Meen-Tra flew through a tunnel; the walls were made of bending light and flecked with starbursts. It was impossible to tell how fast she was moving; in fact, it didn’t seem like she was at all – her hair hung down, and the folds of her qipao lay still. “Hellooo, can anybody hear me?” She tried to lift her arm or spin around to get a better look – she continued like a missile through a tube, until the void coalesced around her.

  She stood on a platform made of stone, and above her, unfamiliar stars twinkled in the night sky.

  “Hey, you.”

  Meen-Tra jumped at the sudden, unexpected voice from behind – she spun and hit Ren in the jaw. He stumbled, lost his footing, lurched backward, and tottered on the edge of the platform – arms pinwheeling. Meen-Tra lunged, sliding to a halt, her arms grasping at the empty air.

  “Ouch.”

  Meen-Tra’s eyes narrowed. She rolled over and looked down her nose at the smiling idiot, “What in bogs name are you doing here? What am I doing here? Where in the Mire did you go…I’ll, I’ll–”

  Ren approached and reached out a hand, “Truce?” He offered up a smile fit for a two-year-old, one who had just discovered crayons worked best on walls.

  She sighed – this was just muck in the bog for Ren. Meen-Tra clasped fists with Ren as he hauled her up, but she planted her heel in his pelvis and heaved – sending the reluctant runner back into the void.

  Flipping to her feet, she brushed herself off and tapped her foot – until Ren reappeared, hands held high, “Ok, ok. I get it – you're angry. But please, we don’t have much time – I mean technically we do, after all, time is a construct – probably, well maybe. The point is–”

  Meen-Tra’s knuckles popped, and Ren’s eyes flickered, “Right – down to business. I’m sorry for leaving. I thought I could help, and I’m not really sure how my powers work. I’m in Xylos, and if I’m not mistaken, I’ll be meeting the Emperor soon. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get out of here; my void slip is recharging at the moment. At least I think it is – like I said, I’m new to all this. But even if I can escape…I need to stay for a while. This place has reminded me of some things from my past – some things that…I need to deal with. I can’t run forever – plus, I don’t think we can. These types don’t understand the meaning of the word no. But I have something for you, and I think it’s just what the doctor ordered.”

  She wanted to turn tail and run for all she was worth – so all-knowing was Rens' smile, he really was the most infuriating boy she’d ever met. Ren closed his eyes and expanded his chest – straightening his spine. Just when she thought he couldn’t possibly take in any more air, his eyes snapped open, and his palms slapped together in front. Exhaling, he pushed toward her, and a translucent glow formed across his skin. A pinpoint of light, centered between his palms, formed and grew – and grew.

  The ball of light shot out, striking her in the chest. She left her feet with the force of the blow – her arms and legs stretched into a sideways U – and her eyes locked onto the rapidly vanishing form of the bane of her existence.

  Ren smiled and waved.

  She awoke in her bed with a gasp, clawing at her chest, and flopped onto the floor with a thunk.

  [New skill FYP For the Homies, obtained!]

  “I hate that boy so much.”

  Meen-Tra lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling tiles, when, like an assassin in the night, a viewscreen snaked overhead. Pat blinked down as they sucked on an orange creamcicle, “Is everything alright in here? DG and I were just discussing the horrors of war when…they started freaking out. They said you and Ren were …”

  “What’s an FYP?” Was all she could say.

  The look of confusion that pinched her face was beginning to fade as Pat explained the history of social media. Certain concepts were lost on her, like: network, fake news, and cat videos – but she was beginning to understand. She raised a fist, “So a network…that’s like a root system, right? And each of us with this skill – become agents of the titan? Reporting what we see back to the master…which in this case is – Ren?”

  Pat hesitated, “Erm – well, yes? That’s not a bad analogy. Though I’m not sure who the master is…that could be Ren, or it could be the System…or, quite frankly, it could be the Xylosian empire. Controlling information is the prerogative of state power. But, this void – it hid you even from DG – so we’re probably safe. But I have no doubt, if – no when they discover our little hidden network – if indeed that's what this is, they will come for it…or worse use it against us – who knows what kind of skill might be employed, as far as I can tell – one's own imagination is the only limit in this…place.”

