New Cthonic 8 (full chapter)

VIII: Bridges

“I'm goin' out on the highway
Listen to them big trucks whine
I'm goin' out on the highway
Listen to them big trucks whine

White freight liner
Won't you steal away my mind?”

Marina toe-tapped along to the music despite herself. It was country music, a genre she associated with her childhood bullies, and a live performance at that, complete with a room full of drunks clapping off-beat. But the musician's resigned melancholy enthralled her. It swept her away from her thoughts and kept her from lingering too long on the vague, directionless dissatisfaction she had for what felt like every aspect of her life. He had a nice voice, too. Yes, she would happily let a man like him break her heart, she mused. There was something freeing about a doomed endeavor.

The misery of this accursed medicine was apparently ceaseless. Even after she was awake and her body fully healed, her mind remained simultaneously sludge-like and chaotic, like a swamp in a heavy storm.

Her Breezes had flowed out from her blonde tresses with reverent joy the moment she woke, making the privacy curtains around her bed flutter as they danced. Marina had reflexively summoned the simple spirits the moment The Juice hit her veins, and her vision went black. She was a child again, then, calling forth her 'imaginary friends' to hold her hands beneath the sheets, fearful of the dark. The confused and terrified elementals clung to her for comfort, hers and theirs, throughout the long, taxing treatment and ensuing nightmare-afflicted sleep, simple minds unable to comprehend what was happening. Marina envied them for that.

All air elementals adored music. Her lifetime companions were no different and, being her most devout servants, had a way of predicting what music she'd enjoy better than she could. Displeased by her ennui, they swiftly swept out from the room in pursuit of a distraction and found one within seconds. The Breezes brought her the sounds of a radio playing elsewhere in Camp Susquehanna Gold, a few buildings away but crystal clear to her ears, amplifying it to her ideal volume without being requested. It was the Sunday Morning Townes Van Zandt Hour, according to the rich baritone of the DJ.

Sunday…God, she had left LA Thursday night. How on Earth had she not reached Dudlin yet? What a colossal check to her pride this had all been. A needed one, perhaps, but she couldn’t find any satisfaction in that. Personal growth meant little while there was a grieving family of a missing child out there. Every minute she delayed was an insult to them.

And yet Marina was here, trapped inside her head, bound to this bed by the weight of her failures, unable to lift even the sweat-soaked thin, cotton sheet off her body. Physically, she felt irritatingly incredible, full of energy and absent all pain, including those small, long-lasting training injuries that she was typically barely cognizant of, the twinge in her left shoulder, the slight clicking in her wrist. She had no excuse for her inaction, that fact an added stone upon her chest.

“Closing out Townes Hour with White Freightliner Blues," said the radio man. Marina could hear the easy, soft smile in his voice. "Gosh, that tune hits me hard these days, folks. Dudlin’s remaining roads are nowhere suitable for eighteen-wheelers. Boy, I’ll tell ya, never thought I’d miss the sound of semis rolling past my house in the morning. Ain’t that something – never know what you’ll miss after it’s gone.”

The DJ took a deep breath and continued, injecting some pep into his voice. “You’re listening to the Mountain Prophet, the country’s second most popular Appalachian shortwave specialty station, and I am yours truly, Walton Ennis. Actually got some good news coming out of the Gentle Rolling Hills of Pennsylvania today! Lift-Off, the LSR responding to Salem Cooper’s disappearance, is reported to be in stable condition after her daring rescue of two National Guard helicopters.” Marina quirked her head, unsure as to how she felt about hearing her name on the radio. There was a notable absence of pride. “We’ll have more on that later, including exclusive interviews with one of the rescued crews – which you can also read about in our upcoming weekly issue for only twenty-nine ninety-nine a month – but for now, I’ve got to say: hal-le-lujah.” The man chuckled with palpable and profound relief. “Those of you in lonely hollers like Dudlin will know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s going to be very, very nice to have an LSR in town, folks, for however long she stays. Just to get a good night’s sleep, honestly. The quiet seemed more peaceful back before there was so much of it, if you catch my meaning.”

