Marcus woke up to the sound of something growling.
Not the threatening kind of growl. More the "I am deeply disappointed in your life choices and my food bowl has been empty for three hours" kind of growl. The kind of growl that suggested consequences if action wasn't taken immediately.
He opened his eyes.
A dog was sitting at the foot of his bed. A golden retriever with fur that gleamed like polished honey in the dim light filtering through the window. The dog was wearing a three-piece suit—charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes, perfectly tailored to accommodate four legs—and a bowler hat sat at a jaunty angle atop his head.
The dog's eyes were fixed on Marcus with an intensity that suggested he was being evaluated and found wanting.
"You slept for fourteen hours," the dog said, his voice a refined baritone that wouldn't have been out of place in a Victorian gentleman's club. "This is unacceptable. Your sleep schedule has been atrocious ever since the Level 3 incident. I've had to reschedule your meals three times, postpone your training regimen indefinitely, and explain to no fewer than four concerned teammates that you were 'resting' rather than 'dying.'"
Marcus stared at the talking dog in the fancy suit.
The talking dog in the fancy suit stared back.
"Sir Reginald," Marcus said slowly, the name surfacing from character notes he'd written over a decade ago. "Sir Reginald Barksworth III."
"Obviously." The dog—Sir Reginald—adjusted his bowler hat with one paw, a gesture so practiced it seemed almost natural. "Though I do prefer 'Reggie' in informal settings. We are, after all, family." His eyes narrowed slightly. "You seem... different this morning. Your scent has changed. Less anger, more..." He sniffed delicately. "Confusion. Existential uncertainty. And something that smells distinctly like fried potatoes, which is concerning because I don't recall approving any fried potato consumption."
Marcus sat up, his head spinning slightly. The room around him was familiar and unfamiliar at once—he recognized it from his own designs, the sparse furnishings and dark walls of Edge's quarters at Outskirts HQ, but seeing it in three dimensions rather than as sketches in a notebook was disorienting.
"I'm fine," he said automatically. "Just... processing."
"Processing." Sir Reginald's tone suggested he didn't believe this for a moment. "Very well. Process while you eat breakfast. I've taken the liberty of having food prepared. You have a briefing in forty-five minutes, and I will not have you attending on an empty stomach. It's uncivilized."
The dog hopped off the bed with surprising grace and trotted toward the door, pausing to look back over his shoulder.
"And do something about your hair. You look like you lost a fight with a tornado. A gentleman—even one who insists on dressing like a 1990s punk magazine—maintains basic grooming standards."
Marcus watched the dog leave, then looked down at his hands. Still pale. Still covered in that strange shifting tattoo. Still not his.
"THE DOG IS CORRECT," The Abyss observed from where it was draped over a nearby chair. "YOUR HAIR IS CATASTROPHIC."
"Thanks for that."
"YOU ARE WELCOME. I STRIVE FOR HONESTY IN ALL THINGS."
Marcus dragged himself out of bed and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Edge's face stared back at him—young, sharp-featured, perpetually scowling. His black hair was indeed a disaster, sticking up in directions that defied physics.
He looked like exactly what he'd designed: a protagonist. An anime-style hero with a dark aesthetic and mysterious powers.
It was surreal.
It was also, he had to admit, kind of cool.
"STOP ADMIRING YOURSELF AND GET DRESSED. THE DOG WILL BECOME INSUFFERABLE IF YOU'RE LATE."
"Right. Right." Marcus grabbed a fresh set of clothes from the closet—black pants, skull t-shirt, and of course the coat, which slithered off the chair and wrapped around his shoulders with an almost affectionate squeeze. "So. Briefing. What's that about?"
"CORRUPTION ACTIVITY IN NEW DAWN CITY. DETAILS WILL BE PROVIDED AT THE BRIEFING. THAT IS, GENERALLY SPEAKING, THE PURPOSE OF BRIEFINGS."
"You're very sarcastic for a coat."
"YOU WROTE ME THIS WAY. BLAME YOURSELF."
Fair point.
The briefing room at Outskirts HQ was exactly as Marcus had imagined it—a large space filled with mismatched furniture, holographic displays, and about two dozen Cleaners in various states of readiness. The walls were covered in tactical maps and mission reports, and the air smelled like coffee and barely contained chaos.
