Initium - 0.2 (Patreon)

Initium - 0.2

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg Veder walked down the darkening streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his red-and-white jacket as he tried to ignore the growing unease in his gut. Okay, Greggie boy, you got this, he mentally coached himself, but with each step, doubt crept further into his mind.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Like, a really bad one. The kind of bad that made you question your life choices and wonder how you ended up in this mess.

It had seemed reasonable enough when he first got off the bus, the sun just dipping below the horizon and the streets still bustling with people going about their evening business. But as he ventured further from the main roads and into the more residential areas, an eerie stillness settled over everything. The streetlights flickered to life, casting harsh shadows that seemed to reach for him with grasping fingers.

A gnawing thought at the back of his mind chirped up to remind him that he had lied to his mom about where he was going and that she might get mad if he wasn’t home before eleven, but he pushed that aside as he shivered, hunching his shoulders as he quickened his pace. Being a scrawny white kid wandering around Downtown after dark wasn't exactly the safest thing, even if his pale skin did afford him some privilege. In a city like Brockton Bay, you could never be too careful.

But he had a reason for being out here, a reason that made all the risk worthwhile: a girl. A really pretty one, too. Like, unbelievably gorgeous.

It all started a few weeks ago on PHO. Greg had been in the middle of one of his usual rants, trying to get people to actually use their brains for once (spoiler alert: they never did), when a PM popped up from an unfamiliar username.

Most of his PMs were just people telling him to off himself (specifically how to tie a noose the proper way) or calling him slurs he'd never even heard before, and he lived in Brockton Bay. But this one was different. This person - a girl, apparently - had seen his post and wanted to actually talk about it.

Greg had been suspicious at first. Everyone knew there were no girls on the internet. But then she sent a picture, and his eyes nearly bugged out of his skull.

Long platinum blonde hair framed a delicate face with striking gray eyes. She wore an oversized pale blue hoodie, the sleeves hiding all but the tips of her slender fingers. It was too perfect, too good to be true.

He'd called bullshit immediately, accusing her of catfishing him. "You think I'm fucking dumb enough to fall for this?" he'd typed, finger hovering over the block button.

Her response? A simple "LOL" followed by another photo, this time with his username and the current time and date written on a piece of paper she held up.

Well, shit. 

She was real.

Her name was Poppy, she'd told him, and in all his fifteen years, Greg couldn't imagine a more beautiful name.

He knew he'd be the first to make fun of someone for having an online girlfriend (not that he could talk, considering his complete lack of any romantic experience). But this was different. Poppy actually lived in his city, just a short bus ride away. He had standards, okay?

Lost in thought, Greg didn't notice the hulking figure rounding the corner until they collided, sending him staggering back. "Watch it," the man growled, a large swastika tattoo on his bald head gleaming under the streetlight.

Greg gulped, taking in the skinhead's combat boots, ripped jeans, and studded leather jacket. "S-sorry, man. My bad."

The neo-Nazi looked him up and down, lip curling in disgust. "Just stay the fuck out of my way, kid." He shouldered past, leaving Greg to collect himself as the fifteen-year-old nodded his head rapidly despite the man no longer looking at him.

Real smooth, Veder, he chastised himself as the guy rounded the corner, heart still pounding. Just shoulder check another Nazi, why don’t you?

Shaking it off, he soldiered on, determined to reach his destination. Poppy was waiting for him, after all. Beautiful, perfect Poppy, with her angel-blonde hair and stormy eyes. He couldn't back out now, not when he was so close to meeting her in person for the first time.

As he walked, he couldn't help but imagine how it would go. Would she be as pretty in real life? Would she like him? What if she took one look at his gangly limbs and acne-spotted face and laughed him away? 

Greg shook his head, banishing the negative thoughts. No, this was going to be great. They had a connection, he could feel it. All those late night chats, the memes they'd shared, the way she always seemed to get him... it had to mean something.

After all, she’d already seen his face. While he had barely sent two pics to the forty she had sent him, she knew exactly what he looked like. And she still called him cute.

Even with a bandaid over the pimples he had been picking at and the most awkward smile he had cringed at after already sending the pics, she called him cute. He was in there for sure.

At least, he hoped so.

Besides, he looked pretty cool right now. He had worn one of his best jackets, some black jeans, and a pair of bright red low-tops his mom had bought him that he’d never actually worn.

Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the address she'd given him, a nondescript apartment building with crumbling bricks and barred windows. Definitely not the kind of place he'd expected a girl like Poppy to live, but hey, who was he to judge?

Steeling his nerves, Greg approached the intercom and pressed the buzzer for her apartment number. "H-hey, Poppy? It's me, Greg. From the internet? I mean, from PHO… y’know?"

Silence. Then, a crackle of static and a soft, feminine voice: "Greg? Oh my god, you actually came! Come on up, I'll buzz you in."

The door clicked open and Greg stepped inside, heart racing with equal parts excitement and trepidation. This was it. No turning back now.

He climbed the stairs to her floor, each step feeling like a milestone. By the time he reached her door, his palms were sweating and his mouth was dry. You can do this, Veder. Just be cool.