Ennis continued speaking, meandering through idioms and metaphors in his gentle, rumbling voice, before abruptly transitioning into an ad-read for motor oil. Marina bid her Breezes away from her ears and pushed herself up to a sitting position. Above her, the ceiling fans of the Camp hospital clacked against their housing with every rotation, reminding her of the ones in her childhood home. Insurance had put up a fight after she'd Bridged for the first time and blown the roof off, arguing force majeure to get out of coverage. The company was unsuccessful in court, but the eventual payout was light and failed to cover the expenses from the two years her family had been forced to live in a trailer in their backyard. After the major repairs were finally done, her father and uncle scrounged together what they could and installed the baseboard heating and fans themselves. The former had buzzed worryingly every winter after, and the latter had wobbled noisily every summer.

She was locked, neck craned up, staring at the fan blades, when Dr. Soto entered, rolling a heavy cart wafting with the aromas of a freshly made breakfast in front of him. Her stomach growled loudly.

“The initial brain fog and depression only last until you get some fat into your stomach,” he said before she could look over. “Your endocrine system’s been run ragged. I’ve prepared a shake to help the fat absorb faster. Pardon the delay; I asked some of my nurses to head into town and find you some civilian mass gainers for the shake. You deserve better than our powdered MREs. Everyone does, frankly, but for you, I thought I’d actually do something about it.”

Marina glowered half-heartedly at the aged black doctor; it was a childish, petulant response, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. She had spent over half a day cursing him and the devil for the horrors of The Juice.

His face crinkled into a knowing smile. “Good morning to you, too. If it makes you feel better, you begged for death significantly fewer times than most operators do. And there’s this as well.” He held up a small mirror to her face. Hm. That did make her feel a little better – more than a little, maybe. A younger Marina peered back at her from the glass with smooth, flawless skin undamaged by years of flying at altitude.

“Damn. I should start shelling out for the specialty sunscreen.” Skincare products for flyers were even more staggeringly expensive than skincare products for normal women, but it might be worth it for the face in front of her. Marina looked heavenly.

“You should eat,” said the doctor, handing her the shake. “Simply satisfying your hunger will prevent the loss of bone density and muscle tissue, but if you can manage to consume at least one hundred times your body weight in calories a day for at least the next month, then the full effects of the Regenerative Factor will be permanent. Your immune system needs everything it can get to fight off RA-17’s metabolites. That’s in pounds, I should note; it is the United States Regenerative Factor, after all.”

She balked, "You want me to eat thirteen thousand calories a day while responding to a Bulletin? The broken ribs would have been less of a hassle than that.”

He shrugged. "At least thirteen thousand. You'll know if you're eating too much if you begin to put on body fat, but that's highly unlikely. I've never seen it happen. Too little, and you'll, well, look a bit older in the morning. But again, just satisfying your cravings for at least three weeks should prevent the worst of the side effects. As long as you're active, the most toxic metabolites should be out of your system by then. Think of it this way: if you weren't responding to a Bulletin, you might be stuck on this diet for two to four months. And, hey, if you manage to hit thirteen-K, you'll have effectively added a few years to your life. People have done worse for less."

Her glare sharpened. Was Soto under the impression she had a support team? She was sure the side effects were no big deal for the military; they had dozens of people in supporting roles for every one in the field. But the only person on her 'staff' was Danielle, one of the dumbest women she knew and on the other side of the country, for that matter. All of those hours of pure hell, and she would still essentially be managing an injury during the mission. What was she supposed to do if there were unique side effects? There was only one true expert on Bridges in North America, and she was a PhD, not a medical doctor.

“You drastically undersold how bad this shit would be, doc. I want it on my record that if the choice is between The Juice and death, let alone my power-based healing, I’m choosing death.”

"Perhaps I did. I think you'll feel differently once you've eaten, though." Soto rapped his knuckles on the cart. It was loaded with eggs of all styles, muffins, sausage, bacon, fruit, and what looked to be an entire loaf of bread turned into buttered toast. "Eat. Doctor's orders. We can discuss any changes to your files afterward. You can find me just down the hall to your right."

To her great relief and mild annoyance, she did start feeling better just minutes after downing the shake. A part of her wanted to remain upset, cling to her self-righteous anger, an intoxicating emotion at the best of times, but with some food in her belly, she was able to go through her mindfulness exercises. Those were Sylph-like thoughts, she recognized, unbecoming of her and who she wanted to be. She had no one to blame but herself for her current condition. Certainly, there was no reason to be upset with Dr. Soto. He hadn’t made her take RA-17. He hadn’t made her blow off her calling as a Bridge for six years. He wasn’t the reason it had taken her a week to follow up on Salem Cooper’s plea for help. Marina Serova had done all of those things and Marina Serova was rightfully paying the price.

