The trunk split into at least twenty tentacles, each razor-thin as they whipped out in every direction to crack stone and shatter glass.

  I ducked. The concrete cover of a two-foot-high planter box was an honest to God blessing. But ducking this low brought me face to face with a disembodied hand holding a pistol. The smell of iron in the air suddenly felt overwhelming. From thereon, fear was the primary motivator, the primary emotion, the primary thing taking up space in my awareness.

  Shit. Shit!

  Ghost-Elise was screaming like a banshee. Something whooshed over my head. Then I was missing hair and oh boy did that mean I wasn’t channeling any joy anytime soon. The one charged cast of [Arms & Arms proficiency] was all I could count on. But when was the best time to use it?

  The distant scitter-scatter of 1.5kg and 3kg mimics made me tend towards ‘maybe sooner than I’d like’.

  With a few cracks of my Toothpick I seared neat little holes in the cloying fog, and in a handful of mimics too. Ted was taking potshots at the big tentacle-whip tree whenever some of its arms pointing in our direction were busy coiling back up for another strike.

  “I can crack the damn egg if you give me a second, but I’m godsdamned pinned over here,” he yelled, flinching as a tentacle came close, sending concrete shrapnel everywhere. One whip tentacle got stuck in the stone, and in that brief moment I recognized the teething on their whipcord. These belonged to the same type of tumbleweed mimics that had chased us on the way to the evacuation zone. That meant its weakness was the core.

  I peeked over my cover. Indeed, at the center of the former tree there was a knot of multiple tendrils curled protectively around what had to be its weakspot. Hitting that with the bazooka would be easy, but I would have to expose an uncomfortable amount of my body for a few seconds, and that was all it would take to turn me into ground meat.

  Ghost-Elise was less than useful. Nobody but me could see her frantically trying to run, or how a whipcord strike went clean through her.

  “Oh god, oh god!” she yelled.

  The constant movement was distracting my rearward eyes.

  The whipcracks were coming erratically now instead of waves. It made it harder to get up without risking losing my head. The odd mimic tried to come from behind, but they were all small variants. They didn’t have enough force to overwhelm us, and we didn’t have enough protection to risk popping our head out for a clean shot. We were at an impasse.

  So why? Why did it plant its core down instead of rolling over us like a scene straight out of Indiana Jones?

  I had a hunch that it was fused with its surroundings for a simple reason: It was doing the same thing the little effigies embedded into the mortar of Clem’s house were doing; that is, it was stabilizing the ward.

  The damn whipcords were fast. But I had a plan. A risky plan. A stupidly risky plan. But if this mimic was the only one holding the ward together, it was worth taking.

  All it required was a moment of ridiculous, stupid bravery.

  “On my mark, I’ll get you an opening and you shoot the core!” I yelled at Ted, who had just finished reloading.

  He looked at me like I was crazy.

  “One, two… go!”

  I got up on both legs, gripping my bazooka in two arms, hefting it above my head. A tiny mimic tried to jump at me from where it had disguised itself as a discarded softdrink. I shot it with my Toothpick, three quick hipfire cracks turning it into a smear of mimic gunk.

  I could dang near feel the attention of the 75kg mimic descend on me like a physical weight. Its collection of tooth-tendril limbs curled back like an octopus’ tentacle ready to punch me into the next life.

  Not that I could expect to have much of one, with my revives at a solid zero.

  A whip of air and solid mimic limbs hurtled through the air. They cut down, cleanly, at a ninety degree angle. Its aim was just slightly off center, but was still likely to hit me in the collar bone. Just as I’d expected.

  My trap was ready.

  The weight of the attack smashed my launcher down into my hands. For a moment, it was as if I was holding the world. Then the attack slid off, courtesy of the slight angle I was holding it at, and slammed into the ground.

  My sinews burned from the impact. But the hit was deflected.

  The second one came just as the previous one whipped into the ground beside me. It wasn’t nearly as easy to deflect as the first one. I felt, then heard it crack against the metal, my reinforced launcher screeching in agony as the jagged whip edge did terrible things to it.

  The attack was lighter. But it hit only near the end of its whipcord. The real end of it wrapped around and slashed me straight across the back, tearing a choked gasp from my lips.

  I should have anticipated a third whipcord attack.

  Arms already feeling sore, it whipped around at an angle, nearly going under my launcher shield, but I was quicker. I readjusted my stance. The hit tore the launcher out of my hands.

  Number four, where was attack number four?

  A trio of shots rang out, then another. The whole nest of whips coiled in on itself out of reflex before seizing up, then going entirely motionless.

