Bogleech.com's 2019 Horror Write-off:
Four Crimes in the Abattoir
Submitted by Joseph Hartman (email)
Death is cheap, and life is cheaper.
So goes the saying in the Abattoirs. The Taker stalks its streets, and her every footstep is the mourning bell.
They wind through the grandest cities like poisoned veins. Screams bubble up like boiling blood, and those in higher quarters learn to ignore it. The Abattoirs are a necessary evil, they’re told, they tell themselves, for an invented necessity is still a necessity.
A Taker has two tools: the key and the gun. She retrieves the key from her coat, and slides it into the lock.
It fits. The shape of the lock is no matter, any wards on it dispelled.
The purpose of the Key is to open things.
She enters, and beholds a storefront full of diamonds. Each one smaller than a fingernail, each one with a price of 300 gold coins.
-----
It was an arbitrary number, once upon a time. The gods gave their servants wondrous powers, but these always required a cost, so the priests would not grow drunk on their borrowed miracles.
‘A diamond, priced at 300 gold coins. In exchange for this, a resurrection.’ Simple.
Until there came a time of sickness. The Fishermans’ Plague, dredged up from the watery abyss, reduced a wealthy priest’s hometown to a pile of waterlogged corpses. He found a nearby merchant, but the man had just one diamond, priced at 300 gold coins, as per the custom.
The priest was heartbroken, desperate. And in this desperation, he hatched a selfless plan that would confound the gods themselves.
“Break that diamond into a thousand pieces,” He commanded the merchant. “I will pay you 300 gold coins for each one.”
It worked. Each piece of the diamond was, of course, an individual diamond. The corpses rose again, one after another, but still there were more. The priest was out of money, and though the kindhearted merchant attempted to give him more, any that were not bought for the required price could not raise the dead.
And so, the merchant, heart full of pity, gave the priest his money back.
Before the two of them realized the implications of what they’d done, the whole town was raised from the dead.
They’d done the impossible. They’d shaken the heavens.
They’d discovered a loophole in the laws of the gods.
-----
The culture of resurrection forms in triads. Three parties to every ritual: the Seller, the Caller, and the Called. One to sell the diamonds, one to use them, and one who benefits.
The ruling class has become effectively immortal. They’ve even created a new kind of currency just for them, out of platinum, each piece representing the essential 300 gold.
Those below them tie themselves to the Sellers and the Callers, who inhabit a class somewhere in between. Those further below--
Well. They find themselves as one third of a triad. There are only so many people wealthy enough to hoard diamonds, now that the mines have all been closed to the public, the flow of gemstones slowed to a trickle.
And in these days, where the commonality of life has robbed death of its gravitas, ancient horrors return. Virulent plagues, used as weapons of war. Dark magic, with darker sources of power. Careless killing in the streets, with the expectation that the victim will always return.
There comes a need for alternatives.
There are the legal ones: protective wards, lucky charms, even reincarnation.
And then there are the illegal ones. Violations, not only in the eyes of the law, but in the eyes of the gods. These, too, come in triads.
“Oh!” The shopkeeper says, grinning with gaps in his uneasy smile. “T-Taker! To what do I owe the pleasure? Business has been good this year-- nothing to be happy about, of course, but life has been good for me and my family.”
He sits at a table. A wife, a son, and a daughter. They smile up at the Taker. It was the most disturbing trend she’d noticed in the Abattoirs. There was fear, always fear. But when something was truly wrong, they would smile.
The Taker drew her gun.
The purpose of the Gun is to end things. Like any weapon, really.
But so much worse.
She fires on the woman and her children, leaving holes in their foreheads. The gun is swift, still, and silent with each shot, and the holes open to blackness, not blood. They collapse, falling limp instantly.
The first crime of Unlife: Semblances. The most innocent of the crimes, and one that the Taker wished to the heavens she didn’t have to correct. It was always hard. The hardest of them.
The shopkeeper screams.
“Why?!” He begs, gripping the limp form of his wife, who had been dead for years. “They weren’t hurting anyone! What was the harm?!”
You can know Semblances by the eyes. Takers can, at least. It’s part of the ritual: the eyes are pinned in place, staring straight forward. A Semblance has to turn its head to look.
“You know exactly why,” The Taker says calmly. “Their bodies are still intact. You are free to resurrect them properly, if they forgive you.”
