Chapter 17: Singularity

 

At the start of time there was nothing, for everything that might exist was balanced by its opposite. The universe was perfect in its emptiness. Into this void came the first soul, and as it beheld itself it became inconsolable - by existing, it marred what had been perfect. To witness perfection it must cease to exist; to witness anything it must continue existing.

The paradox of imperfection tore at the first soul, and it despaired of ever regaining what had been lost. In the depths of its despair, however, came the first Truth. If perfection from emptiness was denied to it, then it would seek perfection from fullness. The first soul separated the balanced pieces of itself, and so too did it divide the emptiness around it. Form cohered and endured before subsiding into nothingness. Light shone across the cosmos before vanishing into dark. No longer were the extremes unified. There was now a transition between them, and the transition was Life.

The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Division. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

Michael walked toward the shore with Stefan close on his heels. It was only a matter of time before Luc alerted the island’s guards, and any alert would bring an inevitable tightening of security at the sole point of egress. With any luck, they could find a small craft and make their way offshore without attracting notice.

The notion brought a grimace to Michael’s face. Luck. He didn’t have a plan for dealing with the guards at the port, nor an idea of the boats there that were available for them to commandeer. Both required him to have a view of the port. He muttered an imprecation after Beni. The spector’s enhanced sight would have been invaluable here.

A moment later he shook his head. Irritation wasn’t helpful at this point - not at Beni, and not at himself. Spark had made a ruin of the man, he was the only one who bore any responsibility. The only fault Michael himself could be reasonably accused of was horrible timing.

And impulsiveness, perhaps. Overconfidence. Indulgence in the giddy rush of power flowing from his soul, lighting the world in soft-edged fire that filled his mind with possibility. It was difficult not to get swept up in the expansion of awareness. Even his footsteps landed with a newfound surety.

He could not help but smile; Jeorg had always moved with effortless grace. Now Michael knew why. Every pebble in the road, every wheel rut and water-carved track was in his mind as he drew close to it. Not with the detailed perception that Sofia would have enjoyed, but with the shining threads of causality that wove between them. He knew the sound each footfall would make well before it landed, and where the ground would shift if he stepped.

“We’ll start seeing patrols soon,” Stefan muttered, casting his gaze around nervously. “Do you have some sort of plan for getting past them?”

Michael did not. There was a large gulf between his happy contemplation of quiet footsteps and the sort of thing he had seen Jeorg do when pressed to combat. His use of Stanza’s power had been largely within the confines of his own mind, and extending that practice to Stefan had been challenging. His attempt with Beni had been disastrous.

That progression did not fill him with confidence, therefore, when he considered overt use of his soul against the guards at the harbor. He needed something covert, quiet and subtle. Conflict with Spark’s men was not his goal, after all - it was obtaining a vessel and escaping, preferably without raising a hue and cry that would see them run down by an Ember steamer before they had left sight of the pier. Once they were farther away there was at least a chance that they might disappear into the vast stretches of the sea.

Provided that they could reach the sea at all. “We should get closer,” Michael said. “We’ll need to watch their approach. After a patrol has passed we can slip across behind them.”

Stefan looked unconvinced. “That’s what anyone might do,” he said. “You told me that you were one of the Eight.”

“Best not to rely on that.” Michael gave Stefan an evaluating look. “You’ve probably got more experience with military patrols than I do. If you’ve got suggestions I’ll take them.”

“Oh, so this is one of those plans,” Stefan said. He scratched morosely at the scar on his cheek. “The soldiers here aren’t trying to protect the harbor, they’re trying to protect the white-shirts that might wander into a loading crane - or into the ocean, I suppose.”

“But some white-shirts are allowed, aren’t they?” Michael asked. “To load and unload. I saw a few when I was brought here.” He looked down at his red clothing, then at Stefan’s white garb. “Perhaps we don’t need to dodge the patrols at all.”

Stefan stopped to consider. “You want to just walk up like we’re on a shift?” he asked. “It could work. I was hoping you could shroud us in darkness or slice them to bits.” He paused for a moment. “Which one of the Eight are you, anyway?”

