Kimberly and I walked through the temple at the crest of the largest hill in Southeastern Carousel. Since this was a sound stage, the circus was nowhere to be seen.

A lot of research had led us to this place. It was beautiful.

On-Screen.

“So, is it true that the gods used to live as giants among men?” I asked the man who worked as both a tour guide and a spiritual leader. He wore robes like a priest, but they were dusted with a bright yellow powder.

“Yes, I know the stories,” Yeoman Brock said. “Ancient peoples believed they saw Heaven King Gaugh in the distant mountains, sewing together thunderstorms and spying on them from atop his mountain throne. Modern doctrine teaches that these oral histories came from a much more spiritual time, when the spirit of Gaugh was all-surrounding. Perhaps people truly believed he was there in the distance.”

The yeoman leaned in and whispered, “You know, I like to believe it’s all true. The legends of physical gods battling for supremacy, of magic, and worship under the stars in the old days before the canon was written. That, however, is not the position of the temple.”

He led us through the courtyard of the temple, where acolytes and other worshippers worked in the soil, planting and pruning.

“This place is beautiful,” Kimberly said. “I had no idea all of this was in Carousel.”

“Yes,” Brock said. “His word commands us to be where the people are. Right this way.”

He led us out the temple door toward a well-trodden stone path leading to a large statue of a god sitting on a throne. This was the place where the statue of the Hooded God could normally be found in Carousel proper.

Here, it was replaced by Heaven King Gaugh, one of the last remaining deities that existed back in the time of The Pilgrim of Silver Isle. He had changed a bit over the millennia, but it was him. My character had confirmed it in his research binge during the time skip. He was on top of things.

Yeoman Brock brought us close to the statue. As he did, we saw the baskets upon baskets of food laid at the statue’s feet. They contained corn and tomatoes, bread and butter, things grown and things bought.

“What happens to the food?” I asked.

“Gaugh’s earthly messengers feed upon it. The rest is used to bless the fields,” Yeoman Brock said. Gaugh’s messengers were crows, who flitted through the piles of food squawking and feasting. “You know, divine oblations are very powerful in our beliefs.”

“That’s what we heard,” Kimberly said as we looked over the piles and piles of possibly wasted groceries. “So we can offer anything?”

Yeoman Brock nodded. “Food, wine, anything of the sort. We have provided some wafers made of wheat, sugar, and salt that visitors often use as offerings. Any offering made in earnest shall do.”

He gestured toward a large wooden container near the statue, which contained baskets like those in the stacks at the statue’s feet.

“We brought our own,” I said.

“Very well,” Yeoman Brock said. “Remember to pray for noble things. The mind can justify even wickedness as kindness if it is the heart’s desire. Pray first, that your heart is unburdened.”

He bowed and turned to leave us there.

As he did, I turned to Kimberly and pulled two containers out of my hoodie pockets.

“I hope Old Man Gaugh craves premium fuel,” I said, showing her and the camera what I was holding.

Dr. Antoine Stone’s Premium Performance Powder — Fruit Punch Flavor. Two canisters of it. I also brought some of his individually wrapped protein bars.

“Well, Gough,” I said, staring up at the weatherworn face of the statue, “We need help beating an old enemy of yours. You do not speak of him.”

Time ticked on, and all we could do was wait, going over our plans and contingency plans and thinking through who might be the last characters standing, which ones would die gloriously, and who would die all pathetic and helpless.

Kelsey was a Final Girl who had seen too many episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and, as a Final Girl, she had Last One Alive. She kept pitching that we should let her get captured as a distraction. She couldn’t be killed until everyone else was, so she felt she would be the ultimate decoy.

“These guys can’t kill me,” she said. “And it’s not like they will just torture me. That’s not their vibe.”

“No,” I said. “Literally, the biggest rule in the Atlas for Final Girls is to not try to use that exploit. It always ends badly. Carousel doesn’t like it.”

“I think that’s exag—” she started to say, but then I shushed her. We were getting dangerously close to going On-Screen according to my Call Sheet trope.

One good thing about this storyline was that most of the players were canonically plotting to take down the cult, so we didn’t have to worry about hiding our planning materials.

On-Screen.

Kimberly’s landline phone started to ring. She answered it.

“Hey, Tom,” she said. After a few moments, she continued, “Yeah, he’s right here.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Was calling me here meant to show we were being watched? How much did the cult know about our plans? Was Dina right? She had said they knew nothing.

I had to hope that was true.

I grabbed the phone, stretching its cord all the way to the next room.

“Tom?” I asked as I put the receiver to my ear.

“Hey, Riley,” he said. “I tried to get you at home, but you weren’t there.”

“Yeah, my call forwarding is on the fritz,” I said. “What can I do for you? I gotta say, if it’s about you-know-what, I can’t talk much.”

“I understand,” Tom said. “You don’t have to talk much. I need you to do something for me. Just trust me, okay?”

I paused.

“Okay,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“I need you to tell me where Antoine Stone is,” he said. “Don’t ask questions. I need him. We need him.”

“I… don’t… I, well, Tom… he’s a friend.”

“I know. Tell me where he is. It is vital for us to bring about a better world,” he said.

I turned. Antoine, Kimberly, and Kelsey were there watching.

“This is part of the secret stuff, isn’t it?” I asked. “In the back room.”

For all of my character’s spying, he had not yet been brought in on the whole human sacrifice secret.

“Riley,” he said. “I need you to go on faith here. You can trust me.”

I looked up at Antoine.

He nodded. He knew what was being asked. Tom had befriended me and invited me into his cult for the express purpose of this.

“I’m supposed to drive him to the airport tonight,” I said.

“Good,” Tom said. “I need you to drive him somewhere else.”

One last look at Antoine and Kimberly, and I said, “Where?”

