My head is pounding like someone's using my skull as a dimensional tuning fork, and I'm starting to wonder if helping random strangers is going to become a habit I can't afford.
The newcomer—who I assume runs this place based on their casual authority—studies me with eyes that exist in too many dimensions for comfort. Their gaze feels invasive, like they're reading not just my surface thoughts but the cosmic history written in my hellfire-scarred soul.
"Interesting," they murmur, their multi-dimensional voice creating harmonics that make the stabilization chamber's tiles pulse with responsive light. "A being forged in the deepest circles, wearing Guild documentation like a shield against his own nature."
I resist the urge to touch the collar around my neck, which has finally stopped overheating now that we're away from the festival's chaotic energies. "Word travels fast in the undercity."
"Information is currency here," they reply with what might be amusement. "And you, Kamen Driscol, have become quite the topic of conversation since your dramatic arrival last night."
Of course I have. Because apparently even when I'm trying to keep a low profile, I end up causing enough supernatural disruption to become underground gossip material.
"Look," I say, the hellfire in my chest flickering with irritation, "I just need somewhere safe for her to stay until Convergence ends. I'm not looking to join whatever operation you're running down here."
"Operation?" The phase-shifted being tilts their head at an angle that human necks definitely can't achieve. "How delightfully paranoid. I simply provide sanctuary for beings the surface world finds... inconvenient."
Lith steps forward from the stabilization platform, her form now coherent enough that I can see her properly for the first time. She's younger than I initially thought—maybe early twenties in human terms—with silver-streaked hair and eyes that hold depths suggesting intelligence far beyond her apparent years.
"I can pay," she offers, reaching into what appears to be empty air and withdrawing a small crystal that pulses with dimensional energy. "Boundary fragments from my home realm. They're valuable for certain types of research."
The phase-shifted being's eyes immediately focus on the crystal with obvious interest. "Shattered Expanse fragments. Rare indeed, especially post-Collapse samples." They gesture toward a doorway I hadn't noticed before. "Kaleth will show you to quarters suitable for Boundary Walkers. The stabilization fields extend throughout this section."
As Lith moves toward the indicated doorway, she pauses and looks back at me. "Thank you again. For everything."
I nod, not trusting my voice. Something about her gratitude makes the hollow ache in my chest where Caleif used to be pulse with uncomfortable intensity. Helping her felt right in a way I haven't experienced since... well, since before Hell transformed me into whatever I am now.
After she disappears through the doorway, the phase-shifted being turns their full attention back to me. "Altruism from a Hell-forged entity. How wonderfully contradictory."
"Everyone's got to have a hobby," I mutter, already edging toward the stairs that will take us back to the surface. "Thanks for taking her in."
"Before you leave," they say, their multi-dimensional voice carrying a note of command that makes me pause despite my desire to escape this conversation, "you should know that helping her has consequences."
The hellfire flickers with warning. "What kind of consequences?"
"The kind that involve Citadel authorities taking increased interest in your activities," they reply with casual brutality. "Those guards will remember your face, your Guild documentation, your intervention on behalf of an unregistered dimensional anomaly. They'll be watching."
Great. As if tomorrow's evaluation wasn't stressful enough, now I have to worry about official scrutiny from beings who probably wouldn't hesitate to stuff me in the Containment District if they knew what I really am.
"Any suggestions for dealing with increased official attention?" I ask, though I suspect I won't like the answer.
The phase-shifted being's form flickers, revealing glimpses of something that might have been human once, long ago. "Succeed spectacularly at your Guild integration. Become so valuable to their programs that the authorities see you as an asset rather than a threat."
"And if I don't succeed spectacularly?"
Their smile exists in dimensions I can't properly perceive, but I feel its chill anyway. "Then you'll discover why the Liminal District has such extensive connections to the undercity. Escape routes become very important when the surface world decides you're too dangerous to tolerate."
The casual way they discuss my potential need for emergency evacuation should probably concern me more than it does. But after five thousand years in Hell, the idea of having backup plans for when everything goes wrong feels almost comforting.
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, heading for the stairs. "And thanks. For helping her."
"Thank me by not leading the authorities directly to our doorstep," they call after me. "The Liminal exists because of discretion, not dramatic rescues during Convergence festivals."
Thorne follows me up the stairs, shaking his head with the resigned amusement of someone who's seen this pattern before. "You know," he says as we emerge into the basement that will lead us back to the smuggler's tunnels, "most beings try to avoid official attention during their first week in a new realm."
"I've never been accused of being most beings," I reply, the collar around my neck humming as it adjusts to the changing dimensional pressures of our ascent.
"That's becoming increasingly obvious." He leads me back through the maze of hidden passages, his familiarity with the routes suggesting years of practice. "Though I have to admit, watching you face down those guards was satisfying. They've been getting increasingly aggressive with dimensional refugees lately."
"Increasing how?" I ask, filing away information that might be relevant to my Guild evaluation tomorrow.
"More raids on the quarters where non-humans congregate. Stricter enforcement of registration requirements. Random sweeps during events like Convergence." His weathered face creases with worry. "Something's got the authorities spooked about dimensional security."
The timing of my arrival—right when the Citadel is cracking down on beings like me—feels like cosmic irony of the worst kind. But then again, my entire existence has been defined by spectacularly bad timing.
We emerge from the smuggler's network into an alley near the safe house, the sounds of the ongoing festival filtering down from the main streets. The dimensional energies feel less chaotic now, either because the peak has passed or because I'm getting better at managing my reactions to them.
"Well," Thorne says, adjusting his pack, "try not to adopt any more dimensional anomalies before your evaluation tomorrow. The Guild appreciates initiative, but there's a difference between helpful and reckless."
"I'll do my best," I promise, though we both know my track record for avoiding trouble is less than stellar.
After he disappears back into the festival crowd, I stand alone in the alley, the weight of the day's events settling over me like a familiar burden. I helped someone today. Actually helped, without destroying anything or making the situation worse through applied violence.
It's a small thing, maybe. But for someone who spent five millennia as Hell's unwilling weapon, small steps toward being something better feel monumental.
The collar around my neck pulses once, a gentle reminder that tomorrow brings evaluation and the chance to prove I can be more than just a cosmic catastrophe waiting to happen. "Fuck this, I'm going back to bed." I say as I slowly make my way back to the safe house.
I make it back to the safe house without further incident, which feels like a minor miracle given my talent for attracting trouble. The reinforced door recognizes me somehow—probably some dimensional resonance thing—and swings open to admit me to the secure sanctuary beneath the Liminal District.
The room feels different now. Less like a prison cell and more like... well, not quite a home, but at least a place where I can exist without constantly monitoring my every movement for potential catastrophic consequences. The collar around my neck hums softly, maintaining the containment field that keeps my hellfire from interacting with local reality.
I collapse onto the reinforced bed, staring at the ceiling as the events of the day replay in my mind. Guild initiation. Grief counseling with a being made of liquid starlight. Rescuing a Boundary Walker from overzealous guards. Just another day in the life of Kamen Driscol, interdimensional catastrophe.
Except it's not just another day. It's the first day in five thousand years that I've made choices not dictated by survival or rage. The first day I've actively tried to be something other than the weapon Hell forged me to be.
Would Caleif be proud? The thought sends a fresh wave of pain through my chest, but it's different now—still agonizing, but somehow cleaner. Less like a festering wound and more like the necessary pain of healing.
"One day at a time," I mutter to the empty room, echoing Marius's words from last night. "One fucking day at a time."
Sleep comes surprisingly easily, perhaps because dimensional exhaustion finally outweighs my natural paranoia. My dreams are a chaotic jumble of images—Caleif's face as she disintegrates, Lith's grateful expression, Dr. Thess's starlight eyes studying me with clinical interest. All of it overlaid with the constant background radiation of Hell's torments, memories that five millennia have burned permanently into my consciousness.