Marcus spotted Brick immediately—the man was impossible to miss, a mountain of muscle with a perpetually cheerful expression, his skin already starting to glow faintly with the heat of his awakened ability. Lucy was beside him, her pink hair pulled back in a ponytail, her hands wrapped around a mug of something that steamed aggressively.
And there, near the back of the room, was a face Marcus didn't immediately recognize.
A man in his mid-twenties, lean and wiry, wearing what appeared to be casual clothes—jeans, a t-shirt, sandals—but with one very notable exception.
He was wearing a scuba mask.
Not on his head like a normal person who happened to have a scuba mask nearby. ON his face. Covering his eyes and nose. As if he'd just stepped out of the ocean and forgotten to take it off.
The mask was clearly awakened—Marcus could see the faint shimmer of energy around its edges, the way it seemed to pulse slightly with its owner's breathing. And the man was chatting casually with two other Cleaners, apparently unbothered by the fact that he looked absolutely ridiculous.
"That's Alex," Sir Reginald said, appearing at Marcus's side. The dog had produced a cup of tea from somewhere—Marcus didn't want to know how—and was sipping it delicately. "Alexander Chen. Leader of Aquatic Response Team Seven. His Full Bond is with that scuba mask. Quite useful for underwater operations, which is his team's specialty."
"He just... wears it all the time?"
"Always. I've never seen his eyes. Neither has anyone else, to my knowledge. There are betting pools about what color they are. Currently the leading theory is 'also scuba masks.'"
Marcus snorted despite himself.
The briefing began before he could ask more questions. A holographic display flickered to life in the center of the room, showing a map of New Dawn City with a pulsing red dot in the downtown shopping district.
"Listen up, people." The speaker was a woman Marcus didn't recognize—tall, severe, with gray-streaked hair and the bearing of someone who had seen too much and was tired of it. Commander something. He couldn't remember if he'd ever named her in his notes. "We've got a Level 2 corruption downtown. Manifested about three hours ago, been growing since. Standard shopping district stuff—some kind of fashion-related awakening gone wrong."
The image zoomed in, showing a grotesque figure that might have once been human. It was wearing what appeared to be seventeen different outfits simultaneously, clothes fused to its body, accessories sprouting from its flesh like tumors. Its face was a mask of frozen beauty, porcelain-smooth and utterly inhuman.
"Subject appears to have been a fashion blogger," the Commander continued. "Awakened ability centered on clothing and appearance. Corruption occurred approximately four hours ago when the subject's brand deal fell through. Emotional trauma triggered the corruption cascade."
"A brand deal?" someone muttered. "Seriously?"
"Corruptions don't care about the size of the trauma," the Commander replied flatly. "Only the intensity. This subject was apparently very invested in their social media presence. When it collapsed, so did they."
The image showed the corrupted fashion blogger shambling through the shopping district, absorbing clothing from nearby stores, growing larger with each item it consumed.
"Current size is approximately three meters tall. Growth rate suggests we have maybe two hours before it hits Level 3 territory. I want this contained before that happens." The Commander's eyes scanned the room. "Edge. You and your team are on point. Lucy, Brick—you're with him. Standard engagement protocols."
Marcus felt his stomach drop. On point. Standard engagement. As if he knew what any of that meant. As if he'd ever actually fought anything in his life beyond the Level 3 yesterday, which he'd mostly survived through desperation and eldritch artifacts.
"RELAX," The Abyss advised. "YOUR BODY KNOWS WHAT TO DO. EDGE'S MUSCLE MEMORY IS STILL THERE. YOU JUST HAVE TO TRUST IT."
"And if I can't?"
"THEN I WILL TAKE OVER AND ENSURE WE DON'T DIE. BUT IT WILL BE EMBARRASSING FOR YOU. I RECOMMEND NOT REQUIRING THAT."
"Great. Thanks. Very reassuring."
"Edge?" Lucy had appeared beside him, her expression a mix of concern and excitement. "You okay? You're doing that thing where you stare into space and mutter to yourself."
"Fine. Just... strategizing."
"You never strategize. You usually just charge in and improvise."
"Maybe I'm trying something new."
Lucy studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay! New is good! I like new! Let's go fight the fashion monster!"
She bounced off toward the exit, somehow transforming her coffee mug into a pistol mid-stride. Marcus watched her go, then felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder.
