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young men who believe themselves immortal
Ma'ar in the Pactverse (Wildbow).
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The world is vast. Around every point of light, beings swirl in numbers too dense to be counted, and the sky is as flush with stars and planets as freckles on the face of a child left to bake in a summer camp's sun till August. If the eye were to linger at one such point, not too different from any other, one would see a a human dressed in tidy (if shabby) robes sitting at a writing desk, writing meticulously in a current-red ink on paper still bearing the scars of the last attempt. He consults a book filled with annotations crowded tight between the lines and carefully adjusts his pen, rotating it so not a drop of ink falls out of place. It wouldn't do to have an imperfect contract, after all.

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The universe has other plans, however. There's a crash from the kitchen as something fragile-sounding topples over, and a whole lot of swearing. He better wrap this up before someone sees him - it looks like someone's home.

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Interrupted again. At this rate, they're never going to get anything at all done, let alone the greatest Great Work the world has ever seen. He sighs and returns the pen to its well, pulling the cover down over the desk and locking it shut with a glance. It's second nature at this point - operational security has a way of pressing white stress marks into one's mental processes, given enough time, and he's the one who made the checklist after all. He'll head towards the kitchen. Hopefully, it wasn't anything important.

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Saul's grinning sheepishly, broom in hand as Scoria enters the room. He's tall, with fine features and a shocking mane of silver hair. He's also covered in orange juice and broken glass. The sun is merrily streaming through the window, indicating that it's about eight in the morning. "Pull another all-nighter, Scor?"

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"You're one to talk. Where were you? I thought that we were going to collaborate." He opens a drawer and pulls out a pyramid of sandalwood incense that he drops into a brazier. With a little grinding sound, entropy reverses within a localized area and the juice pitcher reassembles itself. The spiderwebbing cracks across its surface wick up fluid, and then close. Mostly. One might get the impression that this is not the first time that the pitcher has had a brush with death.

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"Family obligations." He looks tired, grin wavering momentarily. "We can work on the oaths tonight, assuming nothing else comes up."

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"Weasel words."

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"Always." He pours two glasses of juice, this time without dropping the container.

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It's probably good to drink the juice. He'll even pretend that he didn't check for poison as part of that last spell, for politeness.

"I think I've cracked another element for the ritual, by the way." He's staying casual, sipping the juice. It's sweet and wets his mouth more than usual. He really ought to start keeping a water bottle by his desk.

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The house shakes as a strong wind blows outside, rattling the windowpanes, and dust settles from the ceiling into his cup.

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The color drains from his face. He pulls a pocketwatch from somewhere in his coat, flips it open, closed, and he's gone.

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He drops to the floor just in time to snatch the empty glass before it hits the ground, and sighs. Always the time emergencies with that one. More time for the ritual, he supposes. Maybe it's time to figure out a partial demonstration. That'll get his attention for sure.

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That's going to be harder than he expects, because he is so very very sleepy. Go to bed.

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Absolutely not. There is an incredible amount of suffering in the world in its current state, and he can't stop just because of a little thing like sleep. Besides, he'll be able to sleep when Saul takes up the project in full. He's always been better with the weird efficiency stuff.

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Thirty items are needed for the ritual that will create what they've been calling the Pact. The diagram must be inscribed upon holy ground in red ochre, and contain runes for humanity, power, nurturing, restraint, and benevolence. The carefully counterweighted mobile represents the cooperation and balance of humanity and Other to sustain equilibrium in the cosmos. At the points of the diagram, seven offerings for the universe: iron ore for strength, holly for protection from evil, a silver infused skull for wisdom, a gold solidus for prosperity, a pressed rose for passion, incense for clarity, and fruit burned to ash, symbolizing sacrifice. The ritual is intricate, to say the least — twelve circles, seven bowls, and many, many prepared components. Archaic summoning runes line a geometric diagram large enough to contain several beings at once, each participant necessary to forge the Pact's initial connections to humanity and Other alike (though not equally). In his writings, still, but soon into the world. There is no room for imperfection in a ritual meant to safeguard all of mankind.

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And one day, somehow, some way, he will end the exploitation, the suffering, the Drains. And until then, he cannot rest. So he returns to his desk, and begins writing the next stanzas, the next prayer to egregore not of societal subconscious dreaming or of their imagination, but of constructed tradeoffs such that the cruel and heartless world twists itself into a shape more pleasing to their shared design.

