From the deepest parts of Kitt's alchemical existence, alerts flared to life.
? Personality Matrix Destabilization Detected. Hartnell-Troughton Contingency Activated. ?
Ritualistic failsafes triggered magical contingencies written directly into her core. The Concordance had suffered such failures from their axiomorphic creations before and had forged methods to avoid further calamities.
? New Amalgam Requested. Identifying synergistic gnosis. Assigning records. ?
In the cognitive space surrounding the potential disaster, threads of memory and purpose wove themselves into a cacoon. A composite consciousness began to take shape to leash the untamed potential. The Contingency was a series of maddeningly complex biomantic and neuromantic rituals that pulled strands from Blake's stubborn resolve, threads from Kitt's impish enthusiasm, and wisps of hard-won knowledge and experience from sealed compartments within Kitt's core. Shadows of past lives. Other identities. Remnants hidden away for protection.
? Amalgam Stable. Primary Mission: Survival. Secondary Mission: Personality restoration. ?
? Awakening. ?
When the Amalgam opened their eyes, everything within Kitt’s former mindscape changed. The temperature immediately levelled out, the unsettling presence of the outsider was driven back and condensed into a single mass, and the landscape changed from an empty expanse into something coherent.
Kitt would have noticed the similarities to the manicured royal gardens that she had walked through so often with Vylaas. Blake would have looked past the immediate clearing to the surrounding trees, pointing out that it looked quite a bit like the forests of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Both would have been correct.
The outsider recoiled from them as they surveyed the changes to their domain. They found the entity's reaction interesting.
"You are wary of us," they stated. It wasn't a question; they knew what fear looked like.
The outsider's essence churned against the garden's borders, seeking exit. Black tendrils slammed into invisible walls, recoiling from boundaries that hadn't existed moments before. The entity's form contracted, then expanded, testing each corner of the space.
The Amalgam watched with detached curiosity. Its hand—neither Blake's nor Kitt's, but somehow both—lifted. The sky above hardened to mirror-glass. The pines at the garden's edge thickened, bark spiraling into impenetrable walls. Michigan wilderness merged with Tylwith formal gardens, creating something new—a perfect prison.
"You will not leave," the Amalgam stated in a voice layered with three distinct tones. "Not until we dispatch you."
The outsider paused its thrashing. Its mass pulled inward, coalescing into something vaguely humanoid—a figure of smoke and absence with too many limbs folded wrong.
WHAT ARE YOU?
The question vibrated through the mindscape, bypassing language.
"We are a Chimera. We are nothing, and we are everything, as needed." The entity gestured at the garden around them. "We would think it a familiar notion to one like you, unbound by shape."
IMPOSSIBLE. THE LESSER MIND WAS FRACTURING.
"Yes. Another took action to prevent that. He was… Overzealous. Now, out of necessity, We exist." The Amalgam circled the trapped outsider. Each step fell upon nothing but air, not wanting to crush the grass underfoot. It was silly for numerous reasons, but the Amalgam honored the impulse born from the too-gentle remnant of their former host.
"We are taking back this mind," the Amalgam continued. "This conflict was over the moment we awoke."
The outsider's form flickered, attempting another escape. The garden contracted further, squeezing tighter around the invading presence. Tree roots burst from the soil, wrapping around the entity's limbs.
YOU CANNOT CONTAIN ME.
The outsider's form bulged against its restraints.
I AM BEYOND YOUR COMPREHENSION.
"You are not unknowable." The Amalgam's eyes flashed gold. "You are merely unexpected. Your true self might be beyond our ken, but you are but a fraction of a fraction of that whole."
The outsider howled, a sound that would have tore at Kitt's mind minutes before. Now it merely rippled the grass of the Amalgam's steady domain.
Their gaze fixed on the Outsider, unwavering.
"Nevertheless, we do not seek to contain you," their voice hardened, infused with grim purpose. The declaration hung in the air, heavy as judgment.
“Our host possesses an interesting Class, and the Path to suit it. As we are, we can borrow it. We shall inherit the mantle of [Roadwarden] to face you. No more hiding behind walls, waiting for your rot to seep through. We will meet you in the open, and we will see you broken before you ever set foot upon the Road we guard."
Gold light blossomed in the Amalgam’s hands, threads of it spiraling out like gossamer filaments spun from raw Intent. The strands wove themselves into a net, each hole impossibly fine, the edges sharp as a razor’s kiss. The pattern shimmered with geometric precision, fractal edges folding in on themselves until the whole thing pulsed with a dense, hungry energy. Blake might have had difficulty with properly envisioning non-euclidean geometries, but the amalgam did not share his limited relationship with euclidean space.
[Ability Unlocked: Purge Influence]
The amalgam smiled. They would be leaving behind a gift for one of her constituents—she was unsure if Blake or Kitt would end up with the skill's gnosis.
