As we played field medics, somewhere close by we heard the murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, and soft music. I lifted my head instantly and exchanged a glance with Julia. I heard it too, — she said, her voice — I don't like this one bit. Same here, We'll check it out later—Antwan's getting worse. My nephew's face had gone pale as death, and his leg spasmed in violent jerks. I had no choice but to sit beside him and start the bone-setting procedure. I laid down a ragged scrap of cloth from the bottom of my pack, got comfortable—and fell into darkness. Shaking my head, I looked up to see the streetlamp a dozen steps away
—and looming over me were two silhouettes. Julia and Antwan, fully healed and standing strong. Their hands reached for me.
Fourth failure.
Again that ambient sound, like a restaurant in full swing, and the spawn of the Abyss began to growl low and Their voices had no trace of my friends—just the dry rustling of dead leaves. The restaurant (or whatever the hell it was) piped up again, louder now, a full-blown argument. The outlines of my pseudo-friends wavered like a curtain in a storm. Then they settled again, still and silent on the pavement. I stayed sitting, waiting for their arms to come down toward me, ready to catch and flip them to the ground with a judo throw. But it wasn't needed. With a grunt, I stood and looked from the lamp to the Mirage after mirage. I was bouncing between illusions like a pinball, flung from one hallucination to the next. What even is reality anymore? Pondering the transcendental could wait. There was a problem to I silently pulled a flask from the pack behind me and doused my - relatives- in its contents. Julia and Antwan's faces froze like those concertgoers'—though here their features twisted and melted depending on how fast their flesh slid off during incineration. I turned away. Fishing around the bag that had landed in my hands, I found—blessedly—a fresh punch bottle. Right… I hadn't drunk it in... - real - My hands trembled a bit as I thought: what if that version was actually the real one? What if Julia and I were tending to a wounded Antwan right now? Screw that. Thoughts like these will get you killed faster than any monster in this I marched off, trying to shut my ears to the sound of sizzling meat. When I reached the next streetlamp, I didn't pause—I stepped right past it and emerged into a relatively well-lit zone, fenced in by an old, graffiti- covered barrier. On the ground lay heaps of discarded junk, ranging from coffeemakers to damn boat A filthy carpet, streaked with mud, ran all the way to a large soot-blackened glass door. Looking behind me, I saw the yawning dark waiting just beyond the open gate. No doubt—I had to move forward, and only forward. Thanks to the array of lamps, I spotted a crooked sign overhead: Blackout—apparently
what the designers here thought was a hilarious name for this otherwise decently lit bar.
It was a bar. As soon as I stepped inside, I was hit with the stink of stale sweat, cheap booze, and lingering cigarette smoke—like any run-down dive bar. Everything in this little den of sin was in its place: rotted wooden tables draped in speckled cloths, full of cigarette burns; rickety chairs, some with broken backs, that looked like they'd been nailed together in a panic. The walls were adorned with masterpieces by great artists—well, probably.
They were just scribbles and squiggles. Cubism, maybe.
In the corner, as tradition dictates, blinked a massive jukebox, its LEDs cheerfully winking. At the far end of the room stood a bar counter, flanked by stools on metal A pastoral dream for any drunk or down-and-out. A drunkard's Garden of Eden. But none of that really mattered—there were two reasons this so-called establishment deserved my full attention. First: the racial variety that could've been spawned by a very sweaty, very politically correct demiurge's wet Every being here seemed to feel perfectly comfortable in this setup, as if -Blackout- bar was the headquarters for universal equality. Sentient barstools were perched on chairs, calmly negotiating in their own twitchy On one table sprawled a lumpy inkblot of a creature with tentacles stretched across every seat. One of its limbs held a pen, furiously scribbling something on an A3 sheet. Elsewhere, a luminous rainbow had sloshed itself across two parallel chairs, settling in like it had paid rent. Occasionally, tiny, multicolored hands sprouted from it, picked up a mug of ale, and poured it into its - mouth, - where it fizzled and vanished. Second: the familiar silence of the Obscurity was even more palpable here. Every single motion in this bar fought against the oppressive quiet— and lost. Not that this shocked me anymore.