Prologue: Young Lives Ended

Huddled together with their bodies pressed against the sticky underside of a table in the Shiverin' Shoveler Tavern, Tran and her family hid in abject terror. Fire raging across the street from the tavern cast a horrible, shifting glow through the open door. The crackle and roar of flames mixed with the shouting of their pursuers. Thundering footfalls approached, sending tremors across the aged, creaking floorboards. The giant's steel-shod greaves came into view as it strode past a row of tables beneath the tall ceiling and turned directly toward her.

Those huge metal-clad boots gleamed in the firelight, and its deep voice called out, “Infested! Burn it!” The boots turned back toward the door and strode away, the giant ducking out through the door.

Why?? What did we ever do to them?! She pulled her two surviving children closer while the trio shivered together and she prayed. Please, Lord Auronox!!

The cacophony of deadly voices outside receded a bit, accentuating the snapping and crackling of nearby flames. Please! Don't let them take my babies...

Shaking while she choked back her grief, she tried in vain to steel herself for what she knew must be done.

Tran spoke to her children telepathically, keeping her voice as calm as she could manage. [You both have to get out! Mommy will draw them away. Get into the forest and flee! Fan. Leir. You both remember how to get to Nytalis?] Two small, trembling heads nodded. [Find Lady Sionella and tell her what's happening in Tarmek! She can help us! Go as soon as you hear them chasing me. Go and don't look back!]

Tran gazed longingly at each of her offspring in turn, then bolted from beneath the table, leaving them clinging to each other. A war-cry issued from the giant with the steel boots as she came into view. To her left she caught sight of twin ceramic jars smashing against the tavern's exterior. Dark liquid ran down the old timbers for a moment before another giant with outstretched hands loosed a ball of flame from a distance.

Tran's heart stopped. NO!!

In shock, she stumbled and turned to face the tavern just in time to see that viscous black liquid erupt into a towering inferno.

The last thing she witnessed was her two children exiting the doorway at a sprint as the ensuing blast hid both from view. Before Tran could cry out, she was smashed from behind by a large club, and light left her eyes for the last time. A huge hand gripped her corpse by the neck and her lifeless body was hauled away while a smile split the giant's face in anticipation of the bounty he'd earned.

Two tiny, slightly-scalded forms fled into the depths of the forest, scurrying along the pathways they'd often traveled with their mother. Behind, nearly half the fallen city of Tarmek burned as countless civilian lives were extinguished by sword and by flame. Leir and Fan knew the waning daylight would soon forsake them, and they searched frantically along the path for any form of shelter. Without a place to hide, there was almost no chance they would survive the night.

Within a sizeable tent erected at the hilltop park overlooking Tarmek harbor, a man wearing black and red robes watched in silence as his secretary handed out small rewards in silver to each bounty hunter who brought corpses or prisoners. His men threw broken and living bodies alike into a nearby pit that had been dug by newly-acquired slaves. The cries and moans of those still clinging to life were music to his ears, if only for the fact they would soon be silenced. Within a month the entire island would be free from this unclean infestation, and Emissary Mathew would receive his own reward. A smile curled his lips chapped by sun and salty air, showing slightly crooked yellow teeth below a trimmed mustache that curled forward at each end, as if mimicking the wide-open mandibles of some giant insect. His halitosis attracted a small stool-fly that landed upon one of his incisors. He scarcely noticed its foul flavor when the tiny creature drowned in saliva after his lips closed.

[[Mother. He cometh soon. I request Thy blessing for one of My own, that this pointless struggle might end.]]

Across nearly half a galaxy His message traveled. And She heard. Something else caught her attention.

SYSTEM ALERT:

Unexpected anomaly identified:

Unseeded orbital body bearing indigenous life.

Sapient species recognized.

Calculating similarity to seeded variant... 99.99942% match.

Test protocol selected.

Candidates found.

Compatibility confirmed.

Initiate?

[[Curious.]] She thought to Herself as Her vast consciousness absorbed the state of the entire world known by its inhabitants as Earth. Coming to a decision, She gently nudged the two infinitesimal threads indicated by the System within the great tapestry of that galaxy not far from Her own. One tiny portion of Her mind continued observing while events unfolded according to Her will.

Protocol confirmed. Initiating...