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…And proceeds to fall asleep on his pages. You are not immune to sleep.

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He wakes up with a start - no, not true awakening, a false awakening into a dreamscape. Around him floats a powdered quartz heptagon, tendrils coiling off into the distance. He knows for certain that if those anchors were to snap that he'd hurtle off into the dark emptiness beneath his feet, never to be seen again. Hopefully that's only true of the dreamspace, and not some sort of projective trap.

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There is absolutely no way this could possibly be a trap. He should know better than that.

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Okay, so it's a trap. He pinches himself, but it just seems to make him disoriented before returning him firmly to his form inside what he recognizes as a sort of mirror to the thing he was designing when he slept.

There's a giggle from outside, and his head jolts up, scanning for the source.

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It's a figure clad in shadow, face obscured. It looks pleased with its handiwork.

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No, that's not just a figure, that's the tip of an iceberg of flesh and veins of light artfully arranged to dangle the mannequin like the lantern of a deep-sea fish. "What do you want from me, exactly?”

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She laughs. Straight to the point with this one, refreshing.

"Isn't the question usually the other way around? I imagine I have something you want, scrawler."

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He briefly glares at her. "Juding by the circle, I'm at your disposal, ma'am." And unless she has a way to enforce a global - no, universal - agreement of human and Other, no, he'd rather go back to work, thank you very much. Sleeping is always a mistake.

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"I know your type. You want to make your mark on the world, I've seen your scribbles." She gestures broadly at diagrams conjured around him.

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"I believe you're mistaken. I might want to change things but it's not my mark I desire. If it is the one used at all, that's the lack of any better made by another, fairer upon this world." There's something wrong with the diagrams, they hang limply in the air. It brings to mind starched shirts wilting in the heat.

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She frowns. "How about the lack of a mark? I think you might have options there."

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"I'm not sure what that means, and honestly you're being very ominous right now."

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"Don't worry so much. I'm here to help!"  It hasn't blinked once this whole time.

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"I think I'd rather go" slips out, despite his better judgement.

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It nods thoughtfully as if that's a reasoned and complex but ultimately convincing argument. "See you soon."

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The world dissolves in a shower of sticky darkness that seems to flow down the lines of the diagrams, moving faster and faster until they reach the final circle and seem to grind to a halt.

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He wakes in a pile of tangled blankets, sheathed in sweat, disoriented and bleary and reaches for a glass on the sideboard and - how did he get here? The last thing he remembers is inking lines in a notebook. He's pretty sure he didn't make it to bed.

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He didn't. But Saul's not just going to leave him shivering in a curled up heap on the floor.

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"Feeling any better?" There's a cup of coffee on the table next to Scoria, still steaming. Saul's peering at the diagrams on his desk. "This looks promising. What progress have you made?"

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He grabs for the coffee, splashing it across his shirt as he knocks the cup over with a shaking hand and an oath. "Sorry - I had the strangest dream and I'm still fuzzy around the edges." The shadows seemed so real they still cling to the edge of his mind, whispering. "The ritual isn't quite done yet - closer, but I'm afraid I passed out before I could finish transcribing the necessary seals." He stands, attempting to shrug off the blankets, and nearly tips over. "Did you just finish inking the initial array? It feels...connected."

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"I didn't touch your work." He frowns, peering at Scoria instead of the diagrams now. The shadows under his eyes look deeper than usual. "Are you feeling alright? You were out cold when I found you."

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"I apologize - that must have been part of the dream." He rubs his eyes, searching his memory. "There was something important, but the details are slipping through my fingers like sand." The markings on the floor are pristine, untouched. He runs a hand along one of the outer circles, tracing the path of theoretical energy, and feels it thrum as if plucked. No, as if newly minted. The egregore isn't precisely alive or sentient but the construct has settled into place, slowly gathering power through the lattice of connections between each point. It feels hungry. He blinks again, sluggish. "I should get back to work before this entirely escapes me. The arrays...there must have been something else." But even as he speaks, details of ritual and rune swim away into the dark. He presses the heel of one hand against an eye, trying to ground himself, and glances to Saul. "My apologies again for this. It seems I'm not quite myself just yet."