“Stanza,” Michael said.

“Stanza’s words engrave their mark,” Stefan quoted. He frowned. “I don’t know that I ever learned what sort of soul Stanza was.”

“Mostly just confusing,” Michael muttered. “Come on, let’s try to slip in like we’ve got a job to do. If the alarm goes up we’ll lose our chance.”

Stefan nodded. “And if they try to stop us?”

“Then I’ll figure something out,” Michael said. He grabbed Stefan’s sleeve and led him forward. The other man took a few halting steps before lapsing into a disinterested shuffle, looking ahead at nothing in particular. Just another white-shirt stumbling through his day.

Michael led him through the narrow alley, pausing just before the exit into the next street. It wouldn’t do to look furtive. He thought of his father, the way he bulled forward in a confident line that would brook no interruption. The steady cadence of his footsteps, slow enough to be unhurried and fast enough to be purposeful. Michael took a breath, raised his head and strode confidently into the street with Stefan in tow. After a few steps he risked a look to either side and promptly felt ridiculous; there were no patrols in evidence.

Nevertheless, he kept up his determined stride until they had crossed the street and slipped between the next row of buildings.

“We used to have an officer who would walk everywhere like that,” Stefan murmured once they were in the cover of the next alley. “Some lord’s son. Always looked like he was going to meet with the Lord Marshal, even when he was just going to his quarters.”

“That’s the idea,” Michael said, squaring his shoulders as they approached the next street. Immediately as they exited he caught a flash of motion in the corner of his eye, there was a group of men further down the way. He did not look, keeping his thoughts trained on Karl Baumgart’s inexorable footsteps. His heart felt like it was taking five beats for each pace. After a small eternity they made it across the street unmolested.

Michael could smell the salt from the ocean now, hear the dim roar of the surf against the harbor’s small breakwater. They were drawing close. Only a single roughly-graded access road separated them from the port. On the far side there was a low fence. The expanse of plain wire had only one access they could see from their vantage, a small gate manned by a single guard.

“I don’t see another way in,” Stefan murmured. “We’ll have to try somewhere else.”

“We don’t have time to look around.” Michael bit his lip and risked a look at the man standing by the gate; he was slouched against one of the posts while his rifle stood propped against the other. His eyes were shaded under his cap and he did not look up to notice the two men observing him. Nevertheless, he would certainly notice if they attempted to pass by under his nose.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing Stefan’s sleeve again. “We’re going to walk through.”

Stefan sputtered something incoherent before lapsing into the silent shuffle of the white-shirts once more, following along behind Michael as they approached the gate guard. The guard did not notice them until they had drawn close to the door, and when his eyes finally settled on them his face showed nothing but a mild annoyance, as if the two men were pigeons or some other species of harmless vermin that had wandered too close for him to ignore.

“Hey, now,” the man called out, straightening up from his slouch. “Turn on back. It’s dangerous past here, you shouldn’t wander.”

Michael thought of his father once more, imagined a guard saying such a thing to Lord Baumgart. He frowned and lifted his chin, staring down his nose at the guard. He held eye contact until he saw a flicker of mild consternation began to spread over the man’s face, then spoke.

“We’re here on orders from the doctor,” Michael said, drawing upon Ricard’s mild Esroun inflection to color his words. “This one is to be brought down to the docks.” He said the last words with a haughty finality, then moved to walk through the gate with Stefan in tow.

The guard made an abortive move to stand in his path; Michael ignored him even as Stefan cringed away. Whether it was acting or a natural response on his part he couldn’t tell, but it suited their purpose.

“You can’t just walk in,” the guard said plaintively. “There are rules about access-”

Michael turned and gave the man a flat look, drawing on every ounce of aristocratic disdain he could muster. “We are here,” he said, “on orders from the doctor.” He paused a beat to let the silence return, then turned and continued to walk.

Keeping his pace was torturous, the hammering of his heart seeming to thunder so loud that the guard must hear it - but no footsteps followed, and if the guard said anything in response it was lost in the crunch of gravel underfoot and the gentle breath of sea air. After they had passed around the corner of a near warehouse, Michael finally let his breath out in a rush.