Soto had left the small hand mirror on the cart, likely his subtle way of encouraging her to finish the meal. Her eyes remained sky blue, she noted, not the hazel of her birth. The Regenerative Agent had done nothing to reverse the changes brought on by her power. As far as she and Dr. Morris knew, there was nothing on Earth or any of the known Meta-Planes that could. The transformation could be paused, slowed, or accelerated – never reversed. Theoretically, it could be guided and controlled, but Morris cautioned her against the strategy; too risky, she argued, and every mistake would be permanent.

Marina held the mirror up again, barely able to recognize herself. She’d been flying since early puberty and hadn’t cared about sunscreen at all as a child; her face had never resembled anything close to this. By happenstance and luck, she’d managed to acquire some of the ethereal beauty of a Sylph without any of the commensurate insanity – or without most of it, anyway. She was being vain, she knew, but that was fine. Vanity was as human as it was Elemental; she was allowed to enjoy this.

She forced herself to finish her breakfast, absolutely hating the experience about halfway through. It was extraordinary how quickly you could get sick of food; just the chewing alone was going to drive her mad. The next month would be hell, but she was determined not to waste this rare opportunity. Now that she was no longer saving for a penthouse apartment and had a check for over a million dollars on the way, she could afford the best skincare, but prevention would forever be more effective and cheaper than trying to reverse the damage. Besides, the constant discomfort in her stomach assuaged her guilty conscience a little.

After breakfast, she changed out of her hospital gown into the fatigues they’d left for her, grateful not to be wearing the same clothes for four days, and headed to Soto’s office to thank him and apologize profusely for any rudeness. The man was more than understanding. He took it as expected, as well, that she’d changed her mind about the ‘No Juice’ stipulation on her LSR record. All he said was, “Of course, heroes love to suffer,” in the wry tone of an old doctor.

Soto called down to Swilling’s office on a bulky wired phone, and the rest was formality. Some baby-faced youth whose name she promptly forgot led her from the hospital to Swilling.

Marina decided to agree to the colonel’s offer and take the ‘aetheric survey’ contract. The girl in her, who had grown up watching heroes on TV, wanted to boldly and bravely tell Swilling that she would stay in the region for free because it was the just and right thing to do. But that drive was purely emotional. She’d already committed herself to spending some time in the country to detox from Los Angeles. Taking the contract, staying for at least three months, and being paid to do something she would already be doing was just pragmatic and rational.

Swilling gave her a number and a dual-purpose bulky, metal GPS/satellite phone and told her to call weekly to report her findings. Marina had almost confused it for a brick the first time she’d seen it on his desk. “Yours to keep,” he explained. “We have a few locals serving here. I had one mark Dudlin and anything else relevant they could think of on the map. This should work at any altitude, but you’ll have to fly at commercial aircraft height after dusk. Once the Forestry Service turns the pylons up to full blast, satellite anything’ll be worth its weight in shit below that.”

“Thanks,” she said in earnest. She would finally be in Dudlin in under a half-hour.

“Not to presume, but I have a small suggestion for your current case as well. I did some looking into your Bulletin while you were under. The man who expedited it, Zachariah Troyer, raises some red flags regarding our last conversation. He was a translator for the Seals; retired after the Lakes Incursion to make a fortune in arbitrage. As best as I can tell, he isn’t from around here and had no ties to the region before settling down to become the wealthiest man in Dudlin. That’s not an uncommon tale in Appalachia, but Troyer’s files were suspiciously well classified. I suggest you be on your guard around him.”

“You think he’s one of your would-be tyrants?”

"A candidate, at the least. He bought a large manor overlooking the town and employs several dozen locals. His Hunting Lodge is the largest driver of tourism revenue in the County and a convenient place for wealthy and powerful men to meet in privacy."

Swilling must have read the skepticism on her face. She imagined that plenty of the military had retired after the Lakes Incursion. The event and the ensuing recovery efforts ended the Cold War; there was simply less of a drive for a large and intimidating military afterward. And if she had spent thousands of hours learning the various Ottoman languages during the height of the hysteria, she also would have been pretty eager to finally see the Empire in person. As for Troyer's classified records or his moving to Pennsylvania, Marina was about to move here as well – would Swilling turn his paranoid gaze to her next if she decided to stay for the long haul? She had a feeling that the standard for 'suspicious' was lower for the colonel than for most.