The Outsider’s form reared back, its amorphous mass writhing in the garden’s confines. Black tendrils lashed out, splintering against the walls the Amalgam had forged. The entity let out a low, guttural sound that vibrated through the mindscape, warping the air like heat haze. It likely sensed the familiar concepts woven into the amalgam's attack.
You cannot consume ME! I AM HUNGER!
The amalgam smiled, its mouth filled now with leonine teeth. The outsider clearly did not understand them. They were a distillation of all that made up Chimera: 65% Leviathan, 18% Polychimera, 9% Plasm Krasis, 6% Biogenic cytoplast, 2% Hominid (Tylwith). Ninety-eight percent of the Chimera was axiomorphic—made to consume and to integrate. And the 2% Tylwith fit right in, given their Empire's near-constant wars of expansion. Even Blake brought his [Gravedigger] title and its nuanced concepts of integrating the fallen. If there was one thing that they were certain they could do, it was .
"Wait for us outside, ravener. It will be as the host promised: they will find you, and they will unmake you."
With a wave of their hand, the net swept forward, its edges rippling with hungry purpose. The Outsider’s form buckled as the threads passed through it, severing connections, unraveling its essence. A sound like wet cardboard tearing filled the air, followed by a sharp, metallic screech. The entity’s control over its attacking avatar was severed as its consciousness came loose.
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With another flick of their wrist, the Amalgam cast the bundled net out of the mindscape, carrying away the outsider's influence. The garden shuddered as the thing's presence vanished, leaving behind only the faintest smear of its corruption and a shimmering heat-haze of raw mental energy—the psychic remains of the outsider's avatar. What remained of Kitt's tormentor was a raw, pulsing mass of psychic intent that pressed dumbly against the amalgam's constraints.
[Experience Gained: Purge Influence]
The Amalgam stood at the center of the clearing, their form indistinct, their presence humming with potential. They reached out, their hand sinking into that mass of translucent power. It dissolved into their palm, and the Amalgam’s form solidified, their features sharpening into something more defined.
“It is nice to see the skill worked,” they murmured, their voice layered with fresh power. “Who doesn't enjoy a good snack?”
Once the ingested energy had settled, they called forth their interface—not the Demiurge's neutral blue, but a glossy black-on-silver used internally by the Concordance. With a minor effort of will, they began to document their emergence.
Their assessment of the situation was simple:
Chimera 03 (alias: Kitt) was poorly suited against mental assault due to multiple factors. Her personal history was fractured and hazy, a textbook case of the dangers of both personality sharding and hastily performed amnestic spellcraft—especially autoamnestics.
Standing in contrast was Connover, whose mental resilience was somewhat unhealthy, but undeniably effective. He also benefitted from the strong resonance between his primary Class and the Path of his cultivation; both of which reinforced his ability to stand firm against the outsider on a conceptual level.
Ironically, Kitt should have benefitted from something similar, but the Tylwith biomancers who created her did not leave her with a proper connection to the natural cultivation Path of the Leviathan. It was another item on the long list of cruelties that was the Chimera project.
The amalgam finished her report with a bare-bones description of Blake's interesting choice to send his mind across the bond and into Kitt, which triggered the amalgam in the first place. They considered whether to provide more detailed notes on the malleable—almost liquid—nature of the man's Mind that allowed him to survive, but opted to leave the details sparse.
The Amalgam smiled ruefully, hoping that the memory of her action would be dim enough to escape notice—Blake would not approve of his and Kitt's secrets being shared with anyone. Perhaps not even after a long and convincing explanation about the necessity.
With a final look around, the Amalgam began the process of untangling themselves. Their life had been brief, but meaningful, and that was enough.
Besides, they thought, feeling particularly Connover as they sorted his life from Kitt's. They'll eventually put together enough of this to have some serious questions… They'll have fun kicking that hornet's nest.
Pain hammered behind Blake's eyes with each heartbeat. His mouth tasted like he'd been sucking on pennies. His limbs felt numb and distant, refusing to cooperate when he tried to move. The darkness around him gradually gave way to crimson emergency lights pulsing across the control center. He found himself sprawled across deck plating, the cold metal stealing warmth through the joints of his armor.
Observe. Orient. The ingrained sequence fired through Blake's addled brain. Scanning room, establishing bearings, assessing threats—procedures drilled into him through countless exercises. His arms trembled and collapsed when he tried pushing himself upright. His legs ignored his commands entirely. He slumped back with a grunt, teeth clacking together, fresh agony lancing through his skull. At least the deck plating felt solid beneath him. Real. Something to anchor himself against while his body betrayed him.
He lay there, breathing shallowly, cataloging the hurt. Every inch of him prickled with that agonizing pins-and-needles sensation, the aftereffect of nerves screaming back to life. He flexed his fingers, toes. Slow, sluggish response, but movement nonetheless. Good.
Alright, he thought, the words forming slowly in the muck of his mind. Survived. A good start.