  Meen-Tra was nodding along, “Yes, information is paramount – Garzha always said…

  She looked away, blinking the wetness from the corner of her eyes, “If this – FYP can indeed connect all of the Mire, allowing us to share information, it truly is a powerful weapon. It’s why councils hold a bog moot: disputes are often best handled by bringing relevant parties together and sharing information. Garzha was often tasked with handling such things – disputes over dungeon loot, and routes can get…tense.”

  Pat paced in their environment, hands held behind their back, “Indeed, indeed. I only met Garzha briefly – I’m sorry for your loss. She seemed like a remarkable orc. The way she charged after that dragon worm – I’m not going to lie, it was probably one of the most badass things I’ve ever seen. And I watched one of my staffers, the day after losing an eye, correct the spelling mistakes on a seating chart for one hundred international guests – at a Vaccination and You convention, and let me tell you – the fortitude required… inspiring to say the least…” They trailed off, noticing Meen-Tra’s expression as it shifted to one of confusion…and was that sorrow?

  “Yes, Pat – that sounds…was there no shaman available for a healing ritual?” She asked.

  Pat chuckled, “It was a clean plucking, you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. That being said, the doctors cleared them to work right away. And my boss, my old boss, could be a stickler about sick time…”

  Meen-Tra reached out a hand, gripping the corner of Pat’s monitor in a somewhat awkward gesture, “So what’s next?”

  Pat's mouth hole was doing interesting things. “Well, we make content! What else?”

  “[FYP for the Homies].” Her fist flashed, and the space between her pointer finger and thumb connected with bending strands of multi coloured light. She flung her hand like it were on fire, “Ah, get it off, get it off…” She calmed after realizing there was no pain or discomfort. She made an L with her two fingers – creating a perfect rectangular viewing screen.

  Pat swiveled into position over her shoulder, “Ahh, your own personal handy! A smartphone, incredible…can you make a call?”

  Meen-Tra ignored them as she looked down at the portal attached to her fist. What she saw on screen: two smaller rectangles, a red one labeled ‘REC’, a green one labeled ‘SHARE’, and three horizontal bars in the upper corner, “Huh?”

  Pat chuckled, “Buttons, push the red one, that should allow you to record…to capture a moving picture, a video, of whatever you point your camera at.”

  She pushed the red button, and her screen vanished as a blinking red dot appeared in the corner of her vision. Everywhere her eyes tracked, the dot remained.

  “Is it working? What happened? Do you see anything?” Asked a curious Pat, who was practically bouncing with excitement.

  “A blinking red light…” She waved her hand in front of her face.

  “Ahh, that means you're recording, the camera must be your vision! This is exciting…ok, now stop recording.”

  “Stop recording.” She tried.

  Pat slid to the side of Meen-Tra, and his eyes moved from her fist to her face, looking for any smell detail, “Anything?”

  Meen-Tra shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Pat shrugged, “Try activating the skill again?”

  “[FYP for the Homies].” Her hand lit up, and she extended the screen in front. “Hah, that worked – the light is gone.”

  Pat clapped excitedly, “Click the hamburger menu button.”

  Meen-Tra’s eyes slid to the side, “Huh?”

  Pat chuckled, “Newb. It's the three stacked bars in the corner there.”

  Meen-Tra’s eyes narrowed, and she clicked the icon. The screen changed, and more buttons appeared. She read them aloud, “My recordings, home page, browse.”

  “Try my recordings,” Pat said helpfully.

  She followed their advice, and the screen changed, showing a loop of her video. Her head spun, and she looked away – as her brain grappled with the impossible situation, a phenomenon illusionists knew as magical dissociation.”

  “You alright? It must be strange, you’ll get used to it. Click the image – it should blow it up.”

  Meen-Tra’s head swiveled, and her eyes locked on Pat, “Blow up, is this a… I thought this was about ideas – not…”

  Pat held up their stubs, “It’s just an expression, we have a lot of war-based words where I come from. We are a violent people, as I said. Might makes right…” They chuckled.

