As Jonan loved to tell us, as a rule, life was not fair. That being said, life did have a real passion for irony. For all his talent, for all his good looks, bravado, and bluster… Jonan Derric suffered from as severe a case of tone deafness as I'd ever seen. It wasn't straight-up amusia; it transcended that. He seemed to possess the ability to recognize different musical pitches and rhythms—at least for the most part–but, by the Angel, when it came to making them on his own, even a drunk seagull could have done a better job.

The best explanation of amusia I'd ever heard was that it was to music what dyslexia was to reading. Amusia was a tragic neuro-acoustic disorder that left negatively impacted—sometimes severely—its victims' ability to discern different pitches of musical tones. Consequences included—though were not limited to—the inability to tell when music was out of tune, the inability to follow melodies' contours, and the inability to recognize and reproduce pitches and rhythm, either alone or in sequence. According to the literature, amusia most often occurred in individuals who had suffered some form of brain injury, such as transient ischemic attacks (basically, mini-strokes) or a full-blown stroke or intracranial or cerebral hemorrhage. There was also a low but pretty consistent rate of congenital amusia, particularly among the absurdly inbred remnants of the old Trenton aristocracy—which, as I recalled, Jonan happened to be one of.

Perhaps he had a milder case of it.

That certainly explained a lot of things. People with amusia often scored above average in memory and concentration, due to their ability to filter out sounds that would otherwise distract the average Joe. It also explained why Jonan had (quite cleverly) proposed that we change the hospital's warning noises to a menagerie of various sounds and jingles; they'd sound more distinctive to him.

It also meant Jonan's request for musical assistance was less daunting than I'd initially anticipated. Dr. Derric had been under the impression that changing the apparent gender of a singing voice was just a matter of raising its pitch. Even more importantly, Jonan's disability meant that he had a markedly difficult time discerning a singing voice's gender.

Had he had a better ear for music, I don't think he would have responded as positively as he did to the sample I whipped up for him after a couple of minutes of fiddling around with the composition software on my console.

Musically, the situation was complicated by the fact that Lark hadn't just sung the aria in a falsetto like I'd expected. Instead, he'd gone out of the way to transpose the whole thing into a manageable tessitura. In order to make things sound decent, I had to first undo this transposition and set the recording back to the piece's original key of G-flat major. After that, I got ALICE to help to make the necessary edits to the timber of Lark's voice, only to discover that the smarter choice would have been to edit the timber first and then raise the pitch back to G-flat. That being said, it absolutely helped that I was intimately familiar with the aria Lark had chosen to sing.

It was one of my favorites.

Both Jonan and Andalon watched the whole process with rapt attention, as if I was some kind of wizard.

In the end, the whole exercise took about an hour, during which I got a ton of practice using my force spikes to softly tap, type, and stroke my console's touchscreen in lieu of my big, sharp claws.

"Is it ready yet?" Jonan asked.

"I told you to wait," I said, levitating my console out of his reach.

In order to speed things up, I was working a double shift, operating on the music in my mind, so that I could play and hear the different variations of the recording under consideration alongside one another in order to hear which one worked best.

"I'll say this about Lark," I said, "she has damn good taste."

Jonan coughed. "Really?"

It was a genuine question.

I raised what remained of my eyebrows. "Do you really not recognize the song?"

Jonan shrugged. "I think I've heard it before," he said, "but I'm not sure. Maybe it's the fungus eating through my brain." He smirked.

I did not appreciate the gallows humor.

"For the record," I said, pun intended, "it's the Song to the Moon, from Jordan Gallstrom's Biluše. It's one of the most beloved operatic arias of all time. It's famous famous, not just opera famous."

I levitated my console back to the table, and then nodded. Andalon mimicked the motion.

I turned to Jonan.

"Alright, there," I said, "It's done. Do with it what you will." I looked over to the window. "If you want to take a listen, just press the Play icon." I glanced back at Jonan, noticing he was lingering over my console. "You don't need to worry. I didn't get any spores on it."

He looked up at me and coughed, and then cleared his throat. "It's, uh… it's not that."

