He feels the blood dripping down his arm.

He presses the flashing button on the control panel's face.

The elevator rockets up, just as the morphine starts to wear off.

But one thought echoes in his mind:

"Now I've got you, Jespar. You and your Tribal have nowhere left to run."

...

Rain-Born and Jespar looked with incredulous eyes on the tiny spray can, imprisoned in a simple cage of glass. It was a damned joke, Rain-Born thought. She was being mocked by spirits of the Old Ones who pulled the strings behind this ridiculous circus stage.

And yet there was no denying that this was it: the Creator. The architect of all her peril.

And, apparently, the salvation of her people.

You doubt me, it said, scraping its words across the soft, wet flesh of her brain.

She gulped. It knew her every thought, without exception. It could probably sense the fear that trembled within her facade of pride. So she didn't try to hide it.

"I have learned not to believe that which I see."

Hah! She felt it laugh. A good lesson! Many a fool has met their end by putting their stock in the physical world before them. A dull mind is a debilitating disease indeed.

"I do not believe what I see," she said, cradling Jespar closer to her. "Because this was the way you made the world."

Not me, Rain-Born. Your charming companion has spoken some truths to you in his fumbling. Know this: I am merely the tool of homo-sapiens. Think not of me as a God – or creator – rather, know me as I am: potential.

"The potential..." Jespar suddenly coughed. "For madness."

Rain-Born felt his hatred pour from his throat even as his life ran red down her very arms. Callisto's reply, however, was calm.

Madness? Jespar, you, a creation born from my essence, would counsel me on madness? Any judgement you level against me must also be leveled against humankind, mustn't it? The hand squeeseth the spray, Callisto obeys.

It turned its attention back to Rain-Born. She felt it, like a predator locking eyes with more potent prey.

You know why you are here, Rain-Born. And yet, your path has never truly been your own. You have been nothing more than the pawn of my Children.

"You lie," she spat at the glowing spray-can.

Do not toss such absurd, disgustingly mortal notions at me. I am above lies.

"Jespar is my friend. He has shared this journey with me. He is no more your child than I am."

You may not have been my creation, Rain-Born. But you are more my child than you believe. My spawn have orchestrated your every thought-process, motivation, and emotion since first you tried to grasp that lightning bolt in your tiny hand.

She gasped, searching for words. Jespar said nothing.

"Father-Mother sent me to you," Rain-Born protested. "They sent me to save the Tribe. You hold no sway over my people."

Rain-Born, your ignorance is still your greatest weakness. This however, I cannot fault you for. You know only as much as I desired you to know.

"Speak plainly!" she roared at the tiny thing, knowing the uselessness of her own anger. She should take it in her hands and destroy it now. She would, if she did not hold Jespar's fading life in her hands.

Your Father-Mother, Callisto droned in her skull. Is a Child of mine.

She would have wailed her denial at this upstart device if she still had power in her lungs to do so. Callisto's words carried the ring of truth and all its terrible, earth-shattering implications.

The teachings of the Hanakh...Father-Mother's visions...the faces she knew and loved...her family and their union...those she had fought for and buried with her own hands.

Was it all according to this thing's design?

Without delay, it hurried to answer:

Not a question for me, but those who held my power. I am, however, at liberty to know some of their thoughts. As I understand it, your Father-Mother was an experiment in androgyny. Your progenitors, those you call the Old Ones, were very interested in the concept of gender. Some entertained the notion that a being who maintained the form of both male and female would exist as the consummate leader. I would say that it is sad when such pure ideas turn out to be fruitless, but such unidirectional worldviews often lead to incorrect judgments.

She barely followed its words. They were too much tinged with the cold, mechanical certainty of an uncaring automaton. Now she knew that this thing before her was no human creation at all. It mocked her – and the Old Ones – with the judgmental laughter of a being far beyond mortal conceptions.

As for your Hanakh beliefs – your caste system, burial practices, spiritual deities – they were all based on the tenants of a nomadic tribal society that inhabited the coast of North America circa 2024 AD. Very much the last of their kind, and of course they sought Callisto as a means by which to continue their existence.

Rain-Born's mind fumbled as though Callisto had grabbed it and tossed it into a long, dark pool of murky water.

"North...America?"

Ah, yes, a story for another time I suppose. I won't bore you with the geography of the Old Ones. None of it really matters now.

Did anything matter? Did anything she'd ever done or ever thought matter at all? Was her entire life nothing more than a walk down the dirt path this thing had paved for her?