I wake to a soft chiming sound and the sensation of being watched. My eyes snap open, hellfire flaring as I surge upright, ready to defend against whatever threat has infiltrated my sanctuary.
There's no one there. Just an empty room and a small communication device on the table that definitely wasn't there when I fell asleep. It pulses with soft light, the source of the chiming that woke me.
Cautiously, I approach the device, examining it without touching. No obvious traps or containment mechanisms. Just a simple crystal set in what appears to be the same material as my collar, pulsing with light in a pattern that suggests it's trying to get my attention.
"Fine," I mutter, picking it up. "Let's see what fresh hell this is."
The crystal activates at my touch, projecting a small holographic image of Dr. Thess, their starlight eyes somehow visible even in the miniature projection.
"Good morning, Kamen," the recording says. "Your evaluation is scheduled for nine bells at Guild headquarters. This device will guide you there through paths that avoid most of the festival crowds. Please wear the enclosed stabilizers—they'll help supplement your collar during the evaluation procedures."
The message ends, and a small compartment in the table slides open to reveal what appear to be metallic bracelets inscribed with the same symbols as my collar. More containment devices, presumably designed to work together with what I'm already wearing.
I check the window, noting that the sun is already well above the horizon. The festival continues outside, though with less intensity than last night. Beings of various types move through the streets, some clearly suffering the effects of celebration that went on too long.
The bracelets click into place around my wrists with the same unsettling sensation of reality locking into position that I experienced with the collar. Immediately, I feel the containment field strengthen, creating multiple layers of insulation between my hellfire and the surrounding dimensions.
They're not taking any chances with my evaluation, it seems.
The communication device pulses again, then projects a glowing trail that only I can apparently see, leading from my room out into the undercity. A private path to Guild headquarters, just as promised.
As I follow the guiding light through passages that seem designed to avoid both the festival crowds above and whatever exists in the deeper levels of the undercity, I can't help but wonder what exactly this evaluation will entail. Physical testing of my abilities? Psychological probing of my traumas? Both seem equally unpleasant prospects.
The path eventually leads me to what appears to be a maintenance entrance to the Guild building—a nondescript door in an alley that probably doesn't appear on any official maps. It opens as I approach, revealing a corridor that definitely wasn't designed for public access.
I follow the guiding light through a series of increasingly sterile hallways until I reach a chamber that looks like a cross between a medical examination room and a dimensional research laboratory. Equipment I don't recognize lines the walls, and in the center sits a chair that's clearly been reinforced to withstand significant force.
Dr. Thess awaits me, their form somehow more substantial in this environment than it appeared in their office yesterday. They're accompanied by two other beings—one that appears mostly human except for the geometric patterns that swirl beneath their skin, and another that resembles a collection of crystalline structures arranged in humanoid form.
"Welcome, Kamen," Dr. Thess greets me, their starlight eyes taking in the additional bracelets with approval. "I see you found our supplementary containment devices. Excellent. This is Dr. Vex—" they gesture to the human with geometric patterns "—our physical capabilities specialist, and Dr. Krith—" the crystalline being inclines what might be their head "—our dimensional resonance expert."
"Quite the welcoming committee," I observe, eyeing the reinforced chair with growing suspicion. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"
"Both, perhaps," Dr. Thess replies with that not-quite-human humor. "Your evaluation requires specialists because your nature is... specialized."
"You mean because I'm a walking dimensional catastrophe wrapped in hellfire and trauma," I translate.
Dr. Vex laughs, the sound causing the geometric patterns beneath their skin to pulse with light. "Accurate self-assessment. That's promising."
"Please, sit," Dr. Thess gestures to the reinforced chair. "The evaluation has three components—physical capability assessment, dimensional resonance mapping, and psychological profile compilation. We'll begin with the simplest."
I settle into the chair, which adjusts to accommodate my weight and form with unsettling precision. "And which is the simplest?"
"Physical capabilities," Dr. Vex replies, approaching with what appears to be a handheld scanner. "We already know you're stronger and more durable than baseline humanoids. This will help us quantify exactly how much."