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Saul's frown deepens. "You really don't look well. Come, sit." He takes Scoria's arm and helps him into a chair, forcing another cup of coffee into his hands. "Drink. Now, tell me exactly what's going on. What did you dream of?" There's real concern in his eyes now. If Scoria's usual single-minded drive is faltering, something is very wrong.

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He takes a long drink of the coffee, scalding his tongue, and lets out a breath. "Most of the details are gone now. I was trapped in some sort of ritual space. A woman - at least, I believe it was a woman - taunted me about my work. The diagrams around us were wrong, half-formed. She said she was there to help but her words were ominous. When I tried to leave, everything dissolved into darkness." He rubs his eyes again, frustrated at the lingering fugue. "I must have completed more of the ritual than I realized. There are connections forming already, pulling metaphysical threads tight between each point." The construct feels expectant now, like a web sensing the first tremors of a fly. "We should reinscribe the primary seals before this goes any further. I fear the bindings may not yet be strong enough if there was bleedthrough into my dreaming mind."

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The house shakes again, dust filtering down through cracks in the ceiling onto the diagrams below. Outside, the wind howls a warning as thunder rumbles in the distance. The arrays glow with a sickly light, pulsing in time to a heartbeat that isn't quite synchronized. The woman's ominous promise echoes in his mind: See you soon. Whatever they've started, it seems impatient to emerge.

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Scoria slams the remains of the coffee and stands, steadier now but still shaken. The arrays need reinforcement before this gets out of hand. "The primary seals, now. We have to lock this in place before it ruptures its bindings." He's already moving to gather the necessary components: bowls of salt and ash, vials of oil and blood, the carefully prepared tools for each ritual mark. The construct strains at its tethers, metaphysical hooks sunk deep but still not deep enough. He can feel it testing each point, searching for weaknesses to exploit. They built this to change the world but if they lose control now it could rend the seams of reality as easily as knit them anew. There are too many variables, too much left unfinished - but they are out of time. Each tremor signals the countdown to when this will shake itself free of their design.

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Saul curses, grabbing components and following Scoria's lead. His silver hair is wild, eyes bright with worry and something like fear as he works to reinforce the seals. "We were too hasty. The bindings aren't strong enough, we have to finish this now before it breaks free or we'll never contain it." The house shudders again, dust and debris raining down around them, diagrams pulsing with that strange sick glow. He pours ash and oils, reinforcing one of the circles with haste and care in equal measure. They started this, they have to finish it. No time for doubts or hesitation now. Though... maybe a little.

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He glances at Scoria as they work, worry creasing his brow. "Are you sure you're up for this? You were out for a while, and look..." He hesitates, but pushes on. "Haggard. We can try again in a few days, once you've rested. Our lives won't end if we delay this a little longer." Despite his words, his hands continue their swift, practiced work, reinforcing another seal with haste born of fear as much as determination. He doesn't want to stop, not when they're so close, but Scoria's health worries him more than their work coming undone. They've dealt with setbacks before, but he's never seen his friend knocked out cold for hours with no explanation.

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"No, we can't stop now." His hands move with purpose, dripping ash and oil onto each point of the primary seals in turn. The construct shudders as another thread pulls taut, a resonance building that thrums through flesh and bone alike. They are running out of time.

"We knew the risks when we began this, Saul. You said it yourself - we've dealt with failures before." He grimaces, wiping sweat and dust from his brow with one sleeve. The coffee has sharpened his mind but his body still feels leaden, slowed. They started this, they have to finish it. "If we stop now, we may lose control entirely. The bindings grow stronger with each reinforcement. We are so close." The arrays pulse again, an echoing heartbeat syncopated just a fraction out of time. The woman's promise lingers at the edge of thought, a whisper of things still left unseen. He has to believe they will contain this, that their design is sound. The alternative is unthinkable.

His hands do not slow, tracing each point and channel in turn, shoring up weaknesses that the construct strains to exploit. The primary seals are nearly complete; then for the final bindings before this can shake itself fully awake and turn its gaze upon the world. They built this to change things but if they lose control now it could rend the seams of reality as easily as knit them anew. There are too many variables, too much left unfinished - but they are out of time. Each tremor signals the countdown to when this will shake itself free of their design.

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5.

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And then he reconsiders. This needs more buy-in, more cooperation for it to really stick.

