Hello Greenbloods.
If you are new here, welcome to the mess. Last time, Nicky handed things over to Klimer — or "themselves," depending on what mood that being was in. They wrapped up Rule 7. Now it falls to me to handle Rule 8.
She gave them a box when it was over. Surprised me, honestly. I asked her about it, tried to keep the tone light, like I was just fishing for the latest scoop for you all. She gave me that calm stare, smiled like she already knew what I wanted, and said, "Don't worry about it. If I tell you now, then when I do my post, there won't be any drama."
And that was that.
Now, I might sleep beside that woman, live with her, raise kids with her, but understanding her is another story. Something about her being an—yeah, not giving that away. She is Bannesh-blooded, and it's easier to leave it there. I almost slipped that time, so pretend you didn't hear it.
Watching Klimer wrap up Rule 7 was… efficient. Too calm for my taste. Like a man balancing a ledger instead of sealing a curse. And Nicky, standing there, acting like this was all business as usual. That's the kind of calm that makes you nervous.
If you are wondering why I take puppet work personally, here's context. Years back, Nicky and I ended up on a daytime TV show. One of our kids — the eldest boy — said his favorite puppet looked wrong. We told him they probably changed the actor. Turns out they changed more than that. The puppet leaked black smoke and whispered things no child should hear. "Kill your parents." "Hurt your sisters." Whole audience screaming. Sponsors pulled their ads before we even got backstage. He was five then. Half human, half eldritch horror. Found him during a mission, hiding in the walls of a burned-out church. Good kid. Sharp eyes. Said the smoke smelled like burnt sugar and rain. Remember that. It'll matter later.
After this mission, I'm taking an actual vacation. PTA meetings, field trips, all the quiet chaos that doesn't bite back. The monsters there at least have name tags.
Now, about Rule 8.
When you live long enough, memory stops being a gift and turns into an archive. The Order always gives us immortals the memory work. Makes sense. We know how to dig through what's left behind.
And I don't mean the new immortals either. I mean the older ones — the ones who've been around, traveled the realms, done things. Not the kind that sit in the same tower for a thousand years pretending wisdom grows on dust. You ever meet one of those? The ones who never leave their little coupe but somehow mortal women keep falling for them? You start to wonder why their kind doesn't even fuck each other. Well, congratulations, you've met our version of an incel.
You don't know how many of my mortal daughters almost fell for that bullshit. Nicky had to handle business. It wasn't just the age gap — well, it was mostly that — but they always try that same line. "You're the only one who can break my curse." In reality, any puta with the right magic could do it these days. They just don't go to them because there's no thrill in honesty. We live in an age where you can call the Sonsters and have your curse untangled before lunch.
So, as you probably noticed after Sexy Bouldur handled Dino Daddy and his three sons, the rules have started changing up their spots. There are only so many points where a rule can show up, so sometimes we have to backtrack. We got to backtrack to places a lot. We got to backtrack to places… a lot.
That was weird, right? I just ended up repeating my own words. Guess I'm already in Rule 8.
Let me think. I should give you some slasher lore on this one. Rule 8 is tricky. What type of slasher did we all choose to go with again?
I was trying to remember that as I walked the hallway. Same walls. Same lights. Same hum in the air. It took me a minute to realize I was walking the same damn hallway over and over.
And that's when it hit me. I'd already broken the one rule every Hasher knows — well, not always Rule 1, but it helps when you know time matters. Time matters… wait, what was I saying?
Okay. Think. Focus on something real. Smell. Yeah, smell. Smell never lies.
I took a breath. Metal. Cleaner. Lilac, faint, trying to hide the rot. Smell's something you can trust, even when the rest goes sideways. You can see with it. See—seed—damn, I can't think. My head felt like someone was rewriting the words before I said them.
That's when I realized what kind of slasher this was. Mnemosurgeon.
Yeah. The Mnemosurgeon type. Psychological-surgical. Precise. The kind that doesn't rip your body apart; they open your mind and see what leaks out.
The Mnemosurgeon doesn't just kill — they rearrange. They cut out the parts that make you whole and leave you standing there, smiling, like nothing's missing. By the time you notice, you're already grateful to them for the clean incision.
I muttered, Damn… guess this is why this lady's considered the big guns.
Then my head started spinning. Sweet gas in the air, low hum, body going soft. Next thing I knew, the floor came up fast.
When I woke up, I was on a cold table. Someone was typing on a computer nearby — rhythm steady, like they'd done this a thousand times. I blinked and saw her. Doctor coat, clean gloves, clipboard.
And it all clicked. Too clean, too calm. The kind of healer who thinks she's saving the world one incision at a time. The kind that gives the rest of us headaches. I couldn't help thinking this is what happens when those sweet white healer types start believing they're the gold standard. Should've gone to the Black healers instead — we fix you, break your curse, and still have time to debuff your dumb ass.
