my Grandmaster-tier patrons, whose support has kept food on my table: Lirian, Demi, Natalie Maher, PR4v1 Samaratunga, and CaosSorge.

If you like this story and want to see more of it, please go to the RR page and leave a rating or review! Web serials live and die on audience support, and this one is no exception. The better the story does on RR, the more people click through and read, the more motivation I have (both on a mental health level and on an “able to pay rent” level) to keep writing and to write faster.

The next scheduled break week starts on the 27th of July. Don’t get caught by surprise!

[/commentary]

Why do I want to take down Striga?

Ferromancer’s question drives an ice pick through all my anxious thoughts about not seeing her again and replaces them with newer, much more anxious thoughts about why the hell she wants to know that. What does it matter to her? Where is this leading? And how do I get away with lying to someone who gives off the impression that she can read everyone like a book? I’m cooked.

“Why do you want to know that?” I ask carefully. I’m still in witch form, and some of my familiars are in the other room, but if it comes down to a fight I’m not confident in my chances. But that has to be paranoia talking. There’s no reason we’d fight. So why do I feel like I’ve stepped into the lion’s den?

Ferromancer tilts her head. She’s calculating something, taking the measure of my question, I know it. She’s not like Striga, or at least I don’t think she is, but I still get the sense that she’s extracting way more information from what I said than I want her to. “Because you, Archon, are an anomaly of the highest order.”

That throws me for a loop. “Wait, what? What do you mean by that?”

The other witch leans back, still sitting on the break room table. “When I was a kid, I watched mecha anime and drew terrible comics about funny robots shooting each other with lasers. In high school, I joined a robotics club and went to tournaments with my clubmates, and I sketched mech designs in my free time. I have a master’s degree in mechanical engineering. The moment I understood what my power was capable of—when I understood that I could create the kinds of machines I’d been dreaming about since I first saw the Gundam Epyon cut a space station in half with its beam sword—it was like my whole life had been preparing me to become a witch. To become Ferromancer, the Witch of Invention. Can you say the same?”

I can’t. Or at least, not in that way. The things Prometheus cares about don’t click with me at all. But again, why does that matter? I shrug and say, “Okay, so I can’t really get along with blacksmithing or pottery or making things with my hands, so what? Is this just about my reason for becoming a witch, or are you getting at something deeper?”

Ferromancer digs a cigarette out of her pocket and lights it. “You really don’t get how crazy your power is, do you? It isn’t normal. You can steal in an instant what another witch spent years cultivating and perfecting. You have the highest potential out of any witch I’ve ever met, and yet you’re completely incompatible with your power’s primary imagery. That doesn’t happen, Rachel. Why did the Jovians give an S-tier power to someone not suited for it? What’s so special about you that they’d do that? Why do they think you can beat Strix Striga?”

Those… are all very good questions, and I am regretting not thinking up a cover story before now. “Look, I don’t know the answer to that any more than you do,” I insist. “Even the Jovians aren’t sure how I’m supposed to beat her! Maybe there’s more to compatibility than just the stuff you were talking about.”

Ferromancer takes a drag of smoke and taps her fingers along the table. “You’re not comfortable talking about this, I get it. I’m sure you have your reasons. Tell me something else, then: why did you choose to become a witch? What does it mean to you?”

That’s the same question, really, and the same dilemma, but this one’s a lot easier to deflect. “I like the attention. I like that I don’t have to work some crappy job to live comfortably. I’ve always admired witches and magical girls. I always wanted to be one. It’s why I moved here, honest. They always seemed so larger than life, and I mean, it’s magic! What little girl didn’t dream of magic?”

She considers my answer. “Truthful,” she decides, “but incomplete. Money and fame are common motives, but you didn’t pursue either of them until you suddenly needed to pay rent and Bombshell offered up the bank idea. You want those things, but they’re not driving motivations. Magic, well, you’re certainly an eager student, but I can’t imagine someone who just wants to play with magic agreeing to take on a magical girl with a confirmed kill count in the double digits, so that’s not it either. Don’t play dumb. Your reason is Striga, isn’t it? Striga is why you became a witch.”

She’s cornered me. I clench my fists, but getting angry isn’t useful here. I set the rage aside and breathe out. “Fine. Yes. I became a witch so I could get close to Striga, and everything else is just a nice side effect or a means to an end.”

Ferromancer’s gaze sharpens. “‘Get close,’ not ‘kill’ or even ‘defeat.’ This isn’t some misguided revenge fantasy or an ego trip about taking down the top dog—girl, you like Striga, don’t you?” She chuckles. “You’re crushing on the Witch Hunter.”

“It’s not a crush!” I snap without thinking. “You don’t know anything about us!”

And then I freeze, and I take a step back, and I start to panic. Ferromancer leans in, fascination written all over her face, and she says, “Oh, you know Striga. You’ve met her. Did she save you from something?”

This is bad, this is bad, this is so bad. I didn’t want anyone to know about my connection to Striga. I mean, obviously the Jovians knew, but I didn’t think they’d tell anyone! Striga is mine. Sophia is mine. No one else can know about her. No one else is allowed to see the real her, because that’s something that only belongs to me.

I’ll fight if I have to. If Ferromancer tries to use me to get to Striga, I’ll kill her. I’ll kill anyone who tries to get between me and my beloved Sophie, I don’t care who they are. Nobody can know the true depth of the bond between us. Nobody deserves to know what happened that day except Sophia.

Ferromancer waves a hand dismissively. “Relax, kid, you can stop freaking out, and you don’t have to say anything else about your hero crush. All I needed was assurance you aren’t planning to kill Striga, and I’m confident I’ve gotten it.”

I blink, my entire train of thought once again crashing into Ferromancer’s unexpected statement. “Wait, what?” I squint at her. “You’re a witch. You wanted assurance that I wasn’t trying to kill Striga? Why?”

“Let me answer your question with another question,” she says like a jackass, and then she stubs her cigarette out on the table and stands up. She adjusts her sleeves and the collar of her shirt. She smiles that icy, knowing smile. “What do you think of the Jovians?”

I frown. “In what sense?”

“Any sense. Every sense. They can’t hear you, if you’re worried about that. My workshop is warded against all outside intrusion. I’ve been thorough.”

Now that is a very interesting thing to specify. My eyes narrow. “You don’t trust them either,” I guess. “You think there’s something they’re not telling us.”

Ferromancer laughs. “I know there’s something they’re not telling us. They don’t hide the fact that they’re keeping secrets. ‘All in due time,’ they say. ‘When you earn higher clearance,’ they say. Truth is, they only share those secrets with the witches they think they can control. No, with the witches they know they can control. I’m not one of those witches. Are you?”

I think that might be the most dangerous question I’ve ever been asked. More dangerous than the question that made me a witch. Is this a kind of treason? Pandora gave me magic, and the only reason I’m suspicious of the Jovians is because I’ve watched too much anime. But I am suspicious, and it sounds like Ferromancer has better reasons than I do.

Worry not, Ms. Emily. We have no designs on the life of Ms. Lane. The words of the Jovian emissary echo in my mind. Do I really believe that the sidereals would be satisfied with just distracting their greatest enemy? Am I an investment to them? Or am I a knife, aimed at the heart of the only girl I’ve ever loved?

“I am afraid,” I admit quietly, “that I have been tricked down a path that will harm someone I care about very deeply. Before this conversation, I thought that was just paranoia. But the way you’re talking makes me think you have a very good reason to believe that I was right to be worried. Ferromancer. Erica. Why do you care about Striga surviving?”

“Because she’s a thorn in the side of our secret-keeping overlords. Frankly, I think most witches should be in favor of her existence; her attention falls largely on those who are a threat to the order that the rest of us profit from. Do you think Radiance’s people or the Coterie complain when Striga murders another Syndicate member or leads the defense against a Catastrophe? But the sidereals empowered those witches for some purpose or another, and they won’t tell us why. Are the Catastrophes accidents, or are they the perfected design?”

Her words are chilling. I’ve always thought of the Catastrophes as mistakes, as the sidereals pushing the envelope too far and risking another Texas for one reason or another. But maybe the only problem with the Texas witch was that she took herself out in the blast—the only recorded instance of a witch dying without a sequence of three. And the Syndicate, are they part of the Jovians’ design or just more distractions to keep heroes like Striga busy?

Ferromancer nods at me and keeps going. “Think about how artificial this whole conflict feels from our perspective. The women fighting each other under Visage’s banner aren’t heroes and villains, they’re just faces and heels. There are magical girls in Vanguard that share more beliefs with Lilith than they do with their own teammates, and witches in the Coterie that would happily kill every member of the Syndicate given half the opportunity. The only real differences between magical girls and witches are a few quirks of ability and whether they were empowered by a solar Jovian or a sidereal—but what, exactly, is the difference between those two categories? What do they believe? They won’t tell us, except that each despises the other. If the sidereals had a good reason for their war, they wouldn’t need to hide it. If the solars had a good reason for their war, they’d be shouting it from the rooftops to turn witches like us against our masters. We have no reason to trust that either faction has humanity’s best interests in mind.”

My wariness ticks up another notch. Why don’t the solars talk more about their side of things? I’d always assumed they were more open with magical girls and just swore them to secrecy, but does that even make sense? The veil hides identities, but it doesn’t hide the existence of magic. What secrets do they have to keep?

The story we’ve been told is a simple one: once upon a time, both factions of Jovians shared a home among the many moons of Jupiter, with their capital seated on Europa. Then, a terrible war broke out, and the planet and all its moons were swallowed and vanished, with only a handful of Jovians escaping. The survivors—of both factions—bound themselves with an oath to only empower and guide, never intervene, so that the tragedy of Jupiter would not repeat itself here on Earth.

It’s usually assumed that the sidereals—for obvious reasons—were responsible for the war and its consequences, but officially both sides blame the other. Ferromancer has a point about the solars; if they really are the good guys in the original conflict, why don’t they share more information about what happened? Are they worried about inciting some witch to repeat Jupiter’s end, or could it be that both sides were equally complicit in their planet’s destruction? If either faction wins, what assurance do I have that humanity wouldn’t lose?

I can’t tell anyone but Ferromancer about these suspicions, I suddenly realize. This workshop may be warded, but my apartment isn’t, nor the homes of any of my friends. There’s no way I could talk to Mordacity about this, or Femur.

“I think I get it,” I say, still quiet. “A part of me wishes I didn’t, because the scenario you’ve just put in my head is terrifying. You’re suggesting a world where it isn’t magical girls against witches but humans against Jovians. Do you truly believe that?”

“I’m not certain,” the witch admits, “but I’ve spent half a decade playing nice with ‘our side’ and they still haven’t let me in on what they’re planning, or what they did before coming to our planet. And I’ve heard from a very reliable source that the same is true on the other side of the war. The solar emissary, Rhea, is allegedly just as tight-lipped as Pandora when it comes to the deeper reasons behind everything that has happened and will happen. You ask me, I say that’s a problem. And I think we deserve to do some digging of our own. Which brings me to my final question of the evening.”

My head is still spinning with the implications of Ferromancer’s accusation, but my attention snaps back to the other witch with those words. “Go on, ask.”

She chuckles. “It’s quite simple, really, and I’ll forgive you if you feel a bit exasperated after hearing it. Rachel Emily, would you like to become my apprentice?”

“Your apprentice?” I gawk at the Witch of Invention. “I—you—after all that!? Wait. Wait a second! Was this a goddamn job interview!?”

Ferromancer properly laughs this time, full-throated and shaking. “Oh, the look on your face. Sorry, sorry.” She brushes a strand of hair out of her face and smiles at me. “Yes, I suppose you could call it an interview. Put another way, I needed to make sure you weren’t going to become my enemy some day. I’m satisfied on that front, so all that’s left is the question of your intent. I was fairly confident in your answer going in, and I still am, but I understand all the poking and prodding may have left you a little more hesitant than usual.”

She winks at me and I grumble to hide my blush. Am I really that obvious? God, she probably had me pegged from that first afternoon over lunch. Yes, I absolutely want to be Ferromancer’s apprentice. Realizing she’s the only person I can talk to about what the Jovians might be planning didn’t make me want that less, even if the path to get to that revelation hit a little too close to my Sophia fixation.

But there’s still one detail that doesn’t make sense to me.

“Why?” I ask, crossing my arms and staring her down. “I mean, why make the offer? No offense, but you struck me as the real lone wolf type. What do you even see in me? I promise I’m not fishing for praise, I genuinely don’t get it. Is this just because I can copy your devices?”

“That’s one reason,” Ferromancer readily admits. “Another reason is the role that the Jovians expect you to play, which I’d like to interfere with if I can get away with it. Then there’s your affinity for familiars that I’d like to nurture into mastery. And, to be blunt, you’re also curious, intelligent, and adaptive, which makes teaching you much more enjoyable than the teeth-pulling I’ve had to go through in some other gigs.”

Her compliments have me flustered. Are my cheeks red? I really hope they aren’t. No one’s ever given me such high praise, and I can’t find a single hint of insincerity in her voice. Does she really think I’m smart?

Ferromancer’s expression transforms into another smirk, smug and wry and terribly knowing, and she adds, “Plus, you’re real cute when you blush like that.”