  Meen-Tra had no idea what they were talking about, “Cool, so now I’ve got my video – what do I do with it?”

  Pat pointed, “Hit that button there – see the one that says upload?”

  Meen-Tra was already looking at it, but wanted to be safe; any good Mireling knew to be careful with new skills. She hit the upload button and, like a pro, navigated back to her home screen. A single video, her’s, the first content uploaded – a new dawn began.

  “Ok, that’s easy enough, now what?”

  Pat nodded along, “Seems like we need to use the share button, let's go find a guinea pig!

  Pat paused, “Erm, a test subject.”

  Meen-Tra ended her skill, jumped off her bed, and headed out the door.

  Mog and Nosh sat side by side. They exchanged a nervous glance before Mog raised his hand, “Are you sure this is safe? It sounds…”

  Nosh shoved his counterpart, “Stop being a baby, Mog, remember how long it took you to mount a mire mander without a saddle. You were convinced the world would end. This is no different.”

  Mog scratched the back of their head – they were sure this was different, but before they could put a voice to their concern, Nosh stood up, “Alright, I’ll go first.”

  Meen-Tra clicked share, and she grew weak in the knees. Never before had the System spoken with such clarity and depth – and never before had she been fully conscious to receive it. Overwhelmed, she steadied herself and focused.

  [Are you sure you want to share skill FYP for the Homies with Apprentice Ranger 15, Nosh?]

  Pat, hovering over her shoulder, pivoted their screen back and forth between Meen-Tra and Nosh, “What is it? I don’t see anything. Did it work?”

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  Meen-Tra nodded vigorously, “Yes, it's just – the system…it gave me Nosh’s levels and class.

  She shook her head, “Yes, share with Nosh.”

  Nosh froze like a statue, their expression stuck in alarm. Meen-Tra collapsed, and Mog’s alarm grew, “Did it work? What are you all staring at…” Asked Nosh, who suddenly came to.

  Mog was down on his knees, cradling Meen-Tra’s head, “Are you okay, Meen-Tra? What happened?”

  She nodded through lidded eyes, “I’m okay. It’s just…sleepy–”

  Pat spoke up, “Mog, maybe you should get her to her quarters. I’ll assign one of the plateua orcs to keep a watch on her – they’ve been asking to help out.”

  Mog nodded once and stood up, cradling the sleeping Meen-Tra in his arms.

  Pat switched their attention back to Nosh, “Okay – try using the skill.”

  For several hours, Pat led Nosh around DG. They filmed everything, all the while Pat explained the ins and outs of DG4. It was a tour of the ship, an orientation video for all new arrivals.

  “And that concludes our tour of DG Airlines. Welcome aboard, and we hope you enjoy your stay.” Pat bowed and stood arms held out wide, offering a lopsided oval.

  “[FYP for the Homies]. Do you think this will really help? Can’t we just tell people about the ship when they come on board? Why use this…video?”

  “This will save a lot of time, and it ensures we don’t miss any details. But it’s mostly just a test. Now…we just need to share the skill with more people. Come on, let's go find some more vict – volunteers.”

  The overhead of Murkspire's Assassin district took the breath away from Gorthow, “It’s – this is an artifact, our people’s history. And it's crawling with low-level monsters. They dare to desecrate this holy ground.” His blood was beginning to rise; the last attacker wasn’t worth the ammunition he’d spent crippling it.

  With his hand to the side of his helmet, he adjusted his vision, “Now, where are…Yes, you’ll do nicely.”

  Tipping forward, the Great General glided across the empty cityscape – signage that once lit a bustling and vibrant community remained dark or flickered with the last remnants of mana – the district was now ominous and deserted.

  Below Gorthow, like an open book, his visor displayed levels and classes, and neatly printed text floated above, serving as hiding places. The speed at which the General moved, low to the ground, and silent; they stood no chance of detecting him, let alone defending themselves – he was a reaper on the wind.

  His target led him to the City center, and a grand building woven in vegetation rested on cobbled streets. “This is all System built, all these buildings – all of it, it can be none other than the lost city of Xylos. But these defenses…”

  Gorthow adjusted his visor again, checking for concentrations of mana – his pupils dilated; a network of interconnected nodes, the lifeblood an enchantment.

