// Slip Stitch

  Remi stood alone at centre court, metre stick at the ready, chest heaving beneath the flickering lights. The gym was too quiet. There were no voices, no motion, not even a crowd’s murmur.

  Just him. The boundary line beneath his feet still pulsed faintly, a remnant of the trial’s rules, but that too soon faded. It was still, but everything felt wrong. Everyone was waiting for something that had yet to be written. The HUD was frozen; no colours flared. There was no loot, nor victory. Just the air, too quiet to be safe.

  Even Archie, who flickered into existence beside Remi, looked stunned. At first, he too was silent. They watched together and then made eye contact for the first time in hours. “You’re standing.” The sound wasn’t even a whisper, but an exhalation of breath. “Congrats.” It was as if the AI too was hesitant to break the silence.

  “I thought I was done,” Remi said.

  There was a trace of something new in Archie’s voice. “So did I.” It was not awe, or calculation, it might have been—fear. “I'm sorry,” he added. Archie did genuinely look distressed. “I have to go.” He blinked once, and was gone, once again leaving Remi alone in the central ring of the gymnasium.

  Silence settled again, but it did not last. It was violently shredded with the sound of tearing paper. It was much more than the rasp of torn notebook sheets. The sound was deep and raw, the amplified sound of a chapter being wrenched from a book. Each jagged seam split punctuated an arrival. One by one, the six former principals rematerialized around him. Each occupied one point in a broken circle. They were no longer shadows. They were puppets, very much alive. Their limbs moved unnaturally, stiff at the creases, like a parchment Pinocchio. Their heads tilted too far, and their spines contorted in jerky angles, like they were being twisted into place.

  Their bodies were stitched together from the bureaucratic remains of yellowing suspension letters and school-wide memos. Years of timetables, and printed emails, and administrative procedures molded to create the army of marionettes.

  But their eyes, they were not paper. They were human. Remi could see the light of his former boss in each of them. He knew without reading the strangely glowing name tags who each were. They looked at him, with eyes no longer filled with hatred, but with the glassy panic of beings who understood they should not exist.

  Remi braced for an attack, but it didn’t come.

  Instead, the tearing proceeded, but now it was happening to them. There were no screams from their paper mouths. Remi watched, horrified and unmoving, as they were eviscerated.

  Mortsen was first. Jerked by an invisible thread. Limbs spread, a red line appeared across his body, like an edit mark. Then RIIIIPPP!, his legs tore off at the knees. Stumps of hall passes thudded dryly to the floor. Thankfully, they vanished in a blur of motion. Grieves was second. Flattened, as if stepped on by a giant, unseen foot. Her arms fluttered down like a stack of dropped poems, and when the pressure lifted, only a torso remained.

  One by one, the others followed. Each former principal yanked, folded, sliced and sundered apart. Arms and legs were torn free with fibrous rips and fell around Remi in a circle. He couldn’t move, frozen in place by the violence of it all.

  [AI]: Remi, this isn’t me.

  Remi blinked.

  Remi: If not you. Then who?

  [AI]: I can’t say!

  Remi: Can’t or won’t?

  [AI]: Can’t.

  Around the gym, the torn limbs rose. Unseen hands lifted each piece, allowing them to hover and spin. Legs of detention slips, arms made of policy, each held aloft with invisible magics. Then, the ink flowed. Lines of black script arced between the pieces, curling like stitches, thread-thin and diving in and out. The pieces were tethered together, limbs linked to torso, and finally Frank Eastly’s head resting on top. The lights flicker out, like strobes of lightning flashes. When the solid light returned, he was standing— it’s alive!

  [SYSTEM MESSAGE]

  FINAL ENTITY – COMPOSITE ADMINISTRATIVE CREATURE

  Name: FRANK ADMN EASTLY’S MONSTER

  Classification: Construct | Abhorrent Authority | Administrative Amalgam

  Tier: Tutorial Apex / Unauthorized Reassembly

  HP: 1000

  Stability: Compromised

  Remi looked at the creature, and Mary Shelley’s description of her creature leapt to mind: “Evil stitched to evil.” In the novel, the line held significance because the monster had been built from the parts of dead criminals; it was powerful, but mostly literal. Here, the idea didn’t fit. Sure, the parallels with Shelley were obvious. Maybe even ham-fisted. But this thing wasn’t evil because of what it was. In Frankenstein, the lingering question had always been: who is the real monster? Did the evil rest in the heart of darkness that beat in the creature’s chest or in the hands of he who made it? As Remi stood in this workshop of filthy creation, the answer crystalized. He knew what evil was, and that it lived in whoever had done this.

  The fight did not begin with an announcement, just the stat strip appearing on Remi’s HUD, and the monster took a faltering step towards him.

  [HP: 206/271 | MP: 115/361]

  [INKWELL: 93% | N.S.R.: 6.3 | Status: Horrified.]

  Its joints creaked as a twisted PA speaker embedded in its chest whined to life, spitting out a warbled, mashed-together soundbite: “How’s this for wanting attention!” Remi didn’t recognize the voice; it wasn’t Archie’s nor was it Frank’s.