Internally, I scream until my brain is just the letter ‘A’ repeating infinitely. She called me cute—was that flirting—am I being flirted with—stop blushing—she thinks I’m cute when I blush—stop blushing, damn you! I am not a useless lesbian, I am a smooth actor who only hasn’t told my infatuation of seven years about my feelings for her because why in the world would a girl like her love a loser like me and no, stopping that, this is an equally terrible thought spiral to go down and I am moving on!

I thought I’d worked through my flash of feelings for Ferromancer after our first meeting, but here I am with my heart pounding away like a jackhammer on meth. Wait, no, a rabbit on meth. That doesn’t even make sense, what am I talking about!? I need to stop. I need to say something or I’ll look even worse than I’m sure I already do.

“I… am not used to compliments,” I mumble. I take a few steadying breaths and try to compose myself. “But, thank you. I’ll try to believe them. And, as for your question: yes, yes of course I want that. You’re an incredible teacher, Erica, and right now you might be the only person in the world that I can speak to in full confidence like this. Especially if your suspicions about the Jovians are correct. So, yes. I’d like to be your apprentice.”

Ferromancer sticks out her hand. “Then welcome to the team, my star student.”

I take her hand gladly. “Thank you, teacher.”

After we arrange another meeting, Ferromancer tells me to go home and rest while she finishes up some other work. The excitement I feel for our new relationship bleeds out of me as I make the trek home, replaced completely by exhaustion over the day’s trials and revelations when I step inside the apartment and see my wonderful couch-bed waiting for me. I fall asleep in minutes. Maybe seconds.

That night, I dream of a white city, a bleeding sun, and a deep, dark pit.

---

[commentary]

And that’s the arc! Except, not quite! This is the last numbered chapter of the arc, but there are two bonus chapters (the ones with lettered titles) coming next week. More Mordacity! More Femur! More Mike Trout! And maybe even a bit of Sophia. Please enjoy.

A special thank you to my Grandmaster-tier patrons, whose support has kept food on my table: Lirian, Demi, Natalie Maher, PR4v1 Samaratunga, and CaosSorge.

If you like this story and want to see more of it, please go to the RR page and leave a rating or review! Web serials live and die on audience support, and this one is no exception. The better the story does on RR, the more people click through and read, the more motivation I have (both on a mental health level and on an “able to pay rent” level) to keep writing and to write faster.

The next scheduled break week starts on the 27th of July. Don’t get caught by surprise!

[/commentary]

The bank interior bears the soot marks from my flame and upended furniture from the speedsters. The crystal chandelier, that eyesore, is miraculously unharmed. Canary is still down for the count, Azure still encased. The teller I spoke to taps away on her phone. The audience outside watches with their own phones out and recording.

Blood drips down my back from where Amaranth tore off one of my wings, and the magical girl in question circles me like a predator, smiling. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I’m on edge. This fight hasn’t been as clean as I wanted it to be, and even with only one enemy left I’m not certain it’ll end in victory.

Amaranth sees the look on my face—exhausted, resentful, wary—and says, “Aw, you don’t like me as much now, do you?”

Pull yourself together, Rachel. Play the game. Follow the rules. I do my best to wipe away my downtrodden expression and replace it with something charming and cheerful. “Oh, I think that remains to be seen. I’ll like you plenty when you’ve joined your friends on the ground.”

Amaranth laughs from behind me, and then she’s in front of me and her expression turns serious. “Hey. Is Azure going to die if she stays in that stuff?”

“The foam is breathable,” I assure her. “Unless she bites her tongue and chokes on her own blood, I can’t see her dying. I have no intention of starting a pattern with your team.”

“Good, good.” Amaranth rolls her shoulders. “Okay, one more for the crowd.”

I’m already moving when she blurs into motion, but of course even my reflexes at their best can’t compare to someone whose whole power is speed. Amaranth uses her body as a weapon to a far greater degree than either Canary or Azure: fists and feet, elbows and knees, even what feels like a headbutt tossed into the mix.

Still, I fight through the pain—stumbling this way and that but keeping my footing—and bring first a bomb bat into being, then another foam payload arrowhead, ready to deploy whatever mix of tactics is necessary to defeat my final opponent in this duel.

Amaranth stops her assault standing right beside me, leaning in so her mouth is right next to my ear, and she whispers, “Have you had the dream?”

I’m caught so off-guard by her question that I don’t activate either of my contingencies. “What dream? What are you talking about?”

Then she’s behind me, and I whirl to face her. Her domino mask hides her eyes, but somehow I feel an intense stare boring into me. “The dream. The dream. Have you had it? Focus. Listen. In the dream, there is a city of bleached white stone beneath a bleeding sun, and beneath the city is a deep, dark pit—a pit that might be Hell.”

She’s insane. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I haven’t—”

A headache comes on so suddenly and sharply that it nearly blinds me, and I clutch my forehead and cry out. What just happened? Why does my head hurt like this?

Amaranth giggles like a schoolgirl and claps her hands over and over. “Yes, yes, yes, I knew it! Oh, this is the best news!” She leans in again, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone as she says, “Azure and Canary, they don’t get the dreams. But I knew you would, and now I know I was right. You’ve had the dream, you just don’t remember it. But you will. Keep a dream journal and you’ll remember it faster. Don’t try lucid dreaming, though. Trust me. And whatever you do, whatever you do, don’t go into the pit.”

I’m more confused than I’ve ever been. Is this girl just fucking with me, or are we actually sharing a dream that I can’t remember? And why me, and not her teammates? “How did you—”

“I could see it in your eyes,” she confides. “They’re very pretty eyes. Maybe, next time we meet, I’ll let you see mine. Let’s do this again, Archon. It was wonderful to meet you.”

What? She’s talking like—and she’s gone. And so is Canary, and so is Azure. All three magical girls, gone from the bank with only debris to mark their passing.

I think, technically, I just won my second fight as a witch. But it doesn’t feel like winning.

I flex the slowly-regrowing stump of my torn wing. This was a victory. Don’t let anything distract from that truth. Whatever Amaranth’s strange ramblings meant, it can wait until later.

I return to the teller window and knock on the glass. “Heroines are gone. And I didn’t break your chandelier. So, can I get my money now, or am I going to have to start burning everything that looks expensive?” I project that last part as loudly as I can, figuring that some camera in the room is probably recording audio. Corporate would rather lose a bit of their vault than have to replace everything else in the bank, right?

The teller looks up from her phone, looks across the battle-damaged lobby, and sighs. “Yeah, yeah. Be right out.”

With that taken care of, all that remains is working the crowd. I leave a few familiars behind to keep the bank honest and stride out to meet my future adoring public. A few dozen civilians, all with their phones out and recording or liveblogging the scene. I’ve seen this scenario a hundred times from the other side, but never in front of the camera. I should be shy, but all nervousness has left me.

“I hope you enjoyed the show,” I say to the crowd, bowing deep and spreading both wings—the injured one still not finished regrowing, but I figure that adds to the effect. “My name is Archon, and this is just the beginning of what I’m planning. Please, look forward to my future endeavors! I promise to give this city as much entertainment as I can—for that is the purpose of a witch, is it not? Keep your eyes on me, Forks. You won’t regret it.”

I strike a few different poses for the audience, letting them take as many pictures as they want, but I ignore any comments or questions. That can come later. For now, in this moment, I revel in my second victory. Who cares if it turned strange at the end, I still won!

I proved myself. To the ordinary people gawking at me, to the witches that are now my peers, and to the magical girls that have become my enemies. To Ferromancer and Bombshell, who helped me come this far. And, I hope with all my heart, perhaps Strix Striga will watch my fight and take an interest.

I want everyone to take an interest. I want all their attention. But more than anyone, I still want Sophia’s attention. And I’ll get it. I’ll do whatever it takes.

My familiars pick up the spoils of my victory and together we fly away from the bank, over the city skyline, and to the agreed upon rendezvous point in a secluded corner of the city. Ferromancer is waiting for me, as I expected, but so is someone unexpected: Pandora, the Jovian that gave me my powers and introduced me to my teacher. The alien cat sits beside the witch, inscrutable as always.

Ferromancer lets out a long drag of smoke and eyes my loot. “I take it the gig went well,” she comments, leaning on a back alley wall next to another of her magic doors. “All that training pay off?”

I grin. “Took down the Blurs, got my haul, and by evening the whole city should know my name. I’d call that a success.” I get serious for a moment. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Ferromancer. Thank you. I know you have your reasons, but it really does mean a lot to me.”

She waves me off. “Just don’t go making me regret all the effort I spared, yeah? Keep winning and we’ll call it square. Now send your familiars inside and I’ll get you set up and properly laundered. Never hurts to give the veil a helping hand.”

Ferromancer opens the door to her workshop and I do as she says, sending the familiars inside. She follows with another wave, and then it’s just me and the cat.

“So,” I start, and then I realize I don’t really know what to say.

“Congratulations,” Pandora purrs. “Was it everything you hoped it would be?”

I laugh and scratch my head sheepishly. “You picked right. There’s more about this lifestyle that I crave than… well, I guess I never really thought any of this was possible before you approached me. I wasn’t alive, just a zombie on autopilot. But now things are different. So… everything and more, kitty cat. I’m in this game to stay.”

“Excellent, very excellent. As a representative of the sidereals, I’m pleased to hear that my instincts were correct when I selected you to join our enterprise. I’m certain you’ll be quite the investment, Ms. Archon.” The strange alien cat has such a business-like way of speaking, all proper and corporate. I wonder how much of that is an affectation to fit my preconceptions, and if so, what’s the purpose? But maybe I can’t hope to understand an entity from so far away and such different origins. What are those origins, I wonder?

“I’m glad I’ve held up to your standards,” I say instead. “It’s my fervent wish to repay that investment as best I can. I hope today was a good start to that.”

“Oh, yes,” the cat nods, “though of course the Blurs are ultimately a rather minor element in this region’s greater conflict. We encourage you to practice against their kind as much as you need to, but do keep in mind the reason we chose you in particular.” Pandora tilts its head. “Though, I suppose it’s unlikely you’d ever forget.”

Striga, Striga, Striga.

Sophia.

“I know. I won’t forget. And I won’t rest on my laurels. It’s a long road to standing against the greatest magical girl on the continent, but it’s one I’m happy to walk. I will beat Striga. I’ll perfect every technique in my arsenal, and when I’m ready I’ll make sure I’m the only witch she ever pays attention to again.”

Pandora makes an amused noise and flicks its tail. “That’s just what we want to hear, Ms. Archon. I think you’ll go very far in this organization. We’re counting on your success.”

“But hey, no pressure,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “Is that all you came here for, Pandora? Or was there something else?”

“Well, checking in on your progress is important. You should also know that our arrangement with Ms. Ferromancer has come to an end; you are encouraged to make use of her services, but further assistance will have to be negotiated with her directly.”

I wince. That’s… about what I expected would happen, but still a rough blow. Ferromancer is smart, and fun, and I’ve really enjoyed spending time with her. I don’t exactly know how I feel about her, and obviously she’s no Sophia, but… I don’t want to stop being around her.

“Ah, and there is one other detail,” the cat adds. “A certain matter will be taking my attention away from Forks for a small number of weeks. It’s unfortunate, but sadly necessary. I’ll check in again when I return, but if you have anything else you’d like to ask, now would be the time. Do you have any questions for me?”

Immediately, Amaranth’s dream comes to mind. My dream, if that’s what the strange headache meant. Even now I get a pang of pain just thinking about it. That has to mean something, and if anyone knows what, it would be a Jovian. And yet.

I like to think I’m not an idiot, or a rube. I know I’ve signed up for some sort of Faustian bargain, dealing with the sidereal Jovians. I joined the dark side and became a witch, and the kinds of entities that make deals like that can’t be trusted. I can’t trust Pandora, no matter how grateful I am for the power it’s given me.

I hesitate, and that’ll make the cat suspicious if I don’t have a question, so I ask, “How am I meant to beat Striga? I know I sounded confident a second ago, but… she’s never been beaten. She mows down witches like they’re nothing to her. How do I beat that?”

“I’m sorry,” Pandora apologizes, “but I don’t have a good answer. If we knew a ready solution for the Striga problem, we would have deployed it already. Striga seems to be the natural enemy of witches, and the only thing that’s ever worked against her is starting trouble in more places than she can respond to at once. You are a gamble, Ms. Archon. To be perfectly honest, we’re hoping your familiarity with the subject will lead to finding a solution we’ve somehow missed.”

Oh, good, the magical alien cats are just as clueless as I am. Joy. Well, at least that gives me a way to earn my keep. Assuming I can actually solve the Striga problem, that is. “I guess I should have seen that coming,” I sigh. “Well, good luck with whatever it is you’re off to do, I know you probably can’t tell me. And thanks again, cat.”

“Best of luck yourself, Ms. Archon. I look forward to our next meeting.”

The cat pads off, leaving me alone in the alley. I wait out there, too awkward to step inside Ferromancer’s workshop even though I’ve been in a dozen times before.

It’s fine. This arrangement was always temporary. I shouldn’t get worked up about it.

When Ferromancer comes back out, I haven’t quite dismissed my awkwardness. “Hey,” I greet her. “So, uh. Pandora told me that the contract or whatever is over. I’d really like to keep working with you, but, I understand if that’s not in the cards.” I bite my lip, agonizing over my words, and then I blurt out, “You know so much about magic and I just—”

Ferromancer holds up a hand and I stop. “Come inside,” she tells me.