Weary and distraught, shifting slightly upon a creaky folding chair as he sought relief for his aching spine, the lone office worker tensed when his focus locked onto a notification on the screen in front of him. He clenched his teeth a little too hard, his jaw muscles threatening to cramp up while his eyes tried to bore a hole straight through his laptop's screen. What the fuck does he want this time? Thirteenth damned email the prick's sent me in the past hour...

He put off opening the email and instead continued browsing the Cal_Mantis website.

His thoughts wandered. Rhombodera megaera sure look amazing. Large and strong enough to take down even small rodents, lizards, snakes, and birds... They grow up to 13cm long. Holy crap, that's a huge mantis! Wish I had studied entomology instead. I wouldn't have to deal with this self-absorbed fucker and his ludicrous demands. Fuck. I'd better see what the hell he wants now. It had better not be that proposal he was talking about. We're in the third wave of a pandemic that's killed more than 20 million in this country alone, and no performance venues are even open for the foreseeable future... Not even for groups of singers who want to perform on video recordings.

He sighed aloud, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened the email.

--

4-24-2021 18:24:03

Mikey-

Regarding your rather unprofessional phone messages and unseemly concerns regarding the show and its budget - we've been over this. Performance dates for the live webcast show Mefistofele are confirmed. Friday-Sunday. 26-28 November, 2021. 2 evenings, 1 matinee.

I provide the publicity and budget. You provide the service. That's how this business works. If you can't handle it, I'll find someone else who will. I pay your salary, and I expect results, not complaints or excuses. A talented person can make this work.

You have a most-generous $28,000 budget to work with. I suggest you leverage these funds, and use your time wisely.

Do not disappoint me, Mikey.

Your future depends on it.

From the desk of Mitt Townsman

Executive Director

Turloque Opera

--

Mikey... Mitt knew Michael hated that nickname. The smug asshole never missed an opportunity to torment his only employee.

“$28,000 total, to put on one of the largest non-Wagner operas in existence? Heh.”

He opened his spreadsheet and quickly scanned once more through the lowest, bottom-of-the-barrel bids for required personnel, equipment, services, and locations once again. All of this assuming any performance venue would allow them in.

Total: $151,979.10

(Before inevitable complications.)

“Welp. BOHICA!” Michael slammed his laptop shut.

“Your vulgar behavior and language are unsightly, Mikey. I will thank you for not destroying the office equipment.” In the doorway behind him stood the tall, lanky form of Mitt Townsman.

“It's MY laptop, Mitt.” Michael fired back, sick of his boss's shit.

With a smug grin in his eyes above the expensive mask he'd had tailored for himself, Mitt retorted, “It would be a pity if you were unable to meet your contractual obligations and found yourself unemployed in the middle of a pandemic, would it not? You tried singing and how did that work out for you? I threw your sorry skin a bone when you were sinking. You need this job, Mikey. Nobody is hiring and you know it. Be a smart lad, just once in your life. Work some magic for me with the funds I've apportioned and make me proud.”

With that, Michael's wealthy employer turned toward the stairs and answered when his smartphone rang. “You're here? Good. No, of course he doesn't. It will work itself out naturally. I know. Yes, it's been months. Well, if you want to be the one to tell him and deal with it, be my guest. I'm on my way down. Yes, I love you too.” Mitt's voice crawled with false adoration for whoever he was talking to. He flashed a slight smile at Michael with his eyes while he ended the call. Then he trotted down the stairs while Michael sat and stewed over his current situation. He ran his right hand through his short, dark hair that had already begun graying at the age of 24. He shut his deep blue eyes tightly and felt the onset of a stye announcing its unwelcome presence within his tired, upper-left eyelid.

Gritting his teeth once again, he leaned to his right and peered through the cat-addled mini-blinds to see what kind of fool woman could possibly feel anything approaching love for a prick like Townsman. His jaw dropped when he saw an all-too-familiar blonde head emerge from an SUV. The woman ran into Townsman's arms and craned her neck up while they both removed their masks and she kissed him deeply.

Michael's vision swam red as his blood pressure spiked.

In a blind rage, he grabbed his laptop and slammed it into the wall behind the desk, where its screen shattered to pieces and left a deep, angled scar across the cheap sheetrock.

“Rebecca!! You... fffuck!!” He screamed between his clenched teeth, spraying a mist of saliva against the window in front of him. His entire body felt numb after witnessing his fiancee, or rather, his ex-fiancee passionately embracing the very man he hated most in all the world.

