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Chapter 5 - Smiling Death
It's funny how one word can say so much yet so little.
Annihilation.
Despite all its dramatic pretense, Indy's father hadn’t bothered to elaborate further on this apparent apocalyptic threat to national security.
The truth was that many believed that this so-called Sin-Shroud had been simply a figment of his old man’s imagination, his way of maintaining a distant type of ownership over the Well by fabricating some impossible danger that only he could manage. Indy himself had been a staunch propagator of this theory, one he was strongly forced to reconsider as a column of burning mist burst forth towards him, rising higher and higher until it loomed above the Hermit's deck like some terrible tidal wave.
"Niles…?" Gage's voice sounded very far away.
"I…I…," Indy gasped through a breathless exhale. "I'm…sorry…,"
He felt his revolver slip from numb fingers, a dull echo in the distance just as the great wave came crashing down.
Indy staggered backward, his breath catching as the black mist began to swirl around him, thickening with every second. It reeked of melting tar, a noxious scent that clung to his nostrils like oil, making it impossible to breathe without gagging. His instincts screamed to flee, but the mist moved too quickly, surging toward him with a malevolent purpose. Before he could react, it poured into his mouth, filling his lungs like molten iron.
He choked, his hands clawing at his throat as he tried to cough it out, but it was no use. The burning mist was inside him now, coiling through his chest like fire and smoke. His stomach twisted, convulsing as the mist expanded, tendrils pushing down into his limbs, curling through his arms and legs with relentless force. Every nerve screamed in agony as his body betrayed him, his muscles seizing and twitching under the entity's control. It pressed against the base of his skull, stretching its tendrils into his mind. Indy gasped, his vision blurring as the edges of his consciousness frayed.
His senses flickered in and out, the world around him reduced to a sickly blur as his body became a prison of pain. His thoughts began to slip, replaced by a creeping darkness, a cold emptiness that gnawed at his sense of self.
Was this death?
Laughter burst forth. A host of disjointed voices came from nowhere and everywhere, swarming like a legionous plague of insects before coalescing into a single, maniacal voice.
If this was death, it had a terrible sense of humor.
Then, with the abrupt finality of a gunshot, all was silent.
Indy tumbled endlessly through the void, his body weightless and unanchored. The darkness was absolute, an abyss that stretched in every direction, swallowing him whole. There was no up or down, no sense of motion except the faint pressure against his skin, a reminder that he was still falling—always falling. Time slipped away, leaving only the emptiness, pressing in on his thoughts, gnawing at his mind.
How long had he been here? Hours? Days? The thought dissolved as soon as it formed, consumed by the darkness around him. His heart pounded in the vast silence, a frantic rhythm against the void. Panic stirred deep in his chest, but it was muted by exhaustion, by the maddening repetition of nothingness.
Indy closed his eyes, trying to hold onto something—anything—to keep the fragments of his sanity intact. But even that was slipping, dissolving like smoke. He felt his grip on reality loosening, the lines between dreams and memory blurring into the dark.
Then, a flicker.
A pinprick of light appeared in the distance, fragile and small. He blinked, unsure if his mind was playing tricks on him. But the light remained steady and unmoving, a beacon in the infinite black. It grew quickly, expanding, swallowing the darkness around it until the void was no more. The light stretched wide, pale, and cold until it took shape—a perfect full moon hanging in the night sky.
If this was indeed the afterlife, its moon, large and full hanging high above amongst a tapestry of stars, bore a striking resemblance to the one he had lived under, as did the monolithic red tower rising out of a colossal crater in the earth below it.
If this was indeed the gates to the Crimson Hells, then its architect had been sorely uninspired.
Not dead, then. Am I dreaming?
A sharp inhale of cold night air brought with it a flood of sensations, and alongside it, a sharp, lucid awareness quickly dismissed that notion. This experience was profoundly different than his dreams' fleeting and ethereal surreality.
But if he wasn't dreaming, and he wasn't dead, then what else was there? And why couldn't he shake the feeling that he felt like a stranger in a foreign land? Everything seemed wrong with the moon's position, the landscape, the salty tang of the sea air. His internal compass struggled to make sense of the intimately familiar yet bizarrely unfamiliar surroundings. Only then did his gaze drop from the moon to the sprawling crater-scape beneath.
It was as if the entire city of Highwall had simply evaporated. Leaving only the naked rock and rising plateaus along the crater's distant edge.