I follow her inside. What’s going on now? The workshop looks like it always does, though with a handful of my familiars standing around divested of their loot.

She leads me to the break room, pours a glass of water for each of us, and sits on the sole table in the room, ignoring all the chairs. She looks me up and down, her gaze piercing and almost unsettling. I haven’t seen her like this before. No, that’s not quite accurate; she’s in her cold, calculating persona, the face I only saw that first day at the presentation.

“Ferromancer?” I ask nervously. “What’s up?”

She takes a sip of her water. Sets it down. Watches me. And then, cold and focused, she asks me, “Why do you want to be the one to take down Striga?”

---

[commentary]

I’m sure this is fine. Hey, what did you think of the fight? Let me know how you’re enjoying this arc in the comments below!

A special thank you to my Grandmaster-tier patrons, whose support has kept food on my table: Lirian, Demi, Natalie Maher, PR4v1 Samaratunga, and CaosSorge.

If you like this story and want to see more of it, please go to the RR page and leave a rating or review! Web serials live and die on audience support, and this one is no exception. The better the story does on RR, the more people click through and read, the more motivation I have (both on a mental health level and on an “able to pay rent” level) to keep writing and to write faster.

The next scheduled break week starts on the 27th of July. Don’t get caught by surprise!

[/commentary]

The Blurs live up to their name and reputation. Five seconds into the fight and I’m already on the back foot.

Canary zips from onlooker to onlooker, systematically removing my beloved audience and repositioning them outside the bank. I catch one of them complaining about being taken away from the action, which gets them moved even further away as punishment.

Amaranth, meanwhile, rips into my familiars with frankly unsettling glee. The sidereals really messed up losing this girl to the solars. The magical girl displays an acrobatic sense of movement as she twirls past imps and prances across their spears to deliver sharp elbows to jeering faces and kicks to scaled wrists. She grabs one imp and slams it into the rest of the battle line until its pulped remains burn away, and she just keeps laughing all the while.

“Magnificent,” I sigh to myself.

Azure punches me in the face.

I reel and the hits keep coming. The heroine delivers a flurry of tight, focused strikes, circling me with her impossible speed and landing blow after blow from every direction. My chin, my cheek, my shoulder, my gut, everywhere. Another haymaker fist crunches my nose, and it’s only when I’m bleeding and coughing and clawing at the air in a flash of wild panic that the magical girl stops in front of me, the haze of blue movement solidifying back into a person.

“When will you witches learn,” she asks, voice sharp, “that this was never a game you could win? How many times will we have to break you?”

I spit blood at her, noting with disappointment how she flicker-moves out of the globule’s path without any change in composure. I force another wicked grin onto my face. “Game’s not over yet. I may be new to the team, but I think I like our chances. No, that’s not quite right; I like my chances.”

The heroine bursts into motion again, but this time I’m ready for her.

Like I said before, I planned for all the encounters that I was likely to run into. I’m the kind of freak that simulates these fights for fun, and I’ve had two weeks to get used to my new powers. All through those two weeks, I’ve been talking with my nerd friends and Ferromancer about how I might win against all manner of magical girls. I’ve built a bag of tricks that I’m just itching to unleash.

If you can’t move faster than a speedster, conventional wisdom holds that you have two main options: either restrict their movement to negate their primary advantage, or become so immovable that their speed doesn’t matter. Durability isn’t really my game, but I’ve got a few ways to control the battlefield.

I grit my teeth through Azure’s flurry of attacks and bring my hands together, gathering emerald and fuchsia flame. A new familiar comes to life, founded in cheap plastic and reforged by Prometheus into something infinitely greater: an eye, oversized and bloodshot, plucked from its socket and nestled in a thin membrane of orange-red skin. Two bat-like wings, same as those of the imps, sprout from either side of its unsettling orb.

Azure punches it as soon as the creature is fully-formed, her fist gliding through gelatinous matter and making a uniquely disgusting sound that will haunt me for as long as I live. Then the floating eyeball explodes with her fist still inside it.

Bright red flame erupts from the murdered familiar and washes over both me and Azure—but where the heroine is thrown back and singed, all I feel is a pleasant warmth. I laugh at her misfortune. All my lumps were worth it. Thanks, Ferro. Thanks, Bombshell.

I first stumbled over this property of my magic during a hectic training bout with some of Ferromancer’s holograms, when a stray fireball from an imp struck one of my wings and dissipated harmlessly. Thorough testing confirmed the observation: the red flame—the destructive flame that I can only conjure secondhand through my familiars—has absolutely no effect on me. I can command a whole pack of imps to burn me and I won’t even sweat.

The next step came when fighting Bombshell’s copies. I had this hypothesis that I’d talked over with Mord and Femur, a bit of speculation about the nature of my power and its inherent limits. Everything that I create or transform with my power seems to take from some internal store of flame. I nearly freeze when I summon too many familiars, but I can get my flame back by recalling what I’ve summoned. Our question, then, became, “What else can I do to the flame I’ve parceled out?”

In battle with Bombshell’s clones, I modified an imp on the fly and made it explode when it was struck. The trick worked so well—it was the one round I didn’t lose—that I rushed out to the game shop before it closed and grabbed another figurine for my collection.

And speaking of that modification trick… with Azure recovering from the sudden shock of an explosion in her face, I quickly flick my attention to the familiars that Amaranth is demolishing and command them to change. The grounded imps—all four still accounted for—turn their flame inward, becoming bombs waiting to detonate, while the flying imps—their numbers already reduced to three of the original eight—trade their spears for nets.

That should keep Amaranth occupied for a few extra minutes. As Azure picks herself up off the ground, my brute comes swinging in with its club. Azure dodges easily, of course, but it gets her attention. She retaliates with a flurry of punches while the hulking demon rips its heavy weapon out of the cracked marble floor.

My aches and bruises from Azure’s first assault are already fading, and my nose uncrunches itself. I use the space I’ve so tenuously bought to conjure my bow and nock an arrow, taking aim. Who can I hit?

Azure may be busy with the brute, but she’s still keeping her attention on me. Amaranth, on the other hand, is focused on her battle with my imps. With the nets added to the mix, she’s having to move more carefully and can’t just dance through the melee. That’s an opening.

I do my best estimation of where she’ll be and loose an arrow that explodes into foam just a second too early, creating a blockade in her path that she easily sidesteps, but that puts her right next to a flamer. I loose a second arrow, this one boasting an ordinary arrowhead and aimed at my own creation. Amaranth isn’t expecting that; she leaps on top of the imp, frowns at the trajectory of the arrow, and then shrieks in surprise as the arrow sinks in and the imp explodes into another wave of red flame.

Amaranth is flung from her perch and I command the remaining imps to chase her down and swarm her. When she hits the ground and rolls I already have another foam arrow lined up to loose, but the arrow is caught mid-flight by a blur of yellow.

“Nasty tricks,” Canary chides. “Let’s see how you like ‘em turned your way.”

With a flick of her wrist she sends the arrow shooting back at me. With only an instant to react, I cross my arms in a defensive pose to protect my face and body, dismissing my bow in the process. The arrow hits, the foam expands, and Canary rushes me to capitalize on my immobilized state.

I take immense glee in the look on her face when the foam vanishes—its conjuration undone by a mere whisper of will—and I slam my fist into her nose, cracking it like Azure cracked mine. “I seem to like them just as much,” I say with the faintest hint of a sneer. Canary reels back, clutching her face and swearing, and I resummon my bow to fire more foam arrows at her.

The heroine dodges my shots, because of course she does, and then she zips over to a nice coffee table, picks it up, and chucks it at me. My own attempt to dodge is much less graceful, and I’m not quite fast enough to take flight before the table smashes into me. It knocks me to the ground, ripping the breath from my lungs, and then before I have a chance to recover I’m being picked up and thrown.

I hit a wall and crumple to hands and knees, wings spread, and then she’s on me again, bashing me with something hard—I catch a glimpse of a table leg, torn from the offending furniture. She brings it down over and over, slamming it into my knees, my back, even my wings. She’s unrelenting. I can take it.

“Damn,” Canary laughs, “guess you were all bark and no bite. You shoulda stayed a nobody, witch.”

Something a little bit like fury starts to build in my chest. I clench my teeth and ignore her taunt, focused on my work. She still doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t respect me. I’ll make her regret that.

I grit out, “Aren’t you supposed to be all righteous and heroic? Where’s the appeal to my humanity? Insults like those don’t befit a magical girl! Where’s—”

Canary grabs me by the back of my dress and by my shoulder, and she forcefully turns me around to face her. I flex my wings quickly to keep them between her and what I’ve conjured, and then she’s got me by the collar and leans in close, pulling on my choker tight enough to hurt me. She’s grinning. “You’ve got a mouth on ya. I like that, I do. Tell ya what, if you really wanna call it quits, I’ll let you. Surrender, drop the witch form, and you can spend some nice time in jail gettin’ all rehabilitated.”

I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender and say, “Your words have convinced me, truly. I’m choked with emotion. Is this the part where we kiss and make up?”

She laughs. “No.”

“That’s fair,” I say as I fold my wings, and then the five eyeball bats hidden behind them explode, and Canary burns.

The mouthy heroine hits the back of a lobby sofa and crumples, only spared a concussion by the material she impacted—that is, if a magical girl could get a concussion in the first place, which I’m pretty sure they can’t, and I’m really getting off track. Her costume is covered in burn marks, and her face too. She’s out cold, my first K.O. in this fight.

And if I wasn’t fighting a pack of goddamn speedsters, I’d actually have a moment to celebrate that little victory. Instead, because Azure is an incredibly rude woman and a thief, she clocks me with my own stolen club, which she must have taken from my minion like a common brigand. Yeah, I’m so over the Blurs. They’re too annoying to fight!

I dismiss the club before Azure can hit me with it again, rubbing my head and wincing. That hit hurt, and if I didn’t have that baseline level of witch endurance I think I’d be joining Canary on the ground. In the distance, I see an unconscious gunman where my poor brute once stood, and then Azure starts laying into me with her fists.

Punch, punch, punch, is that all she knows how to do? What a wretch. I bring my hands together and summon another exploding eyeball—or rather, I try to, but Azure grabs both my wrists and twists them apart before I can. Her strength is surprising, and I think it’s the result of genuine training, not magical ability.

“No more of that,” she spits. “Amaranth! Get over here and help me finish this.”

I glance over at the pink heroine, where my swarm of minions has been soundly defeated. Amaranth has two of the little demon figurines and she’s mashing them together and making kissing noises, which I somehow hadn’t noticed until now. She looks up when Azure calls her name, sighs, and whines, “I wanted a duel! Both of you got a duel. This is so not fair.”

“I agree,” I add. “For a hero, you have a terrible sense of sportsmanship.”

“Now, Amaranth!”

“Fine, fine. Oh, wait! Now I get to play with her wings. Yay!”

Amaranth zips over, gets her hands around the base of a wing, and starts pulling. A new shot of panic cuts through my mask of confidence. She’s not actually going to rip my wings off, is she? No, she definitely is.

I strain against the hold around my wrists, but Azure is putting everything she has into keeping my hands apart. Damn that woman for figuring out my limits so quickly. With my hands apart I can’t summon familiars fully-formed, and none of the objects I can summon will get me out of this situation. I could try to transform one of the figurines left on the floor, but my left hand is twisted in the wrong direction for that.

My back is starting to hurt where my wing is being ripped from my body. I flap the other wing to try and smack Amaranth’s face, but she just laughs at me and pulls harder, her fingers digging into tender flesh and applying pressure so sharp it stings the hollow bones beneath. She’s loving this. For the first time since I became a witch, I’m feeling pain so powerful it puts the rest of the world on mute.

Azure isn’t even smirking at me, she’s not even smug about this, just serious and dry and so fucking boring. I hate her face. I want to make them both bleed. I feel that just as powerfully as I feel the pain in my back and my bones and my soul. But I’m not strong enough to fight them both off. I had my chance and I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t clever enough, didn’t make enough bodies to contend with three magical girls working as a team.

Am I going to lose?

I can’t. I can’t! I need to win because if I don’t then it’s one more failure in a lifetime of disappointment. Archon doesn’t fail. Rachel does. I’ve failed so many times and I can’t let it happen again. I can’t disappoint Sophia again. If I lose here, now, to these C-listers, how can I ever expect to catch up to Striga? How can I look Ferromancer in the eye if I lose after all her training? If I lose… I’ll just be Rachel again. And I can’t imagine a worse fate.

I won’t be a waste of oxygen anymore. I won’t be a burden. I’ll be a witch.

Amaranth tears the wing from my back and I turn pain into strength, every ounce of it I can muster, to free my left hand from Azure’s grip. At the same time, I reach into the furnace inside my soul and grab a foam arrow with my other hand—but instead of summoning the whole arrow, I only conjure the payload capsule, which I crush as soon as it appears.

The foam expands, covering my hand and Azure’s, imprisoning us both. With my left hand I pour bright green flame onto the foam, willing it to life. Azure regains her grip and twists my hand away again, but she’s too late; the foam becomes a living thing, another familiar. All my practice pays off.