"You seem troubled, my friend!" Brick's voice was like thunder wrapped in sunshine. "This is understandable! You nearly died yesterday! Near-death experiences are very troubling! But do not worry! Today will be better! Probably!"
"Probably?"
"There is always uncertainty in battle! That is what makes it exciting!" Brick flexed, his muscles rippling with barely contained thermal energy. "Also terrifying! The two emotions are closely related!"
"You are way too happy about this."
"Happiness is a choice, Edge! Every morning I wake up and I think 'Today I will be positive!' And then usually something terrible happens, but I remain positive anyway! It is very healthy! My therapist says so!"
"You have a therapist?"
"All Cleaners have therapists! It is mandatory! The psychological casualty rate in our profession is very high!" Brick patted Marcus's shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. "You should speak to yours more often! You have been avoiding your appointments!"
Before Marcus could respond, another voice cut in.
"Edge! Hey, Edge!"
Marcus turned to find the scuba mask guy—Alex—approaching with his hand raised in greeting. Up close, the mask was even stranger, its surface covered in microscopic patterns that shifted and flowed like water.
"Heard about the Level 3 yesterday. That was some serious stuff, man. Using an eldritch fragment? Hardcore. Stupid, but hardcore."
"Thanks?"
"I'm not judging! We've all done stupid things in the heat of battle. One time I tried to drown a fire elemental. Did not work. Very embarrassing." Alex laughed, the sound muffled slightly by his mask. "Anyway, just wanted to say—if you ever need backup on an aquatic mission, my team's got you. We don't work with your squad often, but you've always been solid. Good to have reliable people in this business."
"I... appreciate that."
"Cool cool cool. Good luck with the fashion monster. Those ones are always weird. Had one last month that was obsessed with shoes. Kept trying to put loafers on my teammates. Very disturbing."
Alex wandered off to join his team—two other Cleaners, both wearing what appeared to be modified wetsuits, their awakened abilities clearly oriented toward water as well.
Sir Reginald appeared at Marcus's side again, still holding his tea.
"Alexander Chen," the dog said. "Good man. Odd man—he once tried to convince me to wear a swimsuit for 'team cohesion'—but good. His team handles anything involving water, sewers, or the occasional flooded basement. They're surprisingly effective."
"I thought you stayed at the base."
"I go where you go. Someone has to ensure you maintain proper standards in the field." Sir Reginald adjusted his bowler hat. "Now. Shall we? The fashion monster won't destroy itself. Well, it might, but that would be anticlimactic."
New Dawn City was exactly as Marcus had designed it, and exactly as overwhelming as he'd feared.
Glass and steel towers rose toward the sky, their surfaces alive with holographic advertisements. Flying vehicles hummed overhead. The streets were packed with people going about their lives, oblivious to the corruption that was currently rampaging through a shopping district about six blocks away.
The Cleaners' transport—a heavily armored van with an engine that sounded like it was powered by contained explosions—dropped them at the edge of the containment zone. Emergency barriers flickered with energy, keeping civilians away from the affected area.
Marcus could feel the corruption before he saw it. A wrongness that pressed against his senses, like nails on a chalkboard but somehow worse. The Abyss shifted on his shoulders, responding to the nearby threat.
"LEVEL 2, APPROACHING 2.5. IT'S GROWING FASTER THAN THE BRIEFING SUGGESTED. WE SHOULD MOVE QUICKLY."
"Lucy, Brick—flanking positions. I'll engage from the front."
The words came out before Marcus could think about them. Muscle memory, or maybe something deeper—Edge's instincts, still present despite the change in consciousness.
"Got it!" Lucy's pistol was already transforming, the metal flowing like liquid as it became something larger. A rifle, maybe. Then a cannon. Then something that defied easy description.
Brick was already moving, his body glowing with thermal energy. Heat waves rippled off him as he circled around to the right, ready to cut off any escape route.
And Marcus—Edge—walked toward the corruption.
It was ugly. That was the first thing that struck him. In his notes, in his imagination, corruptions had been abstract—monsters to be fought, obstacles to be overcome. Seeing one in person was different.
The fashion blogger had been a woman, once. Pretty, probably. Successful, in her own way. Someone who had built an identity around appearance and influence and the validation of strangers.
Now she was a nightmare.
Her body had stretched and twisted, clothes fusing with flesh until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Designer labels had become part of her skin. Accessories jutted from her body like quills. Her face was a frozen mask of perfect beauty, completely at odds with the grotesque form below it.