The northern edge - he could almost see the entire thing, obscured only briefly by the body of the great tower at the center of the crater. In Indy's Thirty-odd years, the sweeping perspective of his childhood home was one he had never experienced before.
Where was The Hermit? Where was Gage?
Where was everything?
Then it clicked.
He was on the opposite side of the tower, the southern side, meant to be a hostile, boggy hellscape, long abandoned by the Truancy, who had celebrated the inhospitable stretch of land as a natural defensive barrier to any who might think to invade from the southernmost tip of the peninsula. Then he found his focus shifting once more from a distance to his more immediate surroundings, and his confusion only compounded ten-fold.
Where am I?
He was perched amongst the highest branches of an old-growth tree; before him, a sea of treetops stretched out, a vibrant tapestry of greens, only to be brutally bisected by a massive, ancient trunk like the spine of a broken beast. This mammoth of a tree had fallen recently, too, judging by the tumult of splintered wood and broken stone, the earth itself torn up in long gashes where the tree’s impact reverberated outward.
He didn’t have long to admire the view. His perspective shifted unexpectedly and unbidden, replacing the sprawling distant landscape with an intimate, up-close flurry of bark, pine leaves, and tree branches. Most alarming of all was the pair of green-skinned hands attached to his arms, working autonomously, nimble fingers with sharp, pointed claws digging into the bark of an enormous tree, deftly swinging from branch to branch as it scaled its length in a rapid descent downwards.
These are not my hands.
Below him, a pair of short, muscular legs—also green and clawed—moved in sync with the hands. They grasped and stretched, finding footholds in the thick bark as if it were nothing more than a well-worn staircase. His toes gripped the ridges of the tree with unsettling confidence, pulling him downward in quick, fluid motions. It was as though his limbs had a life of their own, each motion rehearsed a thousand times over.
These are not my feet.
His heart pounded in his chest—or at least, he thought it was his chest. He wasn't controlling this. His mind was a prisoner, an observer trapped inside this alien vessel.
This is not my body!
His instincts screamed in protest, trying to wrest control of his limbs, but nothing happened. His new body moved with a feral ease, descending the tree with prodigious deftness.
He tried to slow his breathing, to calm himself, but the sensation of detachment only heightened his fear. The claws digging into the bark, the muscles in his legs rippling with strength—it all felt too real. Too visceral. His body was so foreign, yet terrifyingly efficient as if he had been born in this strange skin.
Perhaps most jarring of all was the all-consuming silence. There was no rustling of leaves, no swishing of fabric, and most notably, no undercurrent of the ever-present Zero Song. Despite their proximity to the Tower, the gravity felt thinner than during his furthest northern campaign.
The avalanche of external stimuli was almost too much to bear. How was he meant to make sense of any of this?
It seemed an insignificant detail at first when he watched his hands, its hands, their hands, reach up to pull back a strand of wiry black hair that had fallen across his face. He saw it now—too long, too coarse to be his own. The fingers deftly tied it back, and as the claws brushed the sides of his head, they lingered there. His touch ran over the bumpy ridges of scars—two jagged lines where ears had once been.
In that moment, clarity struck him like a hammer. The answer slid into his mind, almost like someone had whispered it directly into his thoughts. For reasons beyond fathom, his mind was being held hostage inside the body of a Boz-Vogli man who had cut off his ears.
As if in response to his thoughts. The man stopped midstride atop a precariously thin branch and brought his hands together in a silent clap before leaping down onto another branch and springing over to the tree's weighty trunk. Indy was suddenly aware of a metallic taste in his mouth. Their mouth. The man reached towards his face; a blade was resting between his lips. His fingers curled around the handle, pulling it free. The serrated edge gleamed, catching a ray of moonlight as it bit into the tree’s bark. Slowly, it began carving—two circles for eyes, followed by a sweeping arc below—a grin stretched wide across the trunk’s rough surface.
A face grinning back at him from the wood.
Indy let loose a silent scream, his nose burning with the acrid stench of burning tar.
***
The great tree was even more staggering from the forest floor than it had been from his treetop perch. Fifty feet wide and towering, it had cleaved through the forest like the blade of a giant axe, leaving devastation in its wake. The mighty trunk, now a natural bridge stretching toward the southern horizon, lay half-sunken into the earth, its impact reshaping the forest around it.
The Bozling weaved through branches that rose like skeletal fingers clawing at the night sky. Blade between teeth, he moved through the thick undergrowth with uncanny familiarity, his steps precise and fluid despite the near-total darkness, as if every jutting branch and uneven patch of bark was an old, well-rehearsed obstacle.
Then there was the mist, ethereal and intangible; it stood out perfectly against the surrounding darkness. A faint, spectral glow colored its edges, casting its shape in an eerie, unnatural contrast. It swirled about, tugging at his clothes and urging him forward.
Urging them forward.
The thought was like a bucket of cold water to the face, silencing Indy's breathless internal scream. He had to stay alert and focused - stay him. He could not suppress the creeping fear of what might happen should he forget that distinction.
Fresh air filled his lungs as they broke free from a thick section of overgrowth to a relatively barren section of the mammoth tree's great length. A cool, salty breeze soon thickened with the smells of wood smoke, salty sea breeze, freshly cut wood, and damp earth, underscored by an acrid tang that Indy could not place.
The Bozling crept towards the tree's edge, lowered himself slowly, his body pressed close to the rough bark, and peered down its length.
Far below, nestled against the massive trunk of a fallen tree, was a small village, its simple structures huddled close together as if seeking shelter beneath the colossal wood. The tree was an ancient titan, its bark weathered and cracked, with roots larger than houses protruding into the air like the bones of some long-dead giant. A village pulled straight from the annals of antiquity clung to its base, a scattering of cottages with thatched roofs and timber walls, their outlines barely visible in the faint, flickering light of torches and gas lamps.
The torches burned with a wavering glow, their flames dancing shadows across the village. They lined the narrow dirt paths winding through the settlement, lighting the way between the homes and toward the larger, barn-like structures that huddled closer to the enormous trunk. Gas lamps, hung from iron hooks outside the doors, gave off a softer, more steady glow, illuminating the wooden porches and casting long shadows against the uneven walls.
Beyond the houses, a stretch of cleared land opened into a pasture where livestock grazed, their shapes little more than dark, shifting blots against the dimly lit fields. The fences that marked the pasture's edges were crude but sturdy, made from split logs and lashed with thick rope.
It was clear that most of the inhabitants had already turned in for the night; the village was quiet, with only a few windows still illuminated, their dim, flickering lights slowly fading as the last of the oil lamps burned low.
A few scattered figures moved through the village, slow and plodding—guards, their soft-featured faces bathed in the golden light of the torches that lined the dirt paths. Each man bore thick scars upon their temples, like crowns etched into their flesh; their eyes were half-lidded, their movements sluggish, as though they were caught in a perpetual state of exhaustion or boredom. They carried early black powder flintlock pistols in their hands, their dull metal barrels catching the occasional flicker of torchlight.
Indy could feel the laughter tugging at the corners of his mouth and a grin spreading across his face. The mist burst forth, weaving a path down the rounded edge of the tree. The Bozling lept after it, every movement radiating with alarmingly lethal intent.
***
None were spared.
The last light of the moon now crested beyond the crimson tower, casting a spectral glow upon the blood-soaked staircases and doorways of the now-empty settlement. Each crimson-streaked path told the story of a body dragged from its deathbed and drawn into the cobblestone courtyard—thirty or more trails, one for each corpse now propped carefully in a semicircle, eyes gouged out, with lips and cheeks carved into sinister, scythe-like smiles.
And then there was the mist. Always the mist. It had guided the Bozling forward, leading him to unlocked windows, urging him up shadowy staircases, and showing him exactly where to step to avoid creaky floorboards and squeaky hinges. It revealed where to cut, where to stab, and where to carve.
The killer had worked through the night with a perfect balance of caution and eager determination—and through borrowed eyes, Indy had been forced to witness every gruesome moment of the silent massacre.
Indy had felt the anticipation as if it were his own, vicariously experiencing the morbid delight as the killer moved like a wraith, gliding through each home, had felt the air pressure shift as a door creaked open, the faint stirrings of unsuspecting victims, the vibrations through the ground. Even the scents offered insights—the salty tang of sweat from sleeping bodies, the earthy aroma of skin and hair, the thick, ancient odor of the early Truant Humans. They looked more like oversized children than soldiers of the modern age.
And then there was the burning mist, always the mist. From the shadows, it emerged, its dark tendrils stretching out, leading the Bozling killer forward, guiding him to unlocked windows, urging him up shadowy staircases, and instructing him exactly where to step to avoid creaky floorboards or squeaky hinges. It showed him where to cut, where to stab, and where to carve the twisted smiles onto his victims' faces.