This familiar isn’t as complicated as the others, and it doesn’t have a stat sheet or anything like that. All it has is a single power and a single command: expand to consume the magical girl. The foam grows and grows, swallowing Azure up even as she tries to speed away, clinging to her body, sticking and hardening, until she comes to a stop completely encased.

I shiver, suddenly cold, and clutch at the bloody wound on my back that still screams agony across my nerves. That took more out of me than I thought. I’m breathing heavy and ragged, almost trembling. But I did it.

Amaranth leans on my shoulder, on the side where she mutilated me, and says, “So, is it my turn now?”

---

[commentary]

Amaranth is my favorite Blur, she’s such a weirdo.

A special thank you to my Grandmaster-tier patrons, whose support has kept food on my table: Lirian, Demi, Natalie Maher, PR4v1 Samaratunga, and CaosSorge.

If you like this story and want to see more of it, please go to the RR page and leave a rating or review! Web serials live and die on audience support, and this one is no exception. The better the story does on RR, the more people click through and read, the more motivation I have (both on a mental health level and on an “able to pay rent” level) to keep writing and to write faster.

The next scheduled break week starts on the 27th of July. Don’t get caught by surprise!

[/commentary]

[commentary]

what’s up gamers it’s your girl vvkefkafan49 here with another episode of my full play of kingdom hearts 4 chain of drop memory half over nights ready to take down mr sephiroth himself dont forget to like subscribe and smash that bell kill it kill the bell destroy the bell or your life is forfeit

i vibrate at intense speeds like when the guy in the mask puts on the mask

Wow! That was weird! Anyway. Do you like girlfailures? Do you like the soppingest of girlfailures? Premium high-grade soaked cat messes? What if that cat was a lizard? What if that lizard was stuck in a time loop? If you want to read about an idiot lesbian lizard tripping over her own feet, tail, hands, and frontal lobe, you should be reading Atzi! It’s by a friend of mine and could use a bit more love, so go give it a read and tell the author you like it.

[/commentary]

In the last minutes before the heist—really more of a robbery, but heist sounds cool and exciting—I almost talk myself out of it.

I mean, I’m about to rob a bank. Before today, I’ve never done a crime. I feel like some part of me should be recoiling just from cultural conditioning, but all I feel is terrified that I’ll fail. That I’ll get caught. That I’ll disappoint Ferromancer. That I’ll never catch up to Striga.

It’s just jitters, I’ll be fine. This is what all that practice was for. I try to shake out the nervous energy and focus on what I’m confident about. I’ve played through this scene in my head so many times, rehearsing every line. I can do this. I’m ready.

A dozen imps squat behind me on the roof of a cafe across the street from the bank I’m planning to rob. The Carlisle Bank downtown is one of the nicer banks in Forks, with tall windows and a brushed steel facade. I’ve never been, which makes it perfect for eliminating any chance of a link to me—I trust the veil, but there’s no point taking unnecessary risks.

One more deep breath, and then it’s go time.

I whistle to my familiars and take flight, gliding down from my perch on the roof to land just in front of the bank’s glass doors. The imps with wings soar beside me, while the ones without wings scamper down the side of the building and lag behind. A pair of imps take up positions on either side of the bank entrance and pull the doors open for me. On the street, passersby take notice, and I hear the telltale click of phone cameras going off. The attention is always appreciated, but they’re not my primary audience.

I sweep into the bank lobby, taking note of my surroundings as I spread my arms wide and gesture my familiars into the room with me. The interior is very clean and modern: gleaming marble floors, plush couches for seating, and an actual crystal chandelier that I’m itching to shatter. When I picked this bank and was talking about it with my friends, Mike complained that the crystal chandelier was completely out of character with the modern aesthetic of the bank’s interior, and then he mocked up his own idea for the interior in some house renovation game. He’s kind of a freak like that.

“Salutations, good people of Forks! I deeply apologize for disrupting your busy lives and lively business, but I’m afraid I have an urgent appointment with this bank’s vault and the dollar bills therein. Do be a lovely crowd and keep away from the splash zone. Flash photography is encouraged, so get out those phones and record away!”

Playing the part of the cackling villainess is so fun it surprises me. I luxuriate in the glow of performance, soaking in the excited reactions of the crowd. Seven customers are scattered about the lobby, well-dressed men and women talking to the tellers or taking advantage of the lounge’s free coffee. All of them turn to look at me, many with annoyed expressions that shift into delight when they see a real life witch standing in the entrance of the bank. They’re looking at me, taking in my lines and my appearance. Finally, people are paying attention to me.

The tellers, on the other hand, look bored. They’ve probably been through this already more times than they can remember, being in the grandest city of magic on this side of the continent. I pity them, but not enough to regret doing this. They’ll be fine, and it’s not their money I’m taking.

“Since I have your eyes,” I say with a grin, “now would be the perfect time to introduce myself—to you, and to all of Forks. My name is—”

Then someone shoots me.

Motherfucker! I clutch at my stomach where a fresh hole has been made and grit my teeth through the pain. There’s a goddamn bullet in me. Some idiot prick shot me. No one’s ever shot me before. What the hell is your problem!?

And yet, although I’ve never been shot before, I get the distinct feeling that this is nowhere near as painful as a gunshot to the stomach is supposed to be. Aren’t gut wounds the very worst kind of wound? I could swear I’ve seen something about how it’s the only kind of pain that comes close to childbirth. The pain I’m feeling now is like a papercut compared to that.

In the seconds it takes me to react to getting shot, the wound is already healing over. I watch the bullet get pushed out by regenerating flesh, and when the hole seals up the fabric of my dress seals with it, the only mark of the injury a bit of lingering blood on black. I pat the area and laugh, and then I look for the shithead who thought they could shoot a witch and get away with it.

He’s not hard to find. The rest of the crowd has backed away from him, nervous shock filtering through the delighted excitement of before. The man is shaking in his tailored jacket, a concealed carry holster revealed around his waistband. This guy brought a gun into a bank, who does that?

The gun is still in his hands, both of them holding it tight in a white-knuckle grip. His finger is still curled around the trigger. It’s a pistol, but I don’t know guns so I can’t place a make or model or anything like that. All I see is a boring, gray, useless piece of junk. An affront.

“Mistake,” I tell him, cold fury seeping into my voice. With a flick of my wrist I send a fireball his way, and at the same time I spread my wings wide in case he shoots again—can’t have him missing and the bullet finding its way into one of my lovely audience members.

He panic-shoots thrice before the green flame swallows him whole and reshapes him into one of my familiars. I watch a sheen of wet clay spread across his skin and suit, texture and detail carved into it as my magic does its glorious work, and then he’s one of mine—a brute, saurian and hulking, with Thunderclap’s axe-turned-hammer in hand.

I take each gunshot with a forced smile, the pain becoming easier to ignore with every bullet that pierces my flesh. I would have been terrified when I was just another human, but now any fear I might have felt has burned away in the fires of my apotheosis. I revel in how the bullets are expelled from my body, for they are unworthy of harming me. A witch fears no weapon held in a mortal’s hands.

“I thank you for the opportunity to demonstrate my power,” I tell the transformed gunman, though it’s entirely for everyone else’s benefit. “As I was saying: my name is Archon, and I am here to rob this bank. Resistance is unbecoming, and I believe I’ve just dealt with the only idiot in this room suicidal enough to take a shot at a witch. None of you can hurt me. None of you can stop me. So let’s all have a fun, pleasant robbery, yes?”

Living in Forks has a funny way of changing how you react to supernatural phenomena. In a more normal city, I think the average person would still be more scared than excited to see a magic-wielding supervillain threatening to rob the very building you’re standing in. But here? The crowd was more worried about the gun than about the witch, and for good reason.

Now, as the lone actor is removed, the mood shifts again. There’s a current of tension—a bit of nervousness at how I transformed the man who shot me, I imagine—but the dominant feeling is still interest. It’s a kind of curiosity that hasn’t quite reached adoration, but it might get there if I build enough of a name for myself. These people could love me.

I want that more than I ever thought I would. Strange.

I stride past the onlookers and march up to the bulletproof glass separating me from the bank teller. She’s playing some sort of tile-matching game on her phone. She looks up at me with a yawn when I politely knock on the glass. Brown hair, sleepy eyes, kind of cute.

Writing my lines for this next part was a far greater ordeal than writing my entrance. There are plenty of classic phrases I could use, such as “I’d like to make a withdrawal,” or “Stick ‘em up, this is a robbery,” but if I say something too cliched the teller will probably just groan and roll her eyes, like how you should never, ever make a joke about something being free to a cashier working retail. It’s important for my branding that I develop a good rapport with the people whose place of business I’m robbing.

“Out of curiosity,” I open, leaning an elbow on the counter and resting my chin on my palm, “do you get hazard pay when a witch shows up, or is it just normal hours?”

The teller snorts. “Hazard pay? As if. Look, you know that there’s gonna be magical girls here any minute, right?”

“Sure, yeah, that’s why I’m here. Do you need to wait until I beat them up before getting the money out of the vault, or can we start that process now and save a bit of a time? It’s fine with me if you want to drag it out, take a smoke break, do whatever. I’ve got all day.” I grin.

“Just try not to break the chandelier,” she sighs. “It’s always such a pain to clean up.”

On cue, the heroines burst into the bank: a trio of color-coordinated magical girls in matching costumes—pink, yellow, and blue—that I recognize as the Blurs, a team of speedsters. Their outfits are sleek and form-fitting, the kind of full-body spandex typical of a comic book hero, with each costume having black accents breaking up the profile. Each wears a black domino mask with opaque eyes that match the main color, and even their hair matches the color theming. It’s a little excessive, but I’m a sucker for the uniform look. I’m also, I have to admit, quite a bit relieved that I’m not facing Thunderclap with her Vanguard buddies.

“Man, what is it with you guys and robbing banks?” bemoans Canary, the yellow Blur, as she leans on the entry door frame with her hands behind her head. “If you were banking on a payday, I really love to disappoint.”

“Cool wings!” adds Amaranth, the pink one, her fists out in a readied stance. “Can’t wait to rip ‘em off ya. Don’t worry, you’ll live.”

Azure, the predictably blue, has her arms crossed as she surveys the room with a severe expression. “Surrender now, witch,” she addresses me, voice tight. “We won’t give you another chance.”

Gosh, have I mentioned how much I love magical girls? I mean, honestly, what’s not to love? The costumes, the banter, the sheer presence, it’s all just perfect. It takes all of my concentration not to squeal like I did in front of Thunderclap, and these gals aren’t even in my top ten. I do know them, of course.

The Blurs are your typical vigilante team, doing their best to deal with mundane crime and the handful of witches not already married to conflict with Visage or Vanguard heroines. They’d probably join Vanguard if forced to choose, but they seem to enjoy their independence.

Powerset-wise, they’re speedsters, and more importantly they’re a shared power unit: instead of each magical girl being selected separately and teaming up later, all three Blurs were granted their powers together, and it’s perhaps more accurate to say that they only have one superpower that’s being shared by all three heroines. Individually, they’re all weaker than a solo magical girl of comparable experience; together, they regularly punch above their weight class.

Most of my evenings for the past two weeks have been filled with dreaming up how I’d beat all the various magical girls that I could conceivably get in a fight with, so I already have a few ideas for how I’ll approach this team. I’m itching to test those ideas, and I need to win this fight. There’s a lot riding on it, both reputationally and in my personal life.

But a little bit of talk among peers can’t hurt, right?

I clap my hands excitedly. “Oh, it’s so lovely to hear your lines in person! Canary’s puns, Azure’s straightforward focus, and Amaranth’s delightful sense of violence. I’m a big fan, really. I’m honored that you’ll be the first magical girls I get to kick around in a fight—that little tiff with Thunderclap didn’t count, of course.”

“Oh good,” Canary groans, “a chatty one. And a big ego, but when is that not the case?”

“She called me delightful,” Amaranth says to Azure. “They never call me delightful! Can we keep this one?”

“No,” their team leader says bluntly. “Canary, get the civilians to safety. Amaranth, start clearing those familiars. The witch is mine.”

The magical girls blur into motion and I cackle my best maniacal laugh.

Okay, heroes. Let’s dance.

---

[commentary]

Things are going great for Rachel! Things are also going great on my Discord server, where in just the past week we’ve played some awesome games of EDH, a Duskmourn draft with 11 players, and even Pauper. I’ll be busy today playing Vintage Cube, and this upcoming Friday we’ve got a Modern Horizons 3 draft on the schedule. So much Magic to be played, so little time between writing…

A special thank you to my Grandmaster-tier patrons, whose support has kept food on my table: Lirian, Demi, Natalie Maher, PR4v1 Samaratunga, and CaosSorge.

If you like this story and want to see more of it, please go to the RR page and leave a rating or review! Web serials live and die on audience support, and this one is no exception. The better the story does on RR, the more people click through and read, the more motivation I have (both on a mental health level and on an “able to pay rent” level) to keep writing and to write faster.

The next scheduled break week starts on the 27th of July. Don’t get caught by surprise!

[/commentary]

I don’t end up telling Ferromancer about my money troubles on Monday, or on Tuesday. It isn’t until the middle of the week that I manage to raise the topic, and even then it’s not really by choice.

“Again.”