“He grew up in Florida,” added Swilling. “Keep that in mind if you’re still here in the winter.”

“Some people like seasons, Colonel.” She put a hand up to cut off his response. “I’ll keep an eye on him, though. I appreciate that you looked into the Bulletin for me,” she said, using the same direct but noncommittal language that she used with neutral elementals.

"Of course." Swilling nodded, apparently appeased for now. "Oh, and take off from the helipad, if you don't mind. The Warrant Officers have been trying to sneak you a gift since yesterday, and I'd rather they be rid of whatever contraband or damning evidence they have." With that, the colonel returned to his paperwork, dismissing her without another word.

Marina did the same to her guide/chaperone once she was out of his office, simply waving her hand 'no' when the boy started to follow after her. He stammered out a "Yes, ma'am," saluted her on accident, blushed, and found a corner to disappear around.

One step outside, and Marina was quickly power-walking toward the helipads. In LA, when she had peers who were all much more famous than her, she intensely craved fame. It had been a real drive for her to become known and recognized by the public for her power and achievements, even if only out of spite for her less capable rivals. Maybe it was for the best that she'd never found success in crowded Los Angeles. The open gawking from every man and woman in the camp felt cloying. The same would have driven her insane in a city of twenty million.

A sharp whistle almost made her walk faster, but the delicious smell of a freshly lit cigarette caught her attention and made her look. She recognized the whistler as one of the men she’d rescued – ‘Doonie’, she was pretty sure. He was smoking outside a long, warehouse-like garage, waving her over. Judging by his anxious energy, he was one of the warrant officers with a gift for her. Marina liked gifts – who didn’t? – and was too curious to see what it was to ignore the man.

She turned down his offer of a cigarette – there were nicotine alternatives out there much better for the skin – and let him lead her inside to a tucked-away corner of the garage where Stecyk and the others had managed to make a little space for themselves. The crew were huddled around a table, jealously hoarding pastries that one of them must have run to the nearest town to get for themselves. Marina forced herself with a grimace to accept and eat a cheese Danish.

The ‘contraband’ Swilling had mentioned was a gorgeous brown leather bomber jacket that was much heavier than she expected. Someone had embroidered ‘Lift-Off’ in cursive on the front and a crude but recognizable grey and white tornado onto the arm where a patch might be.

“Woah, very cool. Thanks, guys,” she said, holding the jacket in front of her. “Should I hide it when I leave?”

Stecyk and her crew looked around at each other, obviously not having considered it.

“Eh, it’ll be fine,” said the pilot dismissively. “It’s only technically stolen, anyway.”

Marina looked amused but wary.

Doonie jumped in before she could ask the natural follow-up. “That’s one of the jackets the Air Force gave out to pilots who saw combat in the ’72 Zion Incursion, made from some of their kills. But it’s definitely an extra since they would have had the rank and insignia sewed on before they gave it out.”

“And the fact that it was in storage here of all places,” added Stecyk. “We think it got lost in the mix decades ago, the last time this Camp saw any activity. The military loses shit all the time. No one’s going to miss it, but, you know, none of us were supposed to have it either. Go on, try it out for size.”

Marina did just that, enjoying the pleasant weight of the thick leather, and inspected herself in a nearby sheet of polished metal. It was definitely long on her, coming down to just above her knees, but she thought that was quite stylish with her slender frame and long legs. She'd be able to use it like a blanket when she napped on the road, too. Superheroes hadn't really worn costumes or signature outfits since they'd collectively become Licensed Special Responders; everything about the job became more mundane once it was a respectable profession instead of a calling. But, damn, she might have to kick it old school. With a name tag and a cool story behind it, the jacket worked, especially with her borrowed, slightly baggy green fatigue pants hanging low on her hips. She'd have to play around with the shirt, maybe turn it into a crop top or go with just a plain sports bra, but this was a strong start.

“This might be The Look, gang,” she said, with an emphasis the others didn’t understand. She supposed they didn’t have enough exposure to LSRs to get the significance. “I love the embroidery, by the way. The tornado’s a nice touch.”

Stecyk beamed, bouncing on her heels. "Thanks! Did it myself by hand. Couldn't sleep after the mission - too tweaked on the flight cocktail. It's sick, though, right?" She put her hands behind her head. "Yeah, not to brag, but I'm kinda a lady sometimes.”

“Emphasis on ‘kinda’,” added one of her gunners.

“And ‘sometimes’,” said another.

The pilot rolled her eyes, paying the ribbing no mind. "Hopefully, it'll bring you some luck in Clinton County. Everything I hear from the locals is that the State Forests that way went to pure shit. And there was a lot of them, too."

Marina smirked. What was this old familiar feeling? A bit of swagger, if she wasn’t mistaken. “I’ll be alright. State Forests are usually on fire when I’m visiting, and that’s never stopped me before.”

….. (8.2)

Busy, busy, busy. Salem never had the chance to invite a date into his bedroom when he was human, but he thought the frantic preparations he was doing now would have been remarkably similar. He’d have paused time if he could, but he needed every scrap of power he could claim if he was to be ready for her, leaving him psychically tapping his toes anxiously as he sat around, half praying a deer would fall into his Cavern.

He'd completely forgotten about Lift-Off. Salem ought to have known she’d follow up in person when he failed to contact her, but the memories of his last hours with a body were a blur, his subconscious mind too preoccupied with visions of Ovum Mundi to think straight. The LSR had only been a name on a screen to him, read during his final, final moments.

In retrospect, he owed a great deal to his fellow Bridge. If Lift-Off hadn't convinced him to get away from his house, he would have Bridged right there, obliterating his home and leaving him with barely any energy to protect his Heart Room from the trigger-happy Dudlin Sheriff's Department. Even if he survived that first day, they would have evacuated his street at the very least, and his presence would surely have chased a good chunk of the remaining residents of Dudlin away forever. Grief-stricken and homeless, his parents would have been among those who fled, leaving him well and truly alone in this world.

But thanks to Lift-Off, Salem was the perfect distance from town. He could grow and develop at his own pace, his parents still had a roof over their heads, and none of the hardened Appalachians still remaining in the area would give up their homes for a threat they couldn’t directly see. Without Lift-Off’s warning, he may have become the doom of Dudlin rather than its savior.

Salem wanted to show his gratitude. He wanted to give Lift-Off a personalized Dungeon experience, so that she might reap some capital-E Experience for her troubles, and maybe even personalized rewards if he could figure those out in time. Ideally, he would be somewhere worth sticking around for. Having a tried-and-tested LSR like her living in Dudlin would instantly stop the bleeding of its population and might even recall some of those who left back to their homes from the over-cramped cities. Pittsburgh was home to five million people now, last he'd heard, a truly unthinkable sum for a place split by three rivers. The bridges must have been hell during rush hour.

Really, though, all he needed was for her to stay at least until he could get a mouthpiece that wasn’t Charles Laponte. The man was already proving to be incredibly useful, but he was a poor representative at the best of times. Salem wanted a conversation with Lift-Off, to learn more about their shared strange state of existence, and perhaps make a friend. Charles Laponte could parley, cajole, deceive, and convince – but converse? Unlikely. What Salem needed was a friendly and reasonable psychic through which he could actually speak. When he had a voice again, could do more than communicate through projected images and carvings on walls, a significant number of his problems would vanish instantly.

Luckily, one such psychic had been confirmed to be on his way. According to the Lapontes, famous rapscallion, medium, and hillbilly detective, TomTwain, was coming to town as a favor for Walt Ennis to confirm his death. Salem wasn't stupid; he knew the man's retellings of his cases were highly fictionalized and exaggerated, but if even a sliver were true, then his salvation was near. If anyone could thread the needle, find some way to protect him from the wrathful acts of the superstitious, and let him announce his presence to the greater world, it would be the wily and dependable TomTwain. He wasn’t betting everything on the man, of course. He’d still make contact with Ginny, but the news was certainly comforting to hear.

So far, the primary benefit of having cultists was not the worship or sacrifices, but their ears and eyes. Salem hadn’t realized how stressed he’d been operating blind to the world outside his walls until he suddenly wasn’t. Without his human hormones, the stress was just a burden upon his consciousness and mood, muddling his thoughts and priorities. Thankfully, Laponte’s newly enhanced body was either reacting to Salem’s feelings, or the man had gained some sense for his God’s needs and wants. He worked tirelessly to meet them, commanding his clan to do the same, returning the very day he’d been resurrected to read aloud the most recent Mountain Prophet edition to him. A Laponte man was never too far away from his entrance now, constantly waiting and watching, ready to inform both their Patriarch and him of any relevant information.

