Maccus felt himself gently dangling in the air. He heard the hisses and whirs and clanks of machinery. A bright light was shining in his face, blinding him. Was this some sort of factory?

His head throbbed as he tried to remember what had happened. Terrorists. Protesters. Giyxa. Paid to shoot. A mi-go. Go-iig. Bloody psychopathic insect.

Something suddenly jabbed him in the shoulder.

The one that Go-iig shot.

If he wasn’t fully awake before, the jolt of pain he felt would have certainly snapped him to full attention.

His wrists and ankles were all tied together. He was hanging from a meathook, his knees and elbows touching, his wings swaying underneath him. Everything was upside-down. In front of him stood a rust-coloured wingless star-spawn wearing a fancy black suit and tie. The last person that he wanted to see.

“Drekkh,” he cursed.

“I am very disappointed in you, Maccus,” Drekkh said. “I thought I could count on your loyalty, especially with the money I had on the table for you. But Go-iig here tells me that you tried to defend the activists who dared smear our company name.”

“They were just protesters,” Maccus said.

“Not ‘just protesters.’ Some of them are former employees. Like that pink one, what was her name, Giyxa? She used to work in financing, until we fired her for raising too many concerns about our income and spending. She knows far too much about the inner workings of our company. Imagine the damage that would’ve been caused if she had just let the words fly through her tentacles.”

“So this is how you plan to cover your tracks? By killing her?”

“We didn’t want to resort to violence, but when she put together that protest group, and started drawing from our active employees, we knew we had to uproot the plant before it flowered.” Drekkh turned away, but continued speaking, “Of course, thanks to that little stunt you pulled, people are going to start spreading rumors, and rumors can lead to PR disasters. My superiors aren’t going to be happy when they hear about this mess. Fortunately, I’ve come up with a story to help restore good faith in our company, and you’re going to help me with it.”

Maccus glared at Drekkh. “And why should I?” he asked.

“Because you don’t have a choice. And besides, if you had just done your job, no questions, no hesitation, you wouldn’t be here now.”

CLANK!

The hook carried Maccus away from the light, into darkness. 

He tried to squirm and pull himself free. No good. The rope was tied tight. What else could he try? Flight? Too difficult, with his wings upside down. Magic? He wasn’t especially skilled at it, but it was worth a shot. 

He snapped his fingers, hoping to conjure a fireball, an explosion, anything.

Snap!

A few sparks flew from his hand, but nothing else.

Snap!

The same result.

Snap! Snap!

Maccus looked up at the rope, and saw that it had a series of runes burned into it, which glowed yellow every time he snapped his fingers. A magic block. He was powerless.

CLANK!

The hook stopped moving. He was underneath another spotlight. Below him was a square tub, filled with a cold, clear-blue slime. In front of him was a machine with a long, thin, silver barrel, which shifted up and down as it calibrated. Go-iig was standing in front of a control panel, tapping at the buttons with the tendrils that protruded from its claws.

“Ready to cut wing,” Go-iig said.

“‘Cut wing?’” Maccus gasped. “You wouldn’t--”

Drekkh walked out of the darkness, and stood next to Go-iig. “You know, when I was little, a lot of the older kids bullied me for not having wings of my own. So my gnaiih, bless his soul, taught me a valuable lesson: if a winger’s giving you trouble, bring them down your level.

“Now, this machine that you’re tied to was built to cut apart gl’yob’s. You know, those spiky four-legged creatures that cough up balls of milk. But I’m sure it’ll do just as good a job at clipping the wings off of a star-spawn. And don’t worry, I will personally see to it that they are donated to the local hospital.”

Maccus struggled desperately to break free, repeatedly flapping his wings. No avail. “Damn you!” he exclaimed. 

“Oh, ‘damn me.’ Is that the best threat you can utter?”

“You monster. One day, I’ll defeat you, and then I will toss you into a black hole so deep, not even your soul will escape. I swear to the Mists!”

Drekkh’s beard of tentacles curved upward into a sadistic grin. “Much better,” he said. He then turned to the mi-go beside him. “Start cutting. And be delicate. If the wings suffer too much damage, the hospital won’t accept them, and we’ll have to sell them on the black market for cheap.”

“You sure I do not give sedative?” Go-iig asked.

“No sedative. I want him to suffer every moment of it.”

“Will make cut not easy. He may squirm. Wings may be damaged.”

“Fair point. Luckily, I have a solution to that problem.”

Drekkh snapped his fingers, and a yellow light flew from him to Maccus. The captive mercenary felt his body go limp. He couldn’t move a single muscle.

“A puppetry spell,” Drekkh explained. “Your body is completely under my control. Tell me Maccus, how does it feel, knowing that your faith in the Mist does nothing for you here?”

Maccus couldn’t speak, even if he wanted to.

“Alright, we’re going to start the machine now. If you have any last objections, wave your claw. Specifically, your left pointer.”

He didn’t wave. He knew it wouldn’t have mattered, even if he could.

Drekkh nodded at Go-iig, and it pressed another button.

From the barrel, the machine shot out a red, continuous laser beam, which slowly inched toward Maccus. He could hear its loud hum, as well as the sizzling noise it made as it burned the wall behind him.

“Head in way of cut,” Go-iig pointed out.

Drekkh sighed as he held out his hand, and raised a single claw. Against his own volition, Maccus raised his head enough to avoid the laser.