She didn't laugh. And that was bad. The ones who laugh, you can work with. The laughers slip. You toss a joke, they flinch, you find an opening. But the quiet ones? They've already decided how you're going to die. No tells. No rhythm. Just intent. So, comedy was off the table.
That's when I saw the horns. Small, elegant, almost pretty if you didn't know better. Tail behind her, twitching like it had its own mood. Succubus.
Then the cold hit me. I looked down. Naked. Restrained. Perfect.
She turned, tail curling slow. "Don't try anything. I prepared for both magical and non-magical defense. Your type likes surprises."
Then she started taking pictures. Flash, click, flash. The kind of photos you don't want anyone seeing.
I tried to move, still half-dazed. "Oh… when I get out of here…"
Her tail snapped across my chest. "You're nothing but a walking mushroom," she said.
I started laughing. "Let me guess — demon who thinks feeding on memories makes you independent? Sponsor pulled out, huh? You could've done this the easy way, by giv—"
Shock. Tail again, electric charge this time. My whole body jumped.
She didn't speak at first after that, just went to a cabinet and pulled out a fat folder. Papers slid across the metal counter, photos spilling everywhere. Dozens of faces, some still alive, most not. Ordinary people. Civilians.
None of them were Hashers. Not a single one.
That detail hit wrong. The Hasher Order doesn't show up for small hunts like this unless something's hiding under the surface. Which meant these weren't accidents — they were bait.
"You were the one that brought us here," I said, voice steady but cold. "Why?"
That finally made her smile. Not a warm smile — one of those cracks that splits a mask.
"You were the one that brought us here," I said, voice steady but cold. "Why?"
That finally made her smile. Not a warm smile — one of those cracks that splits a mask.
"It's because of them," she said, pulling open another cabinet. More photos spilled out — and there he was. Klimer. Dozens of shots. Some new, some old. The smug bastard's face on every one. "He was the one that saved me, but he kept bringing more people to this hotel. At first, I was patient. I waited. But somehow your bitch wife—"
I stopped her there. "You think that woman is my wife?" I tried to keep my tone level, but my face gave me away. "I mean, she's not—"
Her tail flicked hard across my jaw. "You're lying," she hissed. "She's the ex-wife of Klimer. Klimer wouldn't marry me unless she was dead."
Her tail flicked hard across my jaw. "You're lying," she hissed. "She's the ex-wife of Klimer. Klimer wouldn't marry me unless she was dead."
How does that even make sense? I thought to myself. The logic was running on fumes at this point. At least she wasn't like the last guy. That one tried to win points by bringing Nicky her own skin. Or the other one, who thought carving her name into his chest counted as a love letter. I swear Klimer has to stop using Nicky's name in whatever rituals he's running. It attracts all the wrong worshippers.
Still, something about this girl felt off. The way her magic moved, the energy under her skin. It was too raw, too new. She felt like a fresh immortal. So I asked her how old she was.
"Nineteen," she said without blinking.
Nineteen. Hell. I finally understood why Klimer wouldn't touch that with a five-foot pole. For most immortals, anything under a couple hundred years feels like "Hey, is that the sound of the cops?" depending on what type you are dealing with.
If Klimer were mortal, he would be old enough to be her grandfather twice over. And look, I am not here to insult every age-gap relationship in the multiverse. It happens, for whatever reason. But she was just so young. And lucky. Lucky this didn't end with her ashes sealed in a quarantine jar like most of the older ones who crossed the line.
So I did the only thing you can do with a nineteen-year-old immortal who thinks she has the universe figured out. I teased the hell out of her nonexistent relationship.
Because guess who had to come save my ass? Nicky. All because I decided to ignore every Hasher rule about not engaging crazy mid-monologue.
Because guess who had to come save my ass? Nicky. All because I decided to ignore every Hasher rule about not engaging crazy mid-monologue.
The air behind the succubus tore open with a sound like thunder through silk. A portal shimmered, then Nicky came flying out of it mid-spin, heels first. Her flip-kick hit the succubus square in the chest and sent her straight through the wall. Concrete cracked. The lights flickered.
Before the dust even settled, Nicky used her nails to cut me loose. I dropped from the restraints, still dizzy, still trying to piece together what the hell just happened.
When I looked through the hole she made in the wall, I wished I hadn't.
Behind it was another chamber, cold and bright. Rows of bodies were strapped to metal tables. Tubes ran through their mouths and skin. The air stank of copper and sugar. Machines hummed, feeding off the life that was still clinging to those people. It wasn't a morgue. It was a factory.
Because guess who had to come save my ass? Nicky. All because I decided to ignore every Hasher rule about not engaging crazy mid-monologue.