He looks at her with hatred and tears in his eyes. Like many who create Semblances, he’s in denial of what he’s done. A Semblance is not a person, not a resurrection. It is puppeteering a corpse, slotting a substitute where the soul should be. Meanwhile, the original soul is locked in a featureless limbo, unable to enter the afterlife or return to the living world by other means while that mockery of them exists.
You can talk with a Semblance. Become friends with it. Have a life with it. But when the puppetmaster dies, it just… stops. It doesn’t die, doesn’t collapse like when shot by the Taker’s gun. It just stalls in place, now as outwardly mindless as it is on the inside.
The Taker leaves the shop, and the shopkeeper’s howling echos into the distance.
-----
After the first and last Great Raising, the gods took notice. The twelve gods convened on the Night of Light, when the stars aligned, and pulled the loophole closed.
A tome descended from the heavens: The Book of Revocations. In its thousand pages were the exact specifications for the cost of a resurrection. Some argued that they were attempting to correct a misconception. Others said that, without these rules, mankind would grow too proud. Others would say, in the years to come, that mankind grew far too proud regardless.
Many would know in their hearts that this book was simply a punishment from the gods for outsmarting them. For the most prevalent new rule was one that tied the validity of the resurrection to that of the used diamond’s purchase.
In short, if the money spent on a resurrection was given back, the resurrection itself would be similarly ‘refunded’.
That poor priest woke up the next morning to a village once more full of drowned corpses, and to the weight of water in his lungs.
There was a prison in the Abattoir, and it was also a museum. The Taker walks in, and the curator sighs. “I suppose you could not let us have our fun for a while longer?” He croons, in a pitiless voice. His clothes were finery. At his side were two timid servants: his Seller and Caller, undoubtedly.
“The Dark Hunter disapproves of this place,” The Taker says, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “As. Do. I.”
“Then allow me to give you a tour, at the very least!” He says, jolly and cruel. “Every piece is unique.”
The second crime of Unlife: The Bound.
The Taker, again, reminds herself that her purpose is to undo the crime itself, and not take vengeance on the perpetrator.
Each portrait was a face, silently screaming. Most of them were smudged and faded, the despair of the trapped soul degrading the paint into which their identities were encoded. First a face, then a set of three ragged holes, then a misshapen splotch of darkness where their mouth would be.
The Bound didn’t have to be tied to objects. They are souls without bodies, and could easily be given one, if the present soul was vacated. Granted, these temporary bodies would rot in time, but at least they could move. At least they would have agency.
At least they wouldn’t become things.
The Taker puts a bullet-hole in each one. All the while, the curator explains who each portrait used to be. Petty criminals from the city above. Some were business rivals who were just a bit too good at coming back from assassinations. It isn’t the Taker’s place to correct these crimes, though her trigger finger itches.
At the back of the first gallery are several paintings that are just abstract patterns of color. Sensing no souls in them, the Taker walks past with a flat expression, though behind it, her teeth are clenched nearly hard enough to crack.
“These may interest you,” The curator continued, insufferably. “This wing is for the Dark Mages--”
The Taker stops listening. She sees only sculptures that jitter and bend and twist, and she fires without hesitation. The museum is left with black holes in its ‘art’ and walls, and the curator is left only with a frown on his face.
“Visit less often, why don’t you?” He asks with a lilt in his voice. “I make more sales without you around!”
-----
One of the gods disagreed with the spirit of the Book of Revocations. They argued, instead, that the pantheon should revoke its powers entirely from the world of mortals, rather than leave space for such horrors.
Most of the gods cared not for the how the mortals suffered, so long as their servants were known and venerated. But enough supported the Dark Hunter that a special concession was placed in the book: the order of Lifetakers, hunting servants given special tools to seek out and destroy the crimes against life that the gods’ corrupt rules would inevitably inspire.
It was an imperfect decision. Ultimately, these ‘Takers’ served only to uphold the resurrection regimes that came into being, by squashing the most common, if horrific, alternatives.
They became known and feared. Some said that they were not truly alive, not truly people, so filled were they with the power of the Dark Hunter. With their keys and their guns, they were implacable killing machines.
The bullets in the gun have two purposes: Firing through something’s head would sever it from the afterlife, consigned to oblivion. This was meant to destroy Semblances, and absolutely forbidden to be used on a living person. This was the bullet called Oblivion.
