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Arc F1.8 | Chapter 7: I’m Not Even Smoking the Drugs and They’re Getting to Me

the voice boomed, slamming through the aether and sending Curtisal shooting upright, the devices that had been splayed around them sliding further away as his abilities escaped him.Anarch cooed from the corner of their living room, where she had curled up in an oversized chair that was more bowl than reasonable sitting location… thought the boy who had just been sprawled out over the floor as they watched the pretty—and definitely pretty fucking stupid—silverstrain work her way through his playground in the 17th’s dungeon. She was doing pretty well, although Curtisal had been forced to turn off a few of the traps she hadn’t noticed—he didn’t know why, but he didn’t want the girl to even be seriously injured down there. Some odd feeling—the same odd feeling that had led him down there, years ago now, to create that thing; the same odd feeling that had caused him to , as Anarch put it, several months ago. In this case, that feeling was telling him that the silverstrain needed to be there and she needed to get through.

It was the drugs, probably. Curtisal wasn’t indulging, but the luminous smoke of the hashath that Anarch had been puffing for the last few hours was getting to him, surely.

Vtraní yelled again, held back from forcing their way into the apartment Curtisal and Anarch shared by the metal he had wrapped around the place, impossible for anyone, even Vtraní to get through—well, it have been impenetrable to anyone.

Perhaps not the silverstrain girl? She was odd, speaking of strange things to her companions, including the belief that she would be able to get out of his playground with brute force, if necessary. That shouldn’t be possible; yet, she was so confident, and given how she’d performed in the playground…

Another pound shuddered through the wall, Anarch cackling as she took another puff of the drugs she’d gotten from . Only Gëon dealt in hashath, smuggling it in from Mitine Dyn, where it was used to —although, everyone knew the stuff they got in the city was cut with something that lessened the pull of that From what Curtisal had heard,

Curtisal had no idea if this was true or not—he’d also heard that, when asked the crime lord would bring a into the city at all, Gëon had replied that In other words, the man was weird. Personally, Curtisal was inclined to believe the stories of the man were true based on the simple fact that, of all the things Gëon smuggled into the city, hashath was one of the few things that his dealers were explicitly told to sell to For someone who generally insisted the children be protected, the fact that he was okay with this particular drug be sold to at rather low prices?

Odd, and Curtisal didn’t much like it—didn’t like the strangeness of the situation nor the drug itself, which made his mind a muddy place. It was already a place bogged down by too much awareness of the world. He didn’t need drugs adding to that awareness, and he knew better than to risk finding a drug that would dampen his awareness—his father had gone that route, burying his own awareness and abilities in drugs that dragged him to the grave.

Fuck that shit. Curtisal would simply be the designated sane person in the room. Granted, with Anarch, he was the designated sane person—ironic, considering his own propensity for what Fräthk had once called Did he agree with that description? Yes and no. Curtisal liked creating games that could be potentially violent and deadly—games that pushed their participants to silly limits and had an actual stake. In an ideal world, however, his creations would be more game than potential death trap. He didn’t actually like designing death traps for Fräthk, who loved the things he could pluck from his mind and bring to life.

A game with stakes, but where death wasn’t actually on the table—that was the sort of game Curtisal wanted to create, but it wasn’t something possible. Hence, he was stuck both loving and hating his job and life.

Another slam came, Vtraní threatening that if they didn’t open up, they were going to be . As Curtisal wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Vtraní unhappy, this wasn’t much of a threat. Also, why weren’t they letting them in? Upset or not, Vtraní loved Anarch’s mother and would never hurt either of them. It likely helped that while he and Anarch were young, together, they could probably take Vtraní… maybe… possibly. Curtisal would rather not test that theory, but it was a theory mostly grounded in reality.

Anarch replied when Curtisal asked her to go get the door, another puff shifting out of her. Her hand flopped, lazy and heavy, against her seat, and Curtisal was sure that come time for his friend to move, there would be yet another singe on the cushion. It would need to be replaced soon, stinking of drugs as it was, dozens of holes burned into it from Anarch’s disregard for using the ashtray he set beside her every time she lit up, which was moderately often.

Anarch loved the hallucinations hashath gave her—although, his friend was convinced they were . Previously, Curtisal hadn’t believed in such things. Now, though? With the smoke looming heavy around him, urging him towards the door to let Vtraní in, his eyes continuously sliding back to the surveillance footage for the 17th’s dungeon? His mind constantly turning over the girl’s actions and confidence and the fact that he was pretty sure he knew at least two of the voices calling to her from the dungeon side of the playground?

Who knew, but something about this entire situation was odd.

A thousand locks and panels slid aside as Curtisal opened the door for Vtraní, revealing their scowling face—or, Curtisal thought of the soft frown on their constantly stoic face as a scowl. When someone is a rock that barely anything can mar, the smallest of cracks is clearly a sign to worry it about to shatter.

Anarch called from the living room, Curtisal ushering Vtraní in, and after sticking his head into the hallway to make sure no one had been trailing them, he snapped the door and its million locks back into place.

Vtraní opened their mouth to say something, only to be left coughing when the smoke Curtisal had no doubt they weren’t used to invaded their lungs. From what Curtisal knew, Vtraní had no hobbies, no interests— Well, maybe they had one: secretly killing off rising members of the city’s underworld who had habits they didn’t approve of. Did killing predators and sadists count as a hobby?