The training scenario starts and I leap into action, back in the workshop arena once again. Satisfied with my ability to summon familiars in a pinch, Ferromancer has changed the rules of my practice bouts to allow me a certain number of familiars summoned beforehand. The new focus is fighting alongside those familiars, and a lot of our experimentation has revolved around figuring out an ideal arrangement.

My new standard loadout is four of the fire-throwing imps, eight of the spear-carrying imps, and one brute demon. It eats up a good chunk of my flame but not enough that I’m in danger, and I’ve been consistently improving the sustainability of my powers, though only by inches. If I need to, I can still summon more, but the objective of this week’s training has been learning how to use the other half of my toolkit more effectively.

To that end, I’ve acquired a bow—or more accurately, Ferromancer acquired a bow for me. It started as a nice compound bow, but after a taste of my flame all of the technical elements have melted and now it resembles a more traditional war bow, or the high fantasy equivalent—strange patterns in scorched plastic, spike-tipped and menacing.

I tried archery in high school, but I was hopeless at it. I’m still hopeless at it—we tested that with the compound before I burned it—but when I’m wielding the transformed version it’s like I’m a born expert. Ferromancer insists that I’ll do better if I can pair that supernatural mastery with real practice, but that’s a long-term plan. Personally, I’m hoping to get my hands on some trick arrows.

Maybe then I’ll stand a chance against Bombshell.

When Ferromancer told me she was upping the difficulty, I assumed that meant more holograms, or some drones thrown in the mix. Instead, she brought out her enforcer, and the brawler witch has been kicking my ass ever since.

The worst part is how obviously Bombshell is holding back. She’s not fighting me in purple aura, or even red aura—she’s sending her familiars to fight on her behalf. Bombshell isn’t a dedicated familiar user, but they’re still pretty unique: she makes copies of herself, simulacra cloaked in yellow aura that lack her sheer strength and durability but retain her perfect sense of positioning and movement.

And that perfect movement extends to catching my goddamn arrows. It’s insulting! Shoot, dodge, shoot, catch, repeat until I lose the will to live and all my familiars get popped. I’m at least getting better at dismissing my conjured arrows after they get dodged or caught.

This bout isn’t going any different from the rest. I’ve already lost half my imps, and my poor brute is tied down getting absolutely brutalized by one of the Bombshell copies while the other copy makes a beeline for my face. They’re weaker than the real deal, but that doesn’t matter; their agility is beating me. I can’t outmatch them.

In the end, just as every time before, the fight is over quickly. My resources dwindle to nothing, my last line of defense breaks, and one of the copies gets in close and tags me. Ferromancer calls the fight. I dismiss the few summons that were left.

I sag. The loss isn’t surprising, but that’s half the problem. I don’t feel like I’m making any progress. Bombshell is an insurmountable foe—no, her copies are an insurmountable foe—and I know for a fact that Bombshell doesn’t hold a candle to Striga. The gap between me and my goal seems to stretch wider the more I learn about the world of witches.

Ferromancer walks over to me, followed by four of her floating drones. “Archon. What’s your analysis? Why are you losing?”

I struggle to answer. I have an answer, but it feels wrong. It feels like giving up, and I don’t want Ferromancer to think less of me. But I can’t think of anything else, so I say it: “I feel like I can’t win with the tools I have. I’m trying to shoot faster, coordinate my familiars better, but I don’t see how I can win even if I play perfectly. Sorry, I know that sounds so defeatist.”

“Actually, I agree.” Ferromancer chuckles at the surprised look on my face. “You don’t have the powerset of a warrior, to improve your motion and your strength until you can overcome a challenge with the same blade in hand as you started with. You’re a blacksmith, Archon; an inventor, like me. When your toolkit can’t answer a problem, you build a new tool to solve it.”

I chew on that. “Huh. That’s… a pretty good perspective. Thanks.”

“Give it a think while we take a break. See what you can come up with.” Ferromancer waves me off and vanishes into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Bombshell.

The other witch bounces over to me, brimming with overwhelming cheer. “Hey hey! It’s super duper cool to see you improving. I can’t wait to see how strong you get! How’s the witch life? What have you been up to outside of training?”

Her excitement is almost infectious, but I don’t have great answers for her questions. I scratch my head sheepishly and say, “Honestly, I haven’t been up to much. At least, not much different from my normal schedule.”

Bombshell grins, somehow sparkling even more than usual. “I have the perfect solution: let’s go shopping together! You seem like you’ll be sticking around, and shopping with someone is the perfect way to get to know them. C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

I wince. “Actually… I can’t really afford any spending right now. In fact, money is kind of a problem for me, with rent coming up. I was going to try and fence some of the jewelry I can copy, but the fact that it disappears makes me worry about stressing the veil.” Weirdly, it feels easier to tell this to Bombshell than to Ferromancer. Bombshell doesn’t seem like the kind of person that judges for anything.

“You should do a heist!” she says with an excited clap of her hands. “Every supervillain should rob a bank at least once in their career. It’s tradition!” She seems completely unfazed by my response, still bouncing in place with all that boundless energy.

“What’s this about a heist?” Ferromancer asks, returning from the kitchen with bottles of water to distribute.

“I need money,” I admit. “My main income stream just vanished and rent is soon. I’d been thinking of how to bring it up. I want to do something to introduce myself to the world as Archon, and if I can solve my money problem at the same time that’d be great. But I don’t really know how to fence a bunch of stolen cash, or fence stolen anything, so I’m not sure what I’d do if I did rob a bank. Is that even something that works these days? I figured modern banks would keep all their cash off-site, with how much everything can be done by card.”

“Nope!” Bombshell chirps. “They still keep a bunch of cash on hand for transactions.”

Ferromancer leans against a crate and takes a gulp of water. “Mm. I could handle the laundering for you in exchange for a cut. And if time is an issue… well, you’ve been learning fast. If you want to take your final exam early, I won’t say no. And I have something that can help, something I’ve wanted to test since I first heard about your power.”

“Oh?” My curiosity heightens. “What kind of test?”

The redheaded witch strides over to an unmarked box stacked on top of a larger crate, opens it up, and pulls out a single arrow with an unusual arrowhead: it looks like a capsule more than anything, made of some kind of white plastic. The rest of the arrow is normal, plain black like the one Ferromancer first gave me to copy.

“It’s a foam arrow,” she explains. “You saw some of it in use during the demonstration, the expanding sticky foam that hardens to trap the target. The foam is concentrated in the arrowhead and is triggered by kinetic energy, so a strong impact causes it to rapidly expand, breaking through the plastic seal and affixing to whatever the arrow struck. You can imagine the use that would have in a fight.”

I sure can. Bombshell had to power up to break free of the foam when it was used in the demo; her copies wouldn’t be able to at all. With a gadget like this, our practice bouts would completely change. In a real fight, in a fight against a magical girl, it would be invaluable to securing a nonlethal victory. Bombshell whistles, equally appreciative.

“I want you to feed it to your furnace.”

I blink. I should have seen that coming, but it’s still a little surprising. “You know that destroys the original, right? And my copies are temporary. Is it really okay to destroy one of your inventions like that?” I’m looking a gift horse in the mouth, I know, but I’m nervous around Ferromancer, sue me.

She waves off my concern. “This is just a prototype. It was easy enough to make, and there’s no one in town I could really sell it to. Besides, the data we’d gather is worth the expenditure. This is a test of your power, Archon.”

“A test?” I frown. “Of what? What’s so special about the arrow?”

“Magic.” She laughs at my skeptical look. “I’m serious. The materials science at play with this foam doesn’t work. I’m cheating in a bunch of different ways to get something that nullifies a lot of the usual disadvantages of less-lethal foam. You can’t suffocate in the stuff, it dissolves in salt water for easier cleanup, and it packs extremely well, all while being stronger than what the Marines were experimenting with in Somalia. This foam may look like ordinary technology, but it’s running on magic at its core. And that’s what I’m curious about: can your furnace copy another witch’s magic?”

I work through the implications of that. “I copied Thunderclap’s axe, but it’s only created by magic, it doesn’t really have special properties. If I could copy a magic item from another witch’s kit… the possibilities are limitless. If I could copy your kit, it would completely nullify the limitation downside of your power—though not in a way that could be sold like normal.”

“It would make you one of the most versatile witches in the world,” Ferromancer says. “Greater than myself or Lilith, even. I’d like to see if that’s possible.”

“That’s incredible,” I breathe, practically salivating. Then I hesitate. “This is more than what Pandora asked of you, isn’t it? Why are you giving me so much help?”

Bombshell rolls her eyes. “Girl, you have to learn when to take a gift!”

Ferromancer holds up a hand at her enforcer, looking amused. “It’s fine. It’s a fair question. Witches are hardly an altruistic bunch, and I’m no exception. Pandora likes to call her witches ‘investments,’ and I think that’s a reasonable view to take. I also like to make investments. Bombshell is one. You might be another. I have a few projects on the drawing board that would greatly benefit from a power like yours, if it can copy my work. So let’s find out, shall we?”

She takes the arrow and holds it out, gesturing for me to take it. I’m nervous—incredibly nervous—but I’m also extremely excited. If this works, it’ll be a game changer. It’ll make me a witch worth paying attention to. The kind of witch that maybe, just maybe, could beat Strix Striga. Sophie’s power is incredible, but even she can’t predict everything. With enough tricks up my sleeve, I might just win.

I take the arrow and feed it to Prometheus. The furnace takes it with a hungry eagerness, consuming the device whole and making it mine. The arrow joins my armory.

I burn a new arrow into being, conjuring it with violet flame. Moment of truth. I resummon my bow, nock the arrow, and aim for a random crate. I loose the arrow. I watch it fly. And when it strikes the target, the foam expands.

“It worked!” I shout, suddenly gleeful. “I can do it! I can copy other people’s magic!”

The implications overwhelm me. The gratitude overwhelms me. I’m going to be capable of so much—I’m going to stand a chance against my beloved Striga—and I never would have gotten here without Ferromancer’s help. I look over at the woman who’s already done so much for me, the witch who’s teaching me how to be more than another number, and I can feel my heart bursting.

Those smoldering eyes watch me with such cool, delighted amusement, always the perfect picture of control. Her lips quirking, her posture relaxed, her presence immense. If Ferromancer really thinks I can help her with something, I want that. I need to be useful to her, to repay her for what she’s given me. I don’t want my time with her to end.

I wonder what she sees in my eyes. I wonder if it’s exactly what she wants to see.

We finish our break and get back to combat training. I learn the ins and outs of my new kind of arrow, and I practice switching up which kind I use to keep my opponent guessing. I score my first real hits on Bombshell’s copies, and I glow with pride as Ferromancer watches.

That evening, for the first time, I win a round against Bombshell. And as we wrap it up for the night and get ready to head home, Ferromancer tells me two words that make my body sing:

“You’re ready.”

---

[commentary]

Heist! Heist! Heist!

A special thank you to my Grandmaster-tier patrons, whose support has kept food on my table: Lirian, Demi, Natalie Maher, PR4v1 Samaratunga, and CaosSorge.

If you like this story and want to see more of it, please go to the RR page and leave a rating or review! Web serials live and die on audience support, and this one is no exception. The better the story does on RR, the more people click through and read, the more motivation I have (both on a mental health level and on an “able to pay rent” level) to keep writing and to write faster.

The next scheduled break week starts on the 29th of June. That means next week!

[/commentary]

I’m starting to believe that my life might have been completely directionless before I became a witch.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I was going in a lot of directions, they were all just terrible. But we’ll get to that.

The afternoon finds me lying on the couch that is also my bed, scrolling aimlessly down my social media feed. If I’m not with Sophia, I’m basically always on my phone. Checking socials, posting, getting in arguments, playing mobile games. I live on this thing.

I tried thinking of something more productive to do, but I feel like that goes against the spirit of enjoying my weekend. I should be relaxing. I’m just not sure if doomscrolling counts, and I don’t have anything better to do. I could open my laptop and see if anyone is around for Halo or League. Or I could play more card games on my phone.

It’s just, none of it really feels like it has a point. I don’t want to be relaxing, I want to be doing real magic, not Magic: the Gathering. I want to get stronger. I want to get closer to Striga. And everything I do at home, all the games and the forums and the socials, it’s all so petty now that I’m a witch. How many hours of my life have I wasted shouting at strangers on the internet? How much of my time has been sunk into needless things?

It’s depressing, and I don’t want to think about it, so I keep scrolling until I get a message from one of my friends.

Mordacity: new thunderclap interview

Mordacity: watch it

That gets me sitting up and paying attention. I’ve been watching for any followup to our battle, but TC has been staunchly avoiding any news outlets these past two weeks, and Vanguard didn’t issue any kind of official statement regarding the clash—though they did issue a notice that they were investigating possible Catastrophe activity in western Washington. I open the link that Mord sent and settle in.

I recognize the reporter who did the interview: Carol Green, who works for one of the local news orgs. Talking to magical girls is her bread and butter, and she has a good relationship with both Visage and Vanguard. Thunderclap hovers awkwardly next to her, the two of them in front of some kind of industrial center with piles and piles of logs stacked high.