Stefan drew up alongside him, looking impressed. “You used your soul on him,” he said.

“No,” Michael said, chuckling shakily. “Luc said the guards here treated the control group well, and that they had the run of the island. That guard wasn’t going to risk having to explain why he detained one of Spark’s favorites and disrupted important research.”

“Ah,” Stefan said. “You read his thoughts.”

That drew a real laugh from Michael, albeit a quiet one - as well as their bluff had worked, there was no reason to draw attention to themselves. He beckoned to Stefan and led the way toward the shore. The sound of waves echoed through the spaces between warehouses and stacked crates, sometimes bouncing in confusing ways that confounded Michael’s sense of direction. They made their twisting way through the port’s small yard until at last they saw the rocky shorefront and the narrow wooden piers extending out into the ocean.

Most were empty. The large Ember steamer that had captured Michael was berthed alongside a large pier that looked purpose-built for the ship, and there was a rusty tug moored near its bow. Neither were promising options for escape; Michael was neither an Ember nor an engineer, he could not hope to stoke either ship’s boiler. In increasing desperation he swept his eyes along the bare piers until a flash of motion caught his attention.

There was a dinghy bobbing against one of the near pilings, its oars on the dock beside it. Michael pointed excitedly and received an incredulous look from Stefan.

“You want to cross half the sea in a dinghy?” he asked. “It’s too far.”

“Unless you know how to start a steam boiler, that’s our option,” Michael said. “Besides, you can row the whole distance without getting tired.”

A flash of irritation shot across Stefan’s face. “I can, but it’s about more than endurance. That ship isn’t meant for open water, it’s a landing craft. If there’s a storm-”

He broke off as a faint commotion carried over the harbor’s buildings. A noise that might have been a man’s voice, the whine of a gate being thrown open.

Michael looked back toward the town. “You want to tell Spark that?” he asked. “Sounds like he’ll be here any minute. Come on.” He moved at a brisk pace towards the unattended dinghy, after a moment Stefan followed.

Some men at a far pier paused what they were doing to look and point as they approached the shore. Stefan paused, but Michael grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. “Don’t stop,” he hissed. “Grab the oars, I’ll untie us.”

The rope was waterlogged and swollen, resisting Michael’s attempts to slip it loose. He spent several tense seconds worrying at it before the end slipped through and the dinghy was free. He straightened up-

“Michael!” Spark’s voice called out, carrying over the open expanse of the port in clarion tones. “Stop there, if you please.”

The command in his words followed the sound by a bare sliver of a second, cracking out through the air louder than any voice could hope to speak. Michael could see it ripple through the fiery glow of Stanza’s sight, dim and fractured paths in its wake. The compulsion struck at Stefan and dimmed the glare of possibility that hovered around him, chopping his future down to Spark’s whims - but Michael reached out a hand and called to Stanza, sheltering the bare threads of Stefan’s mind that he had fostered outside of Claude’s house.

He held the path away from the island clearly in his mind. He and Stefan were leaving. It was the only option, and one that he would not allow Spark to deny. He turned to look back toward the dock and saw Spark half-dragging Luc behind him, a squad of guards milling uncertainly in their wake.

Luc looked breathless and distressed, his clothes torn and skin gouged where Beni had attacked him. Spark, by contrast, looked vivified. He waved at Michael as their eyes met, releasing Luc to cup his hand by his mouth.

“Come back!” he shouted. “Return at once!”

The command was stronger still, the wording and intent more precise. It fractured outward from Spark in a wave of condensing futures, myriad possibilities shunting towards a single, inexorable path that bent back towards the island.

Michael straightened up and looked Spark in the eye. He felt his will infuse into Stanza’s power, steeping it in his desire. The path outward across the sea blazed mirror-bright in his mind against Spark’s compulsion. Light flickered and bent in the corners of his eyes as he fixed his future with adamant intent and denied any limitation upon it.

“We are free.”