  [Assisted in killing: 75kg Tangler Mimic - 10 Soulcoins]

  [Level up! You’ve reached level 10]

  [+1 Body, +2 Sense, +1 Free stat point, +1 Essence Slot]

  I gasped as I let myself topple against the planter bed, shivering and trying to get my heartbeat under control. To the left and right of the tangler mimic a couple smaller models skittered away pathetically.

  But that was it. There was no second tangler mimic, and no followup ambush. We won.

  H-haha! Take that you damn pink stationary object! Wo-ow that was a stupid idea. I almost died. Also, not at all worth it from a monetary standpoint.

  Did I mention that I almost died?

  I think I need a moment.

  A moment was all I got before Ted pulled me up by my extra arms.

  “That was the stupidest, most thoughtless stunt you could’ve pulled off,” he said.

  He was right, y’know. I had no idea if these whipcrack attacks couldn’t just shear through the reinforced metal of my bazooka. I bet on the fact that they were many, but individually relatively light, without the weight or muscle to get more than a shallow cut in before skidding off. It would’ve been a different case if they had wrapped around the launcher like they had with the car earlier. But it wasn’t. I gambled and I won.

  Elise… Elise was off to the side, hiding under the same coffee table as before. Ted was not amused. I withered under his gaze.

  “But you pulled it off.” He scoffed and shook his head. “Damn girl, what do they feed you magical girls, magical bricks and steroids?”

  I blushed, clearing my throat with the one hand that wasn’t still vibrating from the aftershocks.

  “Coffee and brownies, Sir. I also have stats.”

  “Like a videogame?”

  “A percentage modifier on the baseline that is my body, senses, mind, et cetera. Come to think of it, does that mean I’d get more out of my stats if I trained to become more buff?”

  Ted just gave me a look like he thought I was cheating.

  “I-it might already factor that in. No need to worry, I’m not going to become some superhuman monster that easily.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that, for the record,” he grunted, finally taking the time to reload as I covered his back the way he had covered mine. “Apologies ‘bout calling you a monster earlier. I was a bit of an outcast in school too, y’know.”

  I tripped over nothing and barely caught myself. “Apology accepted. Let me guess, it was because of your charming personality.”

  He snorted. “It’s ‘cause little Ted was fat. Then little Ted became Big Ted. I got called to the principal for dumping asshole kids in the recycling bins head-first on three separate occasions. Suspended too.”

  “Worth it?”

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  He grinned. “Absolutely. Now, come, we have some missing people to find.”

  Some days that would have inspired an uneasy set of emotions within me. The thought that I should let someone else handle it, because I was evidently not the right person for the job came like a reflex. But the string of events that started yesterday and ended right where I was standing now were too many to be coincidences.

  I am a magical girl. I am the right one for the job.

  Take that insecurities! I have a sign that proves for a fact that I’m good enough, as long as I keep this string of victories running and beat the odds again, and again, and again.

  If only stress were an emotion you could cast spells with.

  … it’s been less than a day since I started being a magical girl.

  I want to collapse in a soft bed and sleep for a week.

  But the world wouldn’t let me. The nightmare warbled a bit as the echoes of the tangler’s death rang out through it, and its edges did seem to grow more see-through. But then something reasserted its control over the space, rendering the entire mall sharp as glass. Gone was the yawning darkness inside trees that probably led to a different planet. Gone was the mist, revealing gory smears and abandoned food and commodities in droves.

  [Ward strength has been modified.]

  [Warning! Teleportation network connection lost.]

  [Warning! Shop connection lost.]

  [Warning! Danger estimate of ward under re-evaluation.]

  I tried not to puke out of nervousness. I succeeded, mostly, but the bite of acid reflux was clawing at the back of my throat, and fear was winding around my neck like a noose.

  Those smears and scattered limbs could have been me.

  Ted didn’t look any more comfortable either. His body was rigid, eyes scanning booths and hallways for possible threats. I ought to keep four eyes out too. The glorified whip-anemone hadn’t cast a single spell. Whatever created that illusion was still out there. And I’d have to fight it with exactly the equipment that I still had on me.

  All my guns were accounted for. I had nine full battery packs, seven acid canisters, and a smattering of three high explosive and four other bazooka rounds.

  A clattering sound set me whirling towards the nearest burger joint and wow, the cut on my back really didn’t like that. Ow.

  Would’ve been way worse without the armor.

  I gave Ghost-Elise a look. “You can come with us if you’d like.”

  “Fuck you!”

  I sighed and looked to Ted. “What?”

  “Illusion?”

  “Ghost of a friend. I can see dead people.”

  Now he looked even more disturbed than before. “Of course. Let’s move. I’ll take point.”