Carol gives her lines with rapid, practiced enthusiasm. “I’m here at the Mateus & Nelson Lumber Co. wood processing plant on the outskirts of Forks where Thunderclap and her Vanguard teammates just foiled an attack on the facility by the Coterie witch known as Sister Nature. While the numbers are still coming in, all signs point to a clean victory with no casualties and minimal property damage. Thunderclap, it’s safe to say that this intervention was a rousing success. What was the key to your victory today?”

So it’s a puff piece. Got it. Despite being given such a lowball question, Thunderclap is still visibly nervous with public speaking. “It’s, um, it’s nothing we haven’t done before. When we work together and are determined, we can get things done. Teamwork is the key!” She strikes her signature pose, arms crossed and gaze focused just a little too far to the left of the camera.

“Well said,” Carol lies, “and a far cry from your attitude a few weeks ago when you clashed with an unnamed witch outside the NCM.” Thunderclap winces, but Carol barrels on. “What brought about such a swift and dramatic change in outlook?”

“Strix Striga,” the heroine answers without hesitation, and then she winces again. “Striga… after the battle was over, she pulled me aside and we talked about what happened. She has this way of speaking, you know? Like she always knows exactly what to say to make you realize where you went wrong. She reminded me that it’s not about me. At the end of the day it’s about the people we’re protecting, whether that’s the people of Forks or my teammates in Vanguard. We all have a responsibility to do our part. No one needs to go it alone.”

“Except Striga,” I mutter to myself bitterly.

Thunderclap looks a lot more confident now, though. There’s a self-assured certainty to her words that she must have picked up from Striga’s speech. I wonder if this was the roundabout goal behind Striga’s brutal dressing-down in the heat of the moment.

Carol nods along. “You can always count on Strix Striga to live up to her reputation. Now, before we get back to today’s conflict, can you tell us anything else about the witch you fought? Although she’s been sighted in flight a few times since that incident, we still haven’t learned her name or what she wants. If she makes trouble for Forks, will you see it as your responsibility to stop her?”

The heroine’s newfound confidence takes on a hard edge. “I don’t know who she is, and I’m not sure what she wants. But I do know, and she knows just as well, that Forks is under Vanguard’s protection. If that witch tries to harm the people of this city, it won’t be my responsibility—it’ll be my team’s responsibility. And when we work together, we don’t lose.”

I glare at the magical girl on my phone screen. We’ll see about that, Thunderthighs.

The video ends there, an excerpt from a longer interview. I’ll watch the full thing later.

Alexandria: vid vidded

Alexandria: call or no

Mordacity: sure

“You gotta pick a name,” Mord says to me as soon as the call connects. “I’m already seeing nicknames for you floating around. They’re mostly fine right now, lots of Dark Angel and Firewing, but you just know someone’s gonna come up with something stupid that’ll stick if you don’t get out ahead of it.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll make the Archon reveal when I get a good opportunity. I don’t want to just fly up to someone with their phone out and say, ‘Hey, I’m Archon,’ y’know? It has to be grand. I need my debut to have weight.”

“I give it another week,” Mord says bluntly. “Start planning.”

“Fine, fine.” I wave her off, then realize I’m not on video so she can’t see that. “Okay, let’s get on topic here: do you think Striga set all that up? When she interrupted my fight with Thunderclap, she bought just enough time for TC’s powers to come back while goading her into picking a rematch with me. Was she intending for Thunderclap to lose, so she could turn that into a lesson and make her more useful to Vanguard?”

“First we have to ask if she could predict the sequence,” Mordacity points out. “You’re the Striga expert here. Do you think it’s possible?”

I muse on it. “Striga’s scary good at prediction, but we know her power is analysis, not precognition. If she had been watching the fight before she intervened, she’d probably have a complete enough model to predict the outcome of a rematch. If she only appeared when she seemed to, though? It’d be the same as anyone else, a guess based on the fact that I’d managed the victory once. Not the kind of certainty she likes to operate on.”

“Then let’s map what follows. In this world, Thunderclap gets her ass beat and Striga uses that as a teaching moment. In the world where you lose the rematch instead of winning, Striga still gets to chew Thunderclap out for endangering the pact while Echidna is making moves, and maybe uses some Coterie connections to sell the point. Is there a world where Thunderclap doesn’t pursue the rematch at all?”

“No,” I answer confidently. “Striga’s model of Thunderclap should be near-perfect. The fact that Thunderclap chose the rematch is all the evidence we need that Striga wanted her to do that.”

Mordacity is quiet for a moment, and then she says, “There’s one more variable: the world where you win your fight with Thunderclap and execute her, starting a pattern of three.”

I frown. “That’s… I guess that’s not outside the realm of possibility. I mean, I wouldn’t do that, but Striga couldn’t know that for certain.”

Mordacity whistles, which I’m amazed comes through over voice call. “Your hero’s pretty cold, A. Striga must have planned for that route, too.”

“She makes hard choices,” I defend. “It’s not like I’d ever get away with completing the pattern on a Vanguard heroine. It’s a bit ruthless, sure, but it gave her information on what kind of witch I am.”

Mordacity just laughs. “Simp,” she accuses.

“Whatever.” I can’t exactly argue against that one.

“So,” Mord says, changing topic, “have you thought about what this means for you?”

I hum. “In the process of doing that.”

“Thunderclap will be your opponent again,” she tells me plainly. “That was probably inevitable, but now you’re staring down Thunderclap plus two to three other magical girls, which is going to be a rough fight.”

“But not as rough as fighting Striga,” I murmur.

“The bright side,” Mordacity says, ignoring my comment, “is that she seems to have cooled down and won’t be chasing after you for simple revenge. At least not until the Echidna situation boils over and resolves itself, is my guess.”

“Maybe. As far as she knows, I’m a small-time witch that got lucky. Better for some other hero to deal with. But I’ll try to be careful about what I get up to as a witch.”

“You should also look into making allies,” Mordacity advises. “Securing backing from a major faction would make your situation less precarious.”

I’ve thought about doing that. After that first day with Ferromancer, both Radiance and Lilith know my name—and they have reason to believe I’m more than just another sacrificial pawn being thrown into the blender. Visage appeals to me as a fangirl, the Coterie for their role in the pact bringing them closer to Striga—when a crisis shakes the region, the leadership of Vanguard and the Coterie work together to solve it.

Then there’s the Syndicate, which is pretty much exactly what it sounds like: a criminal empire ruled by witches. The Coterie’s anarchists and ecoterrorists might cause trouble for magical girls in their own way, but like the witches of Visage they’re willing to work with magical girls to limit casualties and defend against greater threats. The Syndicate, on the other hand, is a pack of opportunists that will happily run their operations in the middle of a Catastrophe incident, so long as they think they can get away with it. Most of Vanguard’s work—most of Striga’s work—is rooting out the Syndicate.

In that, they’re a way to get closer to Striga. But I know what Striga does to Syndicate witches she catches. I know how many she’s consigned to a final death. So I don’t think they’re a particularly live option while my goal is stability.

“Damn, you’re deep in the tank. How’s the sauce, A?” Mordacity’s wry comment snaps me out of my contemplation.

“I was considering my options,” I grumble. “And I will keep considering them after I eat something. Thanks for the link, M.”

We say our goodbyes and I end the call. From the pantry I rummage some cheese crackers to snack on, and then instead of thinking about being a witch I open an app on my phone and start farming gacha girls.

For those mercifully unaware, a gacha game is a form of legal gambling where you spend money on random rolls in the hopes of winning cute anime girls (or cute anime boys) that are technically useful in the game’s alleged gameplay, but everyone knows the only reason people play gacha is to collect pretty pictures to drool over. They’re usually mobile games, both because predatory economies are the norm there and so you can stare at your waifu hoard on the go. They’ve got titles for every niche: cute anime girl anthropomorphic warships, cute anime girl anthropomorphic guns, cute anime girl furry knights… you get the picture.

Some people spend hundreds of dollars on gacha games every month. I’m not one of those losers, though; I make money playing gacha. See, there’s a sweet spot of people with just enough disposable income to splash a bit of cash on gacha but not quite enough income—or just too much self-control—to really whale out and keep spending until they get what they want. The solution is simple: just buy an account that already has the girl you want. Facebook is littered with groups for buying and selling, and you can make a decent buck if you have the drive or resources. I don’t have the resources—bot farms aren’t cheap—but I do have the drive.

Free-to-play gacha is a horrible grind, slow and grueling and full of temptation to spend money to make it easier, but a lot of games like to throw a starter set of freebies at new players to get them hooked. I make lots of accounts, ditch the ones that get bad free rolls, and grind free-to-play until I have something worth flipping on the marketplace.

Of course, it’s against the terms of service to do any of this, so there’s always the risk of getting slapped down by corporate and needing to rebuild credibility under a new seller account, and in the extreme cases you might get a credit card flagged. I try to play it safe.

But, now that I’m a witch, why am I doing this at all?

I haven’t leveraged my powers to get a fresh income stream yet, but I’m going to eventually, whether that’s robbing a bank or signing on with Visage or whatever else. One gig will eclipse everything I’ve done with gacha, and what I’m making from my porn scam. My days of needing to flip accounts are about to be over, and I should be happy about that, but instead I just feel… adrift.

The main game I play, Magical Menagerie Ultimate, is one of those Visage-owned tie-ins where you can collect actual magical girls as characters in the game, and even a few witches. I have a personal account aside from my work accounts, which should have been a clear sign that the trading gig was just an excuse to engage with magical girls. I’ll probably keep playing, even once I don’t need to.

But why? I could go out and meet the real versions of those girls. I could become coworkers with them. I could see my own transformed face in the game.

It’s strange for me to have a sense of ambition. For so long, I didn’t feel like anything was possible. I was alive by virtue of inertia, nothing more. And now that’s not true. Now it can’t be true, because I am a witch. Everything is different.

I groan and close the app. I don’t want to think about this. I’m supposed to be relaxing, not getting existential!

Maybe I should get out of the house. I could slip down to the game store, pick up a smoothie on the way, crack some packs if I have the funds to burn.

I frown. My finances won’t be a problem for long, but they’re still a problem right now, and last I checked my checking it was getting dangerously low. I should see how much I’ve got waiting for me on my main gig.

I navigate to the site where I run my photo grift and am immediately met with bad news: AI content has been banned. That means no more sales for me, and the date for the announcement was actually last week. The meager portion I withdraw from my account is the last of my earnings from that gig, and not even enough to cover rent this month.

Well, shit. My vague sense of unease is suddenly much worse. Making money as a witch isn’t a problem for future Rachel, it’s a problem for current Rachel. Rent is due in nine days.

Sophie would cover it. The thought comes unbidden and I immediately dismiss it. Of course she would. She always does, every time I come up short, every time I fail her. And I’m sick of it. For once in my goddamn life, I’m going to pull my own weight.

The next time I see Ferromancer, I’ll tell her: it’s time for my training to hit the field. It’s time for the world to meet Archon.

---

[commentary]

I’m sure nothing discussed in this chapter is in any way topical to our current reality. Who would even suggest that?

A special thank you to my Grandmaster-tier patrons, whose support has kept food on my table: Lirian, Demi, Natalie Maher, PR4v1 Samaratunga, and CaosSorge.

If you like this story and want to see more of it, please go to the RR page and leave a rating or review! Web serials live and die on audience support, and this one is no exception. The better the story does on RR, the more people click through and read, the more motivation I have (both on a mental health level and on an “able to pay rent” level) to keep writing and to write faster.

The next scheduled break week starts on the 29th of June.

[/commentary]

“Again.”

Ferromancer’s voice is like a whip crack echoing through the vast space of her workshop. It lashes down my spine and jolts my nervous system into frenzied action, but the joke’s on her—I was already moving before the word left her mouth. When the holographic projectors spin up and the featureless pink outline of a magical girl flickers into existence with fists raised, I’m ready for it.

With a flourish of my hands and a whisper of will, I set fire to the air and burn open a portal—or at least the image of one, though the actual effect is more complicated. Green and purple twine together, forming a ring of flame, and scaly devils push their way into the world from out of that ring.

Red-skinned imps, half with wings and half without, spread out in compliance with preprogrammed instructions. The winged imps carry whips and harass the magical girl simulacrum up close, while the wingless imps throw balls of fire—bright red and harmful, which I can’t wield myself but can grant to my servants as part of their power budget—into the fray. We’ve practiced this formation, and as each imp leaves the portal it takes its place in the layers of minions that stand or swoop between me and the hard light hologram coming after me.

This is the greatest trick I’ve learned under Ferromancer: the ability to combine both colors of flame to create fully-formed familiars from nothing. I was disappointed when I realized that my creation power couldn’t copy my familiars directly—it doesn’t like living things, turns out—but together we found a workaround.

I’ve tested my transformation power on as many targets as I could find, and it turns out I really hit the jackpot. Most witches can only convert a narrow category into familiars—humans they find attractive, animals they’ve fed, objects they own, you get the picture—but I can transform just about anything into one of my minions. Well, excluding other magic users and their own familiars, but that wasn’t a surprise.

So I bought some demonic-looking figurines from the local game store, painted them with the help of a few online tutorials, and shoved them into the conceptual furnace of Prometheus. In the spirit of my love for wargaming, I wrote up a stat sheet for each type of familiar and burned that into Prometheus too.