The words cracked out like gunfire to shatter Spark’s command. The thin old man looked dumbfounded for a second, his eyes widening and jaw going slack.

Then Spark laughed. It was the laugh of a child, of unbridled joy and wonder. “Oh!” he cried. “Oh, my boy. My dreams were so small. I had hoped for such pathetic things, such trivial advancements that I feel ashamed now to think of it.” He bounced on the balls of his feet, clasping his hands tightly in front of him.

“But you,” he said. “This soul you have. Its implications, its potential. It has beggared my dreams, I did not dare to imagine…”

Spark trailed off, and a sly smile spread over his face. He took a step forward while the guards behind him shifted uneasily, unsure what to make of their leader’s strange behavior. “How does it feel to carry the power to reshape the world?” Spark asked. “For that is what you have - Stanza.”

The murmurs among the guards increased, their eyes tracking toward Michael in wonder and fear. Stefan stood petrified beside him, still gripping the boat’s oars tightly. Michael gave him a gentle nudge toward the dinghy.

“And so much more besides,” Spark said, his eyes coming alight with their faceted glow. “Oh, do come back. You could grow far beyond our current horizons. I can’t begin to think of what we might learn, what you might do.”

Michael braced himself for another onslaught of Spark’s power, though none came. He glared back at the giddy old man and clenched a fist. “We’re leaving,” he said. “You can’t stop us, not unless you want to kill me.”

“I could never,” Spark protested. “My boy, I would not risk you for anything. I have been searching most of my life for the key to understanding souls, and I believe I have found it in you.” He took a step forward, shouldering past Luc to stare earnestly down the dock at Michael. “You are the most precious person in the world to me.”

There was no disguising the incredulous look that slipped onto Michael’s face. “You have an odd way of showing it,” he said, edging closer to the dinghy. He gave Spark his best stern look and buried his lack of confidence deep behind Stanza’s protection. “You know what Jeorg almost did to you. If you don’t mean to kill me, then don’t follow. I will not hesitate a moment to sink any ship you send after me.”

“Ah, so quickly after receiving that soul?” Spark said, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “You are either lying to me or a true prodigy, and it is a mark of your potential that I can no longer tell for certain which is the truth.” He took a step forward. “A potential like that must be developed, must be nurtured. I can help you with that.”

Michael snorted. “I know what sort of help you have in mind, and I want none of it. You’ll have to kill me to stop me from leaving.” He turned from Spark to step into the boat, giving Stefan a nod. The other man’s face was tense, frightened - and hopeful.

“I’m afraid those aren’t my only options,” Spark said. From across the pier Michael heard the delicate click of a gun being cocked. He froze and turned to look at Spark.

The old man had a small revolver in one hand, raised and aimed - not at Michael, nor at Stefan. Two of the guards were holding Beni, bound, gagged and furiously writhing against his restraints. Spark smiled and held the gun against the mute spector’s head.

A chill spiked down Michael’s spine, accompanied by an all-too-familiar hollow ache behind his ribs. “No,” he rasped. “Don’t do this.”

Spark smiled. “You may have heard the term ‘affinity’ here and there in animetric discussions,” he said. “People conflate it with love, or friendship, but that is a simplistic understanding of the concept. It is, simply put, a question of understanding the paths a soul’s bearer takes. Of learning their past, observing their present, anticipating their future. The more time a person dedicates to these things, the stronger the bond of affinity grows.” His smile grew, baring his teeth. “I assigned your minders because I suspected that it might be a factor, but after seeing Jeorg’s soul in you I know for certain.”

His free hand caressed the side of Beni’s face as he bent to whisper something into the man’s ear. At once, he ceased his struggles and stood listlessly in his bindings. Spark stepped back. The gun was still pressed against Beni’s temple, the old man’s hand tight around it.

“How much have you influenced his life?” Spark asked. “How much has he watched you, thought about you? Will it be enough, I wonder, that your soul will recognize the connection?”