On the other hand, firing through something’s heart or center would sever it from the mortal realm, unable to be resurrected. This was meant for the other kinds of crimes. This was the bullet called Mercy.
The key simply opened things.
-----
The Taker jams her key into the lock. It opens.
The Taker jams her key into the Dark Mage’s chest. It opens.
The Taker jams her key into the profane spells meant to destroy her.
They open.
She steps through the gore of the first Mage, while the others cower before her. They know she will not hurt them, unless they try again to bar her path.
Once more using the key, she opens the final door. It is a long hallway, long enough for the walls to converge far into the distance. It is full of screams and naked bodies strapped to comfortless wooden beds. Their bellies are scarred, and several inches of blood coat the floor.
The final crime of Unlife: Sacrifices.
Many Dark spells require a death. In recent years, these spells have become much easier to manage.
“I grant you Mercy,” She says to the first one, and fires a bullet through their heart.
“I grant you Mercy,” She says to the second.
“I grant you Mercy,” the third.
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
She continues this for hours, until her lips are chapped and her tongue is dry and her eyes are bloodshot once again.
-----
All things in triads.
Seller, Caller, Called.
Semblances, Bound, Sacrifices.
Birth, Death, Resurrection.
The Taker returns to the museum, the hem of her jacket bloodied.
“What’s the matter?” The curator asks with a chortle. “Did you miss a few? Or, perhaps you have some to sell? I wouldn’t mind a new piece or two, if you actually have use for gold. Do you Takers eat? Or do anything besides ruin good merchandise?”
The Taker wondered once if her order was somehow broken.
Besides in the obvious ways, of course.
“Yes,” The Taker says. “Contrary to what many say, we do have hearts. We do live, and we do enjoy things,” She smiled wryly. “On occasion.”
The curator laughs. The Taker forces a laugh as well.
All things in triads, and yet the Taker has only two things. A key, and a gun. And, perhaps, a duty? But that had never sat right with her.
“Your tour today was enlightening,” She says. “It took me a while to realize it, but I think it’s really changed my outlook.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I have something to give you.”
At the end of that hallway, where the bodies of the Sacrificed still lay, the Taker had found a room with many locks. She opened all of them, and found a special storeroom. Records, and other things.
The curator holds out his hand. The Taker reaches into her pocket, and into the curator’s hand, she drops a stream of shiny platinum pieces.
The curator frowns.
“It’s a smart system,” She says quietly. “Having your Seller use the money from selling the diamonds to sponsor a coven of Dark Mages. Then, you Bind those Mages, and sell them for more gold. It’s a cycle that never ends. You found a loophole, so I thought I would reward you.”
The evil little man looks into the Taker’s eyes, uncomprehending. Then, down at the platinum pieces in his hands.
Each of them worth 300 gold coins.
“Tell me, dead man,” The Taker says coldly. “How many times have you come back to life?”
His hands begin to shake.
“How much borrowed time have I just revoked?”
Myriad deaths pile into the curator. Platinum pieces fall from sloughing bone, and his flesh blackens and shrivels. The dying thing screams, not in terror, but in rage, and falls over dead.
Something like him would have backup plans. Sellers and Callers. This death would be painful, but he could come back. Over and over again.
The Taker aims her gun down at his forehead. She feels it wavering, feels that restriction against using it against a real person. Part of that duty instilled in her by the Dark Hunter, part of what makes her not entirely human.
Later that day, when the Taker leaves this Abattoir, this pit at the center of the city, in search of others, she thinks back on this moment, and it all makes sense.
This curator, this Caller, twisting mortal and divine laws to his benefit and to everyone else’s loss, was the real crime the Dark Hunter had meant for her to hunt.
People used to say that you couldn’t put a price on a life. That they were special, precious things. People still wanted to believe that, but it was hard.
So, so hard.
The Taker did have a triad. It all fell into place. The platinum pieces taken from the storeroom. The aiming of the gun at the portraits and the Sacrificed, those who would be given no other pity.
The key, the gun, and the hands that held them both.
And together, the Dark Hunter’s final loophole.
The Taker jams the key into the restrictions that hold her back.
They open.
She aims the gun, and her hand does not waver. She does not know where a soul like his will go, a soul severed from the gods, from the heavens above and the endless watery abyss below.
But she does know what to say.
“I grant you Oblivion.”
She fires, and for the first time in her memory, the gun makes a sound.