Purple flame makes a copy of a figurine and green flame grows it into the corresponding variety of imp, the whole process happening nigh-instantaneously after lots and lots of practice to cut down the transformation time. I’m proud of the progress I’ve made.

Of course, every time I hit a milestone, Ferromancer cranks up the difficulty of the simulation to push me even further.

The hologram trades blows with the imps, shrugging off hellfire and pulling whips out of clawed hands. It tears wings when it can catch them and shoots blasts of pink energy at the distant fire-throwers, but it’s falling behind as the swarm grows, my conjuration unrelenting. And then a second hologram appears, the hard light projectors adding another enemy to keep me on my toes, and suddenly I’m losing again.

The hard light duo turn familiars back into figurines faster than I can make more. They stutter and slow down when an imp gets a good hit in, but that’s happening less and less as my swarm loses critical mass and the holograms adapt to my tactics. The imps are smarter than the clay golems, but they’re still not smart enough to get creative; they know the handful of battle plans that I sketched out on their character sheets, and that’s about it.

It’s time to introduce an elite to the mix. I focus my will and halt the flow of lesser minions, concentrating all my power on summoning a greater threat, and as the holograms get closer my masterpiece steps through.

Where the imps are spindly little shits, like starved monkeys draped in a thin layer of reptilian skin, this demon—for it truly deserves the title—is a saurian abomination that towers over me by at least a pair of heads. Its flesh isn’t just scaled but plated, covered in hard chitin growth everywhere but the joints, and its face is a mass of horns where its eyes and nose should be. Its mouth is endless rows of teeth dripping highly acidic saliva that sizzles and steams as it splatters against the workshop floor.

With both hands the brute tightly grips the weapon I stole from Thunderclap, her sapphire axe transmuted by flame into a slag hammer. A piece of ego I’ve allowed myself. A reminder to other magical girls, when they see it, that I can beat them.

The brute dashes forward on heavy legs, every step a seismic event, and positions itself between the back line of flamers and the advancing magical girl holograms. I switch my summoning back to imps, spawning more minions to distract and slow down the enemy.

The effort of making so many familiars is starting to strain me. My hands are shaking, the tips of my fingers going numb, and little shivers run through the rest of my body. That pleasant heat beneath my skin has vanished, replaced by seeping cold that gets colder and colder the more I push my magic.

I’m nearing my limit, but I can’t stop now. Not until I win.

Blows are traded. Violence is bought and sold. Energy blasts against hellfire, fists against a hammer. Collision and conflict and cold, so very cold.

I watch their fight in a haze, my vision blurring as my thoughts slow down. My legs wobble and I sink to one knee, wishing I could brace myself but unable to move my hands or the portal will break and the flow of familiars will stop. Even though my fingers are so cold. Frosting. Little popsicle fingers.

I bite my lip to keep focused. I can’t lose. I can’t stop. My elite smashes a hard light hologram so hard that it goes flying, out of the range of the projectors and out of existence. The second is swarmed, falls, and mercifully vanishes.

I scream victory and drop every familiar as I drop fully to my knees and breathe heavily on the floor of the workshop. Staring down at painted figurines, still frighteningly cold but just a bit warmer now. Shivering and triumphant.

I blink away the haze and remember to dismiss the figurines, too, turning matter back into nothing. The flame inside me reignites, the furnace in my chest pumping sweet warmth into my limbs. It’s the limit of my power, the invisible capacity placed upon me; every creation or transmutation I maintain costs a bit of the flame empowering me, until I risk freezing to death—or more likely, to unconsciousness—if I summon too many things.

Ferromancer’s footsteps signal her approach. “You’ve got grit, but you work harder when you could be working smarter,” she criticizes, fully in teacher mode right now. “Think how many figurines you left lying on the floor when you could have been reclaiming their fire to ward off cold shock.”

I wince. “You’re right, that was stupid.”

“Not stupid,” she insists, “inexperienced. You have to think of it that way or you’ll be too busy beating yourself up to learn anything. Got it?”

“Yes, teacher,” I say ruefully.

She helps me to my feet and I brush myself off. I’m still sore and tired from all the training we’ve been doing, but I get a boost of energy seeing the look on Ferromancer’s face: she’s satisfied. Her smirk is almost a smile.

“Come on,” she says, and then she points behind her into a hall that I know from experience leads to the workshop’s kitchen. “Break time. I bought sandwiches.”

It’s been two weeks since I became a witch. Two weeks since I met Ferromancer, ate lunch with her, and started learning her signature craft. It’s been a hard two weeks, but also maybe some of the best weeks of my life.

Getting to the point I have with my familiars took a lot of work, though not all of it felt like work. We didn’t start with the figurines; it stands to reason that clay would be the best material for Prometheus to mold, but the pottery class I managed to get into was a total nightmare. Wet clay is gross, and it gets everywhere, and the result of all that toil was the ugliest vase I’ve seen in my life. Hard pass.

I looked up a few blacksmithing videos, given the other half of the imagery I’ve been seeing, but they didn’t appeal either. I mean, it’s cool stuff, and the videos are much easier to watch when it’s a buff lady doing it and not a dude in his sixties, but even then it just isn’t my thing. Mord linked me some nerd historian’s articles on blacksmithing and I couldn’t even finish those, though his Lord of the Rings articles were fun to binge.

Prometheus wants me to do something physical. My power wants me to make something with my hands, I can feel that intent. But I’m terrible at making things with my hands and I hate being terrible at things. If the choice is between doing something poorly and not at all, I’ll pick the latter every time. It’s a shit habit, I know it is, but the compulsion is strong and I can’t change my brain chemistry overnight, or even if I had a whole month. Knowing isn’t enough.

So we gave up on pottery and refocused on the one thing that does work for me: card games. And it’s helped, as silly as that sounds. I reinstalled the app on my phone, found a few streamers with good Magic: the Gathering content, and started playing against Erica.

That woman is terrifying at the game. I thought I was decent, but she could play pro. She loves the older formats—the ones where decks have prices in the thousands or tens of thousands and games are over in two turns or twenty—but if there’s a format she’s bad at I haven’t found it yet. She plays fast, precise, and formal, always clearly outlining what she’s doing and how as she moves through her entire turn in the time it would take me to think through mine.

The design of my familiars started with a deck that Erica helped me build. There’s this big demon guy in the game that has a cult of murderous BDSM theater freaks—the type of freaks that make sure their orgies include a pit of spikes, a flaming wheel, and a juggling trumpeter—and he’s been one of my favorite characters since I found out about him. One of his cards cares about different kinds of fiends, and it was in the process of building a deck that I settled on demons as the theme of my familiars. From there I picked a few cards that looked coolest to build wargaming sheets for, and then it was Erica who suggested the figurine painting idea. It worked!

Getting the details right took experimentation. Framing the capabilities of my familiars as wargaming statistics helped me figure out that there’s some kind of invisible power budget in effect. For the cheap units like imps, pairing wings with a dedicated ranged attack—the fireballs that I’m still peeved I can’t cast myself—pushes the imps out of fodder range and makes them harder to summon, so I’ve had to split up those traits. The brute demon is at the top of the next range, another stat breakpoint. I have no idea what the actual system governing them is like, but for now I’ve had enough success with the game rules lens that I’m sticking to it. I just need to keep experimenting so I can find more power combos that will make for interesting demons.

I’m not hard claiming the trope space of a fallen angel—not going to go by Lucifer or Lucyfar or some other corruption—but it’s not a bad fit. The name Archon comes from the ancient Greek word for “ruler,” but the connotation I’m aiming at Sophia is a kind of demon prince with a pseudo-angelic origin. For everyone else, I can be just another edgy atheist reclaiming the imagery of the Satanic. I’m sure Lilith would get a kick out of that.

“Your progress has been good,” Ferromancer praises as she polishes off her banh mi with a crunch of carrot and radish. The Vietnamese place she ordered from is amazing, and I greatly enjoyed my own pork sandwich.

Of course, I enjoy her praise more, and I resist the urge to preen. “I feel like you’re always keeping me on the very edge of my ability,” I admit. “You’ve got a really good sense for what I can handle.”

“All part of the gig,” she says. “I’ve taught enough witches to have an instinct for it.”

“Anyone I’d know?” I ask with a grin.

“Trade secret,” she replies with a wink and a finger over her lips.

I lean back in my chair—we ate in the kitchen, which is fairly plain but still on the nicer side—and consider who Ferromancer might have taught. She’s tight-lipped about her past, but I know she’s been all over the world, which makes guessing her exact path trickier. My knowledge of witches falls off pretty dramatically outside North America and Japan.

Before I can go down that rabbit hole of contemplation, Ferromancer speaks again. “In light of your progress, I think we’re ready to ramp things to the next level. To practice fighting alongside your familiars, not just using them to fight for you. And once we do that… you’ll be ready for a real fight.”

I straighten up. “Really? Yes! Let’s go back in, I’ve got another few hours in me.”

“Actually,” she says, holding up a hand to stop me as I rise from my chair, “I was thinking we take the rest of the day off, and tomorrow.”

I sag. I want to complain, but I don’t know a way to do that without sounding childish in front of the cool older lady I desperately want to impress. But I want it now! isn’t exactly a mature and well-reasoned argument.

Ferromancer chuckles. “Love the enthusiasm, doll, but breaks are important. You need to stay grounded.” Her expression gets serious again. “Witches who let this become their whole life get burned. It’s how the golden chosen can become the ninety-nine. So take tomorrow off. Take the whole weekend. And force yourself to be human for a few days. You need to build that habit before it’s too late.”

I swallow nervously, suddenly aware again of how dangerous the world of witches can be if I’m not careful. It’s not a game. It was never a game. I have to remember that. “Yes, teacher. And… thank you.”

Erica smiles, bright and rakish and spectacular. “Enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you Monday, Rachel.”

We part ways and I wander home.

Well, shit. What do I do now? I’m at a bit of a loss, but it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out. I mean, it’s not like my life was completely directionless before I became a witch.

Right?

---

[commentary]

Press X to doubt.

A special thank you to my Grandmaster-tier patrons, whose support has kept food on my table: Lirian, Demi, Natalie Maher, PR4v1 Samaratunga, and CaosSorge.

If you like this story and want to see more of it, please go to the RR page and leave a rating or review! Web serials live and die on audience support, and this one is no exception. The better the story does on RR, the more people click through and read, the more motivation I have (both on a mental health level and on an “able to pay rent” level) to keep writing and to write faster.

The next scheduled break week starts on the 29th of June.

[/commentary]

There’s something incredibly surreal about sitting across from a dangerous witch while she tears into a plate of carne asada fries like her life depends on it. Pandora left shortly after introductions were over, so it’s just me and the witch going out to eat.

In the past twenty minutes, I’ve learned three things about Erica Walker, the civilian alter ego of Ferromancer:

First, she grew up in southern California, near the border, and she has very, very strong opinions when it comes to Mexican food. I will never again dare to suggest that Chipotle qualifies, let alone Taco Bell. The restaurant she brought me to is a local chain, one I’ve seen before but never frequented, with pretty plates and a sauce bar.

Second, Ferromancer is crazy about cars. She took me through her pocketspace workshop to a more normal garage where she keeps her “manual swapped 1994 Mazda Cosmo with a three-rotor 20B-REW engine.” Apparently it cost her forty grand to ship the thing overseas from Japan through an import broker. I told her I didn’t know anything about cars—I don’t even have a license—and that it just looked like a black car to me. She told me it was a Black Forest Mica car, because apparently car people have special names for colors.

Third, and most shocking—though it really shouldn’t have been—Erica is just as much a nerd for magic as I am.

“So the thing about all the theorycrafters on your powerscaling boards,” she says through a mouthful of fried potato, melted cheese, and guacamole, “is that they’re too mechanistic.” She swallows and washes her food down with a gulp of cold hibiscus tea. “I’ve read through those forums, I’ve looked at the subreddits, and these guys are just fundamentally incurious about anything that isn’t directly relevant to figuring out which of their favorite girls is the bigger badass that would no diff your girlie. They don’t see the meaning in the magic, and all its signs and symbols.”

I lean in, the promise of magical theory from a real magic user overtaking my hunger for this genuinely quite good plate of chicken enchiladas in green sauce. “So wait, okay, I’ve got a friend who talks about this. We’re both active in the wargaming side of the communities you’re talking about, the nerds who model powers and try to game out how a fight would go. This friend—Mord’s her name—is deeper in the community than I am, and she’s always bringing up theories she’s read from outside those spaces in arguments with other users or when she’s complaining about them to me. She’ll be preening if she finds out she was right about any of this stuff. She’s got this pet obsession with semiotics that usually goes over my head.”

Erica finishes a bite of steak and sour cream. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, but yeah, semiotics matters. Magic cares about a whole lot of things that are more metaphysical than physical. Of course, I’ll grant that’s not always obvious when you don’t have the inside scoop, and both witches and magical girls are pretty tight-lipped about their powers for opsec reasons. And when it comes to familiars in particular, well, the civvies don’t get a lot of chances to see how the meat is made.”

“So how is it made?” I can’t resist asking. Any pretense of acting cool has completely fallen away at this point; I don’t want to play the social game and build my rep, I want to know everything there is to know about magic. This is a dream conversation for me.

Erica leans back and smirks, a bit of Ferromancer seeping back into her expression. “You’re an eager girl, aren’t you? I bet you were squealing on the inside when you walked into that room and saw all those local legends.”