  “Formidable.” He moved into a position above a skyscraper, overlooking the building and the surrounding square – rotating mid air, he looked up to view the rat’s nest of structures and bridges overhead. “Vermin everywhere – and yet, the construction is not primitive. But this vegetation…will provide [Capitals], at least.”

  He filtered his visor once more, checking for threats, before landing and withdrawing his helmet with a hiss and a click from the sealing mechanism.

  Taking in a deep breath, he smiled, “I can taste the mana in the air. The wealth here is…

  Gorthow exhaled, as he stood arms akimbo, “beyond imagination.”

  He strolled to the building's edge, gripping the wall with gloved fists – he leaned forward to observe the lay of the land. “So, will you come out, beast. Or do we wait for the armada?” He drummed his fingers as he pondered his best course of action.

  None of this was turning out as expected. Talking monsters, it was nonsensical, they were mindless things – capable of breeding, leveling, and killing; the Systems test, might makes right.

  These…creatures hid on stolen land. And worst of all, their levels were disgustingly low; these were fodder for trainees. Hardly worth the cost of processing.

  “This…I will need to consult with Mercer, which will mean the Priests.

  He gritted his teeth, “DigiScrolls.” Clara entered his mind, and the veins in his neck pulsed in irritation. The plas cracked beneath his grip. Looking down, he took a deep breath. “Get a hold of yourself. Majordomo, give me an attack plan to clear this building. It will be a solo mission, and when I’m finished, we’ll have a new forward base of operations. Non-lethal force. I’ll need to contact Xylos Prime–

  The Great General smiled; it had a nice ring to it, Xylos Prime “-- for orders on handling the cattle. The Church will know how to best profit.”

  He marched across the rooftop, approaching a door set in the corner; he rolled out his neck and smacked his lips with distaste before sealing his helmet. “These plans are acceptable, Majordomo. Let us begin.” Rearing back on one foot, Gorthow kicked his heel into the doorknob, shattering it.

  Clenching his fist, he activated the charging mechanism in his launcher. An array of bullets orbited his wrist, armor-piercing rounds, ready to be fired with a thought – and enough scare off any would-be resistors.

  “Perhaps I’ll get lucky, and there will be resistors…” He was doubtful; mid-thirties was the highest level here, and he could swat them like flies with sheer brute force alone.

  Moving through the building with ruthless efficiency, Gorthow announced his title and rank, “This is General Gorthow of the Xylosian Defense Force. Exit your dwellings peacefully and without protest, or face the consequences; this building is being requisitioned. In the name of the System and his eminence, Leader Mercer – I declare this building to be the property of Xylos.”

  The curious and concerned faces of monsters poked their heads out from behind doors opened by a slit. Gorthow approached the nearest curiosity, the scared inhabitant attempted to shut the General out, only for them to eat the portal as it slammed them in the face – and they were dragged, kicking and screaming, fur, claw, and fang into the hall.

  A bespoke bearkin in a top hat tried to reason with Gorthow: “[Pinning Shot]

  Their hat stuck to the wall, leaving a landing strip atop the monster's head and a puddle at their feet. “Move, or the next shot hits you centre mass – and I’ll personally reclaim your corpse to pay for the wasted ammunition.”

  He watched as the pathetic creature fell over itself, attempting to reach the exit, all thoughts of helping its neighbors gone – replaced with an uncontrollable fear. Gorthows' trigger fist twitched with anticipation as he watched it go. Adjusting his visor, he confirmed the floor was clear before descending.

  A constant chatter echoed across his internal comms, “They are having too much fun down there.” The vein on his neck pulsed, “All units to my position, leave the ground threat, we’re establishing a central command – high-level monsters located – behind warded position.”

  Gorthow withdrew his hand, “Bastards, they should be handling this dirty work.”

  Two orcs sat, a single titan scale between them, its rough and gritty surface sanded to a smooth polish. The ancient furniture reflected the faces of the two guild leaders.

  “They appear to be taking up residence in the Screechfang building; our wards must be keeping them at bay…for now.” The speaker’s jaw was carved from stone, and their fangs curled up, hiding cheekbones behind thick ivory points.