  Remi turned on instinct. He needed space, anywhere just to get clear of the thing. However, he slammed to a halt after only a few steps. The red ring beneath his feet, once just decorative, now pulsed deep crimson. A shimmering membrane shot up around the circle’s perimeter, forming a column of light that prevented his escape. It was the same field as the former centre line, but now it prevented his escape.

  [SYSTEM CONTAINMENT FIELD ACTIVE]

  Combat Arena Locked. Thread Exit Disabled.

  Remi was trapped in a fifty-foot circle with Frank, and while he could see the exit portal off in the distance, he had no way of getting there.

  Behind him, the monster took another halting step towards him. The joints smoothed as each step became more fluid than the last. A booted foot stomped forward again; now it was just ten feet away. A stitched hand rose.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Remi planted his heel and spun to face the monster. It’s almost on him now, arm poised high, prepared to strike.

  “Noncompliance—” it begins, voice stuttering.

  He throws his hand out and yelled “Mana Pulse!” A shimmering wave of kinetic force ripped from his palm, and the wave slams into the monster’s torso. The hope had been to push it backwards. It was a technique that had worked before, and while the creature staggered, it did not move or pause in its pursuit of Remi.

  Unfazed, Remi darted sideways, curving wide around the monster. The monster was enormous, but not fast. If he could get around it, he might take out a joint and unbalance it. He swung low with the metre stick, aiming for the back of its left knee. CRACK! The blow landed. It did nothing. The monster’s leg twitched, but it and its life bar held.

  Frank turned its torso without moving its feet. Its backhand came fast and smashed into Remi’s chest. He flew backwards, spun midair, and hit the floor hard; he skidded across the wood with a squeak, and slammed into the edge of the barrier in a heap. Wind escaped in a rush. But at least he was farther from the monster now. Distance gained but at a cost, because with chest punched and back slammed, Remi’s life had dropped by 23, over 10% in a single swing.

  The monster reoriented as Remi pushed himself to his feet, breath sharp in his throat. He didn’t have time for cleverness; he needed time and control. He raised his hand and cast “Mana Lash.” Lines of blue light shot from his fingers, one line shot for the monster’s left wrist, coiling tight with a flicker of runes. The second snaked low, tethering its right ankle, then anchoring into the hardwood. Remi shot again. He locked the other arm and the other leg to the floor. For a moment, it worked. The creature slowed as the lines pulled taut, holding the stitched limbs in place like a marionette at rest.

  Remi took a breath. Then the monster jerked forward in a single flex, and the threads snapped one by one. The twang of release echoed around the gym.

  “Containment denied.” It took a step. Then another.

  Remi continued to try his spells in desperation. He raised his other hand and cast “Edit Strike!” targeting Frank’s torso. The spell connected, and Remi was flooded with relief to see one leg locked mid-motion, suspended in air like a paused frame. The leg slumped to the ground, but still the monster did not fall. Instead, it continued forward, dragging the limp leg behind itself.

  Remi didn’t retreat. He shifted his grip on the metre stick and committed to an offensive attack. As he flipped it into a tighter stance, he fired a Mana Lash forward not at the monster’s limbs this time, but to its sternum. The tether snapped tight.

  “Pull,” he whispered. The lash retracted, yanking Remi forward like a shot.

  His boots skidded across the floor as he surged toward the monster, and he was not dodging this time, but committing. He reached it mid-step and swung the metre stick with both hands. CRACK!

  The first blow hit the monster across its hip. He spun with the momentum and struck again, slamming into its ribcage. CRACK! CRACK! A third blow went straight to the neck joint.

  Remi landed, panting, teeth gritted, gripping the metre stick like a lifeline. Hope drained from him as the monster staggered slightly, and then straightened. It had hardly made an impact; the creature’s health bar barely moved.

  And then the monster retaliated. It brought its massive hand directly down on Remi’s head. The blow landed with the weight of a Volkswagen. It glanced off Remi’s head and landed firmly on his shoulder, flattening him to the gym floor like a stamp hitting wax. The arena shook. The impact spiked through his spine, and the breath fled his lungs. His life plunged to 134/271.

  Remi tried to push himself up, his elbows shaking, arms barely obeying, but the monster was already moving. THWAM. The second blow drove him flat to the floor, crushing the air from his lungs once more. 124. Lights burst behind his eyes. His body screamed. He couldn’t win like this.

  Gritting his teeth, he rolled one shoulder under the weight and jammed a hand towards the creature. He cast Mana Pulse, not to blast the monster, but to push himself backward. The burst of kinetic force did its job and kicked him backwards like a puck during a floor hockey game. He tumbled once but came up on one knee. His breath was even more ragged than before. Remi looked up to see that the monster wasn’t following immediately. It needed to turn. It could not move effectively except in straight lines.