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And so he earths the gathered energy and potential with the a loud crack and the sound of hot metal cooling unevenly.

… Wasn't sure he could do that. Probably should have thought of it earlier.

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He stands there in the circle, hands still outstretched and tingling with the remnants of that building power. The arrays have gone dark and still, no longer straining against their anchors but quiescent, potential energy dissipated into the ground. "Well. That was foolish of us." The realization of how close they came to losing control hits him like a sledgehammer and he sways on his feet, adrenaline fading. His bare arms are covered in ash and tiny cuts, and he's fairly sure his hair is standing on end. At least the wind has calmed outside, no longer rattling the windows in their frames. Saul is looking at him with an expression somewhere between fear, anger and relief. He can't blame him. They aren't usually this reckless but impatience and ambition blinded them to the risks. "We should start over. Do this properly." His voice sounds strange in his own ears, shaky in the wake of that thrumming resonance. "Not just the two of us. We need cooperation, trust, or this will never work."

To change the world, they need more than two wayward souls stumbling in the dark. But finding others they can trust with this secret goal, that believe as strongly that thing need to change - that may prove a greater challenge.

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Saul lets out a long breath, staring at Scoria with dawning horror and anger. His hair is in disarray, eyes wide with accusation. "You...you caused it to overload." His hands curl into tight, trembling fists. "What did you do? How could you be so careless?" He steps back, glaring at the darkened arrays, the catastrophe barely averted. The realization of how close they came to ruin due to Scoria's recklessness sinks in and he flushes with rage. "You were wrong, we never should have trusted you!" His voice rises to a shout, anger replacing resolve. "Finding someone competent to assist will not be easy after this disaster you nearly caused." He jabs a finger at Scoria, face twisting in disgusted betrayal. "No more chances. Your recklessness could have doomed everything we worked for." He turns away, body rigid with contempt. "I should have known better than to trust you so blindly. Your impatience and lack of discipline make you dangerous." A bitter smile pulls at his lips and he shakes his head bitterly. "Though I suppose some lessons must be learned the hard way."

 

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Scoria stands frozen in stunned disbelief, mouth open but finding no words. His hands ache, burns blistering across callused palms. Anger wars with sorrow, righteous indignation with the sting of betrayal. Saul's words are blades honed sharp. Your recklessness could have doomed everything we worked for. He of all people should understand the necessity of that split-second decision, the instincts that demanded action before thought.

"You would have done the same." His voice is hoarse but firm. "Had you seconds to decide whether we should continue into unknown peril or cut our losses to regroup, tell me your choice would differ!" He takes a shuddering breath, rage coiling hot in his gut. "Your hypocrisy insults us both. We knew the risks, we have always known the risks, but now you flinch at the precipice and call me fool?"

The arrays are lifeless behind him but he can still feel their potential like the buzz of static on his skin. His hands clench at his sides, leather creaking. "Go, then. Run from what we have built out of fear and spite." He spits the words like venom, poison on his tongue. "I will not abandon this. The world still needs changing and I will find the means, with or without your help."

He turns away, gaze lingering on the darkened points of their shared ambitiont. The cuts on his palms sting of remembered failure.

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Scoria stands alone amid the ashes and ruined diagrams, blinking back angry tears as Saul's footsteps fade into the distance. The sting of betrayal is a knife in his chest, twisted cruel by Saul's cutting words. Your recklessness could have doomed everything we worked for. Perhaps it is true that he acted rashly, but desperation drove them both to push too far, too fast. He grimaces, looking down at his burned and blistered hands. The cuts weep fluid that mingles with the ash coating his skin. They built this grand design together, two dreamers drunk on ambition's wine - and like overeager drunks they tripped on the first step. Not the careful pact-weavers they aspired to be, but fools stumbling heedless into peril.

With a heavy sigh, Scoria begins methodically cleaning the sanctum, sweeping away dust and debris. He salvages what he can, tucking books and tools back into their proper places, erasing the evidence of their failed workings. The arrays he leaves for now, unwilling to destroy their months of meticulous labor. When the room is tidied he looks around, keenly feeling Saul's absence. Perhaps he will return in time, when anger cools to regret. They are both stubborn, prideful men. Scoria can admit his recklessness, but not to being solely at fault. Neither can afford to walk this path alone. The world needs them both.

"We will try again," he murmurs to the silent room.