  Yeah. Don’t you forget Sam. You’re weird no matter where you go. Focus on the path ahead.

  Ow, my back. Another beating like this might fold me like origami.

  Without a break, I slotted in behind and to the side of him. Shattered glass and scattered fries crunched in mute tones beneath our feet. There was a lot of red in this place, lots of spilled ketchup.

  Yeah, keep telling that to yourself.

  A couple paces away from the counter, he gave the signal to halt. If he wanted me to cover him from here then I was happy to oblige. I could do cover.

  The air was crisp, turning sharp as I felt the adrenaline course through my veins. He stared ahead, took in a few loud breaths, then rounded the counter in three even steps.

  His gun stayed raised for a brief moment. Pointedly, he did not shoot.

  “You real?” he asked the space behind it.

  There was a whimpered noise that did not at all sound like a mimic. I checked my flanks and back, then stalked forward, clambering over the counter only to meet the eyes of a disheveled college student.

  My age, roughly. He almost had as much blood on his face as me too.

  His eyes were threatening to pop out of their sockets and his breathing was picking up.

  I gave him a friendly wave with my Toothpick hand. “Heya, do you need medical assistance?”

  “Samantha, try not to loom over the hostage. You’re disturbing him.”

  I blinked. The ‘hostage’ — his name tag read ‘Felix’ beneath all the crusted blood — was busy staring holes into my face, which was pretty rude because—

  Ah crap. I didn’t remove my extra pair of eyes. “Right. Sorry.”

  It was a bit of a bummer having it said so bluntly. Was I really that terrible to look at? A quick look at the nearest reflection in a window said that I had four arms and four eyes plus two black beads on the back of my neck, but I was still recognizably me.

  Why did crawling over the counter feel so right? People didn’t crawl over counters. It was one of those things that got you stared at, then thrown out of any establishment, even a McDonalds.

  There may be unintentional side effects of having my soul merged with an alien spider leg.

  “They’re not real,” I heard the terrified guy mutter. “It’s not real, none of it is, I know, I saw it, I—”

  “Was there anybody else with you?” Ted asked gruffly.

  Silence.

  “Where are the other people?”

  “Kitchen. Storage room. Hiding.” He made a sound like a choked laugh. “Oh god, we’re all gonna die.”

  He was telling the truth. If I concentrated I could hear the quiet shuffle of cloth coming through the back. The mimics had evidently marked them as non-threats at best, and obstacles to use against me at worst. If the barrier finished its internal spell, they’d all be terraformed anyhow. Turned into mimic goop.

  “No we’re not,” Ted said matter-of-factly. “Samantha, I’ll handle him, go and check our flanks?”

  That was code for ‘go do something useful’.

  I stepped out of the fast food joint, making sure there weren’t any objects suspiciously out of place. The nightmare rumbled, ominously.

  “System, how much time do we have left?”

  [Time until terminal terraforming event: 17min]

  I hissed through my teeth. That was not a lot. We still had to find the caster-creature to blow this dang ward sky high. It just had to hide, which was pretty friggin’ easy given that it could turn into any inanimate object in the entire mall. And there were a lot of objects; between gumball machines, app-powered massage chairs, scattered planters, construction materials and equipment, signs warning about construction areas and massive savings, wet floors, food court chairs, tables, parasols, and kiosks, it was impossible to find the right one.

  Which one is it? The mimic knows magic, so it’s probably not a 1.5 or 3kg variant. Maybe something as large as a leaper, maybe a bit bigger. It’s magic focused, so it can’t be too big, and its spell was strong enough to create an illusion out of an entire storefront and also keep itself hidden while doing so. Wait, can it turn invisible? And if it can cast spells, then is it using a similar method as magical girls, er, Custodians?

  Can a mimic even feel emotions?

  [16 min remaining]

  Focus, c’mon, wrong approach. You can’t figure out the real one by guessing, that’s a given. You can’t blast everything; there’s not enough ammo.

  A single bead of sweat ran past my brow.

  How do you get a mimic to reveal itself?

  Shoot it. Kill it. Get close enough to be ambushed by it. Those were the three answers I came up with.

  But looking at the smoking remains of the false tree, then towards a fire alarm still blaring in the distance from when I’d been lighting up all those would-be mimics, a spark approaching lunacy lit in my mind. I had an idea. And because it just might work, I ignored the part of my brain that said this was a terrible idea to do in an enclosed area, that I was going to get us all killed or worse, waste my time and then get turned into a mimic.

  I started lighting things on fire.