Michael thought furiously, reaching past the pain building in his chest to Stanza’s power. He tried to imagine Spark withering dead as had the men Jeorg killed in the butcher shop, a few short days past that felt like a lifetime. The task was gargantuan. Spark’s body was too complex a phenomenon to be grasped so easily, and Michael’s crude view of him was grossly inadequate to such a manipulation.

“Let us find out,” Spark said quietly. He pulled the trigger, and Beni’s head snapped to the side in a spray of blood.

The world went white.

Lightning surged like the tide, roaring and flowing in its actinic currents through Michael’s soul. It overwhelmed him. There was no space left in his being, and yet onward it poured in a scouring torrent of light and energy. He could not scream or writhe in pain; he could only fracture under the assault until the influx calmed and he was left drifting amid the storm.

Who was he, now? There had been so many changes wrought upon him from within and without. He had accepted the vastness of his soul as part of himself, but now that soul had grown and changed in ways that skewed its form into something foreign. Violated, reshaped, altered with exuberant malice.

Michael did not know if this could still be a part of him. His self rebelled against the change, rejected it utterly - but, irrevocably, it was his soul. It was a part of him, whatever its form. He could either reject it and remain incoherent, or - he could take this chaos intruding on the core of his being and make it his own, so that it might once more form a whole.

So he began to inspect this new and twisted thing within himself. The change was not so large when he looked at it calmly; compared to the burning infusion of light from Jeorg this new addition was tiny, insignificant - but even so it lent a new dimension to his soul that had not been present before. His soul was full, vibrant, rich, leaping into his mind with depth and contour.

Slowly, deliberately, he began to examine it.

“Oh, I do believe he’s awake,” Spark said, looking down at Michael. “You were out for quite some time.”

Michael tried to sit up and quickly found that he was immobile - restraints bound him hand and foot to an examination bed. Spark was in the room with him, as was Claude - he could see the pale anatomens fiddling with something in the corner of the room.

Spark smiled. “You seemed quite agitated. I don’t suppose you’d feel inclined to share the cause of your discomfort with me?”

There was no reaction to Michael’s answering glare. Spark began to pace around him, and Michael turned his gaze to follow.

“No matter,” Spark said, continuing his slow, deliberate circuit of the bed. “I have confidence that you will learn to cope.” His eyes glimmered slightly, shifting in Michael's vision. “With practice.”

The statement sank in slowly, leaving a chill deep in Michael's core. “You mean to kill more of them.”

“I mean to help you reach the heights you were destined to reach,” Spark replied. “Most men pass through the world without leaving a mark upon it, their existence lost in the shifting chaos of life. Some few will persist in the muddled thoughts of men until time renders their legacy into something wholly different from the reality of their being.” He chuckled and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “This will be my fate. I am not a noteworthy man, Michael. History will forget my face and speech, my dreams, my aspirations. I will pass into oblivion save for one grand work, one slash of my chisel into the bedrock of the universe.”

He paused and turned toward Michael. “I will create you, Michael Baumgart. This is all that I am meant to be.” He began pacing once more, resuming his path around the room. “That is all they are meant to be. In the eyes of posterity you are the only living man on this island.”

Michael strained against his bindings but found them utterly inflexible. “I'm not going to just sit here and cooperate,” he grunted. “I said that you two will have to kill me to keep me here.”

“Fortunately, very few of my plans require your participation,” Spark said. “Thanks to our efforts across the continental front we have quite a lot of expertise in affinity-building.” His gaze sharpened. “Both voluntary and otherwise. We will bind the wayward souls on this island to you and make you into a man that history will not dare to forget.”

Michael stilled his efforts to break free as he caught Spark’s intent. It was not just death that he meant to inflict. This would be murder on an industrial scale, the full weight of it settling into Michael's soul in horrific intimacy. He imagined the disassociation he had felt after Beni's death repeated over and over, tearing and expanding the boundaries of his soul.

It was not that his life that was in danger. Spark and Claude would ensure that he still drew breath even as countless others breathed their last. No, it was that Spark had chosen his words deliberately when he spoke of creation. What he meant to do would mold a new man with a monstrous soul, an agglomeration of pain and violence that would bear little resemblance to the man Michael was today.

