Many Licks from the Heart of Darkness

“We write our own futures here, Solara. And we don’t throw girls off tall bridges to fix the weather,” I said.

Not anymore anyways. I didn’t voice my thoughts of the Salem witch trials and the Spanish Inquisition memes.

“The Frontenachii tell me that MY world is outside of their finite doom curve or whatever and that they have never encountered a world so filled with humans. Isn’t that right, Commander?” I glanced at my newly acquired Wendigo privateer.

“Right you are, Lord Administrator,” the Wendigo agreed, “This world is very… unique and absolutely nothing like we’ve ever seen. I expected it to be conquered by now, yet not only did you resist us valiantly, you’ve somehow gotten me to defect. Heh.”

I turned my attention back to Comet. The Maned Wolf looked like a despondent college student who survived finals week and a breakup simultaneously.

“Right then, Solara,” I kept my tone conversational. “Let’s chat.”

“Chat?” She looked back at me warily.

“Yep. Two people having a friendly discussion about your charity-based logistics.”

“I already told you I can’t reveal anything that would threaten the Sleigh’s operations,” she stated sharply, fluffy ears wiggling under Sergey’s fingers.

“I’m not asking about operational weaknesses,” I said. “I’m simply curious about the magic of the Sleigh itself. The charity headquarters. How big is it exactly? Like, are we talking about a Carnival cruise ship or more of a… Doom Star situation?”

“Doom Star?” Comet blinked.

“Uhhh, just some local lore from a… story called Star Glades,” I said. “Anyways, your flying Christmas fortress. It collects all souls from seeded doomed worlds, yes? How big is it exactly to store all of them?”

“It’s… vast,” she answered. “Truly vast. The Workshop interior contains a multitude of worldscapes. Forests. Mountains. Citadels. When a world is… harvested… a large section of its terrain becomes part of the interior.”

“So you’re telling me it’s bigger on the inside,” I said flatly.

“Yes?”

“Like a TARDIS.”

“A what?”

“Nevermind. Continue.”

“The Workshop… spans horizons,” Comet explained. “Warehouses of gift-wrapped boxes reach toward a candy-cane striped sky. Toy factory citadels within great columns churn day and night, producing gifts crafted by millions. The collected… Residents… Their numbers are great and each one is given a purpose. A role to fulfill… A place in the grand chorus.”

“The more I’m hearing about this flying Sleigh dungeon,” Wattica commented, “the worse it sounds. Not even Frontenachii Capital ships screw around with dimensional magic.”

“Why?” I asked her.

“Dimensional magic is expensive in terms of energy,” the Wendigo replied. “We don’t like to waste energy. Hoarding magical power and bling is how we roll. That reminds me… I’ll also take payment in artifacts if you have such. Your dimension gnaws at my heart greatly, Emperor… makes me quite peckish for terrorizing the locals.”

“Hrmm. Could you hoard the magic presents Comet can pull out of her sweater or the sweater itself now that it’s off her?” I wondered. “Or would it infect you with festivus? Could you use the sweater’s pockets to pull out infinite magical stuff to claim?”

Wattica perked up with obvious interest, fluffy ears wiggling. “I like the jibe of your words.”

She approached the null-box held by one of her prad girls cautiously, like a cat investigating a suspicious cucumber. Her claws clicked against the metal lid.

“Sevviya,” she called over her shoulder. “Get over here and scan this junk.”

The leopard Scrutimancer slid out from the booth and padded over. She leaned over the box, snapped it open and inhaled deeply.

“The sweater is inert without a host,” Sevviya reported. “The festivus outfit gate pocket requires belief and intent to function. Only the Herald is able to operate it while wearing it.”

“But it is magical enough for me to claim, yes?” Wattica tilted her head.

“I… believe so.” Sevviya nodded.

“And it won’t get into my head, won’t overwrite me?”

“I don’t think so, my Lady,” the leopard clarified. “This is high level Stabalist artificery. It is very specific in alignment and purpose. Converting it to a hoard item will take time and effort and I believe that doing so will potentially disrupt its function.”

“If we break the sweater now we won’t be able to pull infinite presents out of it later,” I pointed out, “we should start with something she’s already pulled out of it as a test.”

“Mmmm… infinite magic hoard,” Wattica tilted her head up Gomer Simpson style, drooling excitedly at the prospect of limitless hoard items.