First came the hair tendrils that hung in the laser’s path. Maccus could smell his hair burning, but it hardly hurt.

Then the laser reached the base of his wings. Maccus felt an intense, searing pain as each wing was burned off of his back, and they fell into the cooling slime below. He tried to scream, but he could barely manage a soft whine.

The machine shut off, and Drekkh released Maccus from his spell.

CLANK!

Maccus gasped as he regained control of his body. His back hurt, his wrists hurt, his shoulder still hurt, everything hurt. The machine carried him away once again, stopping under yet another spotlight.

CLANK!

Drekkh walked back up to him, the most grim and sinister smile spread across his face.

“Look on the bright side,” Drekkh said in a sickeningly sweet voice. “Imagine the joy on little Tih’mee’s face when he hears that they’ve received a donation for his wing surgery.” He then whispered into Maccus’s ear, his voice laden with cruelty, “I don’t think I need to tell you this, but don’t even think of crawling back to work for Star Harvest in the future. And if you tell anyone about this, rest assured, we can and will do much worse.”

Drekkh jumped up to deliver a piercing kick into Maccus’s back, knocking him out.

Maccus was alone in an alley, lying in a puddle. It was raining. He could feel every drop as it pelted his skin, every wisp of blood as it fumed from his back, out of the stumps that had once been wings. Or perhaps it was smoke from the burn? He wasn’t sure.

He faced upwards, towards the grey sky. He could see the trail of fumes as they swirled up from his body, blending into the sea of clouds above him.

So this is my life, he thought. No matter how much faith I put in the Mist, just when things look up, it always turns straight back down. Is this my punishment for turning to crime? But... we needed the money. What other choice did I have? Sell the shrine? Without that, we’d have no place to go. Mother would...

Mother. I never told her... How could I tell her? If she knew the things I had to do for that money, she almost certainly wouldn’t have taken it. She wouldn’t even let me in the door. She wouldn’t...

Maccus stopped. Here he was, lying in the mud, his life slowly fading, and the only thing he could think of was his mother. Would she be alright, with him gone? 

He coughed, and a cloud of blood vented through his tentacles.

There’s only one thing I can do for her now.

He lifted a hand, wincing at the pain it caused to move, and reached into his jacket. He felt around until he found his bauble. He pulled it out, held it over his heart, and continued to stare up at the fumes as they formed into a cloud.

He closed his eyes, and silently made his final prayer.

Mist... please forgive me, for the crimes I have committed... the many lives I have cut short... please... let my mother find peace and happiness... don’t let her lose the shrine... without me or the money, it’ll be all she has left... please... protect her...

As he finished, he looked up again at the cloud. It was becoming larger, and closer, and it was slowly enveloping him.

At least the white mists make for a pretty last image...

He slowly let his eyes fall closed.

Do not give up yet, my child.

He snapped them back open.

The rain had stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the silhouette of someone gracefully walking through the mists, towards him. They knelt beside him, and placed a hand on his chest. 

His heart was still beating.

Maccus was carefully lifted off the ground, and cradled against their chest.

He saw the face of the most beautiful star-spawn ever to have existed, wearing a dress made of silk spun from clouds.

Words entered his mind, spoken with a melodious voice he could not even begin to describe:

You love your mother dearly, and Star Harvest has many crimes to atone for. I will honour your prayer, Maccus. But in return, you will do something for me.

Anything, Maccus’s thoughts responded. Just please protect her.

I will.

Maccus felt himself being gently laid down against cool stone. It felt oddly familiar.

Now rest.

The Mist vanished as Maccus lost consciousness.

It was warm.

He felt dry and thirsty.

He opened his eyes.

Maccus was in his room, tucked in his bed. The lights were dim. He was confused. What happened? Was it all a dream?

He sat up, feeling the soothing warmth of the bandages on his shoulder. He recognized the runes on them, and their pulsing blue glow. His mother’s work.

He tried to stretch his wings, as he always did when he woke up. He groaned in pain, and reached behind him to find that he only had a pair of bandaged stubs.

It wasn’t a dream. It really happened. All of it.

Maccus stood up, and stumbled out of his room.

His mother was in the kitchen, patching a hole in Maccus’s shirt. The one that he had worn when Go-iig shot him.

She saw Maccus enter, put his shirt down, and immediately flew over to embrace him. “Maccus!” she cried. “Thank the Mist you’re okay!”

Maccus held onto his mother tightly. He did not want to let go. “How did I get here?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said in between sobs. “I was in the kitchen when I heard a noise. I went downstairs, and I found you lying against the statue of the Mist. So I brought you up, and-- what happened to your eye?”

“My eye?”

Maccus ran to the bathroom, and looked into the mirror. His left eye was now glowing white, with a moving pattern of swirling clouds in the iris.

Clouds of mist.

In return, you will do something for me. 

“I think the Mist and I have a common enemy,” Maccus said.

Star Harvest has many crimes to atone for.

“What are you talking about?” his mother cried. “What happened to you? I pulled a silver bullet out of your shoulder! What did you do...” She saw the worried look on Maccus’s face, and struggled to calm herself. “No... No, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

Maccus came out of the bathroom, and leaned against the kitchen table. “I don’t want to tell you,” he said. “But I should.”

His mother tenderly put a hand over his unbandaged shoulder. “Then sit down. I’ll make us some tea, and you can tell me everything you need to.”

And so he sat.

And he told her everything.