  “Yes, John, we are all aware of the precarious nature of our situation. And until these newcomers can be sussed out, we, of course, will proceed with caution. And now that the Keepers have been dealt with, our path is clear.” The fat orc with red skin and a pockmarked face commented wryly.

  “Come now, Earl, don’t be like that. Stating the obvious is always a good starting point. Now the real question is…how do we approach the humans, and are they really humans or just impostors with an illusion, or some type of shape-shifting ability like that damn Talon.”

  Earl’s expression soured, “Talon – Do our spies have any information on them?”

  John shook their head, “None, there is too much chaos since the vatagand’s arrival.”

  “Don’t blame me, I told you that plan would go awry – through one can’t argue with the results. Our district stands tall, while the Keepers have been laid low. Ah, and let's not forget about that damnable mist, a thorn in our side since day one. Gone! Hah, it is truly fortuitous – a sign that we were in the right. Truly, God watches over us.”

  Earl nodded, “Truly. Our mission has only just begun. We have waited a long time to spread his glory. Where are we on the guild's numbers? How many traitors, turncoats, and deserters are there to report?”

  John pulled a scroll from their pocket, spreading it across the table, “Ah, yes, I have the report here, it's just come in from that disgusting beastkin you insist on keeping around.”

  Earl waved off the comments, “Needs must, John, the lord needs servants, and we will use what we have – as always.”

  John drummed their fingers, “Yes, yes. I’ve heard it all before. But I’m tired of pretending Earl…It’s bad enough we have these–

  He gestured the length of his torso, “Mongrol cages – my skin crawls when I look in the mirror, even after all these years. I can no longer stomach their sight, nor should I have to.”

  Earl chuckled, “Drama. The Lord's path requires sacrifice, John, and though the road we have been set upon may be dark…never forget God sacrificed his only son – so that we may be born again. We have been raptured, John, for what other explanation is there? You know this to be true. And if reports of these newcomers are true…then we may finally have allies in this hell.”

  John sighed, “Yes, I trust your faith, Seer. As always, I am your humble servant. But these reports are troubling…Our highest-level asset, that noodle shop owner, the one we had in place for spying on the Shamanic Council, has defected – their last known position had them entering the Keeper’s district just before it fell. Of course, our counterpart, that detestable snake Jori Slimfang, has taken close to half our forces and vanished into the Mire.

  He scanned to the bottom of the page, “Which leaves us with none above level thirty, and a handful of spies, but we do have the run of the Guild Hall, and complete access to its resources.”

  Earl smiled, “All goes as planned. Send out messenger lizards, bring all those left back inside the hall. And then let us prepare to receive company, we shall soon learn the measure of these…visitors.”

  “Sir, please, the child–” Gorthow's bullet blew out the back of their skull, leaving bone fragments embedded in the wall. He flung the creature off his back, as it attempted to sink its fangs into the fine mesh armor of his MaxTech power suit – to no avail. He reached back and body slammed the creature, “Take your spawn, and leave – or you’ll meet the same fate as your mate!”

  He didn’t look the thing in its eyes; their feigned humanity was disturbing him. “System, help us. Our resolve will be tested, but for the lost City of Xylos, nothing is off the table. Still, what I wouldn’t give for a high-level litch – hell, even an adolescent taraq wouldn’t be so bad. But these sniveling filth.”

  The Great General wiped the sour expression from his face, impatient for relief to arrive, “Strike leader, what’s your ETA? I must prepare for the next tunnel window.”

  Mercer the fool. This is the one time I’ll be happy to see his face. Let him decide this creature's fate.

  He cut them off, tired of the excuses, “Leave them, let the locals deal with it, maybe they’ll kill each other off. Report on my position immediately.”

  He watched as the last remaining monsters cowered down the stairwell, empty-handed – the stupid beasts lacked the intelligence to at least grab basic supplies. “Oh well, perhaps they will die. It will save us the trouble. I just hope the Church has a solution. I’ll not take a hit to the armada’s profits for extermination duties – that bastard in the Mountains is probably laughing right now.” Gorthow gritted his teeth, imagining the other general.