His burning eyes flooded with the remnants of shattered hopes and memories, Michael stumbled his way out of the poorly air-conditioned office and into the stifling heat of early evening without bothering to lock up. As expected, the sky was cloudless and the hazy air tasted slightly of agricultural fertilizer and vehicle exhaust. He was just in time to witness Rebecca's SUV turning right at J Street, toward Townsman's villa. Now he knew why she'd been spending less time with him, and the anguish of it all overwhelmed him.

Unable to fully process his surroundings, Michael collided with more than one parking meter as he staggered toward his shitty apartment. For the first time in months, he cared not for the fact that he'd soon be assaulted by the horrid reek of his three pro-gamer roommates who essentially viewed showers as optional.

His mind and heart were aflame with agony. Rebecca had been the only thing keeping him from giving up in the face of his parents both having succumbed to the disease within the past year on top of his budding opera career having tanked because of the pandemic. Tears stained his cheeks while he continued to forge ahead toward the dubious refuge of a home he would soon lose.

I have nothing. Nobody. Rihelah lives too far away. I broke my laptop. The pandemic's getting worse and my singing career's already dead. Now I'm completely useless. Friendless. Jobless. Helpless. Hopeless...

Michael was half-way home when he realized he'd forgotten his mask.

That thought hit him at the same time he was sprayed in the face by the deathly-smelling ejecta from a woman's sneeze. She doubled over, her sunken eyes squinting hard while she coughed up blood. Michael's eyes grew wide with horror and he held his breath.

SHIT!! He hurriedly wiped the fluid from his face.

I hope to fuck I'm not infected!

His mind flew into a panic and he sprinted toward the park across the street, hoping to wash the deadly disease off his face before any of it got into his respiratory tract or into his mucous membranes. He knew it was probably too late, but he continued to hold his breath while he ran.

The old drinking fountain was surrounded by a group of homeless teens who watched him approach with predatory expressions. They began to smile as he came close enough for them to grapple. Many families had been destroyed, and now countless youths who'd survived the disease that killed their parents had no home, no food, no future. And so they roamed in gangs to survive by prying sustenance from the hands of those who still clung to the flagging system.

Michael surprised this group by pushing his way through and began to wash his face in earnest using the meager water source of the short drinking fountain made for children. Less than one second after he'd begun, a fist crashed hard into the side of his head and sent him to the ground. His vision blacked out for a brief moment when his head rebounded off the concrete, but he was still somewhat conscious and in shock from everything that had happened.

“Fuck him up!” One of them hissed quietly. And so began the worst beating of his life. He felt ribs crack as old sneakers and hiking boots slammed repeatedly into his torso. One foot caught him in the face, and everything went dark.

Michael awoke shivering upon the sidewalk near the park, in total shock. Darkness had long since fallen, and the teens were gone. So too were his ability to walk, his wallet, his keys, and his expensive smartphone.

He could feel that both his knees were injured badly, and he began to panic. To his horror, his breath came in short, sharp gasps.

It's so... cold... At that thought, his shivering grew violent.

The nearby grass sparkled with heavy drops of dew. He was unable to take in enough air to scream as he lay face-down upon the neglected, slightly-tacky, oil-and-filth covered sidewalk of 11th Street.

In that lonely place, fewer than 100 meters from the relative safety of his apartment, the talented young tenor known as Michael Elliott soon drew his last agonized breath.

Beneath a bright and cheerful sun the next morning, a young woman arrived at the security door outside the aging apartment complex where a mutual acquaintance claimed her childhood friend now lived. Though she wore a mask as was required, she'd taken special care with her hair and clothing in preparation for this day.

She took a deep breath and tried to reassure herself. You can do this. Remember, even though it's been years, he's still your best friend!

She fidgeted nervously for a moment before summoning the courage to tap the worn intercom button next to #116. A voice she didn't recognize came over the intercom and talked too quickly for her to get in a single word edgewise.

“Pizza already? Fuckin' crazy, man! I only called two minutes ago! Shit, son! I'll buzz you in! One-sixteen. Take a left after you get inside, sixth door on the right.” The intercom call ended immediately, and the door buzzed.