Head tilting in thought, Curtisal scurried to the kitchen to grab drinks for each of them. He wasn’t sure what sort of drink Vtraní would like—probably something plain or really fancy?—and returned with Anarch’s favourite, a water, and a canned version of the fruit juice trending throughout the city.

Vtraní, somewhat surprisingly, took the fruit juice. That was fine—Curtisal liked water—but a little odd. They would have put more down on Vtraní having no preferences, rather than enjoying exotic fruit juice.

Deciding that killing predators did count as a hobby—and a good hobby; the world could use fewer predators—Curtisal shifted their eyes back to the screen, where the silverstrain was trying to force the doll she’d accidentally found back into the wall. Curtisal couldn’t decide if it was better or worse than when she’d been banging her head against one of the metal panels of the dead end he had tried really, hard to make sure the girl didn’t end up at. Unfortunately, as Anarch had pointed out at the height of her drugged stupor,

Putting aside the odd feminization of the aether and the way his friend referred to the silverstrain girl as the aether’s —he’d heard a couple members of the minority ethnic groups that populated the city call the aether a before, and he’d occasionally heard people refer to silverstrains as both aether blessed and cursed—he'd had to agree with his friend’s assessment: it almost seemed as though the aether itself had guided the girl there. It was also terrible, as didn’t much want the girl there! That stupid doll was meant to stay down there! Not accidentally be found by random Baalphorian silverstrains!

He knew he shouldn’t have hidden there! It was just… it had been an easy place to put it, was all! No one was supposed to be able to get there, but now the girl was there, and while she could definitely to leave the doll there, he doubted it would consent to being left behind! Instead, it was going to attach itself onto her, and then, it was going to be a mess and—

Vtraní asked, having gotten their coughing fit under control.

Curtisal breathed out, realizing he probably should have cut the feed before letting Vtraní in. They were generally a nice person, but they were still one of Fräthk’s loyal, and they’d just walked in on the two of them—

Anarch supplied, ignoring both Curtisal’s shut-up glare his hand movements of once Vtraní turned her way. Anarch, in all her shit stirring glory, simply lifted one long, dark arm and took another puff of her hashath, barely anything remaining of the stick. One long, shining-black leg crossed over the other, the metal of them clinking as she smiled up at Vtraní, her arm dropping to press the embers of her stick out on the leg that was fully metal—and fuck did Curtisal hate when she did that. His creations might be impressive, and she might not feel the burn of using herself as an ashtray, but eventually, all that minute damage added up!

Despite what Fräthk liked to claim of his creations, they weren’t completely eternal. Under normal circumstances, his creations would likely last centuries. The way Anarch treated her prosthetics, she’d be lucky if they survived a decade! Granted, the girl was psychotic, always throwing herself and her abilities around, and therefore racketing up damage on them, but still!

Couldn’t she at least refrain from using his creations like they were a garbage can!?

Vtraní asked, and oof, this was going to be awkward.

Definitely should have turned off the feed.

Anarch said, easy as that. Had the girl known Vtraní all her life, the pair of them having some odd mix of a hateful and kind relationship where both accepted Sireth would be sad if either of them died, and that therefore, they needed to protect the other, no matter what? Yes, but Curtisal wasn’t included in that! If Vtraní found issue with what he had done in the 17th’s dungeon, it might become a whole ! While he had, somehow, managed to convince Fräthk that, Fräthk was a fucking idiot. How they had managed to retain control of their group, Curtisal would never understand.

Another point to the idea that some power existed within the aether, perhaps? Only with the aether’s aid could Fräthk find their way along a straight line, in his opinion. Clearly, some other force was at work.

Also, they needed to air this place out. All the smoke was getting to him.

Unfortunately, with the situation as it was in the city as it was, airing the place out would be difficult—and yes, despite the distraction and their lack of saying much in the chats they’d been included in, both Curtisal and Anarch had been reading over what was happening. Fortunately, Vtraní seemed perfectly happy—their deep frown had abated, indicating they were definitely neutral or happy, while the way they sipped at their drink suggested they were in an acceptable mood—to listen to Anarch explain the story. While his friend did skip over Curtisal had installed a playground in the 17th’s dungeon, he had no doubt Vtraní would ask eventually.

Instead, as Curtisal set to work using his abilities to manufacture an air purifier—there was no way he was opening a window and risking fuck knew what coming flying through it—Anarch explained what they’d seen on the various video feeds of the 17th. First, there was the Baalphorian man escaping with the group, only the man himself ever being caught on camera despite him clearly being with others—same went for the silverstrain. The girl had been caught on audio at one point, talking about she had decided to help —presumably the unseen people accompanying her. Anarch finished up by telling Vtraní about the girl deciding to go through the playground, attempting to see if the people her were searching for were on the other side.

Anarch added, wiggling about until Vtraní sighed and stepped forward to haul her out of her chair—bowl chairs were traps unto themselves, usually requiring aid in escaping.

they asked, trying to tug their hand away and glowering when Anarch held it firm.

His friend shrugged, saying Vtraní should , her eyes flicking to Curtisal as he sat, pulling up the xphern he had used to hack the government’s security systems, intend to pull up the moment he knew his friend was speaking of.