The scanner hums as they pass it over my metallic skin, the readings causing their eyebrows to rise progressively higher. "Fascinating. Your physical structure exists in a state of constant transformation, yet maintains cohesion across dimensional boundaries."
"Hell's version of adaptive evolution," I explain, the collar warming slightly as memories of my transformation surface. "Five thousand years of torment tends to change a person."
"Indeed." They make notes on a device that resembles a tablet but clearly operates on principles beyond standard technology. "Your strength appears to fluctuate with your emotional state, but even at baseline, you're capable of approximately fifty times normal human capacity."
That explains why I keep accidentally breaking things when I'm not paying attention. "And at maximum?"
Dr. Vex exchanges glances with Dr. Thess. "That's what we're hoping to determine through controlled testing. If you're amenable, we'd like to measure your capabilities under various conditions."
"You want me to get angry," I translate. "To see how much stronger the hellfire makes me when it's burning hot."
"In a controlled environment," Dr. Thess clarifies quickly. "With appropriate containment measures in place."
I consider refusing. The thought of deliberately accessing the rage that fueled me through millennia of torment feels dangerous, like opening a door I might not be able to close again. But if I'm going to learn control, I need to understand exactly what I'm controlling.
"Fine," I agree reluctantly. "But fair warning—when the hellfire really gets going, your containment measures might not be enough."
Dr. Krith speaks for the first time, their crystalline voice creating harmonics that make the air shimmer. "That is precisely why I am present. My specialty is dimensional containment under extreme conditions."
They gesture, and the walls of the chamber shimmer, revealing layers of protection I hadn't noticed before. Whatever this room is, it's been designed to contain beings far more dangerous than standard dimensional refugees.
The testing that follows is both exhaustive and exhausting. They measure my strength at rest, then under increasing levels of emotional stimulation. They record my durability by subjecting me to forces that would reduce normal matter to component atoms. They analyze the hellfire that burns constantly in my chest, mapping its dimensional signature and energy output.
Through it all, they're careful not to push me too far—to keep me angry enough for accurate readings but not so enraged that I lose control completely. It's a delicate balance, one that leaves me drained but strangely satisfied when they finally announce the physical assessment complete.
"Remarkable," Dr. Vex says, reviewing their findings. "Your physical capabilities place you among the highest tier of entities we've evaluated. With proper training, you could channel that strength with precision rather than just raw force."
"That's the goal," I reply, settling back into the chair as they prepare for the next phase. "I'm tired of breaking things I don't intend to break."
Dr. Krith moves forward now, their crystalline form catching the light in patterns that hurt to look at directly. "The dimensional resonance mapping will be more... invasive. We need to understand how your hellfire interacts with local reality at a fundamental level."
"Invasive how?" I ask, immediately wary.
"We'll need to temporarily reduce your containment field," they explain, gesturing to my collar and bracelets. "Not remove it completely, but lower its effectiveness enough to get accurate readings of your unshielded dimensional signature."
The hellfire in my chest pulses with warning at the very idea. "That seems risky."
"Hence the specialized containment chamber," Dr. Thess interjects smoothly. "And Dr. Krith's presence. They've worked with beings whose mere existence causes dimensional instability."
"Like Boundary Walkers," I say, thinking of Lith and her constantly shifting form.
Dr. Krith's crystalline structure rearranges slightly in what might be surprise. "Yes, among others. You're familiar with such entities?"
I consider how much to reveal about my adventure in the Liminal District. The Guild probably already knows—they seem to know everything—but confirming my connection to an underground network might not be the smartest move before I'm officially accepted into their programs.
"I've encountered one or two," I say vaguely. "Academic interest."
Dr. Thess's starlight eyes suggest they know exactly what I'm not saying, but they don't press the issue. "The resonance mapping will help us determine which Guild programs are best suited to your particular... signature."
"Fine," I agree, though every instinct screams against lowering the containment that keeps my hellfire from interacting with local reality. "But if things start going sideways, put the shields back up immediately."