I totally was. My cheeks go pink. “I mean, how could I not? I live here. I moved here to be closer to magic. I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time following the big names.” I scoop more enchilada into my mouth to cover up my embarrassment.

Erica’s smirk takes on a playful cast, eyes twinkling. “Disappointed that you got the stranger instead?”

I nearly choke on my food. I force it down with an awkward swallow and blurt out, “No way, definitely not!” The pink on my cheeks deepens to red. Fuck, fuck, stop blushing! “I mean, okay, it was really, really cool when you made Radi—when you made the other two back off.” And it was hot, whispers my treasonous brain.

I was starstruck and overwhelmed when it came to Radiance, Lilith, and Bombshell, but Ferromancer is different. I have to fight to keep my gaze from lingering on her neck and shoulders and lower down, on the span of skin exposed by her loose top and that damnably implicative jacket. Looking at her face is worse, in a sense, because at any moment I feel like I’ll be consumed by those fiery, all-seeing eyes. Her lips are so expressive that I can’t help but wonder what they’d taste like, even if right now the answer is fries and hot sauce.

I don’t understand my own body. Why am I having this reaction? For all that I haven’t been in the dating scene for a long time, it’s not like Erica is the first attractive woman I’ve been close to in all that time. But maybe this is a brain thing, not a body thing. Ferromancer was powerful and intimidating and just plain cool, but there’s another aspect, too: she’s paying attention to me.

Erica watches my reactions, taking note of my blushing cheeks and nervous chatter with a subtle deepening of her perpetual smirk. “You can say Radiance and Lilith,” she reminds me. “Veiling will keep outsiders from eavesdropping on what we’re really saying; if anyone is trying to listen in, they’ll just hear a perfectly ordinary conversation about groceries, or the weather, or whatever makes sense to their brain.”

“Right, right. Sorry, I’m so new to this.” I feel a little embarrassed about that and a lot embarrassed about my emotions running so hot, but Erica waves me off.

“Don’t worry about it. We were all new once. Do you think I could always hold a room like that? Nah. That’s the kind of presence that comes with making your two years.”

My two years. The reminder of the guillotine hanging over my neck—a sword of Damocles, as my friend Femur would call it—is a bucket of cold water dumped on my feverish brain. I’m not here to flirt with a cute girl, and I’m not here to geek out, either. I’m here to push the odds back in my favor and build myself into the kind of witch that can fight Strix Striga and walk away with all her limbs.

Erica—Ferromancer, in this moment—sees the change come over me and nods, serious again. “Yeah, a little perspective never hurts. The skill you’re about to learn is important.”

I nod back. “Right. And, I promise, I’m ready to learn.”

Her sense of mirth creeps back in. “Hey, lighten up. You’re learning from the best of the best, and I don’t let my students fail.”

The thought of being one of her students warms me. I know she’s just talking about the job that the Jovians have given her—Pandora’s request to teach me a bit about familiars, which I have to assume must have been negotiated in exchange for something or to pay off a debt—but I wouldn’t mind if it was more than that. I’d like that.

We finish our meals in comfortable silence, devouring what was left. We get refills for our drinks, and when Erica is enjoying more of her hibiscus I poke at the last topic again: “So, that ‘two years’ thing… is that real? Pandora told me that only one percent of witches survive their second year, and most die in their first. I didn’t question it at the time, but those numbers aren’t just terrifying, they’re confusing. And this seems like something I need to understand.”

Erica wiggles her hand in a so-so gesture. “The numbers are real, but only if you’re talking global. The PNW isn’t like the Balkan disaster or the warlord states out in eastern Africa. The U.S. and Canada, and countries like them, are a lot more stable, and stable places want to keep stable. You don’t have the same factors here that were pushing those other regions into explosive violence even before magic lit a fire under everyone’s asses. Truce enforcement works, here.”

“Witches still die,” I point out. “Why? How?”

Ferromancer drums her fingers on the table, bites her lip, and looks up and to the side. It’s the first time I’ve seen her stopping to choose her words. “A lot of witches are stupid and reckless. To put it another way, our benefactors tend to pick a lot of girls that were predisposed to acts of violence and a lack of self-control. They pick women with a history of criminality and mental illness, because those make easy knives, and because throwing enough knives at a crowd means you’re bound to hit someone. For all the fuss I raised about meaning earlier, the rule of three that can kill a mage is pretty damn mechanistic: three killing blows, traded between two magic users over any length of time, and the result is a permanently dead witch—or a dead magical girl, which is what our side is hoping to get out of empowering that kind of witch. It’s a shotgun method.”

I shiver. “Do you think I’m one of those knives?” I almost don’t want to hear the answer, but I have to ask the question. Criminality doesn’t fit me unless you count petty shoplifting, but mental illness? I’m not stupid, I know my relationship with Sophia isn’t anywhere near healthy.

“Nah,” the other witch says easily. “You’re an ‘investment,’ as they like to put it. Like me, and like Radiance and Lilith, and most of the witches who hit that survival threshold. We’re the chosen few, their golden one percent. We’re special, doll.”

I’m special. It’s an idea so potent and thrilling that I feel lightheaded. The Jovians didn’t just choose me to become a witch, they chose me to become one of the witches they care about, the kind of witch that gets to sit at the high table with Radiance and the Coterie and the secret witches like Ferromancer and—maybe—Delilah.

I just have to play this clever. I can do that. I know I can do that.

“So,” I ask, “where do I start? What do I need to know about familiars?”

Ferromancer leans in and rubs her hands together. “My favorite topic. I’m going to say something, and I want you to give me your gut reaction. No overthinking it, no saying what I want to hear, just pure instinctual response. Got it?” I nod, and then she says, “Every familiar, at its core, is just software running on hardware like your common robot. They’re all machines.”

Immediately I feel a sense of rejection. That’s wrong. That’s absolutely, completely wrong. Wait, why do I feel that so strongly? I remember what the witch said and force out, “That feels wrong, but I don’t know why.”

“Interrogate that feeling,” she instructs. “Dig into it. Don’t deny it, just look at it closer.”

So I do. I close my eyes, steady my breathing, and focus on the sense of wrongness in my chest. It’s… it’s like a cold spot where there should be warmth. The furnace inside me, my Prometheus, it doesn’t like that framing. I reach for my power, for my magic, and it shows me the kiln again, wet clay cut into shape and fired. The hand of a titan reaching down to give the burning spark of life to an empty vessel.

I open my eyes. Ferromancer grins. “Here’s your first lesson, kiddo: every witch is different. Every power is different, and it finds meaning in different symbols.”

It clicks. “Your magic is technological, so it sees familiars through the lens of technology.”

“Bingo. So whenever I give you advice and I use that kind of language, you have to do the work of translating it to your own lens, whatever that is. Figuring out how your power thinks is the single most important step in improving how you use magic.”

I chew on that. “I think I get it. I’ve been talking about this with friends, a little, and doing some research on my own.”

“Good!” Ferromancer praises. “Keep doing that. Now, I watched your fight with the meathead. Those golems of yours were pretty stupid, weren’t they?”

I wince. “Yeah, I was not impressed.”

“That’s pretty typical of basic familiars. To put it in my terms, you’re looking at machines running very basic programming, the kind that need lots of verbal commands with lots of specificity, because they will interpret your orders as simply and literally as possible. But hey, they know how to move and how to hit things. But the robot I built? You saw how it moved, how it fought. I didn’t give it a single order and yet it was switching weapons and employing multilayered tactics against Bombshell. Some witches have familiars that toss around banter or sing their master’s virtues.”

I’ve seen that kind of familiar plenty of times; they’re especially popular with the Visage stable of witches. That does raise a question: “At that point, is that really a machine? I mean, if it can crack jokes and come up with its own lines, doesn’t that suggest it can think for itself?” Which has all kinds of alarming implications that Femur and Mordacity have argued about endlessly while Mike and I shot each other in Halo.

“You can teach a machine to mimic human speech,” Ferromancer dismisses. “That’s true of the non-magical variety just as much as it is of a familiar—a constructed familiar, I should say, since obviously a brainwashed human is still a human. Seen the latest neural networks, the chatbots and image generators?”

I’ve been making rent the past couple of months by selling AI-generated porn to internet perverts too stupid to realize they could be generating their own for a tenth of the price, but Ferromancer really, really doesn’t need to know that. “I’ve seen a bit,” I say as vaguely as I can.

“It’s the same principle. You feed a large language model enough human-written jokes and it figures out how to stitch them together and regurgitate them, but that doesn’t mean it understands what it’s doing, it just knows when something matches the pattern or doesn’t. You can teach it how to perform a specific task, or even a broad category of tasks, but that’s not the same as general intelligence like a human being has. They’re not alive. The religious argument is that they don’t have souls, but that’s never meant anything to me. The familiars I make, even the best of the best, at the end of the day they’re just dumb machines pretending to be smart.”

I’m itching to share some of that with my nerd friends, but I’m here for a reason. “So, how do you make them act smarter? How do you build a better monster?”

“Craft and intent,” Ferromancer answers immediately. There’s a rote quality to her response like she’s said it a hundred times before. “On a physical level, higher material quality translates to greater functionality. For me that means computer chips and advanced alloys, and they work even better the more of a hand I had in every step of the production process. For you, it’ll be something that fits your power.”

Prometheus, the sculptor of clay. “Maybe I should get into pottery,” I joke.

“You should,” Ferromancer says, completely serious. “If that’s what your power is telling you, listen to it. Connecting a real craft to your work is one of the most consistent ways to enhance your familiar creation, especially if your power has some in-built resonance to a specific artform.”

“Right. Yeah, okay, I guess that makes sense.” I wish I’d brought a pen and paper to take notes with. I could use my phone, but that doesn’t feel respectful enough. “So, the other half of it. Intent. What’s that about?”

“Just like materials, you get out what you put in. If your perception of a familiar is disposable chaff you’re throwing into the mahou grinder, that’s what you’ll create. When I make a familiar, it might be magic that does the final work of bringing it to life, but I sketch out detailed schematics every time as if it was a real machine. That gives power to the act of creation. The more meaning you can inject into your creation, the more your magic will resonate with the final product and enhance the resulting familiar.”

Well, I don’t think I was thinking about the result at all when I made my first golems, so that tracks. Schematics are all well and good for a roboticist, but what would my version look like? Sculpted clay dolls? Of what? “How do I do that?” I ask directly. “I mean, where would I even begin?”

Ferromancer drums her fingers along the table again. “Well, aside from your power, is there any kind of focus in your life that lines up with making minions? It can be anything, really. Some witches are dollmakers with a control complex, surrounding themselves with their vision of ideal beauty. Some witches are furries. I’ve met one witch who stole all her familiar designs from World of Warcraft monsters. Ask yourself if there’s a piece of media where the creatures in it really appeal to you.”

My favorite card game immediately springs to mind. “There’s one, yeah. There’s a trading card game I like where you sling spells and summon monsters to defeat your opponent. It could work. Hell, the most popular way to play that game is all about picking a single creature that appeals to you and building your strategy around its abilities.”

“Oh, you play Magic: the Gathering too?” A shot of Erica pep slips back into her voice, earnest curiosity undisguised on her face. Is she—is she excited to learn that?

My mind blanks. This can’t be real. “Wait, you play Magic? Like, actually? But, I mean—” You’re so cool, I want to say. You’re another girl. You look like you bathe regularly.

Erica laughs, full-throated and rich. “Oh, the look on your face is adorable right now. Yes, I play, and I’ve been playing since Alara block. Witches are allowed to have hobbies, and in fact I highly encourage it. Keeps you grounded. But keeping on topic, I’d say that gives us an easy next step: you can rifle through your collection and pick out all your favorite cards, and then we’ll practice building familiars off of those.”

It sounds perfect. Except, “I actually sold off most of my collection when money was tight,” I admit. “I guess I could scroll through Scryfall and save a bunch of tabs.”

Something new crosses Erica’s face: offense. “Seriously? Nah, we have to fix that. Hey, you got an LGS you like?”

“Uh, yeah. Troll Bridge Games.” I blink a few times, uncertain why she’s asking.

“Cool. Meet me there tomorrow. Afternoon work for you?”

“Yes,” I answer automatically, brain still not caught up with what’s happening.Erica grins. “I’ll show you my collection. I’ve got the good stuff. And then, once you’ve found a few cards you like, I’ll take you back to my workshop and you can practice with whatever materials I have on hand. By the end of the day, you’ll have your first real familiar.”

---

[commentary]

Apologies to anyone suffering splash damage from that crack about Magic players not bathing. If you want to play Magic with a bunch of people who definitely do bathe, click that Discord button and join the server! I need more victims friends to play Legacy or Canlander against.

A special thank you to my Grandmaster-tier patrons, whose support has kept food on my table: Lirian, Demi, Natalie Maher, PR4v1 Samaratunga, and CaosSorge.

If you like this story and want to see more of it, please go to the RR page and leave a rating or review! Web serials live and die on audience support, and this one is no exception. The better the story does on RR, the more people click through and read, the more motivation I have (both on a mental health level and on an “able to pay rent” level) to keep writing and to write faster.

The next scheduled break week starts on the 29th of June.

[/commentary]