“Her gun got chucked into a corner,” I said. “Maybe try claiming it first as a test?”

“Kendra! Bring me the gun,” Wattica ordered.

The hawk girl in null-armor who had been freed from the festive tape by the other prads rushed into the corner of the bar and brought the Wendigo the peppermint Gatling gun.

“Sniff,” the Wendigo ordered. “Determine claim potential.”

Sevviya’s nose wiggled over the gun.

“This weapon is a sub-artifact,” the leopard reported. “Lower tier Stabalist manufacture, aligned to the belief of the wielder. The target… blooms into festive…ness.”

Sergey frowned at Comet. “Were you going to turn me into a Christmas tree with that?” He asked.

Comet’s ears tilted back.

“Yes,” Wattica answered for the Herald, reading her thoughts. “She was planning to fuck you tonight and then point that gun at your head and… bloom you, liberate your body from the mortal coil of this… doomed Earth. She believes firmly that such is a positive thing, not murder, as your soul would be reborn in the Workshop and she could visit you… Maybe stay ‘friends with benefits’ after you… get turned into a kobold.”

Sergey’s expression rolled through mild flattery at the prospect of sex, confusion, then horror.

“So the whole, uhm, seduction routine…” He swallowed. “The lap-sitting, the compliments, the face-in-sweater…”

“Foreplay before festive murder,” Wattica confirmed with a teethy smirk.

Sergey looked down at Comet with a look of judgement. “I feel… conflicted.”

“Understandable,” I said. “She did try to assassinate you via cuddles.”

“In my defense,” Comet mumbled, “I think that you would have made an excellent gingerbread decorator. Very steady hands. Good with frosting… probably.”

“Probably?! That doesn’t make it better at all!” Sergey complained.

“Sorry,” Comet said.

“She is picturing you as an adorable kobold,” Wattica chortled. “She thinks that it’s fine to be a kobold.”

“Adorable in what way?” Steve asked.

“Short, scaly, colorful eyes, colorful claws,” the Wendigo clarified. “The same otherwise. Seems like consumed souls are conceptually converted and given new shape-forms after original bodies bloom.”

“Isekai’d into the North Pole village,” the slightly drunk resistance cell leader chortled. “Neat.”

Sergey blessed Steve with a glare, not looking like he’d want to participate in “reborn as a kobold” isekai anime via a festive bullet-kun to the head.

“Hrm.” Wattica stepped closer to the Gatling gun, “Sevviya, if I claim this weapon, will it maintain functionality?”

“Your claim will likely overwrite the original enchantment matrix, disconnect it from the Sleigh,” the Scrut replied.

“No danger of infection, yes?”

“None. The weapon isn’t physically connected to the Herald.”

“Great.” The Wendigo grinned. Her hand clamped down on the festive weapon. She struck a pose, one leg up on a barstool, chest puffed out.

“I, Wattica Abricomb Frontenachii claim thee,” Wattica intoned loud enough to make the glass bottles on the pub wall rattle, “I name thee… The Toothache!”

Nothing happened.

“Hrm,” Wattica grunted. She squeezed harder, dark knuckles cracking. “I said… Mine.”

Still nothing.

Wattica’s confident grin faltered. She looked around the bar nervously. Her soldiers were watching. The humans were watching. I was watching.

“Sevviya?” Wattica nervously glanced at the leopard. “Why isn’t it… bonding? Is it broken?”

“It is a highly Syntropic artifact and we’re in a thick Linearity locale,” the Scrutimancer explained, “the Self-reinforcing belief matrix resists you as it believes itself to be property of the Festivus Dungeon. My lady, you cannot simply claim it by single touch and command as you’ve done in your Mother’s Estate on Holartiz. You shall have to… consume the intent, scour the conceptual-alignment.”

“Like… how?”

“Strip the layers with… greater vigor, using all of your hooks. Ingest the essence,” Sevviya clarified, looking slightly nervous. “Lick… the topmost layers of Syntropic magic off. Physically. Like getting to the center of a hard candy.”

“Uhhhh…” The Wendigo looked at the colorful gun, not looking too sure about licking it.

“Ha!” Sage laughed into my ear. “She’s a claim-virgin! Fresh from a time bubble like T-bum.”

Galateya let out a huff, swatting Sage with bark and fern-tipped tail.