The air behind the succubus tore open with a sound like thunder through silk. A portal shimmered, then Nicky came flying out of it mid-spin, heels first. Her flip-kick hit the succubus square in the chest and sent her straight through the wall. Concrete cracked. The lights flickered.
Before the dust even settled, Nicky used her nails to cut me loose. I dropped from the restraints, still dizzy, still trying to piece together what the hell just happened.
When I looked through the hole she made in the wall, I wished I hadn't.
Behind it was another chamber, cold and bright. Rows of bodies were strapped to metal tables. Tubes ran through their mouths and skin. The air stank of copper and sugar. Machines hummed, feeding off the life that was still clinging to those people. It wasn't a morgue. It was a factory.
And I realized what they were making.
The same bug-shaped sex toys we burned weeks ago… or was it a couple days ago? My memory is still fucked.
They weren't products. They were people.
Nicky froze when she saw it. Her hand caught fire from sheer reflex, her nails glowing red. I grabbed her wrist before she could start burning everything.
"Don't," I said. "If any of them are still alive, we can save them."
She hesitated, breathing hard, then nodded. The flames dimmed, but the look in her eyes didn't change.
That's when the sound started.
The tanks behind her began to hum again. I thought at first it was just leftover energy from the fight, but then I saw movement. A hand pressed against the glass. Fingers. Then a face.
They weren't dead. None of them were.
The realization hit harder than the tail slaps. Those weren't failed experiments. They were civilians—people dragged in off the street, tourists, staff, whoever happened to walk into the wrong hallway. Their bodies were still alive, but their minds had been hollowed out and filled with other people's fragments.
The succubus was still getting up. Her movements were jerky now, like her bones didn't agree with her skin. I reached over and patted Nicky's shoulder. She looked up at me from below, eyes burning like dying stars. With one sharp snap of her fingers, sparks crawled down my body.
Clothes formed, or at least something close to them. Pest control gear. Heavy gloves, a cracked visor, the smell of chemicals baked into the fabric. I guess that's her idea of dressing me up for the occasion.
She got behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off her chest against my back. The succubus stumbled toward the tube again and hit a button. The glass hissed open.
Bugs poured out. Not insects, but things that only started as bugs. Flesh and metal twisted together, clicking like they were trying to remember how to pray. The succubus dropped to her knees and grabbed one. Then she kissed it, slow and deliberate, like she was feeding it her soul.
I turned to Nicky. "Burn that one."
She lifted her hand. Red fire burst to life and sputtered out before it reached the floor. She tried blue next. Nothing.
The succubus laughed. It was a laugh that didn't belong in this world. "I learned all your flames," she said, voice cracking into two tones.
That was when I told her, "Nicky. Purple flame."
Everything stopped. The succubus blinked once, confusion turning into dread.
Nicky turned to me slowly, the red fading from her eyes until only violet light remained. Then she leaned in and kissed me.
The world shattered.
It wasn't fire. It was the absence of light, and I felt her slip into me. Breath first, heartbeat next, until I wasn't sure where I ended and she began.
Inside my head, everything was quiet. Too quiet. I looked around and saw her sitting on a couch that shouldn't exist, eating popcorn like this was a private screening. She patted the seat next to her. I sat down.
This is possession. Her version's different. She doesn't take over. She moves in. There's a difference.
Outside, I could feel our body move, flames rising from our palms in a color that didn't have a name. The bugs screamed. The succubus screamed louder. The air burned purple, hot enough to melt steel but too cold to feel.
No one remembers when Nicky uses the purple flame. Not even Nicky herself. It's sad in a way. I remember when she first learned it. Every time she called it up, she forgot something. A day, a name, a song she used to hum when she thought no one was listening. Then she stopped caring what she lost, because the color gave her power.
Purple means both good and bad. Life and rot. Mercy and ruin. We learned that lesson together. She has to possess someone to use it, and we never talk about it after. It's not because we don't want to—it's because letting go hurts.
I wish I could stay here with her forever. This strange space in our heads where the world slows down and nothing can touch us. It's better than sex, better than alcohol, better than any drug we could ever find. It feels real, even when it isn't.
Nicky likes to hide behind me in fights. Always has. Says it's easier that way. Truth is, it reminds her she doesn't have to go all out. When you're close to overpowered like her, killing loses its flavor. The helper role keeps her human.
Yeah, she saved me this time. But don't let her rewrite the story. I save her more than she likes to admit. Every battle she holds back, every time she hides behind me instead of ending the world again—that's me saving her.
It's a strange kind of love, but it's ours.
Rule 8 is done.
Nicky unpossessed me, and together we put the criminal up for containment. The air in the building shifted, like the walls finally exhaled. Nicky said the hotel was back to normal.
For once, I believed her.