"Of course," Dr. Krith assures me, their crystalline hands moving in patterns that cause the air around us to thicken with potential energy. "We have no desire to experience dimensional collapse today."
That's comforting.
The collar around my neck gives a soft chirp, then I feel the containment field begin to recede. Not completely—there are still multiple layers of protection between my hellfire and the surrounding reality—but enough that I can sense the dimensional boundaries more acutely. The hellfire responds immediately, flaring brighter as it tests the weakened barriers.
"Fascinating," Dr. Krith murmurs, their crystalline form shifting to better observe whatever readings they're taking. "Your dimensional signature is unlike anything in our records. Neither fully infernal nor angelic, yet carrying elements of both."
"Hell tends to leave its mark," I reply, focusing on maintaining control as the hellfire pushes against reduced containment. "Five thousand years will do that."
"This isn't just Hell's influence," Dr. Thess observes, their starlight eyes studying patterns I can't see. "There's something older beneath it. Something that existed before your imprisonment."
That's news to me. Before Hell, I was just a professor with unconventional theories about dimensional boundaries. Nothing special, certainly nothing with a distinctive "dimensional signature."
"Are you saying I was already... different... before Hell got hold of me?" The question comes out sharper than intended, the hellfire responding to my sudden interest.
Dr. Thess and Dr. Krith exchange glances loaded with meaning I can't interpret. "It appears so," Dr. Thess confirms. "The hellfire has certainly transformed you, but it seems to have built upon something pre-existing rather than completely rewriting your fundamental nature."
The implications of this are staggering. If I was already "different" before Hell, was that why I was sentenced there in the first place? Did the Council know something about me that I didn't?
Before I can pursue this line of questioning, Dr. Krith makes a sharp gesture and the air around us crystallizes momentarily. "Containment adjustment required. Emotional response is causing dimensional fluctuations."
I realize they're right—the hellfire has responded to my agitation, pushing harder against the reduced containment field. I take a deep breath, forcing the fire back to manageable levels.
"Sorry," I mutter. "Identity crises tend to trigger dimensional instability. Who knew?"
Dr. Vex laughs again, their geometric patterns pulsing. "Humor as a coping mechanism. Another promising sign."
The resonance mapping continues for what feels like hours but is probably only thirty minutes. They adjust the containment field repeatedly, finding the precise balance that allows them to gather data without risking reality collapse. Throughout it all, I struggle to maintain control over the hellfire that seems increasingly eager to test its boundaries.
Finally, Dr. Krith steps back, their crystalline form settling into a configuration that suggests satisfaction. "Mapping complete. I have sufficient data to create a customized containment protocol."
"Better than this collar?" I ask hopefully. The current setup works, but it's uncomfortable and marks me as something dangerous that needs to be restrained.
"More efficient," they clarify. "Less obvious, perhaps, but serving the same essential function. Your dimensional signature is too disruptive to exist completely unshielded in this realm."
I suppose that's better than nothing.
"Now for the final component," Dr. Thess says, stepping forward as the containment field returns to full strength. "The psychological profile."
"Let me guess," I say dryly. "You want to dig through five thousand years of Hell-based trauma to see if I'm mentally stable enough for your programs."
"In essence, yes," they confirm without apology. "Though we're more interested in your current coping mechanisms and decision-making processes than in cataloging past torments."
"Same difference," I mutter, but I don't resist as they begin the assessment.
Unlike the physical and dimensional testing, the psychological evaluation feels more conversational. Dr. Thess asks about my experiences since arriving in this realm. My encounter with the Shepherds in the forest. My interaction with Marius at the inn. My decision to help Lith despite the risks.
Throughout it all, they watch not just my answers but how the hellfire responds to different topics. They're mapping my emotional triggers, I realize—identifying what causes dimensional fluctuations and what helps stabilize them.
"Tell me about Caleif," Dr. Thess says eventually, their voice gentler than before.
The hellfire flares immediately, pushing against the collar's containment with enough force that I hear the metal creak. Dr. Krith makes another sharp gesture, reinforcing the field before anything can break through.
"I'd rather not," I say through clenched teeth.