  Remi staggered to his feet, one hand gripping the metre stick like a crutch, the other pressed to his side where the blows had landed. He didn’t charge. He didn’t cast. He circled. An arc intended to keep the predator at bay. He moved with his back close to the barrier, never touching it, but hugging the curve. The monster tracked him with halting, mechanical precision. For every few feet it stepped, Remi stole a few more in rotation. Remi kept moving. Right foot over left. They were at a standstill for now. But both of them knew he could not do this forever.

  He needed to do something different. His regular bag of tricks wouldn’t work. But come to think of it, maybe there was something he had left. Remi reached into the murse for his emergency item. He reached past the juice box, as he still had plenty of mana. And found the emergency slot, he pulled out the hard object to discover it was a walkie-talkie. The note told him to turn it on. He did and heard a female voice through the static.

  “Old man. It’s Nel. I'm in the crowd.”

  Remi scanned the crowd, and finally he saw her. She was in the front row, but right near the exit.

  “Stop looking for me, you idiot! Drink the potion!”

  The only potion Remi had left was the one from Science, so he fished it out of the bag and reexamined it.

  UNSTABLE DRAUGHT

  Item Type: Consumable (if you’re sure)

  Effect: Who’s to say.

  Label: Draught 0.92 – Not for human testing (anymore)

  Description: Use in combat or narration to trigger one random scientific effect: healing, buff, mutation, insight, or something stranger.

  Remi was not sure why Nel was telling him to drink it, but he was starting to suspect that she knew a lot more about this place than he did. So he popped the cork. The liquid inside shimmered an oily violet, then shifted to amber, then green like it couldn't decide what it wanted to be. The scent was worse than the healing tea.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Down the hatch,” he said and drank.

  The effect was immediately absent. Nothing seemed to change at all. In a panic, she pushed the walkie-talkie button. It hissed to life.

  “Nel, nothing happened! Over.”

  Remi could see she was typing rapidly and picked up her handheld. “Give me a second!” She set it down and returned to her typing.

  “Nel, what are you doing? Over.”

  “Nothing if you don’t stop interrupting me. Stop saying over; it makes you look like an idiot. I can see when you’re done talking.” She returned to her typing, and as Remi circled, he could see she was slowing down. Coming to the end of something. She lifted her hands and firmly pressed a key with her right pointer finger.

  Remi’s HUD flickered, followed by a loud VWEEP! and then a system announcement.

  [LOOTBOX OVERRIDE DETECTED]

  Source: Draught Sync

  User: Scriptbreaker, NEL

  FINAL TRIAL REWARD – ACQUIRED

  [SYSTEM MESSAGE]

  You have been awarded a Mythological Lootbox of Convocation!

  A sphere materialized midair, bouncing once before landing neatly in the circle at Remi’s feet. It looked exactly like a dodgeball—red, scuffed, rubbery—but pulsed faintly with golden thread seams.

  “You’re welcome,” came Nel’s voice casually through the walkie.

  Remi bent down, still watching the monster as it turned toward him again. He grabbed the lootball and twisted the seam. It hissed open like a pressurized capsule. Inside was a spell scroll, inked in the same script that had given him Mana Lash. He read it and received his new spell.

  [NEW SPELL: Foreshadowing]

  Type: Narrative Projection

  Rarity: Epic

  School: Storycraft / Meta-Casting

  Cast Cost: 50 MP + 10% Inkwell

  Cooldown: Scene-based (1 per major beat)

  Description: A narrative spell that allows the caster to momentarily step ahead of the story. Upon casting, it highlights a significant future event, detail, object, or turning point—one that has not yet had significance, but will. It’s the literary act of suggestion made real: a hint made tangible, a pattern revealed before it completes. In The Crucible, it’s more than a hint. It’s a warning wrapped in insight.

  This spell was amazing! What wasn’t, however, was that he had allowed himself to get distracted. There was a reason not to open loot during a fight. You’d lose sight of the ball, and in Remi’s case that ball was a fist the size of a desk drawer. In his focus, Remi had lost sight of the present.

  The blow landed cleanly on his solar plexus. Remi didn’t scream as there wasn’t air for that. He was crushed, caught between the monster’s fist and the force field. Remi heard his ribs crack. Frank pulled back his arm as Remi slumped to the ground.

  His knees hit first, then his shoulder, then the side of his face. The floor was cool. Strange he noticed that, and how quiet the gym had become again.

  He looked up.

  “Mr. Page! No.” Nel’s voice pleaded from the walkie-talkie.

  I’m going to die. He knew it with a certainty that he could not explain. Likely because his death had always been this story’s goal.

  The monster was already rising to full height, one leg still dragging slightly behind. Both hands lifted overhead. There was no flair, just inevitability.

  Remi knew he should be scared, but he wasn't. There was a strange calm and clarity in acceptance. He had seen what was coming. He had read the signs.

  That did not mean, however, that he would accept it willingly. Remi reached down, and his thumb found the button on his vest.

  [ANCHOR POINT SET]

  [Timestamp: Line 8194]

  “You only get one.”

  It was only a matter of time before the hands fell, and Remi was plunged into darkness.