The one who called himself Duggan was a magnificent white stag today. He was feeling very good. Confident, almost. Not… Confident enough to be a predator. Never that. But a stag. Yes. Noble, majestic, strong and fleet. Yes. He was definitely feeling confident enough for that today.

Yes.

He bent his beautiful head down and took a leisurely tuft of grass between his powerful teeth, shearing it off and chewing on it slowly, like the delicacy it was.

Yes.

This was a good day. Maybe the best day he’d had in years. Centuries. He was feeling very—

He felt it.

He felt it.

“No,” he breathed, raising his head, delicious grass forgotten. “No no no…”

He sent out his consciousness. Tracing essence. Paths dusty from disuse. Never used. Never again. But something had—

HIM.

“No!” The one who called himself Duggan reared up, panic leaking from his eyes and nose, terror from his ears, horror roiling in his belly. “Nonononononono! NO!”

He bolted. Had to run. Had to flee. Apollyon. He’d know. Was strong. Stronger than Lord. Smarter than Stray. More treacherous than Strife. Had to get to Apollyon!

Apollyon would save him.

Save him from the Master!

Save save save save me!

* * *

Sam blinked at the… Creature before him. Perhaps it had been a man once, but it might not be anymore. Not with those eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” he said slowly, edging back from that blazing gaze. “Not sure who you think I am bud, but I’m not a pizza guy.”

“Of course you’re not.”

Sam jerked. The voice was different. Completely different. First it had been high-pitched, almost a falsetto in danger of cracking like uncooked pasta. Now suddenly it was deep as the sea, rumbling like Bugruk hitting the low notes after six beers.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you? Well do your worst. I won’t tell you a thing. I know secrets, oh yes I do, but none for you. No soup. Is there still soup? Used to be. Home-cookin’ soup. Does a body good. Warms you on a cold day. I miss soup.”

The voice changed again, and again. Going from deep to cackling high to soft and weepy to defiant and back through them all again in a different order. Sam felt his pulse speed up just listening to the words, to the voices, as they poured out.

Then the man was standing. There was no in-between movement. One second he was seated, calm, like he was meditating. The next instant he was on his feet, slamming emaciated fists into an invisible barrier, flecks of spittle flying from dessicated lips.

“KILL YOU!” he shrieked. “Kill you, kill your kids, kill your parents, your dog, your cat, your fish your school your friends your co-workersyourbossyourpoolboyyourmistressyourgirlfriendyourboyfriendyourfuckinghedgerowskillyouall!”

“Oh-kay,” Sam clapped his hands and took a step back. “You’re obviously completely nuts, and probably locked in here—wherever here is—for a good reason. So I’m just gonna get the hell out of here and—“

“Stop.”

Sam froze. This voice caught him by the spine and burrowed into his brain, found the part that remembered monsters in the dark and evil, and seated itself in the center of it. Sam suddenly knew what a rabbit felt like when a lion was hunting nearby.

“You’re different,” the voice said, and the man seemed to change before his eyes. Suddenly those eyes weren’t so sunken, the flesh not so emaciated, the limbs so weak.

But the eyes still burned. Even brighter than before.

“Why did they send you to me, I wonder?”

“Nobody sent me,” Sam said slowly, licking his lips and lowering his hand to Thumb Bane. “Pretty sure I’m here by accident. And now I think I should be leaving.”

“Yesssssss, that’s smart,” the voice changed again, soft and sibbilant and hissing. “Leave while you still have that lovely body. Lovely lovely body. Even better, you should give it to me. I need a new one. This one is old and tired and they’ve trapped it here with me inside it. Give me your body, boy, and I’ll KILLYOUANDEVERYONEYOULOVEISWEARIT!”

Sam, get the fuck out of here. The thought rose up in his mind. It was good advice. He took it. Again he turned to leave, to get the hell out of this… whatever the hell it was.

“Tinkerer.”

It was one word, and it stopped him as cold as that monster-in-the-dark voice. He turned back. “What did you say?”

“Got the Tinkerer, haven’t ya?” Still another voice, cold and sly. “Told ‘em it wasn’t good. Told ‘em it was a mistake. Did they listen? Nahhh. Not until Bartholomew told them off. Fuckers. Never listened to me. I had all the good ideas, but they never listened. Should have fucking listened. I know secrets.”

No way.

The Tinkerer skill had been a skill, an entire skill tree really, created by the people who had made the system. Gods, or men so powerful as to take on the mantle of gods. It had been removed by those same beings for being too powerful, for giving the owners access to places they were never supposed to go.

And no one could possibly have known about that skill.

Unless they’d seen it before.

Unless they’d made it before.

“You’re lying,” Sam said without thinking. “That’s impossible.”

The ancient head jerked up and that burning gaze bored through Sam’s eyes and into his soul.