  First the women’s clothes store. It featured lots of organic and inorganic fabrics which caught fire after only a single Toothpick laser. After that came what was left of the trees, a single shot enough to set their crowns alight. Then I tampered with the electrical system, my system-system helpfully telling me which buttons to flick to cause an electrical fire.

  I stood in front of the arcade, the perfect collection of plastic, wires, rubber, and some really old carpet that was all waiting for a spark, and hesitated. I used to go here on days when school was out early to keep my high scores. Everything from Dance Dance Revolution to Street Fighter to the goofy-ass VR whack-a-mole was filled with memories, and I was going to let it all go up in flames.

  We went on our first date here, Becca and I. It was terrible. We played my favorite games. She was so bad at them. I always tried to win; I didn’t realize how frustrating that must have been for her. I think Becca came out of the experience understanding what it felt like talking to herself. She always turned everything into an argument. She was good at argumentation, and conversely, I was quite terrible at it.

  [Channeling emotion: It’s complicated]

  I pursed my lips and bit back tears.

  The arcade was in flames when I left it.

  [11 min remaining]

  “Already?” I gasped.

  My sense of time was scuffed, which I blamed on a mix of stats, extra sensory bits, potions, and the constant adrenaline. I was feeling fine though, better than before even, like a weight was lifting off of my shoulders.

  [Ongoing potion rebound effects: 0]

  Oh, that’s just the potion effect stuff.

  But I was done. Everything burnable was ignited, hopefully not overwhelmed by the in-store fire extinguishing systems. The entire plan hinged on enough smoke traveling up to the big sprinklers liberally sprinkled — heh — on the ceiling five stories above me.

  Ted emerged from the food joint without the guy in tow.

  “Got about a hundred people stuffed into the kitchen, armed with knives. Boy doesn’t wanna move ‘em. Says whenever they do, the mimics start chasing them back into this place,” he said before sniffing the air. “And what have you been cooking up?”

  “A wild, insane idea that’s probably going to fail horribly and leave us all choking on carbon monoxide,” I said with a nervous laugh, craning my neck. Ted also laughed nervously.

  The sound of fire alarms from all around reached a deafening crescendo.

  Then, suddenly, I spied the first spritz of foam at the end of one of the ceiling nozzles. The creamy substance boiled out of its automatic dispensers, spraying in every direction, coating every inch of the upper floors in a slippery, soap-like substance. There were some automatic ones that worked like turrets shooting the foam at particular fires, but they were few and overwhelmed. The one thing Mayor Mendoza cheaped out on was the fire system.

  Ironically, that might just save us.

  I had a theory. The vast majority of mimics were instinctual creatures, content to hide until a hapless victim came close. They didn’t act on their own, or coordinate unless encountering a threat, or when ordered to by an elite. So, for the most part, they had to stay hidden, but still be able to observe their surroundings — not just to react to any outer impulse, but precisely so they could mimic objects better. And not just better. The imitations had to be perfect, or any opposing species would immediately notice.

  Think about it, when this whole thing started this morning the individual mimics still had a problem with figuring out that mailboxes shouldn’t be pink. Now, less than a day later, they were already perfectly adapted to imitate coffee mugs, shirts, lamp posts, the list goes on. The only thing they struggled with was printed language, because to them it was not language, it was just another pattern.

  The main deal is that they had to see to be able to see, and quite well at that. They did so with many tiny pinprick eyes, dozens and dozens covering their body in tiny pores. They were easier to see on a 1.5 ton huntsman which had hundreds, but the small ones still had them.

  And getting soapy foam in your eyes was wildly uncomfortable.

  All around, store signs warbled and wall lamps slipped off of their holsters, false plastic saplings whipped around and chairs unfolded themselves within the blink of an eye.

  Ted’s mouth hung open as a free buffet of mimics splashed into the foam, some even growing bristly, paddle-like limbs to try and scrub the soapy stuff off of their delicate ocular organs.

  Yesss, it worked! It worked great, it worked beautifully!

  I shot a few close by, cackling like an absolute madwoman as I kicked one that tried to jump at me, but failed miserably. Ted stared in disbelief, slowly returning to his professional military stance as he covered my flanks.

  [Soulcoins: 17->20]

  [Soulcoins: 32->49]

  [Soulcoins: 79->99]

  I couldn't have been any happier. The plan was a wild success. It was a magical soapy rain of friendship and fuck-you-mimics-should’ve-brought-goggles.

  Shooting the mimics up like an arcade game was so fun that I only noticed the ominous creaking when it became loud enough to bend metal.

  I looked up and behind me.

  The central piece and pride of the mall, a ten-ton chandelier, was twitching.

  ...there are still two more days of daily releases left.