Heroes of Dreamland Rewritten, Book 2: Stars in Far Places

Chapter 13

Captain | 大尉

Yuki lunges for the boy's unconscious body with her fangs bared the instant his eyes roll back in his head, but I quickly throw the same spell at her. She passes out onto his back like a puppy in a pile.

With a sigh of relief, I turn to spread out the papers on the damaged desk that still has the green receptionist pinned behind it (not hard enough to be seriously injured but enough that she won't be able to easily get out till someone moves the desk for her) and the black doctor dented into it in front. I flip through the sheets of aged parchment, making sure it looks like I've got everything I found in the old black lockbox upstairs. The old fool went so far as to charm it to try and keep others out, but the charm was broken easily enough. He had so much faith in the light magic, despite the fact that it only ever failed him.

I turn through the papers slowly, much calmer now, taking in their contents. Experimentation on the dead, the dying. Trying to figure out how to make stronger Star Warriors, Star Warriors that could survive another war, just like he always had been, but now in every desperate way he could contrive. I brush several scraps of dried-out, now-dead Dark Matter off of the parchment. It looks like in the end, even old Healmore had to acknowledge that the darkness overpowers the light.

And, according to this parchment, he discovered something he wasn't looking for at all, it appears.

I've achieved something I never intended or wanted to achieve. I've learned to make puppets from now-soulless vessels, one page reads in one spot.

Another says, I can now make puppets even from vessels that still contain living souls, even living souls that rail against the horrid good that is trying to possess them with all their might. This is why I only work with those who are certain to die within the day. Even under these conditions, it's still a grisly work, and it pains my heart and soul with every breath I take.

The guilt is agony to me, Healmore wails on another sheet, this one covered with even more tearstains than most of them are, some so intense they've blurred the ink nearly past any chance at comprehension. I cannot wash it from my soul any more than I can wash the cursed black sludge from my gloves. I can't get it out of my gloves. I can't get it out of my gloves.

I snort, amused. Pathetic as always, that dear, dodgy old Healmore.

I live in horror of what I've discovered, another page reads. Our bodies can be made to be not our own, even while we continue to inhabit them. They can be controlled by other forces within them if the right catalyst is added. Beyond that, they can be made into... things other than they are. The awful sludge can make them take whichever shape the hive mind commands, even if it is nothing like their original shape. Even the smallest child can be made into a monster of immense size and power. I know, as much as I hate myself that I can admit it. I have seen it done.

Dark Matter is a horrible thing. If someone fully commands its power... They could easily conquer the Galaxy in the matter of months, I believe, if not less. The vessels it inhabits can be destroyed beyond use if one tries hard enough, but it itself is nearly impossible to kill. And the vessels do as the hive mind commands—whoever that hive mind happens to be controlled by controls it all.

My heartbeat quickens. If Nightmare could find enough vessels, he could easily create an army far better than any he could ever manufacture himself. This will make the final destruction of the Galaxy far too simple for him. I'm almost more scared to give him the papers than to claim to have been unable to locate them.

I flip to the final page. I know I am going to leave this world soon. I can hardly leave my bed, anymore, despite the fact that my desperate motivation has never waned—if anything, it continues to intensify with every passing second. I live in terror of this research falling into the wrong hands. I live in terror of it falling into the right hands. I live in terror of the horrible fate that must be awaiting me after death.