Without the family, Salem would have completely flubbed Lift-Off's coming visit. The LSR would have breezed through his Cavern without issue, finishing it prematurely, gone before he could make an impression - and he could think of few things more embarrassing than that. There was some three-dimensionality in his previous design with the stalactites and glowworms guarding the roof, but those were for ambiance and lighting, not to stop flying adventurers. Lift-Off would have had over a hundred feet of clear, vertical space to operate in.

His new design would at least be interesting for her. Not challenging – he was still missing a bit of zest that could spice things up for someone of her strength – but at least there would be some interesting obstacles for her to fly through. Unfortunately, the changes he'd already made did make the Cavern more dangerous for those on foot as well, but Salem had faith in human ingenuity. The hillbillies of Dudlin would rise to the occasion, find some way to surprise him, he was sure.

There were now groupings of grand 'stalactites,' sixty-some feet in length, here and there to break up line of sight and tempt bolder adventurers. Along their porous surfaces leeched out brilliant diamonds in ice-like crystal formations that glittered in the light of the glowworms and solar bees. Ordinarily, the crystals would only grow at a rate of one to two centimeters a year, but he'd discovered it was relatively easy to cheat time inside himself when no one was looking.

The carbon for the diamonds was captured from above the Cavern by his first surface-dwelling organism, a moss-like plant that aggressively purified the air around it. It was another of his gifts to the hills around him, so new that he'd yet to name it. On the surface, it resembled a wonderfully soft carpet of dark greens, purples, and blues, only two or so inches at its thickest, the colors chosen deliberately to give it an alien-like quality. But the roots of the plant were incredible in scale and function. The moss formed a symbiotic relationship with the trees and shrubs that provided the shade in which it lived, parasitizing some of their glucose to make up for the lack of light, but in return regulating the moisture, mycorrhiza, and mineral content around their partnered plants perfectly, exuding a slush of different enzymes that responded to changing needs. The roots were thin, barely visible to the human eye, but they grew wide and deep and, in conjunction with the enzyme slush, were remarkable at preventing erosion. If the moss was cut and planted elsewhere – or carried in the hoofs of a trampling animal – even a small 'rug' could significantly reduce soil runoff around it.

However, the roots reacted very differently when provided enough open space and the plentiful resources unique to his Cavern. Upon interacting with the guano of his source bats, the roots would signal to the moss above to form the creation of a crown. The hair-thin tendrils would then coalesce around a stalactite, blanketing it entirely in a visible layer, and start exuding a special type of their slush, which would grow a coral-like shell around the spike. Without some level of guano, the moss above would only form small patches, enough to hold a hill together when planted intelligently but not so wide as to run rampant. But with a crown, the plant could grow in a dense, vast field in the shadow of the leaf cover, parting around its symbiotic neighbors like a living mulch and even germinating their fallen seeds. Additionally, the plant gained a tenacity and resilience that put kudzu to shame, virtually immortal as long as the stalactite still hung amongst a colony of source bats. Once the moss field grew big enough, the excess captured carbon would drip out slowly as a natural byproduct of the coralizing chemicals, growing into diamonds upon contact with the open air.

If a crown had already formed and there was enough light from the solar bee hives of his swampy forest below, the moss would begin to grow down, transforming into a wildly different phenotype. Roots converted to stems in the golden glow, growing green, wide, and thick. With enough of that magical light, something like inverted kelp forests would form, perfect for one day hiding all manner of fun creatures.

Solar bees required the pollen of plants fed by Life-magic, which flowed sporadically from the springs at the top of his Cavern and pooled at the bottom of the long decline, making the swamp there incredibly dense with vegetation. The bees were lazy and docile creatures, protected by the many beings that had symbiotic relationships with them or the light of their honey. They would build their hives as close to their food as possible, and the queens were not particularly territorial, at times making their homes directly next to their neighbors. The bottom of his Cavern was littered with their nests. The deeper you went into the cave, the thicker the 'kelp' above grew, utterly blocking out the light from above at his furthest end. There, the cave was a dank, claustrophobic place, kelp-roots sometimes reaching the tops of the cedar and mangrove-like trees, the swamp below cast eternally in faint gold by the bees.