"I understand," Dr. Thess replies, their starlight eyes reflecting something that might be genuine compassion. "But grief that remains unexamined becomes a liability. For someone with your particular capabilities, emotional triggers can have dimensional consequences."
They're right, and I hate it. The thought of discussing Caleif—of putting into words what she meant to me and what losing her has done—feels like ripping open a wound that's barely begun to scab over.
But if I'm going to learn control, I need to understand what makes me lose it.
"She saw me," I say finally, the words coming out rough and metallic. "The real me, not just the human disguise I wore at the Academy. She saw what Hell had made me, and she didn't run."
The memory of her face when she first glimpsed my true form is still painfully clear—the initial shock followed not by fear or disgust, but by fascination. By acceptance.
"In five thousand years, she was the first person who looked at this—" I gesture to my metallic skin, my burning eyes "—and saw something worth saving."
Dr. Thess nods, making notes on their impossible tablet. "And now you believe she's gone because of your absence from your origin realm."
"I know she's gone," I correct, the hellfire pulsing with each word. "The seer showed me. She died trying to hold the realm together after I was torn away from it."
"You feel responsible," Dr. Thess observes.
"Of course I feel responsible!" The words explode from me with enough force that the reinforced chair creaks beneath me. "I was the anchor! The realm collapsed because I wasn't there to stabilize it! It's my fault that the one woman that loved me more than life itself is dead!" My eyes light up as the hellfire breaks through the collar and explodes outward shaking the building as the metal chair melts beneath me and I land on my ass.
The containment field shatters like glass, and I can feel the dimensional barriers around us ripple with the force of my hellfire breaking free. Dr. Krith's crystalline form flares with brilliant light as they pour energy into emergency protocols, but it's too late—the damage is done.
I'm standing now, though I don't remember getting up, surrounded by the twisted remains of what used to be a reinforced chair. The air around me shimmers with heat distortion as hellfire bleeds through the cracks in my control, and I can see my reflection in the polished surfaces of the evaluation equipment—eyes blazing like miniature suns, metallic skin rippling with barely contained energy.
"Fascinating," Dr. Vex says, apparently unbothered by the fact that I just accidentally demonstrated why beings like me usually end up in containment. Their geometric patterns pulse faster beneath their skin, recording everything. "Complete emotional override of technological suppression. The psychological triggers are definitely tied to dimensional output."
"Not helping," I growl, forcing the hellfire back down through sheer willpower. The collar around my neck screams with the effort of reestablishing containment, and I can smell the metal heating beyond safe parameters.
Dr. Krith's crystalline voice cuts through the chaos with surprising calm. "Secondary containment holding. Dimensional breach sealed. No permanent damage to local reality."
I sink to my knees on the floor where the chair used to be, exhaustion hitting me like a physical blow. The hellfire retreats reluctantly, banking to its usual constant burn rather than the inferno it became when grief overwhelmed my control.
"I'm sorry," I manage, though the words feel inadequate. "I told you the containment might not be enough."
"And you were correct," Dr. Thess says, their starlight eyes studying the readings on their tablet with obvious interest rather than alarm. "Which tells us several important things about your psychological profile."
"Such as?" I ask, dreading the answer.
"Such as the fact that your emotional triggers are predictable and manageable, given proper preparation," they reply, manifesting another chair from thin air—this one clearly designed to withstand even more punishment than the last. "You warned us before the breakdown occurred. You attempted to maintain control even during the episode. And you successfully reasserted containment without external assistance."
I stare at them in disbelief. "I just melted your furniture and nearly tore a hole in reality. How is that manageable?"
Dr. Vex approaches with what appears to be a replacement collar, this one inscribed with more complex symbols than my current model. "Because it was a controlled failure. You didn't lose consciousness. You didn't attack us. You didn't attempt to escape or cause deliberate harm."
"The hellfire responded to specific emotional stimuli in a quantifiable way," Dr. Krith adds, their crystalline form settling into a new configuration. "This gives us baseline parameters for designing more effective containment protocols."
