I am in a cramped building that is hidden away down a twisting alleyway in a crowded warren of a city. This building has been many things over the years, but it is currently an avant-garde restaurant decorated all in stark whites, strongly at contrast with the chaotic swirl of bck and neon paint that characterizes the rest of the neighborhood.

  I do not belong here – or anywhere else this fancy – but there is something here I need.

  Unfortunately, the thing I need is in a room that's been sealed off by the most recent round of renovations. I decide to try breaking open and climbing through the ventition system. I'm in something of a hurry so I set off the fire sprinklers to get people to leave and then take the risk of using magic to try to force the vent open.

  One of the waitresses is staring at me. She keeps scratching at the left side of her torso as if she has some sort of terrible itch or rash hidden beneath her clothes.

  Another, deeper, more ominous arm sounds. This one is city wide. The great Thing in the sky will soon be here. All who are able to begin evacuating the city. I attempt too, but soon realize I cannot. I pull out my phone and call my friend to see if they can get me out of here. They have their own loved ones they need to prioritize. I understand. They wish me luck.

  The great Thing appears over the city and reality melts into surreal chaos.

  I can't shake the feeling that this is all my fault.

  In the aftermath, I return to that restaurant. The pristine interior is now a ruined mess.

  That waitress from earlier is still here, clearing the floor with a pushbroom. Once again she stares at me and scratches at her side, but says nothing.

  A wall has fallen in, revealing a short staircase to an unlocked door to the room I was seeking before. This building has been many things over the years and this room has been untouched since it was a machine shop. Steel tools remain scattered on workbenches, carts, and tables.

  This room was also the sight of a murder that nearly everyone else believes was a suicide. It was a family member of mine who died in this spot.

  It takes some searching through the mess, but I find what I'm looking for. Several tiny medicine dose sized cups still bearing the dried residue of a blue liquid. The evidence I need to close a case that everyone refused to so much as give the most cursory investigation into back when it happened.

  I exit the old machine shop and that waitress is still staring at me and scratching at her side.

  Much, much ter I am traveling through mountains on foot near an alpine ke with some close companions of mine. It is nearing dusk as we approach the torii gate marking the st stretch where the stone road becomes a rising wooden boardwalk into the small town where we'll be spending the night.

  Small, floating, ephemeral beings appear that look like spoked wheels made of light and move like jellyfish appear and try to alight upon us like curious butterflies drawn to flowers. They're charming little things and most of our party are quite endeared to them. One of my companions, a man in robes with long bck hair in a high ponytail shoos the floaters off and tells the rest of us to pay them no mind.

  As the rest of us pass through the torii gate my ponytailed friend tells the rest of us to go on ahead. There's something he needs to handle real quick but he'll catch up. Most of us give him the benefit of the doubt and continue on.

  Just after we leave him, he steps sideways into a pale mist and the world goes gray for him. There are suddenly far more of the floaters, and with sword and fme he begins to destroy them. He downpyed how dangerous these things are to the rest of us so that no one would panic. In truth these floaters drain the life from the living they touch. He is very good at what he does, but he begins to get overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

  I reappear at his side and begin ripping apart the floaters with my own violent lights, conjured with a mere gesture. This is not the first time my friend has pulled something like this, nor is it mine.

  We turn the tide and begin tracing the remaining floaters back to their source.

  We find a familiar woman in an unfamiliar dress, scratching at the side of her torso.

  I recognize her from the restaurant all that time ago and realize at long st that it was not me who brought the great Thing in the sky down upon that city, but her. Guilt becomes anger.

  The woman's side splits open and a hundred strand of thread from which the floaters are woven spill out. Her rent body twists and warps into some sort of hybrid spider creature guiding those strands of light through what is at one moment a spinning wheel and at another moment a harp.

  My friend and I steel ourselves for what is sure to be a hard battle.