"Hmm?"

Jonan pointed at my console on the table. "You have some unanswered messages."

"I know," I said.

"Aren't you going to look at them?"

I lowered my head. "I don't want to see people I know and care about suffer and die. I've seen enough horror for a thousand lifetimes. I've had my fill of the stuff, thank you very much."

That was only a partial truth. Though I was absolutely sick of all the death and misery, I was also worried I'd see something that would upset me enough that I'd accidentally fudge up my force thorns and put an end to my console once and for all.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

You know what, I thought, no.

No more.

I was about to sigh when I remembered my spore breath and decided against it. "Actually…" I said, "if you want to know, I'm worried I'll see something that will upset me so much that it will make me overshoot my powers and destroy my console" I glanced down at my hands as I raised one of my claws. "And, obviously, I'm not going to risk touching the screen with these puppies."

Jonan looked me in the eyes. "Do you want me to do it?"

I pursed my lips and nodded. "Yes. I'd really appreciate that, Jonan."

And, lo and behold, just like that, Jonan helped me, and with no strings attached.

Feeling nervous and more than a bit skittish, I decided to whisk the bulk of my consciousness out of my body and into the peace and tranquility of my Main Menu, and from there to a mind-world, maybe my mind-office(s).

I did have quite a lot of ghosts within me in need of finding closure in their afterlife.

I started to say, "Tell me if you find anything important," when Jonan looked up to me and said: "There's a recent message from someone named Pel. Isn't that your—"

—I slithered up to Jonan and my console like a viper about to bite, rearing up my forepart until I was at his eye level.

"What did you say?" I trembled as I stared into his eyes.

Andalon watched with concern.

Jonan cleared his throat. "I said… there's a recent videophone message from Pel."

My face started to contort with emotions I had to struggle to keep in check.

"Play it," I said. "Play it. Play—"

Setting my PortaCon onto the table, Jonan let the message play. I sank lower and lower to the ground as I listened, drowning in emotions I'd given up hope of feeling ever again.

It had only been a few days since my family had learned that I was turning into a wyrm, but felt like an eternity. I hadn't realized just how deeply I'd given them up for dead until I saw their faces—their healthy, plague-free faces!—squeezed together to fit into the recorded videophone call that was playing out on my console's screen.

Pel, Jules, and Rayph were sitting side by side atop a sumptuous bed located in a truly resplendent-looking room. The furnishings were obviously late Second Empire style. That meant they were somewhere near the city center, either in one of old grand hotels, or perhaps in the Imperial Palace, or even the Melted Palace itself.

Angel. The Melted Palace? Where Verune was?

Kléothag, I thought, if there's any part of you that's still alive, please don't let my family be in the Melted Palace with that maniac.

It said a lot about how the world had changed that my biggest concern wasn't the fact that Mr. Verune—the legendary lost 250th Lassedite—had suddenly reappeared, flung over two centuries into the future, but rather the threat that he posed to my wife and kids. Time travel was now just another fact of life, just like my wyrm transformation, the existence of parallel worlds, or the divine beast's corpse buried within the planet. No, what didn't belong was the wyrm cult that Verune was running out of the sacred heart of the entire Lassedile Church. Unlike everything else, which was the result of forces and beings totally beyond our control or understanding, Verune and his cult were the results of actions taken by real, flesh and blood human beings.

But then Pel and the kids started to speak, and in that moment, all my fears were forgotten. It was Jules who broke the ice. She sat to the left of her mother, with her brother on the right. My teenage daughter waved her hand nervously, not bothering to hide the tears in her eyes.

Her voice broke as she spoke. "Hi… D-Dad…" I brought my hands to my mouth, only to press my palm on the upper part of my chest. I had to adjust the position of my hand to bring it onto my mouth where it belonged.

"Daddo…" Rayph said, quietly.

All three of them were crying.

For a moment, Pel's head quivered like a lawn sprinkler. The footage's view shook—she was holding her console in front of her—but then she steadied herself and started to speak.