She pulled it open and walked inside. Upon reaching the door, she noticed the faint stench of laundry that had sat far too long while marinating in the washing machine after the cycle ended.

Ugh. Did they shampoo their carpets and forget to dry them?

Despite the smell, she found herself smiling. Remember, he's still Michael. Stay cool, Rihelah. You can't appear too excited, or he'll make fun of you! Despite her best efforts, the stupid grin refused to leave her face.

She knocked.

The door opened, and her nervous smile immediately stiffened.

The creature in the doorway reminded her of Gollum, if he'd been human, clothed himself like a drug addict, stood mostly upright and never shaved. Or showered.

During a brief conversation with that too-skinny, disheveled man in his late-20s, (who somehow managed to smell worse than a well-aged dumpster behind a fish-market) Rihelah discovered that Michael did in fact live there, but he wasn't home.

The malodorous man grinned, showing teeth that hadn't been brushed for days, or perhaps even weeks. She recoiled from his intense halitosis, but managed to smooth her face out quickly.

“Yeah... Ya might find him at work. Dude's there pretty much all the time. But uh... you could come in if, you know... I mean, there'll be pizza soon and he might show up! Never know!” The man's half-sunken, bug-like eyes crawled over her shapely, petite Half-Afghani body like a pair of cockroaches and she shuddered while shrinking away.

“No, that's... No, you know what? I am juust fine. Thanks! I believe I'll... go look for him at the office now! Bye!” Rihelah hurried back out to the street, fearing some of the man's horrid miasma might have clung to both her hair and her brand-new outfit.

With a bit of doubt and a lot of determination, she shook off the unsavory encounter, looked up the opera's location on her smartphone and set off on foot down 11th Street toward the nearby Turloque Opera office.

She hadn't walked far before she noticed a body halfway through the process of being bagged near the now-ruined park where she and Michael had often played together as children. That sight had become all-too-common since the MERS pandemic had hit its third wave. The new Zeta mutation was not only more contagious, but nearly twice as lethal as the worst previous variant.

You're vaccinated and masked. Don't stress... you've seen this kind of thing before, she told herself out of habit. But she knew the vaccine had barely proven effective against the gamma variant; it was all but useless against this newest wave.

Shaking her head in an attempt to clear it from her mind, she resolved to continue on.

Then Rihelah heard someone call out a certain name and she froze in place, her eyes widening as her head turned stiffly toward the scene where the dead body lay. A tall man in a sharp business suit was discussing something with the police and coroner.

“Mr. Townsman, you are positive of the body's identity?”

“Absolutely certain. The deceased, Michael Elliott, was my employee at the opera this past year-and-a-half. He had no remaining family that I know of. Parents died earlier this year. It's a real shame. Well, do you need me for anything else? I've answered your questions.” The tall man asked in a way that suggested assisting with the investigation surrounding Michael's death was a complete waste of his time.

Rihelah was struck speechless; her mind strained in vain to reject the reality before her. Then she glimpsed a portion of the dead man's face and her heart died in her chest when she recognized the nose.

She took a few wobbly steps toward the bodybag before falling painfully to her knees in the middle of the street. More than a year's worth of unwashed road-grime now covered her hands and portions of her new leggings. But she didn't care.

Rihelah's eyes flooded with tears and squeezed shut, her face and extremities going numb while a high-pitched whine escaped her throat. No... Please don't let him be...! Not Michael! He was... I only just found him... so many years and now-

Those were her final thoughts before the loud screech of tires upon pavement announced her end.

A hungover woman who was late for work had been speeding while arguing loudly on her phone with the narcissist she was dating. She noticed Rihelah far too late and stabbed her brakes in vain while her pumpkin-spice latte and cell phone impacted the dashboard of her large SUV.

A light breeze had kicked up, blowing the unzipped portion of the bag open further.

Michael's bruised, swollen face was clearly visible to her as a light breeze had blown the partially-open flap aside.

Young Rihelah's bloodshot hazel eyes were transfixed by the sight of her closest childhood friend's corpse within that awful bag as her breath caught in her throat.

The next instant, she was smashed forward and her beautiful head split open against the aging asphalt.

The officer who'd been presiding over Michael's death cussed under his breath and tossed his clipboard onto the hood of his police cruiser in exasperation.

Townsman shrugged, rolled his eyes and walked purposefully toward his office, unshaken by the sight of two dead peasants.