On-Screen.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked, looking up at Antoine in the rearview mirror.

“I’m dead either way, right?” he said. “At least this way, they might actually trust you enough to let you in to save me.”

We normally transported Antoine around in the trunk of our cars so that no one would know he had spent so much time at Kimberly’s.

The sacrifice was hours away. Still, I felt they were cutting it close waiting until now to nab him. It was a very movie-bad-guy thing to do, though. It was possible the audience wouldn’t know the actual time frame.

Funnily enough, I really did feel guilty giving him up like this. We tried to sell it the best we could as characters. Antoine had always played the character least likely to go along with Kimberly’s vendetta. We had to find a way to explain why he would willingly offer himself as bait.

“Promise me one thing,” he said.

“Anything,” I said.

“No matter what,” he said. “You keep Kimberly safe. I’m afraid she’s going to try to die in all this. She feels so much guilt. She always has… Never knew what it was that got between us exactly, but I think it was survivor’s guilt. No matter what happens down there, you make sure she walks away.”

“I’ll try,” I said.

“Promise,” he said.

“I promise,” I said.

That would have to do.

I pulled into a vacant parking lot near the airport and turned off the car. I got out and closed my door. Antoine followed suit.

“What the hell are you doing?” he called out loudly.

We were pretending to be characters who were pretending something else. Acting mistakes could be forgiven.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We will be a part of another world soon.”

Right on cue, vehicles pulled into the parking lot from both entrances. They were mostly cheap beaters. The entire cult had been hired to work at a big box store, so they weren’t well-financed.

Cultists started to pour out of the vehicles as soon as they stopped. They were wearing their work uniforms.

I expected them all to transform into their Night Stocker forms, but only one did. It wasn’t even Tom. He had lines, so they didn’t put his face behind magic shadows.

“What the hell is going on?” Antoine screamed. “You?”

He looked at me with disdain. Then, he did something he didn’t have to pretend. He ran.

Not far. Without anywhere to hide, the one transformed Night Stocker took to the air and absorbed Antoine almost instantly.

I looked over at Tom, horror-stricken.

“Those men last year,” I said. “They were you?”

Tom looked at me shamefully.

“I’m sorry we had to keep it from you,” he said. “We truly are going to build a better world. I promise you that.”

I looked over at the Night Stocker, who transformed back into a checkout clerk. He was the same guy I helped shove a bench into. He had never recognized me. My character had even noted it in his journal.

I was so forgettable.

I had to go along with everything. The moment I became their opponent, I was going to get attacked, too. After all, my Plot Armor was cut in half, as per the norm.

“Is he dead?” I asked.

“No,” Tom said. “He’s going to be fine soon. It’ll be like it never happened. Come with us. It’s time we find our better world.”

In a sequence I found hilarious, this band of cultists, many of whom could transform into flying wraiths, piled back into their cars and drove in a caravan back to Eternal Savers Club, the location they had just teleported Antoine to.

Maybe the movie-goers wouldn’t notice or care.

I didn’t know if Antoine’s kidnapping would be Second Blood. I doubted it. That would be too easy.

It was part of it, but the needle on the Plot Cycle lingered. There needed to be more.

We had a plan for that.

As the group of cultists, myself included, moved down the road toward the darkened building, we realized we were not alone.

There were two cop cars in the parking lot and one screaming district manager.

Lorne had a trope that specifically contradicted the no-calling-the-police enemy trope, and he was using it.

“Why did you change the locks?” Lorne screamed at Tom as soon as we had all gotten out of our vehicles. I had actually left mine near the airport without meaning to, and by the time I realized it, it would have been awkward to go back and get it.

“Mr. Thomas,” Tom said through gritted teeth. “I don’t have time to discuss this right now. We’re busy.”

“I arrived here thirty minutes before closing time, and what did I find?” Lorne asked. He was doing his manager voice, a much deeper, angrier voice than his own. I could tell he liked it. It matched his size.

“I told you,” Tom said. “Leave it alone.”

He and the others attempted to move past Lorne and the two officers he had gathered, but Lorne didn’t let him. He wore his tie tight, which, according to his Tight in the Collar trope, made the atmosphere more tense.

As silly as his trope was, it was extremely effective. I wanted to punch someone myself, and I was undercover.

“You are fired. You closed the store down early, and you changed the locks? What makes you think you have the right? Arrest this man,” Lorne screamed. “Arrest all of them. Get the paddy wagon.”

The cop nearest to Lorne took a deep breath. Lorne could control NPCs in Fight Scenes, but this wasn’t one.

Yet.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the property. We can get this all cleared up in the morning.”

He was being reasonable, which, unfortunately, constituted a failure to read the room.

First one, then another, the cultists that had taken the oath to become Night Stockers began transforming, taking on those cloaks made of shadow and soul and the demonic appearance that came with it.

It was officially a Fight Scene.

“Get backup officers here now!” Lorne screamed.

The second officer got right to work doing that.

Lorne backed out of the way. His power came from commanding NPCs, and his build allowed him to summon cops. He needed to wait.

The cult, both normal and floaty guys, walked toward the door.

I looked over at Lorne and the officers apologetically.

Within moments, we were inside.

The cops, four of them now (were they hiding in the squad cars?), followed the cult inside.

They were outnumbered quite a bit, with fourteen normal cultists and six Night Stockers.

That didn’t matter. Lorne was in command.

“Well,” he said, “Get them!”

The cops looked scared out of their minds. They already had their guns drawn and aimed at the grim reaper-looking cultists. I felt for them. I really did. Cops usually showed up after the fights in Carousel.

The first bullet rang out, and the cultists scattered, most running for the tunnels and some, including Tom and the Stockers, remaining to fight.

Second Blood was upon us.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep