Subject: "From a Stupid 8"
Author:
Posted on: 2016-11-02 06:50:00 UTC

Vania walked into her RC, arms full of tiny milk cartons and face full of a big grin. "Doc, I just scored, Doc—Doc. Doc, what the hell are you doing?"

Reclining on the floor in front of the portal generator, Doc arched an eyebrow. "Just providing myself with a little atmosphere while I read. Looks like the next chapter takes place in the White Lands of Empathica." He hit a button on the remote activator, and the portal behind him switched from a side view of some run-down train depot to a deadly quiet snowscape. Doc shielded his novel from the few snowflakes that the nearly still air tumbled into the RC and tried to go back to reading.

Vania had now crushed a good number of her milk cartons, and some were leaking onto the floor. "No. No. No. Close that this instant. What are you thinking? Even if that wasn't a Stephen King novel full of monsters, there could be canons seeing your portal, there could be anachronisms falling in from our end. Close it. NOW."

Doc didn't look away from the pages. "This is how I read now. It's one of the perks of the job."

Vania stared for a moment. Then she made a noise that would roughly be spelled, "Hrouargh!" She carried her big score to the mini-fridge and kicked the door open. She loaded the surviving cartons inside, moving quickly and being rather less than careful.

Then, she found a trash bag and loaded the ruined cartons inside. She was in the middle of wiping up all the spilled milk off the generic surface when she suddenly felt wrong.

So wrong.

She immediately turned to look at Doc and the portal. At some point, her partner had changed the coordinates to show a ruined, plantless landscape, where the very shape of the rock formations gave off a sense of bending, of space itself deteriorating. A noxious smell was seeping into the RC, and somewhere in the distant depths of the portal, a laugh echoed that sounded unsettlingly animal.

But none of those details were what set the hairs on the back of Vania's neck on end. It was the fact that Doc was standing still, staring at her before she had turned, and he had dropped the book without putting the bookmark in first.

In a quiet, toneless voice, Doc said, "Hail, Discordia. All hail the Crimson King."

Vania stared blankly. She slowly approached Doc, who started forward confidently, his hands making grasping motions as the thing inside him tested out the muscles. just before they reached each other, Vania said, "First mistake."

As Doc started to reach for her throat, she dropped low and hooked her foot behind Doc's left knee and pulled, taking him off-balance. Then she grabbed his right arm, twisted around and flung him over her shoulder. Doc landed on the beanbag chair, and the long-suffering piece of quasi-furniture finally saw its end as its innards exploded all around the floor.

"Possessing an agent who's a crappy fighter and never exercizes. Second mistake." She walked over to the console, listening to Doc's body squirming on the floor. Whatever had taken up residence wasn't accustomed to having nerve endings. "Infiltrating an organization with an entire team of people dedicated to literally nothing but exorcisms. 'Open bracket-dee-bee-es-close bracket.' There, that ought to bring at least a few slashers. Now, we just have to wait."

She turned back to face Doc, still sprawled on the floor, gazing up at her with equal parts curiosity and loathing. Vania cracked a knuckle. "Whether we wait quietly . . . well, that's up to you, I suppose."

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