There was admittedly a peacefulness in the ruins of an old world. Walking through the humid heat and rubbing the sweat off your brow, finding some shade in the shadow of a collapsed building, resting awkwardly on its side. Hearing remnants of glass crunch under your boots as you walked over it, and seeing paths of concrete halfway through a losing war with weeds, roots, grass, and water.

  The buildings looked like ancient and dead beasts, much in the same way that the King in the distance seemed. They had once been living, breathing. They had hundreds of little cells, the people, walking around and doing things in their shelter. And now they laid dead, the blood of glass and office supplies already drawn out till empty, insides now hallow.

  But like a dead beast, beings beneath it could use such death to keep their own lives continuing. In this case, it was the people who remained after the great move away from the coasts. The inward retreat as people took to calling it. Whether out of stubbornness, misguided logic, or a simply inability to do so, these people remained.

  The specific group of people who had asked for us were a group of farmers and small game hunters who made their living in one-half of one of those broken cities. They had few people and an excess of space, and honestly? It seemed pretty nice living here.

  One of the people who seemed to be something of a leader had an entire bank to himself, just because no one needed it and he was free to claim whatever building he liked.

  Elenor and I did our best to look the part of resolute soldiers, keeping our backs straight and our shoulders squared. People all looked at us with the mingling feelings given to an unwelcome aid. The looks of soured pride, or apprehension. The men who would step to be between their kids and us, the women who would stare at the vests both of us were wearing with wide eyes. The kids who, despite their parents words, couldn’t help but find us pretty darn cool.

  We made our way to the only real inevitably in one of these places, the only certainty that we could always rely on being present. A church.

  It had been shattered and killed as well, but unlike the other buildings left to rot and decay, this one had been bandaged, wrapped in planks and sheets of wood, bleeding staunched as nothing inside was moved besides to put the pews and lecterns in their proper places.

  Only shards of stained glass windows remained, sheets of paper taped over them and the drawings completed by amateur hands, the imagery was still there though, shards of glass being just a part of the whole.

  I didn’t quite understand the religious folks that remained in the world. Their book of prophecies didn’t exactly cover what had come to pass in the world, but they still read it, listened to it, and still worshiped it.

  Still, if there was something I couldn’t diminish, it was that the government may have forgotten these people, but their religious brothers hadn’t. Messengers and travelers with crosses under their shirts and holy books in hand were the most interaction to the outside world most civilizations had. Less men and more gusts of cold wind, calming balms that soothed you for the period where it’s there, then leaves once more. They brought news, what supplies they could carry that a place needed, and information about the world they were disconnected from. In a lot of ways, it took the form it had in the feudal world, a moral authority that was one of the few threads keeping people from full tribalism.

  So, rather than directly interact with the people here, the government mainly kept threads open to the church and relied on that network that had spread to get and give information.

  Larger societies will have dedicated preachers and pastors, acting as moral authorities on smaller scales, as well as I’m sure, mitigating conflict in a way profitable for the church. Like I said, feudal. This civilization was one such case, the preacher in the building sitting on one of the pews, hands clasped and eyes closed. Elenor glanced at me, and I gestured to one of the nearby benches.

  The two of us sat down while we waited for him to finish his prayers, only vaguely able to hear him muttering under his breath, prayers to a god I didn’t think was still around, if he ever was. I looked at one of the patchwork Christs, his face one half beautiful glass, the other half a shakily drawn imitation.

  Still, how much the reaction was pure theatrics was hard to estimate, but you couldn’t help but feel a presence in a place like this. Maybe it was the time and energy that had been put into keeping the building a resolute island of the past, compared to the rest of the scavenged and picked clean corpses littering the city. Maybe it was the way the light shone in through those special windows. Maybe it was just because you knew what kind of place it was, one for worship, and the devotion of the believers made you question the strength of your own convictions.

  I drew my eyes back to the preacher, who finished his prayers and stood up, glancing at us and nodding. He was a larger man, one who gave the impression of some kind of sturdy tree. His arms thick trunks, and his shoulders broad and wide. These larger outset civilizations generally had enough to spare on letting a religious leader just be a religious leader, but the calloused hands he had made it obvious he was very involved in the building and construction of a place like this. “Brother ‘an sister, how can I help ya?”