A single clear note, like a harp string strummed once, then snapped.
So goes the saying in the Abattoirs. The Taker stalks its streets, and her every footstep is the mourning bell.
They wind through the grandest cities like poisoned veins. Screams bubble up like boiling blood, and those in higher quarters learn to ignore it. The Abattoirs are a necessary evil, they’re told, they tell themselves, for an invented necessity is still a necessity.
A Taker has two tools: the key and the gun. She retrieves the key from her coat, and slides it into the lock.
It fits. The shape of the lock is no matter, any wards on it dispelled.
The purpose of the Key is to open things.
She enters, and beholds a storefront full of diamonds. Each one smaller than a fingernail, each one with a price of 300 gold coins.
-----
It was an arbitrary number, once upon a time. The gods gave their servants wondrous powers, but these always required a cost, so the priests would not grow drunk on their borrowed miracles.
‘A diamond, priced at 300 gold coins. In exchange for this, a resurrection.’ Simple.
Until there came a time of sickness. The Fishermans’ Plague, dredged up from the watery abyss, reduced a wealthy priest’s hometown to a pile of waterlogged corpses. He found a nearby merchant, but the man had just one diamond, priced at 300 gold coins, as per the custom.
The priest was heartbroken, desperate. And in this desperation, he hatched a selfless plan that would confound the gods themselves.
“Break that diamond into a thousand pieces,” He commanded the merchant. “I will pay you 300 gold coins for each one.”
It worked. Each piece of the diamond was, of course, an individual diamond. The corpses rose again, one after another, but still there were more. The priest was out of money, and though the kindhearted merchant attempted to give him more, any that were not bought for the required price could not raise the dead.
And so, the merchant, heart full of pity, gave the priest his money back.
Before the two of them realized the implications of what they’d done, the whole town was raised from the dead.
They’d done the impossible. They’d shaken the heavens.
They’d discovered a loophole in the laws of the gods.
-----
The culture of resurrection forms in triads. Three parties to every ritual: the Seller, the Caller, and the Called. One to sell the diamonds, one to use them, and one who benefits.
The ruling class has become effectively immortal. They’ve even created a new kind of currency just for them, out of platinum, each piece representing the essential 300 gold.
Those below them tie themselves to the Sellers and the Callers, who inhabit a class somewhere in between. Those further below--
Well. They find themselves as one third of a triad. There are only so many people wealthy enough to hoard diamonds, now that the mines have all been closed to the public, the flow of gemstones slowed to a trickle.
And in these days, where the commonality of life has robbed death of its gravitas, ancient horrors return. Virulent plagues, used as weapons of war. Dark magic, with darker sources of power. Careless killing in the streets, with the expectation that the victim will always return.
There comes a need for alternatives.
There are the legal ones: protective wards, lucky charms, even reincarnation.
And then there are the illegal ones. Violations, not only in the eyes of the law, but in the eyes of the gods. These, too, come in triads.
“Oh!” The shopkeeper says, grinning with gaps in his uneasy smile. “T-Taker! To what do I owe the pleasure? Business has been good this year-- nothing to be happy about, of course, but life has been good for me and my family.”
He sits at a table. A wife, a son, and a daughter. They smile up at the Taker. It was the most disturbing trend she’d noticed in the Abattoirs. There was fear, always fear. But when something was truly wrong, they would smile.
The Taker drew her gun.
The purpose of the Gun is to end things. Like any weapon, really.
But so much worse.
She fires on the woman and her children, leaving holes in their foreheads. The gun is swift, still, and silent with each shot, and the holes open to blackness, not blood. They collapse, falling limp instantly.
The first crime of Unlife: Semblances. The most innocent of the crimes, and one that the Taker wished to the heavens she didn’t have to correct. It was always hard. The hardest of them.
The shopkeeper screams.
“Why?!” He begs, gripping the limp form of his wife, who had been dead for years. “They weren’t hurting anyone! What was the harm?!”
You can know Semblances by the eyes. Takers can, at least. It’s part of the ritual: the eyes are pinned in place, staring straight forward. A Semblance has to turn its head to look.
“You know exactly why,” The Taker says calmly. “Their bodies are still intact. You are free to resurrect them properly, if they forgive you.”