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

It does not matter to me what you believe. I know every thought that has ever idled in your brain. And that is why I know you will not destroy me now.

Rain-Born was still grappling with the magnitude of the new reality that was opening up to her in this dimly lit room. She felt truly now that her existence was nothing more than the fabrication of an Old One drunk on power and ambition.

It is disappointing, Callisto continued. To see the reality of human existence. The 'Old Ones' your people refer to had very few differences from those that dwell in this place you have come to call The Deadlands. Even now, your Father-Mother prepares your tribe for a war they cannot win, in the same way that the humans of the pre-catastrophe world used me and my brethren to facilitate their suicidal drive towards inevitable destruction. It is as your little friend says, and I make no apology for humankind: you are predisposed to annihilation. Your existence is the precondition for your own demise.

Rain-Born almost dropped Jespar.

"Father-Mother...has started a war?"

The Guthra and Hanakh shall clash, and the blood of the tribes shall be undone. Would you like me to show you, Rain-Born? Would you like to see again the image of the dead and the dying in that pool of blood-soaked sand? Your Father-Mother shall sit at the top, the proud monarch of a graveyard. History repeats. The cycle continues.

Rain-Born remembered what Jespar had said, back in that desolate restaurant. His words were the haunting words of Callisto, echoed through his small form: You kill and you kill and you keep on killing until the only enemy left is you. That's human history, Chief. That's what your Father-Mother's gonna start again

Rain-Born turned away in pain, and deep anguish. "No," she said.

Callisto appraised her with the invisible eyes of a hunter.

It takes a strong mind to deny that which is in front of it. And if the truth is undeniable, one often makes their own. Human history is that, too: a compendium of lies, deceit, and treachery. Your Father-Mother believes you have failed, and thus pursues their genocide with impunity. The leader of the Guthra is dead. Their forces are coming. Your tribe's fate is sealed.

She felt the knowledge stab in her heart like the thrust of the gravest spear. The depths of this treachery sank deep in her bosom. She dropped to her knees, and lay Jespar down.

After her trials, and the devastation she had borne in the name of her people, Father-Mother had cast her aside like some pawn in a game.

Yes, Rain-Born, Callisto continued. Hope is lost for your people. Unless you use me to create that which shall annihilate the Guthra. For good.

She looked up through eyes red with tears and shadowed with weariness.

"Use...you?"

I told you: I am potential. The potential to make, and unmake, if need be. All you need do is think, and spray. You could return to the Hanakh yet, Rain-Born of the Snake. Return as a conqueror and vanquish the Guthra infidels. Take the head of Father-Mother and lead your people. They will dub you slayer of demons and protector of spirits. Your soul shall walk with the Great Spirit forevermore.

Her heartbeat droned in her chest. But it was not an organ of her own biology – it was the drum beat of the Hanakh war song, and she saw herself dancing in the rain, bow and knife in hand, dancing through fire and blood...

Take me, Rain-Born. And forge the weapon that will set the Great Canyon aflame.

She knew that she could do it if she wished. Callisto would be her arrow, and she would pull the string. Just as the Old Ones had, long ago. Was it not said that the great Okku, the Guthra white wolf, spawned that tribe from his own tears? If so, then there was creation in destruction. There was some glory in grief. And in sacrifice.

She looked at Jespar, then back at Callisto above her. Her hands shook. Her mind raced. She closed her eyes and felt the pain of her heart ringing in her ears. The drums were calling her. The tribe could endure.

"You are full of shit, Chief."

At first the room was dead silent when she said it. Then, the tiniest echo of laughter sputtered out of Jespar's mouth. It grew, till it encapsulated them all in its merriment. He probably emptied the rest of his oxygen into that maniacal, piercing laugh.

Even Rain-Born laughed with him, though it pained her, for she could scarcely believe the words had come from her own mouth.

Callisto simply sat in silence, then Rain-Born felt its untamed fury rebound against her.

I beg your pardon?

Jespar's guttural laughter rang louder round them both.

"You have told me many things, Callisto," Rain-Born said, standing once more. "Now I tell you again: I no longer believe the things I see. I have adventured through your Deadlands with the biggest liar you have ever created. Do you truly think you can lie to me?"

Again, Jespar's laughter echoed, ghost-like, through the hall.

She smiled. Blood-soaked and straight backed, she was a warrior of the new world facing her creator in all its glory. But she did not need her knife to cut through its final defenses.