Not one amongst the grotesque assembly of the now grinning corpses had the faintest clue of their imminent demise. At first, Indy had hoped to warn them, but he had no mouth to scream, and his efforts only heightened the silence. So, somewhere between the third, thirteenth, and thirtieth killing—it all blurred into a blood-soaked haze—he had stopped trying.
Indy was well acquainted with death, with ending lives with the edge of a blade or the pull of a trigger, but that was the reality of war, the reaction to the base instinct to survive. Day after day, a new pile of bodies had lain at his feet, their limbs discarded like abandoned toys. For that was what they had become to him. What they needed to become. He had lost count of the villages he'd burned under the wrathful banner of the Truant Liberation Front as the smoke curled into the sky like dark serpents twisting toward indifferent heavens. The screams—anguished cries for mercy or frantic calls for long-gone mothers—had devolved into static, background noise that filled the space between gunfire, and no trigger had seen more use than his own.
Despite the victories, medals, promotions, and accolades, Indy existed in body but remained an empty shell in spirit, mechanically performing actions that ensured his survival, void of meaning or connection. 'Forever forward!' his comrades had shouted with jubilant fervor: 'Perfection through Vengeance! Perfection through Victory! This is the Truant Way!'
Their words, Morgan's words. Not his. Indy had saved his breath for muttered curses, cheap spirits, and cheaper cigarettes.
Yet those were memories from a distant past, some five hundred years in the distant future.
Right.
What perfect, inconsequential nonsense, as fleeting and unimportant as a dream, like sand slipping between fingers and washing away to sea.
Yet this was no dream—that much, he was certain. Everything felt too tangible, too detailed, too real. This wasn't a fanciful creation borne from the dark corners of his mind. He was reliving a moment from the distant past as seen through the eyes of another. Answers to questions he had never dared ask could be found here; he was certain of that, too. They tickled the edges of his consciousness, urging him to analyze every detail.
His certainty was only compounded by the powerful aura of refined conviction that radiated from this green little man, so pure it was almost palpable. It was evident in every movement, made without hesitation, every action, exacted with precision, and every murder, carried out with a decisive sense of divine purpose.
This was no deranged sociopath's handiwork nor a random act of violence from an unhinged lunatic. The killings were purposeful, intimate in their savagery, rooted in a conviction born from an innate sense of exquisite purpose. Indy felt an unexpected stab of envy - like a man dying of thirst watching another summon water from his fingertips.
It was the exact feeling Indy had been searching for his entire life, yet there was a strange sense of familiarity and loss to it, illuminating as it was confusing.
Sand slipping between his fingers.
The slaughter was senseless, yet the killer's method was not.
At first, arranging a haphazard mosaic of reflective surfaces before his victims seemed strange. But the glass and mirrors—scavenged from shattered remains of nearby homes—were meticulously positioned at odd angles around the bloodied bodies, creating a kaleidoscope of reflections multiplying the macabre smiles and vacant stares into infinity. Indy felt an unsettling bond with them now, having witnessed the life drain from each one, seeing their silent horror moments before the precise kiss of the blade finished its cruel artistry.
Every face he recognized.
Every face, but one.
That was it! The realization had lingered at the periphery of his mind. The ancient Boz Vogli man ultimately dragged Indy back to the distant past and took meticulous care to conceal his own visage during this grotesque task. Apart from the green-tinted skin, clawed hands, and occasional strand of black hair, Indy had no idea what this man looked like—no small feat, given the bloody endeavor at hand.
But why?
As if in affirmation of Indy's thought, the Bozling brought his bloodied hands together in a silent clap, his feet shuffling in a little jig as he moved away from the mirrors and glass towards the circle of blood pooling at the feet of the smiling dead. He danced, dragging his toes through the sticky, dark liquid, weaving through the grinning corpses, tauntingly leaping towards the back and deftly hopping atop a wooden stool he had left behind, all while carefully turning his back to the mirrors.
As the dark, burning smoke rushed from the shadows, filling the courtyard just as the first light of day crested the horizon, the Bozling shifted its gaze from the spectacle and slowly began to turn.
Indy felt like a bug pressed against glass, uselessly straining to see with eyes he could not control.
His heart began to race.
Their heart began to race.
The first glimpse of mirrors delivered a flash of blinding sunlight, skewing the scene into chaos. It was then that the Bozling, with a dramatic flourish of blood-stained hands, reached up and covered his eyes.
And all went dark.