  These places always held a few people somewhat strange accents. Some mix of random selection leaving only a few people who spoke certain ways alive in some places, and people being cooped up with little access to the outside world for decades at a time. His sounded some strange mix of southern and Irish, maybe Scottish. I didn’t quite know the difference.

  “That’s our question. We heard something about Yokai around the Kings Shell. You guys are the closest, figured if that info came from anyone, it’d have come from you.”

  “Aye. You’re correct.” He leaned his back against the side of one of the pews. “Butterflies. The size of drones or eagles. That alone ‘oudn’t be an issue. Ammo‘s scarce but it certainly ain’t absent, it wouldn’t be impossible for us to deal with it. But they’re…”

  “Powered, right?”

  He nodded. “Seems like winds.” He paused for a long moment. “The single flap ‘o a butterflies wings,”

  “Can cause a hurricane?”

  He sighed. “Aye though thankfully not quite that ‘ough. The buildings are sturdy but, the powers ‘o them devils ain't natural. They hit scaffoldin and people, leav’n hurt folk. An then ‘ere gone.”

  I nodded and glanced at Elenor, who returned the gaze. “We can handle it. Though, I should tell you, we specialize in the Inverse combatants.” He blinked, my meaning clearly not conveyed, so I sighed. “The, witches and devils of human form. With powers but different from everyone else's.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Ah, I catch yer meanin'. We ain’t got any a those though, and ev’n if we did we ain’t need you for it. We men of god can handle those kinds.” He glanced to Eleanor behind me. “Not ‘ta mention, such work ain’t the kind ‘o thing that wives ‘n daughters should engage in.”

  She and I both let the words wash over us, not reacting. “Just letting you know preacher.” I stood, rolling my shoulders. “Which way to the butterflies?”

  He paused continuing to stare at Eleanor, who stared right back. “You speak Miss?”

  Eleanor glanced to me, and I spoke in her place. “She’s a quiet person. Now, our job?”

  He tore a suspicious eye away, and began his walk outwards.

  We followed him out of the church, the light of the world seeming a little too bright now. He pointed us towards the inner depths of the city, a long stretch of road guiding us forward. “Straight. Dunno where they’re cooped up, but that’s where ‘ay come from. Ah, one more thing. We’ve gotta bit ‘o a weird fella who wanted to go with ya.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “He useful?”

  “He’s a good man, knows the area well.” He nodded his head back towards the church. “Was the one who finished the windas. Pious man, just too curious for his own good. ‘Won speak on his blessing, but if you wan the compn’y, he’s holed up ‘n one a the ‘ol towers. Was a paper distribution company I think.”

  “He an artist?”

  “Na, he just draws more than anyone else. Fancies himself a researcher. Ain’t much researching to be done in this place. More ‘o a scavenger than anythin, but he gives his due, don’t complain, and prays when he can. Ain’t much more you can ask ‘o a man.”

  Useful in a fight. But if he wanted to come, this first part was easy, and depending on his power, he might be useful for the hard bits. If he was totally useless, then I’d just drop him off after we took care of the Yokai. “Aight,” I shook my head. “Alright. We’ll take him along, just don’t get too upset with us if he gets hurt. Our priority is the demons. Monsters. What's his name?”

  “Course, god’s watching over him, he’ll be aight. Ask ‘fer Springer. He’ll answer.” The preacher extended his hand, and I reached out and clasped it. His grip was almost painfully tight. “You’ve got some good folks here, don’t fuck up, government dog. “An sister,” He looked to Eleanor again. “Yer welcome ‘ere any time. Life like this ain’t what god made you for.”

  Ah, was wondering where the hostility was. I tightened my grip in response, grinning. “Sorry, but she’s and I are pretty much the same beast. Canines and all.” Elenor bared her teeth, which almost caused me to laugh, it was cuter than it was intimidating.

  He let go with a small frown, but nodded. “May the lord guide your path.”

  We turned and walked away, biting back another snide comment.

  Elenor and I walked through the abandoned city, looking at the scarce few people who gave us long stares, watching our every move with a mix of hostility and curiosity. In situations like this, Elenor preferred not to sign at all, just remaining totally silent and letting me speak for us. As much good as the church might’ve done for people, it did its fair share of bad too.

  People already didn’t quite like a girl in a bulletproof vest in these sorts of places, one with a disability offended their sensibilities even more. A few of our first missions together got interfered with because people kept trying to ‘save’ her from the government that must’ve been forcing her delicate soul to keep fighting.

  It was demeaning, but it wasn’t malicious or outright hostile, so we would just skip town whenever it happened. Still, more hassle than it was worth, so I did all the communicating now, and she’d protest later if she needed to. It always left me with an uncomfortable feeling of disgust in my gut, that I never quite knew how to interpret or express in a way that didn’t make her troubles mine. So I mostly stayed silent, and dealt with it the way she asked me to, however that was on a case by case basis.

  It was a pretty easy walk to the place he was talking about, another of the old concrete slayed beasts that’s corpse made its impression on the world around it. The shattered windows let us see inside, the walls of the place covered in paper, stabled or taped to the walls, drawings, and paintings all inscribed inside. The quality of the resources used seemed to have a slight timeline, as the drawings got better and better, the quality of what the artist was using decreased.

  From paints to crayons, to markers, to pens, pencils, and finally some kind of charcoal. He must’ve cleared the place's art supplies out, and it made sense. He drew a lot, seemingly endlessly. An entire office building was covered from top to bottom, some rooms had their floors covered in drawings with only a small room left for you to walk through.

  The subjects of the drawings changed rapidly, continuing just as much variety as the art supplies, but clearly, butterflies had been a consistent form of his.

  We stepped in, the drawing on the wall opposite of us tens of papers all taped together, one large butterfly drawn in black charcoal towering over us, its little antenna seeming tiny compared to the massive wings, the size of a person each. “Springer?”

  “Ah! Here!” There was a ruffling from another room, and a disheveled-looking man poked his head out. “Ah! T-The butterflies! Right!” He disappeared for a second, before coming rushing out, throwing an old button-up shirt on. Elenor looked away from his bare chest as he closed each individual button. “Y’all got here so quick!”

  He stepped carefully around his drawings which cluttered the floor, not looking as he maneuvered step by step without even glancing at one of the paintings. Finally, he made his way out, shirt fully buttoned enough for us to get a good look at him. He had a scraggly beard that looked like he had made a few poor attempts at shaving it before giving up, and brown hair with bits of red in the beard. His shirt’s collared was half up and half down, which he only realized after a minute of two, and fixed. He looked a few years younger than Elenor and I, maybe 18 or 19. He gave the impression of a man that had been trapped on a deserted island for a year or two, before making his way back on a makehshift raft.

  I looked him up and down and sighed. I definitely ignored him the last time I did this. Why couldn’t I remember it though? “Springer right? You wanted to come with?”

  “Yeah! Yeah absolutely!” He made a gesture as if he was fixing his glasses, but considering he had none, her more or less just ran his thumb forwards up the bridge of his nose. Oh this will be so enlightening! Hold on one moment, I need my notes.” He ran back into his building.

  Elenor glanced at his retreating form, then to me. She glanced around, making sure no one else was around, before starting to sign. “Him?”

  I shrugged. “This should be literally nothing, and if his power actually is useful, then we might be able to get some help on the part that might kill us.”

  “Civilian, bad idea.”

  “There aren’t any civilians.” She moved her head back, raising an eyebrow. I crossed my arms. “Worlds ending. You’re either helping or hurting humanity. No civilians anymore, everyone's a soldier, whether they know or not.”

  She looked up at me, an expression that was hard to define, something like conflict dancing in her eyes. But any response she was about to make was interrupted as Springer made his way back to us, a beat-up old notebook in his hands. “Forgot, sorta need this! Haha, so um, my name is obviously Springer, who are you two?”

  “I’m Vidar. And this is Elenor.” Elenor nodded.

  Springer gave her a long glance, obviously making his internal judgments about a girl going into a fight with him. Before he could open his mouth and make a fool out of himself, I cut him off. “If you’re coming, we can’t guarantee your life. Elenor and I are trained, experienced, and well-trusted with this kind of thing. You’re not, and while we’ll do our best to protect you, don’t expect us to die on your behalf.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to!” He let out a puff of air, squaring his scrawny shoulders. “I’m prepared for that. I know I don’t quite look it, but I am decent in a fight. Besides, it’s a man's responsible to protect wo-others. A-Anyway, there's no such thing as progress without some conflict. If I want to learn more, I have to be ok with some risk.”

  I nodded lightly. “True. Alright, we’ve been told you know the area. Lead away.”

  He nodded, and tucked his notebook under his arm as we started walking.