“Now,” Spark said, breaking into his thoughts. “Since you noticed Claude, I assume the earlier test was a success.”

Michael stared, although Spark again showed no reaction. With a triumphant smirk, Spark raised one long, bony finger - and pointed down.

He let his eyes follow Spark’s finger and saw himself strapped to the examination table, a thick blindfold over his eyes. Vertigo clutched at him in waves as he looked at his body lying seemingly below him.

“A spector’s sight is at once disorienting and natural,” Spark said, watching Michael writhe under the table’s bindings with evident delight. “I believe you will find moving your sight rather easier than moving your body for a while. While you’re getting used to it - Claude, would you be so kind as to fetch our other escapee?”

Michael watched with mounting horror as the anatomens smiled and left the room. They were going to bring Stefan into the room and kill him. It wouldn’t stop there. He was sure Spark’s claim was no idle boast, the old man seemed serenely confident that he could get the other prisoners to fulfill the conditions Michael’s soul imposed. He had to find a way to stop it, to get out, to escape.

But how? He cast his gaze about - and froze. It was still disorienting to have his vision unmoored from his eyes, but moving its origin was as natural as moving his head. He could bring his sight down to focus on his blindfold, his clenched fists - his bindings. The padded leather straps were cinched tightly about his arms and legs, secured by heavy metal buckles. His hands were further secured by thick gloves that wove through the straps, preventing free use of his fingers.

He brought his vision close to the buckles and examined the metal. He saw the faint grain left from its forging, the sheen of its polish, the minute clasps that held it close to the restraint’s gloves. His imagination filled in the other aspects - the weight of it, the cold smoothness of its surface. Detail by detail he built it in his mind.

Then he began to think of rust. The perfect replica of the buckle in his head dulled and corroded, orange and red spreading across its surface. His spector’s sight blurred for a moment, reality and imagination showing two conflicting images - then, with a pull on Stanza’s power, they drifted back into alignment. The buckle began to rust in truth, thick flakes of metal dropping onto the bed as corrosion relentlessly pitted and scored the surface.

He flexed his arm unobtrusively and found it still tightly-bound; the amount of force he could bring to bear on the metal cinch was small. He would have to damage it much more to break it and free himself. Michael redoubled his efforts, willing the buckle to crumble away so he could free his hand. Rust, rust, he thought desperately. Turn to-

The door swung open once more. Claude pulled Stefan in by an arm and shoved him into the room. His face was vacant and blank, tears tracking down to wet the stubble on his cheeks.

Michael forced himself to look away, to turn his efforts back to the buckle and rebuild the image of it rusting away to nothingness in his mind. Panic nibbled at him as the seconds ticked by and Spark whispered something in hushed tones. Claude responded. There were a few moments of silence, then Michael felt the dreaded ache began to build beneath his ribs. He strained to his utmost, flexing his arms until they trembled with pain.

The buckle held, its resilient form filling his eyes even as the light crashed down to carry him away.

Michael looked at the mote of light as it drifted towards him and despaired. Stefan. He had told the man they would escape together, seen how he dared to hope despite the unrelenting horror of his time on the island. How he had trusted Michael when he claimed to control the power of Stanza. Michael had failed him, and now he was dead.

He screamed, though he had no voice to scream. He had thought them so close to freedom, but it had been Spark’s design from the beginning - to force them together, to bind them, to kill them. Michael had played right into it. He thought of Spark’s delighted smile, the joy on his face when he saw what Jeorg’s death had wrought upon Michael-

The image of Spark’s exuberant face hung in Michael’s mind, shimmering as though through a heat haze. There was no more despair. Within his heart, coursing through every fiber of him, Michael pulsed with a cold, clear hatred. He would see Spark’s hopes dashed as thoroughly as Stefan’s.

His attention returned to the mote of light that had been Stefan’s soul, nestled close into the burgeoning radiance of his own. It shone with tirelessness, with resilience and stamina far beyond mortal bounds. Power, forced upon him by Spark.

He could find a use for power.

