The actual lesson started with Bjorn showing me some cool positions you could use to block against a similarly equipped opponent. Obviously I was probably going to be fighting Anathema for the most part, but Bjorn was an easy-going, straightforward instructor and he outright admitted that he liked to get people engaged at the start by 'showing them something that feels cool.' I respected it.

My favorite position was one of the two overhead blocks he showed me. I had to admit it made me feel pretty awesome—especially when he fast-forwarded to the end of what could have been a whole 'wax on, wax off' schtick and engaged in his own series of scripted attacks that the short sequence of blocks he showed me countered.

From there, well, things got more serious and less immediately interesting. "Wait, wait, let me guess," I interrupted when he started talking about the important foundations I needed to build before we did anything fancy. "You're going to lecture me about proper footwork."

Bjorn did not look amused. "Yes. You say it like a joke, but that means you've heard of it already. You've heard it because it's that important."

I didn't actually mind the 'boring' start to the real lesson. Bjorn had some kind of dimensional pocket, and he set up these little rope ladder things that went on the ground. I was supposed to run along the path they laid out, using specific step patterns. Sometimes he'd put two next to each other and I had to step back and forth in a very particular way, or it would be just one but I'd have to keep crossing it, forward and back, as I steadily inched my way sideways toward the end.

It was even a bit fun. It wasn't something I'd ever choose to do, but the fact that it was an 'official' task given by an instructor imbued the entire activity with a sense of purpose and progress that was hard to replicate on my own.

"The point of this isn't to teach you specific patterns," Bjorn told me while I took a short break, "or even to train your body to be fast and agile. That's a good side effect, but the main point is to teach you to be in full control of the way you move. It's less about speed and precision and more about making sure it's you," he tapped his forehead for emphasis, "who's deciding where and how you step. Intention and control."

I nodded along. I wasn't sure that I actually understood what he was trying to say, but overall I felt like I did. We soon resumed, and I started to feel like I was doing quite well. Bjorn moved through the different setups increasingly quickly, though he never praised anything I did, only ever saying things like 'correct' or 'acceptable.' I got the feeling that it was very intentional. Probably based on some study about how to coach people most effectively. I felt like I'd heard something about that before. Something about simple statements being more effective overall than either the hardass schtick or being nice and encouraging?

Regardless, the lesson was an hour long, and by the end of it, I actually felt like I'd accomplished something. Obviously I'd barely begun, and this alone wouldn't get me very far—but it felt promising.

Just before it ended, Bjorn gave me a plastic stick and made me use those same guard positions to defend from a looping pattern of strikes at the same time that I danced my way along one of the little ladder thingies. I failed somewhere near the middle on the first attempt, but on the second, I managed to make it to the end without making a mistake.

And that was it. We confirmed the next date and time, said our farewells, and then I left the warehouse, once again carrying Kevin's stupid catfish.

It wasn't hard to find the miniature concert the other three had mentioned earlier. I just had to follow the noise. Sure enough, in one of those weird, palm-lined plazas that was common right around here, there was a full stage and sound system set up. It was no arena or festival, of course, but it was still the real deal and there was a fairly large crowd. Local hotshots, maybe? It sounded like a particularly aggressive form of indie.

Tasting the air out of habit, I detected several Guardians, a Star Guardian, and—wait, Anathema? The confirmation that Kevin, Chloe, and Kathy were present was immediately overshadowed. This was the first time I'd ever tasted another Anathema outside the context of an incursion—well, only if you discounted the cultists when I first stumbled into their operations on the engineering complex rooftop.

The taste of the other Anathema was strange. It was faint and muffled, and besides that, it was fairly different from anything else I'd ever tasted. I was beginning to doubt it was even an Anathema—maybe it's another intelligent one? We definitely weren't in an incursion and I was pretty sure a regular Anathema on the loose would have already caused a bunch of chaos if it were truly nearby. So then what—aha.

I found my target. It was a young guy—maybe late twenties—who was sitting on the edge of one of the walled palm tree containers alone at the edge of the gathering. He had a plastic cup, but he didn't seem very interested in the contents. Mostly, he just looked lost and uncomfortable. I decided to approach him.

He didn't even register my approach until I was standing right next to him, looking up at him. In that moment, the fact that he could look down at me while he was sitting on the edge of a raised tree enclosure but I was still standing kind of pissed me off. I liked myself, as a general rule, and the closest I ever got to any kind of self-dislike was minor shame in certain contexts. So, while someone peering from the outside in might say I was insecure about my ridiculous height, it was more accurate to say that it constantly annoyed me.

Regardless, the dude just stared back down at me with a truly inscrutable expression. I tasted the air again—a bit more discreetly this time—and confirmed that yes, I was tasting something strange from the guy right in front of me. Honestly, though, he just looks super depressed. He had a strong vibe of that charming, easy going guy who's actually about to commit suicide and whose friends and family will be super confused as to why it happened. There were no signs, they'd say, he had so much potential, we can't understand why...

I understood, though. Well, sort of. While I could sometimes completely miss the mark when it came to registering other people's feelings, there were also many instances where I had an uncanny, almost automatic insight that 'normal' people were blind to. By which I meant something beyond a learned social skill—something more innate. Either way, I was extremely confident I was correct about this.

"Do your friends know you're constantly thinking about killing yourself?"

It was my pleasure to witness an already distressed individual try and fail to process the violently blunt thing I'd just said. There were very few instances where I'd say someone's eyes 'boggled,' but this was one of those times. In almost all circumstances, launching yourself completely outside of the obtuse and seemingly arbitrary bounds of social norms was a terrible idea—at least when it was directly visible to everyone involved.

In certain, special circumstances, though, it could become an extremely powerful secret weapon.

His eyes boggling wasn't the only reaction Sadboi had the kindness with which to grace me. His jaw fell open—much like Katherine's had, back when she first saw my penthouse—and he somehow went stiff and limp at the same time such that the stupid party cup damn near bounced out of his hand. With his mouth still hanging open like that and with that particular memory of Katherine now at the forefront of my mind, I did the only logical thing. I recycled the joke.

"Close your mouth, we are not codfish," I snapped. And, much like Katherine—holy shit, he actually did it! I continued to stare as he blinked, rubbed his face, and then blinked several more times. I bet he's unironically wondering if he's having some kind of psychotic episode. Huh, he could actually be already schizophrenic or something, now that I think of it.

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"Are you going to say anything, or do I have to squeeze it out of you?" I made vaguely threatening, abstract 'squeezing' gestures at him. "I'll fucking do it. Also, by the way, you're going to have to work on your reactions if you want people to think you're mentally healthy."

Finally, that got something out of the dude. "How—how—"

Oh come on. I rolled my eyes. "How-ward. Howard Bannister." Hmm, maybe that one was a little bit too obscure. "If you're wondering how a random bitch you met at a weird public event can see something that no one else in your life can, well, that's just because I'm special."

He blinked again. He was doing that a lot. Not like anyone doesn't, to be fair. "Is this some kind of manic pixie dream girl moment?"

For a choice of first complete sentence, I had to admit that was a really fucking good one. "Is that some kind of ballsy pickup line?" I shook my head. "No, don't answer that. Anyway, no, I'm not going to offer you a neon pill or something, but I am going to suggest you wander off with me for a bit so you can dump all your problems on a pretty stranger and let her take advantage of your vulnerable emotional state."

He just stared at me for a few seconds, then looked around, then shrugged and slid off of the concrete ledge. "You know what? Why the hell not?"

I smirked. Score! In all seriousness, though, I was mostly interested in figuring out what the hell was going on with him in a less emotional, more esoteric sense. Don't get me wrong, the social stuff might actually be interesting—I sure loved screwing with people for someone this 'antisocial'—but the main reason for doing this was still to see what was up with him that made him taste so strange.

Taking his limp fucking hand—limper than even Katherine, which was something I hadn't thought possible—I dragged him away from the ongoing concert until we were in a more secluded alleyway between a bar and a bar-slash-nightclub. It wasn't a super sketchy, filthy alley, but rather one of those ones where people were expected to walk and where you weren't supposed to drive a vehicle. I ended up trapping him between me and a wall.

For a moment, we just studied each other. On top of his already slightly off appearance and demeanor, he was now sweaty and a bit shaky. Definitely super nervous. Out of his comfort zone, I supposed—he gave me the impression of the guy who was way too anxious and square, the kind who wasn't so much innocent as repressed and jumpy. I decided to lean into it. What kind of guy doesn't love a hot psycho?

"By the way, I have to ask," I finally said, "are you actually aware that there's something seriously wrong with you?" I caught myself before he could answer. "No, wait. I don't mean the whole suicide thing. I'm talking about..." I poked him in the chest, and he literally flinched. "...something festering inside there." Leaning in closer, I confirmed my rising suspicion. He's not an Anathema, Guardian, or Star Guardian—he was a human who'd been seeded.

The strange, masked flavor was coming from the alien entity that had taken root inside of him like a cancer. It was the first time I'd knowingly met someone who was on their way to being taken over by an Anathema—well, that I was aware of. I had zero doubt I'd unknowingly encountered others before this. I wonder how far along he is? I was leaning towards the seed being deeply rooted already, but that was just a guess.

His forehead creased in confusion. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you've got something ugly locked inside there," I said, "which means we just have to awaken it."

Before he could say anything else or even react, I slammed him against the wall. I of course made sure there was no one nearby—it was getting dark, and there was a big AC unit blocking a direct view of the nightclub entrance. It wasn't hard to hear loud music and rowdy sounds coming from inside, though. I also made sure I had one hand covering his mouth as I ripped off his shirt with a claw.

Yes, my true mouth and claws were exposed now. I wasn't sure if it was just super strength or if he truly wasn't putting up much fight. Either way, it wasn't hard to feel his pulse skyrocket from both the reveal and from the intimate and forceful contact. Having literally ripped off his shirt and now pressing my silvery tongue to his bare chest, I was well aware of what it seemed like at this point. But this isn't actually going to a be sexual assault.

It was going to be something worse.

Oh yes. I could feel it. That cancerous mass was starting to run wild, pulsing along to the same chaotic dance as his human heart. I wonder what's going to happen? Does he just turn inside out and become a skinner or something? I thought it was supposed to be way slower than that. He still looked perfectly human.

"Are you afraid? Or are you excited? Or both?" I growled. While I could have maintained my exact same voice, I deliberately leaned into making it deeper, grittier, and overall more monstrous. Seductive, too. "Do you hate yourself? Is that why you want to die? Why you let this disgusting thing live inside of you?" I could feel how the absurd things I said resonated with both the man and the latent beast, amplifying the chaos. So I decided to push it.

"You don't even care anymore, do you? I think you want to see what will happen. To stop being in control. To just

let it out.

I blinked. What the fuck was that?

I didn't have much time to wonder, because the man in front of me twisted—twisted so fast and in a way that was so wrong that I—huh? A strange pressure warped through the space around me. It felt like what happened when the machine the cultists set up triggered the incursion. That same sequence of outward blast, following implosion, and final, sharp shockwave—just on a much smaller scale. Holy shit. I fucking did it.

I'd triggered him to finally give everything over to the developing seed. Except—no, that can't be right. My tongue told me that not much had changed. The Anathema taste was far stronger and sharper, now, but overall, it hadn't fundamentally changed—there were even lingering human flavors, much like how I, despite tasting overwhelmingly like an Anathema to myself, wasn't one hundred percent 'pure.'

Is that normal for seeded ones, or—I froze again when my brain registered precisely what was now scrambling against my grip and—trying to chew off my arm. Nice. Real nice.

A pair of elegant, weirdly fuzzy horns sprouted from the head, as well as a strange, spiny tail that I realized had coiled around one of my own legs and was now digging numerous small perforations into my own flesh. Most striking, though, was the almost mask-like, monstrous jaw—and the gauntlet-like claws. Like me. I blinked. Exactly the same way my own nonhuman features...

And that was the thing, wasn't it? The Anathema struggling against my own inhuman grip was, overall, still remarkably human shaped. She was clearly a very different type—certainly nothing like a chamelium—but the overall form...

Also, why the hell did he turn so... female?

She was still trying to gnaw off my hand, though, and I remembered my own unthinking hunger right after 'hatching.' I wasn't going to feed her my own hand, though, so I settled on bludgeoning her pretty little face. And then I did it again. And again, and again, until—okay, I think that's enough.

Somehow both dazed and looking much more clear-headed, the new, bizarrely human Anathema stared at me. Then—as if my mounting suspicions weren't already obvious enough—she spoke. "What the fuck did you do to me?"

I couldn't help it. I started laughing.

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