“Not,” the creature hissed vehemently. “Impossible? Pfah. Created a world. Burned one, too. Burned thousands. Trial and error. Have to expect some mistakes. I know secrets. Should have let me play. Never let me play. Just wanted to play. Momma, why can’t I play? Tell them to let me play.”

The man collapsed back in on himself, huddling inside the circle, clutching his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth, muttering. Sam stared, trying to parse what he was seeing, trying to understand what was before his very eyes.

The runes on the man’s skin glowed brightly. Drawing power. From where? The circle? He risked another look, but the thing was just as maddeningly complex as before, and his eyes began to hurt just looking at it.

Could be. Could be powering the runes.

This whole place is a prison. I’ve stumbled into Super Max for… For what?

He sidled up to the idea, sneaking glances at it out of the side of his eye, then turning to face it head-on.

This was a prison outside of reality, accessed through an Anomaly no one could have planned for, wherein sat…

God.

A god, at least. An utterly insane man who had once wielded the powers to shape the world. To create the system, to inscribe the rules of reality.

And now here he was. In front of Sam.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

“Tinkerer,” the god said, sighing. “Knew was a bad idea. Turned it on us. Stopped us. Re-wrote things faster than we could. Never should have trusted those fucking things. Should have KILLEDTHEMALL! SET FIRE TO THEIR SHELLS, BURN THEIR CIRCUITS, TEAR OUT THEIR CORES, CRUSHSMASHBASHRIPTEAR! I FUCKING KNOW SECRETS!”

Sam fell back under the onslaught, feeling it in his boots as the creature slammed his fists again and again into the barrier.

And then the air changed.

Something was coming. He didn’t know how he knew, didn’t know what had happened, but he knew, in his bones, that something was coming. And whatever it was, he did not want to be around when it showed up.

“Run away, bug,” The deep evil voice returned. “Flee. Before they do to you what they’ve done to me.

“RUN!”

Sam turned and bolted, fleeing from that tectonic shriek. His legs ate up the ground, boots slamming hard into the gray surface. He headed for the door, not knowing where else to run. Felt the presence draw closer. Felt the oppressive weight of its power. Felt its attention gathering, casting about, seeking.

He dove through the doorway and kicked the door shut behind him, sliding the bolt home and gasping. It wouldn’t hold against whatever was out there. Couldn’t hold. He spun around, seeking—

Another door. Gold, set into the opposite wall.

Any port in a storm. He leaped for it. Wrenched it open. Stepped through.

And fell. Down and down and down and back into reality.

A reality, anyway.

* * *

Apollyon strode into the prisoner’s cell like he owned the place. Because he did. He’d built it, shaped it, laid the foundation, etched the confinement circle. Tattoed the detention runes on the old man’s flesh with his own hands.

Behind him, far behind, stood Duggan, in the guise of a rabbit. In front of him; Him.

“You are alone,” Apollyon said from a dozen mouths, a hundred eyes focused on the creature.

“Home alone,” the creature giggled inside its circle. “For all time. Everyone’s gone. Forgotten me. Shouldn’t have come. Bad for your health. Gonna need therapy. Didn’t even bring a father’s day card, I bet.”

“Cease this,” Apollyon commanded, the words falling like an anvil.

The creature stilled. Turned burning eyes to Apollyon. Shifted to Duggan, who shrieked and fled. Back to Apollyon.

“No. Like it. Madness sings. Beats working. Rather be mad than mad. Don’t get mad, BE mad. Don’t get angry, get EVENKILLYOU SLIT YOUR THROAT DRINK YOUR BLOOD CHEW YOUR BONES TIE YOU UP IN A SACK AND DROWN YOU IN YOUR OWN SHIT!” The creature slammed its whole body into the barrier, making it spark. He rebounded and collapsed onto his back, writhing.

Apollyon watched dispassionately. “You are alone?”

“I know secrets,” the creature whispered. “Know aaaaall the secrets.”

Apollyon kept a dozen eyes on the creature while his other forms shifted and roiled, seeking the boundaries of the prison, testing, scouring. No one. No one was here. No one had been here.

Curious.

“How did you get to Duggan,” he asked the creature. “He felt you. How?”

“The third rune on my left bicep has become smudged.”

Apollyon blinked a hundred eyes at the voice. It was His old voice, the one He had used to command armies and shape worlds. “This is an act.”

“This is madness. After seventy thousand years, even I am not immune.”

Apollyon nodded. “I am sorry.”

“Stop lying. Restore the rune and leave me to my gibberings. It is more entertaining.”

“Very well.”

It took a scant moment. Then He sank back into His prison and started laughing. It started low and growly, and by the time Apollyon had turned around and stalked back to the entrance, it was loud and light and pitched high enough to shatter glass.

Apollyon left with that laughter still ringing in his ears. All of them.