The Second Part.

Chapter Two.

Naro.

The moon had come out - a dark, blood-red moon, feeding on the dust and ash that lived in the air. It was only ever full now - anything lesser, and it was enveloped in the darkness that took everything. The difference between day and night was immeasurable - the sun was like a wishful apprentice to the red moon that claimed the skies. And still it rained.

As the drops fell on her, she looked upon the dimly lit house she stood in front of. She was alone - technically. Beside her stood a figure she'd met through her connection to her home realm - known as Lippie, he took the form of a tall, dark blonde teenage boy. But he was a part of her - he was her innermost essence, separate at birth, a guide and friend. His blonde hair was currently covered by a black hoodie, his normally light blue jeans exchanged for black in the spirit of the occasion. As for the Artist, she'd changed her hair colour - as Flarey, she'd worn it black, proud of her golden regrowth patterns, but as the Artist, she left it natural, a warm brown that shone golden in the light of the kindly sun. Without that sun, there was no use for it. So she'd dyed it black again, and pinned it up out of the way. She was dressed simply, in a long black shirt, black corset and long skirts, a simple black trench coat covering it and flowing behind her as she walked. Normally, her leather boots would have tapped, a smart, dignified soundtrack to her movement, but for now, she had jinxed it into silent steps.

'Are you sure you want to do this, Fl--' The boy cut himself off. He'd only ever known her as Flarey before - he was still getting used to her using the name Artist. Before she'd been re-merged, the Artist had never known Lippie. Only Flarey had. But now he was there for her in her complete form - and with luck, he would be of invaluable assistance.

The Artist nodded, watching the silent house. Once, it had housed a family - two parents, kindly and impatient, and so generous, and their two sons - one, a talented figure skater, aiming for nationals - and the other, a withdrawn anime geek, keeping to his room and his downloaded shows... The usual family existence. A dog, a cat, arguments over the television and who used what car. But it hadn't been like that for a while. The family had moved out, and later, the oldest son had come back and claimed the house as his lair. Now he worked as a demi-villain, less powerful than cheerful and easily pleased. He was Naro.

Closing her eyes, the Artist vanished, reappearing inside the house with Lippie still at her side. She looked around silently - what felt like years had passed since she'd been there herself, as Flarey, laughing and watching mindless things on that TV, eating far too many snacks and enjoying her friend's company. Now she was a liar, two-faced, that which had abandoned him for no good reason... He would never be able to understand.

Turning, she dismissed the nostalgia - it wouldn't serve her. She moved up the stairs silently, ignoring the memories that tugged on her arms, her skirts, begging her to think about the absent-minded dog who had followed her around, the youthful kitten who had adventured up those steps. She'd made the choice to leave those memories behind. She turned at the landing, passing the long abandoned master bedroom, the brother's room, still marked on the floors where ice skates had torn up the carpet - her destination was the room at the end.

And he was asleep. A rare occasion, but she'd known he would be. His laptop on the desk chair beside his bed, his computer flicking as it downloaded some new show for him to obsess over. He lay, the sheets tangled around his feet, his auburn hair covering his face.

But she hesitated. He'd been her friend... And she hadn't meant to hurt him, when she left, but she'd had no choice. She couldn't stay, not with the team as it was, it would end up destroying her. And she couldn't take him with her - he would only have been killed himself. But she hadn't been able to explain it, and he'd grown agitated, demanding to know, demanding she defend her actions - and she'd refused, and left.

What if she left him alive now? There was no going back. Even if she missed him, going back would only involve begging forgiveness, claiming false apology after false apology, crawling for his acceptance. Hardly a fitting option for good friends. And leaving him alive would mean that one day, he would crack, and the Fr33k would know everything he'd known about her...

Raising a hand, she performed the spell, quickly, silently. A silver flash, and it was over. And once again, she left - except this time, it didn't matter why.

White Wesley.

The rain had stopped. It would start again, but for the time, it had stopped.

And now she was out the front of another familiar house. Less familiar, though - she'd only really been there once. But she still remembered every detail - except the one she needed. The front yard was littered with cars, just as it had been back then. The dogs could be heard out the back, and the sound of the television in the front room inside. This one would be trickier, mechanically - White Wesley had a smaller house that was still full, with his parents, too many sisters and a seeming multitude of pets. But she didn't need to go inside - she could recall it easily enough. An open foyer that became the living room instantly, where no doubt his mother and sisters would be lounging on the low couches, watching Scrubs or some other such show. A single set of pale stairs, leading up to a second floor that she'd never seen before. But she spells she would use didn't' require going inside.

She took a low breath, flicking a lock of wet hair out of her eyes. Raising her hands, she drew a symbol in the air and murmured a series of strange, twisted words under her breath. She hadn't been able to find it in herself to simply kill him and let his family mourn, so she had chosen a more complex, but in her opinion more humane option for this one. Again, leaving him alive hadn't been an option - he may still have been detached from the inner circle of the Fr33k's power, but he was growing closer every day. He'd been made an executive, and it would not be long before it was too late for him. And she knew he wouldn't renounce them.

For another moment, her ribs ached as she watched her memories of him pass before her eyes - this one, she couldn't stop. Sitting in the ice cream shop, leaning against him and laughing, stealing chips at lunch time, getting him barbecue sauce, talking online... and then it was gone. She lifted her head, her eyes on the top story of the house. In her mind, she explored it, searching each room until she found his - he was sitting at his computer, an empty bottle of soft drink beside him next to an open box of candies. As she watched through her mind's eye, those objects vanished, and the room changed, until only the painfully tall, skinny boy with the messy hair and the glasses remained. Below, the Artist lifted a hand and performed the same spell, watching with a faint pang as the boy's figure crumpled. Then another murmured spell, and he too, was gone. And had never been. The family could not mourn a son who, to their knowledge, had never even existed...