  A winged monster attempted to adjust the spawn it was carrying before making its way to the lower levels. Gorthow waited, and his eyes narrowed, “What am I doing.

  He reared back and delivered a boot heel, and it tumbled head over claws in a jumble of fluff and feathers, flipping through the air, before extending their wings and floating down atop their – “Get moving, your spawn are capable of carrying themselves. Get the hell out – you disgusting freaks.”

  Gorthow flexed his gauntlet; he needed to get a hold of himself. Sudden outbursts. Taking mercy. None of this was in character for him. He just wanted targets to shoot, and enemies to vanquish, “I need a drink.”

  He checked his visor’s readout – reinforcements were still a ways out. He leapt down the stairwell, landing without sound. He stradled the cranekin and reached down with a gauntlet, grabbing the pathetic creature by the neck, “I’ve marked your spawn for death, I can find them anywhere, the System be my guide.

  Hot liquid oozed from the thing's beak, and its eyes were wide, as its pupils darted at random. Gorthow pointed his clenched fist at the spawnlings, “Get this building cleared, NOW.”

  At a thought, a single bullet stopped its orbiting and slid into a forward position, where it glowed with a dangerous light, “Do I make myself clear, MONSTER?”

  The cranekin’s eyes settled, locking onto the bullet –its danger sense drowning out the panic. There was nothing but the threat and its children. It gave a single nod of understanding, even as mucous continued to dribble.

  “Pathetic.” He released the creature's neck and began his ascent – leaving behind a terrified cranekin, whose beak clattered, as they attempted a bave face for their children, paralyzed with fear.

  When Ren wove his strange and erratic rhythms, drawing in the chaotic life of the night market into a single entity, he laced it with a magic neither he nor the crowd understood. The result was that those present had a deep and lasting need to visit Churri’s stall, but that was not all the [Echo Runner] left behind.

  Ideas can be like wildfire, and like a wildfire, Ren’s style and groove were proving to be as erratic and unpredictable – in some ways, but in others…

  “This is DJ Deeds coming to you live from the Assassins District, in the City formerly known as Murkspire. After a recent monster attack, an ancient beast known as a vatagand, toppled all but one of these magnificent structures – the legacy of Eldrin Mythweaver, gone now these many years.”

  Knee high to an orc warrior, covered in coarse fur brushed to a high shine – their only dress, thick blacked out rectangular sunglasses – tilting their rims, he flashed his pearly whites, DJ Deeds was of a new breed of gibbon. Ren’s mass charm was having an interesting effect on the least known population of Murkspire.

  Never before had the fuzzy white workers chosen to walk other paths, but now – a flood gate had been released. Taken up classes not on the [Janitor] path – a thing unheard of in the fabled history of the Meister.

  Deeds was one such Meister, and he, like all his people, knew only one speed – complete and total dedication to their craft. His craft, what was it? And how did they achieve it? Deeds, like all those on that fated night,– had a connection with the [Echo Runner].

  So Ren, like a child with their older sibling's stolen game console, mashed buttons – producing unpredictable and sometimes overpowered results – one such result, Meister’s touching another Eldridge magic user, and discovering something locked deep inside.

  So when the [Echo Runner] in the haze of his shattered consciousness – reached out, Deedsshone like the North Star, guiding Ren to the first of his disciples, and kicking off a chain reaction.

  Deeds perched on the ceiling, tucked into a corner – a spider lying in wait. He bore witness, recording content, and living his truth. The Mire was not ready.

  Far away in the grand council chambers of Xylos Prime, a gallows grin split Ren’s face, “So it begins.” Closing his FYP screen, the [Echo Runner] shifted his gaze to the man who sat atop a comically large throne.

  Mercer’s eyes narrowed, “Do you find something amusing, Ren?”

  Ren proffered a bow, folding over at the waist, as he pressed his face to the ground. “Sorry, your eminence – it’s just, I’ve never seen such splendor in all my life – never imagined it, truly I am humbled by your greatness.”

  It was Mercer’s turn to smile. And the look he gave, like a cat with a mouse, served as a reminder – Ren knew what he had to do.

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