There is blood running it’s way down your face and electricity crackling from your pores. You are a monster made of meat and viscera and magick of the worst kind- human and so much less as you stand bleeding over the bodies of your friends.

You’ve become this for them. So open your eyes and take a stand and do what you died for.

There are only a few rules to this game. The first is: Never. Ever. Talk about it.

There’s demons in the sewers calling out to cats and lost children, mermaids swimming in muck with song like grief and hatred, angels over by the bus stations offering peace to the ill and eating the fever warmed marrow.

There are those who can see, the young and curious and old and unlucky, those who know, but you must never talk about it.

The second rule is: There are a lot of things worse than death. Be ready to get it over with if one of those things turns it’s eyes on you.

It’s not as fancy as war spies with their false teeth- knives hidden in the folds of your jeans or a syringe of contaminate drugs in the lining of your bra will do just as well, really. It’s better. And if you’re in the know, you should be beyond fear, anyway.

The third is: that kid over on fifth street should not exist.

You can always, of course, run. But only you. You are fast and clever and quick, and you know how to hide and find safety in even the darkest part of a city. But your friends, your siblings, family of bond and not blood- they will not survive the chase. So you pull yourself to your feet and lock eyes with the monster-man and prepare to fight. Or die.

Probably both.

The complex network of tattoos and scars spelled out a sigil array- one entire body for one entire array. Xe was a living spell, a grimoire that could run, a person with magick burned into xir circulatory system and across xir eyes.  Xe was a horrible, eerie mess, and the sigil-scars glowed with malevolent intent.

Xe grinned, wide and pleasant. Xe hadn’t chosen this. Xe would be kind.