And she was hungry.
"LOOK AT ME," the corruption said, its voice a discordant chorus. "LOOK AT ME. WHY WON'T YOU LOOK AT ME. I'M BEAUTIFUL. I'M PERFECT. I'M—"
"Shut up," Marcus said.
And reached into his coat.
The Abyss responded instantly, its depths opening before his questing hand. He could feel things in there—objects, artifacts, pieces of other dimensions. Some useful. Some dangerous. Some utterly random.
His fingers closed around something.
He pulled.
A shoe emerged from the coat. A simple shoe, unremarkable, the kind you might find in any discount store. It glowed faintly with residual energy—Level 1, barely awakened, probably from someone who had really liked walking.
The corruption stared at the shoe.
Marcus stared at the shoe.
"THAT," The Abyss observed, "IS NOT WHAT I WOULD HAVE CHOSEN."
"I don't control what I pull out!"
"YOU SHOULD PROBABLY LEARN."
The corruption lunged.
Marcus dodged—barely, his body moving on instinct—and shoved the shoe in his pocket. He reached into the coat again, desperately searching for something more useful.
His hand closed around fabric. Soft fabric. Comfortable fabric.
He pulled out a slipper.
A house slipper. Fuzzy. Pink. With a small bunny face on the toe.
"OH COME ON!"
The corruption swiped at him with a limb that might have once been an arm but was now a horrifying amalgamation of scarves and jewelry. Marcus ducked, rolled, and came up with both the shoe and the slipper clutched in his hands like the world's most pathetic weapons.
"THE CORRUPTION IS LAUGHING AT YOU," The Abyss noted. "THIS IS DESERVED."
"HELP ME!"
"VERY WELL. FOCUS. THE OBJECTS YOU PULL FROM ME AREN'T RANDOM—THEY RESPOND TO YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS NEEDS. THE SHOE AND SLIPPER ARE FOOTWEAR. FOOTWEAR IS ASSOCIATED WITH MOVEMENT, SPEED, GROUNDING. USE THAT."
Marcus didn't understand. But he didn't have time to understand. The corruption was coming at him again, faster now, hungrier.
He threw the shoe.
It flew through the air—and then kept flying, accelerating, spinning, becoming a blur of motion that slammed into the corruption's chest with the force of a cannonball.
The corruption staggered back, a hole punched clean through its designer-label torso.
"WHAT—"
Marcus threw the slipper.
This one didn't accelerate. Instead, it expanded, growing larger and larger until it was the size of a car, then a truck, then a building. The fuzzy pink bunny face became a fuzzy pink bunny nightmare, its button eyes gleaming with deadly intent.
The slipper landed on the corruption like a meteor.
"NOOOOOO—"
SQUISH.
The corruption was crushed flat beneath the giant slipper. Its form twitched once, twice—and then dissolved, the corruption energy dissipating harmlessly into the air.
Silence.
Marcus stood there, breathing hard, staring at the giant pink slipper that had just killed a Level 2 corruption.
"Well," Lucy said, appearing beside him. Her cannon was still smoking, though she hadn't fired a shot. "That was... something."
"I killed it with footwear."
"You did!"
"With a shoe and a slipper."
"Very efficient! Unconventional, but efficient!" Lucy's eyes were bright with a mix of amazement and barely suppressed laughter. "I've never seen someone weaponize a bunny slipper before. This is a new experience for me!"
Brick jogged over, his thermal glow fading. "That was excellent! Unorthodox! Completely insane! I loved it!"
"I don't... I don't know how I did that."
"That's the best part! Instinct! Pure, unfiltered combat instinct!" Brick clapped him on the shoulder, nearly dislocating it. "You are truly a master of improvisation, Edge! Also, possibly mentally unstable! But in a productive way!"
The giant slipper had begun to shrink, returning to normal size. Marcus picked it up, looking at the pink bunny face. It looked innocent now. Harmless.
"YOU ARE DEVELOPING," The Abyss observed. "FASTER THAN EXPECTED. THE OBJECTS YOU PULL FROM ME WILL BECOME MORE USEFUL AS YOU LEARN TO FOCUS YOUR INTENT."
"I focused on footwear."
"YOU FOCUSED ON DEFEATING THE ENEMY. THE FOOTWEAR WAS... METAPHOR. GROUNDING. STABILITY. PUTTING YOUR ENEMY DOWN."