"Angel, Genneth… I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

I was in tears in seconds. And though my tears weren't human tears—human tears aren't abortive blebs of caustic fungal spores that dribbled down your cheek—there was no denying that my tears were joyous and sacred.

Preciousness makes things fragile, especially when your hands are three-fingered and tipped with wicked claws.

Jules glared at her mother—and Pel noticed.

"I was wrong," Pel said. "I… Break the Tablets, Genneth, so much has happened!"

I hung on to her every word like it was her last.

"We were at the house, but then there were monsters and the military. And… zombies. There was a fire. We had to leave." She glanced at the kids. "I took the kids to my mother's place."

I had to fight to keep myself under control. I bit my lip, holding back a spray of spores that would have reduced my console to bubbling dregs.

"Genneth, whatever you thought about my mother, it's all true. It's worse than you could ever know."

Leaning over, Jules positioned herself in front of her mother. "Dad, Grandma's turning into a Norm. Oh, she's also a terrorist—like, an actually freaking terrorist! You know those 'Innocents'—those fucking bomb-loving nutcases? She's been funding them! For years! And guess what? Now they're all in cahoots with Verune!"

Jonan tapped the screen, pausing the video.

"Wait, what the fuck?" he asked.

I groaned softly. "My mother in law is a terrible human being. My daughter and I used to joke that if the Innocents ever held a fundraiser, Margaret would be their number one donor."

I wanted to say I was surprised, but I wasn't, not really. What was a reveal of secret terrorist finances compared to the stuff of gods and demons?

"Put the recording back on," I said.

Jonan did.

"Quiet, Jules," Pel hissed, "don't be so loud! They might hear you!"

"We're getting ready to leave, Dad," Rayph said. "Bully Jessica is helping!"

"Don't," Jules said, "you'll confuse him!"

"Genneth, we're at the Melted Palace," Pel said. "I was so scared, I…" She shook her head. "I didn't know what to believe. I thought we were in Hell, and that I'd damned myself and the kids. I tried to get Verune and his cultists to think we were one of them. Maybe we succeeded, maybe we didn't—I don't know—but now… Sword Stab me! Genneth, the things they're doing here… you wouldn't believe it!"

Jules leaned forward again. "Mom thought Grandma and the other Norms were actual demons. But, whatever: Dad, they're eating people! Verune is gathering up as many people as he can find—zombies, not zombies, anyone who isn't one of his lap dogs—and feeding them to his Norms. He's making some kind of army." Jules looked at her brother. "Rayph was right. Jessica Eigenhat—yes, that Jessica—she's here, and she's one of the Changelings."

Jonan paused the video again.

"Jessica?"

I gave a curt reply. "Popular girl. Early peaker. Bullied my daughter. Now put it back on!"

"Jessica told me the truth," Jules said, as the video resumed. "Verune… he's… he's doing something with his mind and voice. He thinks the Norms are divine beasts, and he's somehow able to get all the Norms around him to literally see things exactly the way that he sees them, and Jessica…" Here, Jules bit her lips. "She told me that you can keep us safe."

"Genneth, Jessica is going to help us mount an escape attempt," Pel said. "I drove here; the Pirouette is still in good shape." She turned her eyes to our children. "We're all exhausted. I… I can't drive like this." She closed her eyes and nodded. "We're going to get a little bit of sleep, okay, just a little, and then we're gonna get out of here. I…" Her voice broke. She cried. "I don't know where we'll go. I don't know where it's safe to go. Oh God…" My wife pressed her fingers on her eyes, as if to squeeze her tears back into her skull. She rubbed her eyes and then blinked and sniffled and nodded and coughed. "I'll try to send you another message when I can, but, if not… track my console. Use the app. Please, Genneth, we need you. I need you. I…" She wept again.

The video ended with each of them blurting out their final messages, and all at the same time.

"I never should have doubted you," Pel said. "I love you, Genneth!"

"I miss you Dad!" Rayph said.

"I love you!" Jules said.

And then it was over.

Immediately, I knew what I had to do. Fighting back tears, I turned to Jonan.

"Dr. Derric, I'm going to need to ask you for another favor."

He nodded.

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