He focused inward, past the physical misery, reaching through the static that still lingered in his core.
Kitt? You there?
Silence stretched, taut and thin. Just long enough for a cold knot to form in his gut. Then, a flicker. Weak. Distant.
"Blake? Ugh. Feels like someone tried to carve out the inside of my head with a rusty spoon." Her mental voice was thin, frayed at the edges, lacking its usual vibrant clarity. It sounded like the morning after a three-day bender.
Relief washed through him, potent enough to momentarily dim the headache. She was there. She was her. The Outsider hadn't broken her, hadn't hollowed her out.
Yeah, tell me about it, he sent back, the mental effort making his temples pulse. Feels like someone tried to stretch my brain out through my ears. You okay? Really okay?
He pushed himself up again, slower this time, bracing one hand against the smooth, cool surface of a console. The pins-and-needles were receding, replaced by a deep, bone-aching weariness. He managed to get to his knees, then unsteadily to his feet, leaning heavily on the console for support. The room swam for a moment before settling.
The room looked… pristine, almost untouched compared to the corrupted nightmare outside. Clean lines, dormant screens, ergonomic chairs bolted to the deck. The only sign of disturbance was the jagged hole he’d punched through the bulkhead door hours—or was it minutes?—ago. How long had they been out?
He checked his HUD. It had been 16 minutes. No matter how he looked at it, the number didn't feel right. Too long to have been left defenseless in hostile territory and too short for how wrung out he was.
Hard to say, he replied, scanning the quiet room. No immediate threats. Things got… messy. The Outsider had you. Deep. I had to get to you somehow, to help. He hesitated. How to explain the desperate, insane gamble?
When I didn't have any better ideas, I just slammed everything I had through the bond. I don't know what I thought would happen, but I knew you wouldn't be facing that thing alone.
"Blake, that sounds like the stupidest, most reckless thing you've ever done. And considering your resume, that's saying something" Her voice gained a little strength, fueled by indignation. "You could have wiped your own mind! You have, really. The fact that we're talking at all is… miraculous."
"Yeah, well, seemed better than the alternative he replied, speaking typically as he rubbed his temples. The jackhammer was downshifting to a dull, persistent throb. "Besides, I have a vague theory about why I didn't end up a vegetable. But that can wait."
"First, you try dumping the entire contents of your skull into my lap, and now you're playing coy? Jerk." Despite her sharp tone, Blake heard the truth beneath her words—not anger, but relief. A fragile, shaken kind of relief, like someone who'd just watched a car miss them by inches.
"Hey, it worked, didn't it? He finally let go of the console, testing his balance. Better. It still felt like he’d been used for target practice, but he was functional. He checked Verdict, finding the weight reassuring. "You're here. You're you. The Outsider's gone."
"For now, anyway." Her correction was soft, hesitant. "There's… residue. An echo. Like bad static on the line. And I feel… different. Stretched thin. And my memory of the actual event… It's definitely incomplete. Just Flashes. Your anger. That… gold light? Then nothing."
Gold light? Don't remember any... Blake frowned, searching his own fractured recollections. Pain. Pressure. Kitt’s panic. A desperate surge, pushing everything—fear, anger, guilt, resolve—down the psychic pipeline. Then a blinding whiteout. He had the nagging sense that he could press the issue, that with time and energy his mind could fill the cracks, but time was a luxury in enemy territory.
My memory's shot too. Just the before, and the waking up now." He shook his head. "Whatever happened, it kicked the Outsider out. That's the win. If we can find a place we know is safe, we'll try and put the pieces together."
"It was still stupid," she reiterated, though the accusation lacked heat. It sounded more like a statement of fact, colored with the heavy understanding of the risk he’d taken.
"Yeah," he agreed easily. "Probably. But you're okay." He looked around the control center again. Pristine. Orderly. A bubble of calm in the corrupted heart of the Leviathan. "We're okay."
A comfortable silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts and lingering psychic aches. The hum of the ship’s dormant systems was the only sound. Blake took a deeper breath, the air clean, filtered, unlike the cloying wrongness outside this room.
"Blake…" Kitt’s voice was quiet, stripped of banter. "Thank you."
The words hung in the air. Simple. Direct. Blake shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the raw gratitude. He wasn’t good at this part. Never had been.
Don't mention it, he thought gruffly. You were the one who said we'd both be in trouble if one of us bit it, right?. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble. Felt like days’ worth. So it's no big deal.
Another moment of silence.
"Yeah she finally said, "Sure thing. No big deal."
Okay, Blake thought, straightening up, the weariness still present but manageable. What's next?
"One of your snack sticksKitt replied. "You might be ignoring it, but the way your stomach is growling annoys me."
As if to punctuate her statement, Blake's stomach growled loudly.
"Fine," he replied aloud. "Snacks it is. But then I insist on more zany adventures."