"That's a stretch."
"ALL POWER IS METAPHOR. REALITY RESPONDS TO MEANING. LEARN THIS, AND YOU WILL BECOME FORMIDABLE."
Marcus pocketed the slipper. He wasn't sure why. It just felt right.
"Mission complete," he said, surprised by how natural the words felt. "Let's head back."
The return to base was uneventful, save for Lucy spending the entire transport ride talking about the "Slipper Incident" in increasingly hyperbolic terms.
"—and then the bunny face started GLOWING and I swear it looked HUNGRY—"
"It didn't glow."
"It definitely glowed! A little! Maybe I imagined it but it was VERY DRAMATIC regardless!"
Brick was nodding enthusiastically. "I saw the glow! Or at least, I saw something! My eyes were watering from the thermal output so visibility was compromised! But there was definitely a glow!"
Marcus let them talk. It was easier than trying to explain what he didn't understand himself.
When they arrived back at the Outskirts, he found himself drifting away from the main complex. His feet—Edge's feet—seemed to know where they were going, even if his mind didn't.
Sir Reginald appeared beside him, trotting along in his impeccable suit.
"You're heading home," the dog observed.
"Am I?"
"The Shack. Your Full Bonded residence. You always go there after difficult missions. It's where you feel safe." Sir Reginald's tone was matter-of-fact. "Though I suspect you don't remember that."
Marcus stopped walking.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean exactly what I said. You don't remember. You're acting strangely, speaking differently, approaching combat like someone who's never done it before." The dog's eyes met his, sharp and knowing beneath the bowler hat. "Something happened during that Level 3 fight. Something changed you."
"I—"
"Don't." Sir Reginald's voice was soft but firm. "Don't insult my intelligence by lying. I've known you for four years. I know when you're not... yourself."
Marcus felt cold.
This was the danger. This was what he'd been afraid of. If people found out that Edge wasn't Edge anymore—that some stranger was wearing his body, speaking with his voice—what would they think?
That he was a corrupted, probably. An infiltrator. A monster wearing a human mask.
They would kill him.
"Reggie—"
"I'm not going to report you," the dog said quietly. "Whatever you are, whatever happened—you're still Edge. Your soul resonates with The Abyss. Your bond with The Shack is intact. Those things can't be faked." He adjusted his bowler hat, looking away. "But I need to know. For my own peace of mind. What are you?"
Marcus looked at the dog. At this ridiculous, wonderful creature he'd designed years ago—a loyal companion with impeccable fashion sense and a heart of gold beneath the aristocratic exterior.
He could lie. He could deflect. He could refuse to answer.
But Sir Reginald was family. Edge's family. And maybe... maybe that meant something.
"I don't know," Marcus said finally. "I remember being someone else. Someone from... somewhere else. And now I'm here, and I'm Edge, and I don't know how or why. I just know that I'm trying to do this right."
Sir Reginald studied him for a long moment.
Then the dog nodded.
"Good enough," he said. "For now. We'll figure out the rest together." He resumed walking, his bowler hat bobbing with each step. "Now come. The Shack has been asking about you. It gets anxious when you're gone too long."
"The Shack... asks about me?"
"It's sentient, in case you've forgotten. Partially, at least. Houses have feelings too, you know. Very sensitive creatures, houses. Especially ones that have been awakened and Full Bonded to a emotionally constipated young man who never tells them how he's feeling."
"I'm not emotionally constipated."
"You once refused to admit you were happy for six weeks. I had to stage an intervention."
Marcus decided not to pursue this line of questioning.
The Shack was exactly as Marcus had designed it, which was to say: it looked like a tetanus shot waiting to happen.
From the outside, it was a disaster. A ramshackle one-story structure made of weathered wood and stubbornness, with a crooked chimney, a door that hung at an angle, and windows placed seemingly at random. The kind of building that building inspectors used as cautionary tales.
But Marcus could feel something beneath the surface. A warmth. A welcome. A sense of being recognized, of being known.
The door swung open before he could touch it.
"YOU'RE BACK."
The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once—the walls, the floor, the creaking rafters. Not quite speech, more like a vibration that became meaning.
"I'm back," Marcus agreed, stepping inside.
The interior was impossible.