He looks at her with hatred and tears in his eyes. Like many who create Semblances, he’s in denial of what he’s done. A Semblance is not a person, not a resurrection. It is puppeteering a corpse, slotting a substitute where the soul should be. Meanwhile, the original soul is locked in a featureless limbo, unable to enter the afterlife or return to the living world by other means while that mockery of them exists.
You can talk with a Semblance. Become friends with it. Have a life with it. But when the puppetmaster dies, it just… stops. It doesn’t die, doesn’t collapse like when shot by the Taker’s gun. It just stalls in place, now as outwardly mindless as it is on the inside.
The Taker leaves the shop, and the shopkeeper’s howling echos into the distance.
-----
After the first and last Great Raising, the gods took notice. The twelve gods convened on the Night of Light, when the stars aligned, and pulled the loophole closed.
A tome descended from the heavens: The Book of Revocations. In its thousand pages were the exact specifications for the cost of a resurrection. Some argued that they were attempting to correct a misconception. Others said that, without these rules, mankind would grow too proud. Others would say, in the years to come, that mankind grew far too proud regardless.
Many would know in their hearts that this book was simply a punishment from the gods for outsmarting them. For the most prevalent new rule was one that tied the validity of the resurrection to that of the used diamond’s purchase.
In short, if the money spent on a resurrection was given back, the resurrection itself would be similarly ‘refunded’.
That poor priest woke up the next morning to a village once more full of drowned corpses, and to the weight of water in his lungs.
There was a prison in the Abattoir, and it was also a museum. The Taker walks in, and the curator sighs. “I suppose you could not let us have our fun for a while longer?” He croons, in a pitiless voice. His clothes were finery. At his side were two timid servants: his Seller and Caller, undoubtedly.
“The Dark Hunter disapproves of this place,” The Taker says, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “As. Do. I.”
“Then allow me to give you a tour, at the very least!” He says, jolly and cruel. “Every piece is unique.”
The second crime of Unlife: The Bound.
The Taker, again, reminds herself that her purpose is to undo the crime itself, and not take vengeance on the perpetrator.
Each portrait was a face, silently screaming. Most of them were smudged and faded, the despair of the trapped soul degrading the paint into which their identities were encoded. First a face, then a set of three ragged holes, then a misshapen splotch of darkness where their mouth would be.
The Bound didn’t have to be tied to objects. They are souls without bodies, and could easily be given one, if the present soul was vacated. Granted, these temporary bodies would rot in time, but at least they could move. At least they would have agency.
At least they wouldn’t become things.
The Taker puts a bullet-hole in each one. All the while, the curator explains who each portrait used to be. Petty criminals from the city above. Some were business rivals who were just a bit too good at coming back from assassinations. It isn’t the Taker’s place to correct these crimes, though her trigger finger itches.
At the back of the first gallery are several paintings that are just abstract patterns of color. Sensing no souls in them, the Taker walks past with a flat expression, though behind it, her teeth are clenched nearly hard enough to crack.
“These may interest you,” The curator continued, insufferably. “This wing is for the Dark Mages--”
The Taker stops listening. She sees only sculptures that jitter and bend and twist, and she fires without hesitation. The museum is left with black holes in its ‘art’ and walls, and the curator is left only with a frown on his face.
“Visit less often, why don’t you?” He asks with a lilt in his voice. “I make more sales without you around!”
-----
One of the gods disagreed with the spirit of the Book of Revocations. They argued, instead, that the pantheon should revoke its powers entirely from the world of mortals, rather than leave space for such horrors.
Most of the gods cared not for the how the mortals suffered, so long as their servants were known and venerated. But enough supported the Dark Hunter that a special concession was placed in the book: the order of Lifetakers, hunting servants given special tools to seek out and destroy the crimes against life that the gods’ corrupt rules would inevitably inspire.
It was an imperfect decision. Ultimately, these ‘Takers’ served only to uphold the resurrection regimes that came into being, by squashing the most common, if horrific, alternatives.
They became known and feared. Some said that they were not truly alive, not truly people, so filled were they with the power of the Dark Hunter. With their keys and their guns, they were implacable killing machines.
The bullets in the gun have two purposes: Firing through something’s head would sever it from the afterlife, consigned to oblivion. This was meant to destroy Semblances, and absolutely forbidden to be used on a living person. This was the bullet called Oblivion.
On the other hand, firing through something’s heart or center would sever it from the mortal realm, unable to be resurrected. This was meant for the other kinds of crimes. This was the bullet called Mercy.