But she would remember.

Sherlock Doyle.

And it was raining again - not hard, but still drizzling down, adding to the eternal floods that constantly swept the filth of the city away. It didn't help - the state of the city was such that no matter how often the rain tried to clean it, it was never improved even in the slightest... But the rain persisted, as if it believed that one day, it could clean the city and let it shine again. The Artist believed in that future. She would make it happen, by any means necessary.

But she didn't know where her next target was. She knew he no longer lived in the cramped town house with his mother and his pet bird - he had apparently moved out of there months ago. She had heard that he'd moved to another place dear to her memories, but every time she'd checked there, he'd been absent. And there was no reason to disturb the sweet old lady and man who lived there, with their two cats. The place held good memories, and the couple were largely undisturbed by the increasing ruin of the city. With luck, they would live to see the new dawn.

So she would be performing another series of complex spells. With no ability to kill him personally, she would have to use image magic - working her magic using an image of the large, striped-shirt wearing Asian member of Jauws-dan - against Sherlock Doyle.

Despite the sweet memories, there was less remorse in this kill... From what the Artist had observed, he had fallen from his goodness, and now was working with the team for the sake of working. The Anim3Fr33k used and abused his good nature and in depth knowledge of how the team should be run, and he either didn't notice or didn't mind. There was no helping him, but if it was permitted to continue, without ever intending it, he would be vital to destroying Uwsville from the inside out...

In her own mansion, the Artist sat down on the carefully prepared mat in one of her many darkened back rooms - this one containing a beautifully carved stone altar, a mat woven of hair and human skin, emblazoned with strange markings and designs, and shelves and shelves of bottles and jars of bizarre and wondrous substances. In front of her lay a photo, a goofishly grinning Sherlock Doyle adjusting his glasses from his seat on one of the couches at the city's prominent university. Beside it was a dark blue stone, pale white specks visible against the reflections that the black and red tapers lining the walls threw onto the scene. It was lapis lazuli - the Artist had found it useful for storing magical energy, and it would help strengthen the power she'd need for these spells.

Now she placed a long-nailed hand on the edge of the photo, focusing and drawing energy from the lapis lazuli stone - she focused her mind on Sherlock Doyle, on where he was, what he was doing... From what she could tell, he was already asleep. That would make it easier. Taking another breath, she raised her other hand and drew a symbol in the air, uttering the words that would seal the image to its owner, forming the link she would use for her spell. A minute passed, and the candles flashed higher against the walls. Licking her lips, the Artist spoke the spell.

And somewhere across the city, Sherlock Doyle died peacefully in his sleep.

While somewhere else again, in a dark place underground, interest was being sparked by a dark creature, set to watch...

GodinPants.

'How are you going to do this one?' Gordo had asked, back in her mansion. She hadn't replied. GodinPants... But nobody knew. Of course nobody knew. Even the Fr33k... but it wouldn't have surprised her if he did, then again.
'Quickly.' she'd replied after an eternal, painful moment.

And then she was there. She'd needed Steampunk Gordo's help finding where he was - or so she'd claimed. But, he'd found him, with the same perfection and swiftness that she would normally have used...

He was asleep too. It was almost odd - even though it was night, she'd never seen so many of them actually asleep. Normally, they stayed up until ridiculous hours of the night... Or at least, most of them did. She remembered that GodinPants had always gone off to bed at reasonable times. Looking down at him now, she smiled - a rare occurrence in itself. He'd cut his hair, but even so...

Closing her eyes, she raised a hand to perform the spell. But something was wrong. Opening them, she rested a hand on his chest, her nails scraping the edge of the worn out iron on, a black whale with piercing red eyes under an emulated font, that decorated the front of his black tshirt. There was no mistaking his gentle, sleeping breath. She frowned very faintly, her pulse jumping slightly. That couldn't be right...

Leaving her left hand on his chest, she raised her right hand and performed the spell again. Again... nothing. Just a feeling of great wrongness, like something was horribly out of place that should never be that way, ever. A third try, and a great pain spiked her chest as he shifted slightly in his sleep. Behind her, Lippie appeared silently.

'Hey... leave it.' he said gently. She turned to look at him. His dark purple eyes gazed back at her steadily in the dim light of the computers and odd looking music devices that littered the room - and she understood. She couldn't do it.

Turning back to the sleeping figure, she watched him a moment more, unsure if it was safe or not... Then, ignoring the urge that swept through her, unbidden, she left.

Meanwhile, in the Artist's gothic mansion, Steampunk Gordo was watching out a window. He had been monitoring her channels, watching the city and making sure nothing went wrong. The only thing he had to report would make their plans easier - Sithboy had been killed in an accident during one of his unorthodox science experiments in the next city. Authorities had tried to get him out in time, but Gordo had hampered their progress, the glistening gauntlet he wore on one hand glowing slightly as he carefully rearranged time - until there wasn't enough of it left. Now he stood, watching, as the clouds outside shifted, swirling around the centre of the city, darkening and angry in their circling. Bolts of red and blue lightning shot down, grazing the buildings, and the rain fell in sheets around it. There was no mistaking.

He knew.