“Are you a claim-virgin, commander?” I asked pointedly.

“Ummm,” Wattica let out, looking very shifty. “Erm… I’ve absolutely claimed items before. Just not on your… weird planet. I am a self-made Wendigo! I merely… prefer pre-owned vintage artifacts… with character!”

“Yep. She never popped a magical cherry.” Sage giggled.

I stared at the increasingly flustered-looking Frontenachii Commander.

“I… know how to do it!” Wattica fretted. “Witness me! This is how a true Frontenachii asserts dominance!”

She cradled the gun awkwardly, trying to find a grip that didn’t look ridiculous.

She failed.

Then, she extended a red tongue that was far too long.

Wattica squeezed her eyes shut, looking like she was about to take a shot of bad medicine.

SLURP.

She dragged her tongue slowly up the length of the bottom barrel.

“Uh,” Sergey whispered, “I feel like we should leave the room.”

“Or pay a cover charge,” Steve added with a grin.

Wattica ignored the human banter.

She groaned low in her throat. “Hrrr-Mmm. The damned thing is tasting of… whimsical stubbornness. And nutmeg. Ugh. So much nutmeg.”

She licked again, harder this time. The wet, sloppy sound echoed through the pub.

SCHLUCK.

“Come on,” she mumbled to the gun, bringing her face right up to the muzzle. “Give it up. Give it to Mama. Don’t make this weird.”

It was already weird and getting progressively weirder.

She opened her skull-jaw unhinged-wide and wrapped her lips around the cluster of barrels.

“Aww yus,” Sage commented. “Look at her deep-throating ‘dat Gatling gun. T-buns, is this standard military procedure?”

“No it isn’t,” Galateya stated dryly at Sage’s giggling. “This planet makes everything weird.”

Wattica began to suck. Her cheeks hollowed. Her throat worked. She made aggressive, wet noises, her head bobbing rhythmically as she worked her way down the shaft of the weapon. Her eyes popped open, wide and panicked, realizing exactly how this looked, but she was too committed to stop.

GLORP. GACK. SHLUUUURP.

“No technique,” Sage critiqued, “way too much teeth. She is going to scratch the finish.”

“She is trying her best,” I defended my new employee.

Galateya covered her eyes with her hands, face palming.

“Gah! W-what… What are you doing?! Slayer! Stop!” Comet let out, blushing furiously.

“Do not stop,” I encouraged as the Wendigo faltered slightly. “Claim that gun, Commander.”

Wattica pulled back with a loud POP. A strand of saliva bridged her lips and the weapon.

Where her mouth had been, the bright red stripes were slightly duller. Like a candy cane left in the sun.

“Ugh. It is fighting me,” Wattica growled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hexasuit-covered hand. “Spicy little thing.”

“I can see that. It’s still looking quite festive.” I said.

“I know!” Wattica snapped. “My jaw hurts! Ugh. This thing is so thick!”

She went back in.

The sound of relentless, aggressive licking filled the pub, the humans staring quietly at the gun-nommage.

Wattica furiously gnawed on the receiver, white teeth scraping against the festive plating, cracking it. She licked the ammo feed with frantic, desperate motions. She sucked on the trigger guard. She treated the weapon like a popsicle that owed her money and she was trying to collect the debt in saliva.

Lick. Lick. Slurp. Gnaw.

Comet made increasingly bothered noises of fox-wolf-despair at the devouring of her weapon.

Wattica’s fur turned matted, black feathers splaying in all directions. She looked deranged. She had one leg hooked over the gun now, wrestling it on the table, clawing at it all over and licking angrily.

“Be mine!” she mumbled around the metal. “MINE! Stop being so fukin’ happy!”

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the color began to drain away.

I watched as the vibrant peppermint red gradually turned to a sickly pink. Then a bruised purple. Finally, a dull, lifeless gray. The pristine white bone-colored stripes yellowed, looking like old teeth, then grayed.

“Almost…” Wattica wheezed, drool dripping from her chin onto her hexasuit. “Just… the tip left…”

She wrapped her mouth around the muzzle one last time.

SUUUUUUUUCK.

The gun shuddered. The last of the sparkle and color died. The festive gloss faded into a matte, necrotic finish.

Wattica released it, panting heavy, satisfied breaths. She slumped into the bar booth next to me, looking like she had just run a marathon using only her tongue.