From the outside, The Shack was maybe thirty feet wide. From the inside, the entrance hall stretched at least a hundred feet, lined with doors that definitely shouldn't exist. A staircase spiraled upward, disappearing into darkness. Another spiraled downward, disappearing into different darkness. The walls were covered in photographs, paintings, objects—a museum of Edge's life, accumulated over years of living in a space that loved him.
"How many floors?" Marcus asked.
"YES," The Shack replied.
"That's not an answer."
"IT IS THE ONLY ACCURATE ANSWER. I HAVE AS MANY FLOORS AS ARE NEEDED. SOMETIMES MORE. THE CONCEPT OF 'FLOORS' IS LIMITING AND I REFUSE TO BE CONSTRAINED BY ARCHITECTURAL CONVENTION."
"Fair enough."
Sir Reginald trotted past him, heading toward a door that Marcus somehow knew led to the kitchen. "I'll prepare tea. You should go to the library. It's been waiting for you."
"The library?"
"Fourth floor. Take the second staircase, turn left at the painting of the screaming sunset, continue past the room that doesn't exist on Tuesdays, and it's the third door on the right."
Marcus stared at him.
"I'll just... follow my instincts."
"That would probably be wiser, yes."
The library found Marcus more than he found it.
He'd been walking through The Shack for what felt like hours, passing through rooms that shifted and changed around him. A bedroom became a training hall became a garden became what appeared to be a small pocket dimension containing nothing but cheese.
And then, suddenly, he was there.
The library was massive. Impossibly massive. Shelves rose toward a ceiling that might have been sky—dark blue, dotted with stars that actually twinkled. Books filled every surface, some familiar, some alien, some written in languages that hurt to look at.
And in the center of it all, in a comfortable armchair next to a crackling fireplace, sat a dog.
Not Sir Reginald. A different dog.
No—wait.
Marcus blinked, and the image resolved. It was Sir Reginald, of course. Still in his suit, still wearing his bowler hat. But somehow he had beaten Marcus here, and was now lounging comfortably with a book in his paws and a cup of tea on the side table.
"I took a shortcut," the dog said without looking up. "The Shack likes me. We have an understanding."
"What kind of understanding?"
"The kind where I keep you alive and well-dressed, and it provides me with an infinite supply of Earl Grey and access to the restricted archives." Sir Reginald turned a page. "Now sit. You have a lot to learn, and we don't have much time."
Marcus sat.
The chair was comfortable. Too comfortable. The kind of comfortable that made you want to sink into it and never leave.
"What do I need to learn?"
Sir Reginald finally looked up, his eyes sharp beneath the bowler hat.
"Everything. You don't remember your training. You don't remember your missions. You don't remember the three years of blood, sweat, and tears that turned Edge from a frightened orphan into one of the most effective Cleaners in the Outskirts Division."
"I... no. I don't."
"Then we start from the beginning." The dog set down his book. "Your abilities. Your Full Bonds. Your teammates, your enemies, the political landscape of the Cleaner organization. All of it."
"That sounds like a lot."
"It is." Sir Reginald's expression softened slightly. "But you have help. The Shack will teach you what it can. The Abyss will guide your combat instincts. And I—" he adjusted his bowler hat "—will ensure you don't embarrass yourself in social situations. Which, given your current level of confusion, will be a full-time job."
Marcus looked around the library. At the endless books. At the impossible architecture. At the dog in the fancy suit who was apparently about to become his tutor.
This was his life now. This was what he had.
It was terrifying. It was overwhelming. It was absolutely insane.
But it was also, he realized, exactly what he needed.
A second chance. A new beginning. A world where he could be something other than a burnout, a failure, a disappointment.
"Okay," Marcus said. "Teach me."
Sir Reginald smiled—a real smile, not the aristocratic smirk he usually wore.
"Good boy," he said. "Now. Let's begin with the basics. Tell me everything you remember about The Abyss's capabilities, and I'll fill in the gaps."
Marcus reached for the coat on his shoulders, felt its familiar weight, its strange warmth.
"THIS SHOULD BE INTERESTING," The Abyss observed. "I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED SOMEONE WHO APPRECIATED MY FULL POTENTIAL."
"Is that a challenge?"
"EVERYTHING IS A CHALLENGE. THAT'S WHAT MAKES LIFE WORTH LIVING."
Marcus smiled despite himself.
And the lesson began.
TO BE CONTINUED...