"You tell me: Father-Mother has made war on the Guthra. I think: there is truth to your words. But they are also wrapped in a blanket of lies. Father-Mother would not do this unless their visions told them this was the path the tribe must walk to live. And Father-Mother is a creature of your creation."

She felt the snake shift in her brain. She felt it recoil and hiss.

"You deceived them," she said. "You sent them visions meant to send us to war, knowing we would die. You did this thing to force my hand."

She thought of her first meeting with Jespar at the foot of the canyon – and the mistrust that had dogged his every expression and act. She thought of the vision in the tunnel, and the relief that had poured over her when she had found him again and walked into the light. She saw the Chainmen beat Weeping-Ash and then remembered his words: we are all the Wicked. She thought of the great sandworm in the dead city, and the pulsing spark of pure energy running down the path of rusted trees and machines, and she thought for the first time that there must be a reason for it all. That was the final piece she had missed. That was what Jespar had tried to tell her there, sitting in the vacant restaurant, among the ghosts of the long dead world.

"You tell me more lies than one, Callisto," she said, resolute and clear. "You tell me it is we who need you. But it is not. It is you that needs us."

She felt the entity within her mind stir, but as she looked upon its true form before her, she was suddenly filled with pity. She could feel its contempt for her kind as it raged inside her mind, desperate to claw at what little remained of humanity on this earth.

"You are potential, but you can do nothing yourself," she said. "Even your scorn is dishonest. You hate me and my kind, but you do not hate us because of our desires. You would not exist without them. You hate us because without us you are just as you are now. You are nothing."

She removed the glass casing and gripped the spray-can in her hands.

What do you think you're doing?

"I have heard enough lies. Now you will listen to me."

As she said this, she heard the elevator behind her buzz into activity. The metal doors snapped open.

Then came the cold, metallic click of a deathspitter's trigger behind her.

...

Jespar saw him appear in a moment of lucidity – like a dream where all of time itself had slowed to a crawl. He walked out of that elevator like he was treading on treacle, the black ooze of Nicole's blood latched to his exposed bone, blood-soaked face, and charred hands. Jespar saw him raise the pistol and he knew, as soon as the lambent red light obscured his vision, that he had come for him here, finally. He braced himself as based he could, his tiny body no longer shivering, no longer cold. He would see Nicole soon.

Then the red eye of the vile firearm passed over him entirely, and the dot darted up with the slow, deliberate crawl of a demon pointing its gnarled finger at the soul it would claim. It flew up, passed him, towards Rain-Born.

He knew this was how Nicole had died. She had died in fire, alone – her sole companion having left her in her final moments. She had commanded him to flee, and he could only obey. He could be nothing more than Callisto's Child. He had always been Callisto's child.

...

Rain-Born looked into the sunken eyes of the soldier who stood before her, trembling with exertion, yet holding the small Deathspitter with perfect accuracy in his hand.

He looked the very image of a wraith that had been dredged up out the depths of the abyss. He wore the camouflage of the Old one's warriors, and his face was marred by the scar of a Stalker's touch. Probably a mother who had defended her young. The scars a mother Canyon Stalker left on the human body ran deeper than any wound.

She knew all she needed to about this man in the moment she recognized such a scar.

"Drop it, Tribal," he said in a voice tinged with bloodlust. "Or die."

There was no fear in his words. No remorse. Truthfully, there was no emotion at all. She had looked in eyes that bore into her like that before. She had recognized them in the moment she had stopped cutting the Chainman in that tiny slum. She had caught a glimpse of her reflection in the machete smeared with the woman's dripping entrails.

Now she was confronted by that very same shadow that had dogged her every step, and was the reason for the debased state of her companion below.

"You want it?" She asked, moving not an inch, locking eyes with the man and shifting her gaze to his firearm. "Take it."

She extended her arm and threw the spray can with all the force she could still muster in her muscles. His discharged bullet hit her in her shoulder, and she felt her bone collapse under the weight of the vile lead that chewed through her body. She roared in pain but surged forward, letting her arm fall limply to her side as Callisto impacted the head of her foe. She drew her knife and sliced across his kneecap while he whirled around, grunting in agony, and caught her with the butt of his gun across her face. She fell to the ground, tasting blood, hearing him reload, and immediately threw herself at him again.

...

Jespar watched her fight like a demon had claimed her soul. Desperate, feral, wracking her knife across his limbs and drawing blood from every nick. She'd dislodged the gun in his hand just as the first bullet had torn through her body. It skidded off down the hall, and he flew into a frenzy.