All in all, Salem was quite proud of what he'd accomplished with his limited energy. Resurrecting Charles as his champion sapped him dry, but the Lapontes had that same night celebrated their new ascension by ritually sacrificing a bull, blindfolding it before pushing it down one of the holes in the cave ceiling while chanting and dancing. How they had managed to keep a bull on their homestead in the middle of the helcat crisis was a mystery to him – more illegal magic, he assumed. But he was thankful, all the same. The bull and the religious ecstasy surrounding its death allowed him to create his new moss.

The plant did the heavy lifting in transforming the Cavern for Lift-Off's arrival. Most of what he'd done after creating two of the crown roots was spend the energy he got as soon as it came in to accelerate time in a localized area inside himself. As long as he was selective to just the Cavern and excluded the vast network of fissures his tunnel wolves called home and the underwater lake he was still working on, it was relatively cost-efficient. He'd done it in one- to three-week bursts, totaling a year all told. The only downsides were his lack of control over how things developed during the burst and the fact that his creatures would not 'spawn' fully formed but had to rely on their natural means of reproduction. Thankfully, he'd designed the various feedback loops within his swamp that life managed to persist, and things had more or less progressed as expected. If he had the power to burst forward by decades or centuries, he was sure there'd have been wild surprises, but a year was not so long for an ecosystem.

The process also illuminated flaws within his designs, niches to be filled. For instance, it became increasingly clear that the source bats had no true, consistent predators to manage their population, and the glowworms, which could live for months between meals, had very little to predate upon. The bats were 'evolved' to live beside the giant insects and could easily navigate the hanging toxic silk strands. Even when they couldn't access the outer world for food during the time burst, there was enough within the swamp that the little forest wardens could sustain themselves. The Earth magic in their bellies guided the creatures to destructive, invasive species, but if none were available in their environment, they would behave like normal bats. In the year he'd watched them, they died mostly to accidents, usually from flying too close to the venomous plants that crowded around beehives or when hunger clouded their senses and they tried to eat a bumbling fire-fly. Salem had added some labyrinthine sections of tall stalagmites, hoping his tunnel wolves would start hunting the bats, but the clever animals quickly learned to use their new posts to watch for bright flashes of fire in the sky instead. It was much easier to race to collect a cooked source bat after it crashed to the ground than it was to snatch one mid-flight.

There was always more to be done. The visual difference he’d made to the Cavern in the day and a half that he’d had was remarkable, but would it impress a tried and tested LSR like Lift-Off? No, he had to think not. She was from an enormous city and had been to the Elemental Plane; his measly underground swamp was probably nothing special to her. At the very least, he would have to link all of the springs to Life-magic. With only one enchanted, there was a chance she wouldn’t even notice what he’d done. Although, if they were all pouring out Life-infused water, then the existing ecosystem might get a little too crazy – this was supposed to be his first chamber of many. It wouldn’t do to make the start so dangerous.

A dragonfly landed on his moss, resting its iridescent wings for a second and sipping on the collected dew. Salem paused his perception of time to wistfully admire the beautiful predator. He’d never mastered color enough as a human to truly represent a dragonfly as it ought to be done.

Ah.

There was an idea, one personalized to the Bridge, too. He would need to consult some with a Laponte woman for the creation, though; magic was so new to him, and he had something very specific in mind. Salem was fairly sure he'd be able to afford another monster soon. With the sun firmly in the sky, the locals would have access to their satellite internet and inevitably start posting about him. All he needed was a few hunters from Pennsylvania and further to read about the bounty on tunnel wolf pelts and decide to make the trip out to Dudlin. There was a hot spike of power anytime someone canceled a plan or booked a room nearby in order to come to him - just a few more, or a large group, perhaps, and he'd have more than enough.

Salem sent a psychic hello to Charles, bidding his Warlock to bring one of the clan witches to him – whoever was free; he didn't want to be a bother. And any of their magical charms, if it wasn't too much trouble, thank you. Charles sent back an instant and enthusiastic yes, along with his usual zealous praise, of course.

Good, good, thought Salem, ignoring the slight, anxious dread that followed every interaction with his champion. His mind busied itself, conjuring images of his next creation. This had to be perfect. After all, first impressions were forever.