The key simply opened things.
-----
The Taker jams her key into the lock. It opens.
The Taker jams her key into the Dark Mage’s chest. It opens.
The Taker jams her key into the profane spells meant to destroy her.
They open.
She steps through the gore of the first Mage, while the others cower before her. They know she will not hurt them, unless they try again to bar her path.
Once more using the key, she opens the final door. It is a long hallway, long enough for the walls to converge far into the distance. It is full of screams and naked bodies strapped to comfortless wooden beds. Their bellies are scarred, and several inches of blood coat the floor.
The final crime of Unlife: Sacrifices.
Many Dark spells require a death. In recent years, these spells have become much easier to manage.
“I grant you Mercy,” She says to the first one, and fires a bullet through their heart.
“I grant you Mercy,” She says to the second.
“I grant you Mercy,” the third.
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
“I grant you Mercy.”
She continues this for hours, until her lips are chapped and her tongue is dry and her eyes are bloodshot once again.
-----
All things in triads.
Seller, Caller, Called.
Semblances, Bound, Sacrifices.
Birth, Death, Resurrection.
The Taker returns to the museum, the hem of her jacket bloodied.
“What’s the matter?” The curator asks with a chortle. “Did you miss a few? Or, perhaps you have some to sell? I wouldn’t mind a new piece or two, if you actually have use for gold. Do you Takers eat? Or do anything besides ruin good merchandise?”
The Taker wondered once if her order was somehow broken.
Besides in the obvious ways, of course.
“Yes,” The Taker says. “Contrary to what many say, we do have hearts. We do live, and we do enjoy things,” She smiled wryly. “On occasion.”
The curator laughs. The Taker forces a laugh as well.
All things in triads, and yet the Taker has only two things. A key, and a gun. And, perhaps, a duty? But that had never sat right with her.
“Your tour today was enlightening,” She says. “It took me a while to realize it, but I think it’s really changed my outlook.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I have something to give you.”
At the end of that hallway, where the bodies of the Sacrificed still lay, the Taker had found a room with many locks. She opened all of them, and found a special storeroom. Records, and other things.
The curator holds out his hand. The Taker reaches into her pocket, and into the curator’s hand, she drops a stream of shiny platinum pieces.
The curator frowns.
“It’s a smart system,” She says quietly. “Having your Seller use the money from selling the diamonds to sponsor a coven of Dark Mages. Then, you Bind those Mages, and sell them for more gold. It’s a cycle that never ends. You found a loophole, so I thought I would reward you.”
The evil little man looks into the Taker’s eyes, uncomprehending. Then, down at the platinum pieces in his hands.
Each of them worth 300 gold coins.
“Tell me, dead man,” The Taker says coldly. “How many times have you come back to life?”
His hands begin to shake.
“How much borrowed time have I just revoked?”
Myriad deaths pile into the curator. Platinum pieces fall from sloughing bone, and his flesh blackens and shrivels. The dying thing screams, not in terror, but in rage, and falls over dead.
Something like him would have backup plans. Sellers and Callers. This death would be painful, but he could come back. Over and over again.
The Taker aims her gun down at his forehead. She feels it wavering, feels that restriction against using it against a real person. Part of that duty instilled in her by the Dark Hunter, part of what makes her not entirely human.
Later that day, when the Taker leaves this Abattoir, this pit at the center of the city, in search of others, she thinks back on this moment, and it all makes sense.
This curator, this Caller, twisting mortal and divine laws to his benefit and to everyone else’s loss, was the real crime the Dark Hunter had meant for her to hunt.
People used to say that you couldn’t put a price on a life. That they were special, precious things. People still wanted to believe that, but it was hard.
So, so hard.
The Taker did have a triad. It all fell into place. The platinum pieces taken from the storeroom. The aiming of the gun at the portraits and the Sacrificed, those who would be given no other pity.
The key, the gun, and the hands that held them both.
And together, the Dark Hunter’s final loophole.
The Taker jams the key into the restrictions that hold her back.
They open.
She aims the gun, and her hand does not waver. She does not know where a soul like his will go, a soul severed from the gods, from the heavens above and the endless watery abyss below.
But she does know what to say.
“I grant you Oblivion.”
She fires, and for the first time in her memory, the gun makes a sound.
A single clear note, like a harp string strummed once, then snapped.