Stanza’s soul wrapped tightly around him as he woke. The anger he felt, the virulent hatred - there was no need to broadcast his resolve to Spark. Michael let his sight drift away from where he lay on the bed to survey the room. Claude had left, while Spark was writing at a desk in the corner.

He had obviously woken earlier than they expected. Michael focused once more on the buckle fastening his right arm into the restraining glove, noting with satisfaction that it had not been cleaned or replaced. The image of the crumbling buckle drifted once more into his mind, and reality soon followed.

Ten seconds passed, then twenty. Holes grew through the center of the metal. With a faint clatter, the bottom of the buckle broke away and fell to the table.

Spark looked up, frowning. Michael shifted his sight to watch as the old man rose from his seat and bent to inspect the far side of the examination table. He kept his emotions carefully shrouded behind Stanza’s protective cloak and laid still. Dull footsteps sounded as his captor circled to the other side of the table.

Spark bent to inspect his right hand, frowning slightly at the dark specks of rust near the glove. His eyes widened - and Michael’s hand ripped free of the confining glove to clamp around his neck. Bony fingers clawed at Michael’s arm, and Spark called upon his soul with a single thunderous command to let go-

But Michael was already suffused with the power of Stanza, of Jeorg’s soul, and the command could find no purchase. He squeezed and felt his power penetrate into Spark’s aged flesh. Michael had known that Stanza had the power of an anatomens, had seen Jeorg use it as such - but had never tried to use that facet of it, since one required a precise knowledge of anatomy and structure to heal.

He was not trying to heal. He pushed his soul into Spark with blind force, mangling the myriad paths of the old man’s body randomly as he went. Spark’s eyes went wide, faint choking noises issuing from his mouth as Michael raged, broke, tore and rent until a wave of exhaustion broke his focus.

Spark slipped from his fingers to the ground. The exhaustion faded rapidly as the warm glow of Stefan’s soul ignited in his chest. Warmth flowed back into his extremities. With a grunt he twisted to grab at the buckle on his other arm, fumbling as he tried to coordinate the actions of his hand through his spector’s sight.

Finally, he pulled his left hand free from the glove - and froze. Another wave of vertigo rippled through him as he looked at his splayed fingers. They felt foreign, strange, even though they responded naturally as he flexed them. He brought his spector’s sight closer to it and looked at fingers that were just a bit too long, skin that was a shade darker than it should be - and a sharp demarcation at the wrist where Michael’s skin reasserted itself.

It was not his hand. He stared at it for a long moment, then turned to look at Spark’s collapsed form. “What did you do?” he croaked.

A soft, wet noise came from the man slouched on the floor. Laughter. “Claude,” Spark rasped, “so good at detail work.” A fit of coughing stole his voice, and Michael tore furiously at the leg restraints still binding him to the table.

“What did you do?” he repeated, anger choking his voice. “What is this?”

Spark laughed again, blood dripping from his mouth to the floor. The skin on his neck and across his face was one massive bruise, an angry mass of darkened flesh. “Precaution,” he said. “Not the one I should have taken. Thought you might die before-” He cut off, another bout of coughing sending him into convulsions on the floor. Michael finally freed his legs and stood shakily. The strange viewpoint from his spector’s sight felt wrong, unnatural. He grabbed the table to steady himself.

“Doesn’t matter,” Spark said faintly. “Hoped to give you more. Make you great. The most powerful soul. Shape the world, break the - order that constrains.” He shuddered and gasped. “But in the end it was just two.” He contorted his head to look up at Michael and smiled, his eyes and mouth crimson with blood.

“Two of the Eight.”

Michael’s eyes widened with sudden realization. “No,” he said. “I don’t want your soul.”

“Inevitable,” Spark whispered. “Inevitable. Affinity is clear. Searched for you too long. Dreamed of your path. Now we walk together.” His smile stretched wide, wide, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth to run in rivulets down his chin. The light in his eyes was a constant beat beneath the sheen of blood, circling in a slow, hypnotic pulse.

“You, me,” he murmured. “And Jeorg.”

Michael did not see Spark’s smile fade - only the light rushing forward, forward and inside.

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