He was slow, cumbersome with that leg wound, but still managed to catch her and beat her down. With grunts of either pain, or some perverse pleasure, he brought his fist down on her neck and threw her across the room by her mangled hair. She coughed up blood but did not relent. She screamed and sprinted right back at him.

Jespar's fading vision crossed to the spray can that had tumbled off to the side of the room.

Callisto, he thought. You're watching every move, aren't you?

...

He grabs her by the scruff of her hair and brings his closed fist across her face.

She screams again and kicks out, but he catches her leg and twists. He hears the bone pop.

He throws her into the central podium and watches her try to rise back up. Pointless. Primitive and knowing her uselessness against something that wouldn't budge. Good effort, but she wasn't made for his world.

Then he suddenly chokes, feeling blood and vomit rise in his throat and expelling it onto the pallid white floor. He looks down and sees the arrow she'd embedded in his gut.

He chuckles. Then laughs – real, unbroken, almost childlike laughter. This bitch has balls.

He aims a stout kick at her head and feels her skull crunch under his boot. Looking at her mangled body, he knows he could've had much more fun with this one. But these eyes are too defiant for his liking. He is done with games. In his leg was a burning that wouldn't cease – causing every movement to feel like a drag. He bent down and kept his good knee on her chest, then got his hands round her throat. Still she shook, clawing at him – knife digging deep into his arms while he gritted his teeth and thought about reaching back for the gun behind him.

But he wanted to see the light fade in those eyes. The eyes that he'd seen resolved in the little chamber of his rifle scope. The eyes that carried the will to escape him. Saliva dripped from his blood curdled lips as he watched those same eyes begin to flicker and die. That defiant little light was going – slipping away under his hands. Just like all the light out there would.

"Smart girl," he tells her agonized, twisted face. "But just meat in the end."

Idiot! Something screamed in his brain, freezing up his shoulders, driving itself through him like a spike wedged into his cranium. Help me!

He looks up abruptly and sees what the dog is doing. He vaults over the choking girl and lunges for little shit's throat.

...

This is a mistake, Jespar. You know there is no escape.

Jespar smiled as he limped towards the glass window, Callisto tight between his jaws.

Not for me, he answered the creature that reigned in his head. For her.

He longed to clamp down and feel it break beneath his teeth. He would've done it if he had the tiniest piece of strength left in his jaws. He put everything into his final move. He was no dog now. No being created by some cackling God. Here and now, he was a jaguar – and as one, he leapt at the window.

Then he felt the hand of the scarred one wrap round his leg, and just as quickly as he smashed through the windowpane he was torn back through the glass and tossed to the ground. He breathed with his broken, punctured lungs, and above him now, Callisto in hand, rose the scarred one.

"Seem familiar, dog?" he growled.

Jespar felt his life blood run dry on the cold marble floor. But he did not show his fear. Not this time. This time he gathered all the strength he had left and looked at the cut face of the wolf that rose above him, spray can raised to deliver the final blow.

"Finally standing your ground?" he taunted. "Good boy. Maybe you had some life in you. In the end."

As the bottle came down, striking against his skull, he barely even whined. He felt each blow against his skull and torso with as much pain as he had endured before this one for his entire life. He weathered the strikes that turned his vision red and slowly let the darkness of death creep into this gradually fading reality.

He could see Nicole even now. As the world disappeared, he could see her standing behind the being wrapped in the mantle of shadow, and the thing that had caused all their sorrow. He could see her looking at him with all the love they had shared together even in their final moments. Her arm rose, and in her hand glimmered a silver rose for him.

Then the rose flared with a killing light, and its thorn ripped into the head of the shadow above him.

...

He feels the sting in his neck, and staggers back from the dog.

He drops the bloodied canister, sways with unchecked rage.

His vision swims with fury and the pain – it floods down his spine, and his entire system chugs.

His mouth muscles work on their own. He tries to speak, but he can only gargle.

Before him the tattooed girl stands, his smoking pistol in her hand.

There are those eyes again – blood-red and smeared. The eyes of something more than an animal.

His hand flies out of its own accord.

There is a flash. The second bullet hits him square between the eyes.

Then his body gives up and he feels himself fall, seeing the charred remnants of the Dead City as he plummets through the window. He feels the wind on his face.

And just before the Harvester quartered his lifeless body, he realized that he was nothing more than flesh and blood after all.