They're treating my breakdown like a successful experiment rather than a dangerous loss of control. I'm not sure if I should be grateful or concerned.
"So what's the verdict?" I ask, accepting the new collar as Dr. Thess helps me remove the damaged one. "Am I too unstable for your programs?"
"Quite the opposite," Dr. Thess replies, their voice carrying what sounds like satisfaction. "Your evaluation results place you in the highest category for integration potential."
The new collar clicks into place with that unsettling sensation of reality locking down, but this one feels different—more comfortable, less like wearing a restraint and more like... well, still like wearing a restraint, but one that actually fits properly. I feel my power fade back into me completely and the hellfire inside is contained as if it didn't exists and I stand there and watch as my skin goes back to looking human.
"What the hell just happened?" I ask as I bring my hands up to my face and feel my beard and skin. "This shouldn't be possible." Dr. Vex smiles before patting me on the shoulder and I feel their hand fully. "This collar is different than the other one. This collar here goes through the memory inside your DNA and extracts components of what you used to be and brings it out. You're still powerful, but now you are on equal terms with other humanoids. But be warned, there are several locks on this collar and each lock will let more and more of your power out."
I run my hands over my face again, marveling at the sensation of actual human skin instead of metallic plates. It's disorienting in ways I wasn't prepared for—like putting on clothes that used to fit perfectly but now hang strangely after years of change.
"How many locks?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
"Seven," Dr. Krith replies, their crystalline form shifting to display what appears to be a holographic representation of the collar. "Each one corresponds to different aspects of your hellfire-enhanced abilities. Physical strength, dimensional manipulation, energy projection, and so forth."
"And they unlock automatically when I lose control?"
"Not automatically," Dr. Thess corrects. "They respond to deliberate intent as much as emotional overflow. Think of them as progressive safety releases rather than emergency valves."
I test the theory by concentrating on the hellfire in my chest. It's still there—I can feel it burning beneath this human facade—but it's muted, contained in ways that feel almost natural rather than artificially suppressed.
"This is..." I pause, searching for words that don't sound pathetic. "This is the first time in five thousand years I've felt human."
"That's the point," Dr. Vex says, their geometric patterns pulsing with what might be satisfaction. "Integration works best when subjects can relate to the communities they're joining. Hard to build connections when you look like something out of their nightmares."
The casual way they discuss my appearance should probably offend me, but instead I find it oddly comforting. No pretense, no dancing around the obvious. Just practical acknowledgment of reality.
"So what happens now?" I ask, settling into the new chair they've provided. It feels strange to sit in furniture without worrying about accidentally crushing it.
"Now we discuss which Guild programs best suit your particular skill set," Dr. Thess replies, manifesting yet another tablet from thin air. "Based on your evaluation results, you have several options."
They gesture, and the air above their tablet shimmers with holographic displays showing different Guild divisions at work. Beings in protective gear working to seal dimensional tears. Teams responding to supernatural emergencies. Groups engaged in what appears to be reality maintenance.
"Dimensional Barrier Maintenance is our most critical program," Dr. Thess explains, highlighting one of the displays. "Teams work to identify and seal unauthorized rifts before they can destabilize local reality."
I watch the hologram show a team of mixed beings working together to close what appears to be a tear leading into something filled with writhing darkness. "Unauthorized rifts?"
"Not all dimensional barriers fail naturally," Dr. Krith clarifies. "Some are deliberately breached by entities seeking passage between realms. Others are damaged by careless use of interdimensional abilities."
Like the kind of abilities I have when the locks on this collar start releasing. "What about the other programs?"
"Emergency Response handles supernatural disasters," Dr. Vex continues, switching to a different display. "Building collapses caused by reality distortions, entity manifestations, dimensional storms. The kind of problems that require both raw power and precise control to resolve safely."
The hologram shows teams evacuating civilians from a building that appears to be partially phased into another dimension. It looks challenging in ways that appeal to the part of me that spent centuries solving impossible theoretical problems.
"And the third option?" I ask relieved that I can feel myself again.