He raised his hand to knock, but before he could, the door swung open to reveal... her. 

Poppy. 

In the flesh.

She was even more stunning in person, her platinum hair gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. Her gray eyes sparkled with mischief as she looked him over, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. She wore a simple oversized white t-shirt but to him, it might as well have been designer and perfectly tailored, because she was B-E-A-U-gorgeous.

"Well, well, well," she purred, leaning against the doorframe. "If it isn't the famous Void Cowboy. I was starting to think you wouldn't show."

Greg swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "N-no way. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Poppy's smile widened, turning almost predatory. "Good. Because I’ve got some plans for you tonight, Greg."

His smile widened, undoubtedly crooked as hell, but he didn’t have it in him to care as his imagination ran wild. “P-p-plans?”

She reached out, tangling her fingers in the front of his shirt and pulling him close. Her breath ghosted over his ear as she whispered, "Come on in. Let's have some fun." And with that, she yanked him inside, slamming the door shut behind them with a resounding bang.

Greg Veder let himself be led by the hand, Poppy guiding him into her apartment with a gentle but insistent tug. His mind reeled, barely processing his surroundings as he focused on the incredible, unbelievable fact that a girl – a pretty girl – was actually holding his hand. I'm holding hands with a girrrrrrllllll, his brain screamed on repeat, the reality of the situation hitting him like a sledgehammer to the skull.

He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, his face undoubtedly turning a shade of red bright enough to put a fire truck to shame. The dopiest grin imaginable was plastered across his face, stretching his lips so wide it almost hurt, but he couldn't help it. This was a dream come true.

Time seemed to warp and stretch, seconds feeling like minutes as Poppy led him deeper into her home. Greg barely registered the decor, his attention solely focused on the feeling of her soft, warm skin against his palm, the way her delicate fingers intertwined with his own.

Suddenly, a hand pressed firmly against his chest, pushing him backwards. Caught off guard, Greg stumbled, his knees giving out as he fell onto a couch with a surprised "oof." The cushions were soft beneath him, if a bit musty, a small cloud of dust puffing up from the worn fabric as he landed.

Before he could catch his breath or regain his bearings, a pair of slender arms snaked around his shoulders, pulling him close. Something soft and warm pressed against his lips, and an instant later, a wet tongue flicked against them, seeking entrance. OH MY GOD I'M KISSING A GIR– 

"Ow!" Greg yelped, jerking back as a sharp sting erupted at the base of his neck.

Poppy pulled away from the kiss, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a coy smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Sorry about that," she purred, her voice like honey, sweet and smooth. "I guess my nails are kinda long. Didn't mean to hurt you."

Greg shook his head vigorously, the brief pain already forgotten as he stared up at Poppy with wide, awestruck eyes. "Oh, what? No, that was... that was nothing. We're totally good. Totally fine. All good here!" He could hear himself babbling, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a nervous rush, but he couldn't seem to stop. “I am sooooo good.”

"Yay!" Poppy cheered, clapping her hands together in delight, her gray eyes sparkling.

"Yaaaay," Greg echoed, the word coming out in a breathy, dazed sigh. His mind was still reeling, stuck on a loop of I just had my first kiss, I just had my first kiss, I just had my first kiss with a real live girl!

Poppy tilted her head, platinum blonde hair cascading over one shoulder like a shimmering waterfall. "How 'bout I go get us something to drink, 'kay?" she suggested, her voice bright and bubbly.

"Y-yeah, sure, that sounds g-" Greg stammered, but before he could even finish his sentence, Poppy was already bouncing off towards what he assumed was the kitchen, leaving him alone on the couch.

He leaned back against the cushions, letting out a contented sigh, only to be interrupted by a sudden cough. Frowning, Greg patted the couch, sending up another puff of dust. Wow, this thing is ancient, he thought, eyeing the faded, threadbare fabric with mild distaste. Maybe even older than he was. He couldn't help but wonder when was the last time Poppy had actually cleaned in here.

As if on cue, Poppy strutted back into the living room, two red Solo cups clutched in her hands, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. "Hope you like lemonade!" she sang, her voice like wind chimes tinkling in a gentle breeze.

Greg sat up straighter, eagerly accepting the cup she offered him. "Yeah, totally! Lemonade's great. Love the stuff. Thanks!" He knew he was doing that nervous babbling thing again, but he couldn't seem to make his mouth stop moving. He took a sip of the lemonade to cover his awkwardness, the tart-sweet liquid washing over his tongue. It tasted a little off, Greg noted with a slight frown – kinda bitter and weird, with a strange aftertaste that lingered unpleasantly. But he brushed it off. Probably just a different brand.

Poppy plopped down next to him on the old couch, close enough that their thighs were brushing. She leaned in, so close he could feel her warm breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. "So, Greg," she murmured, her voice low and sultry, sending a shiver down his spine. "What do you wanna do now?"

Greg swallowed hard, his heart doing a drum solo against his ribs. This was really happening. He was actually here, alone in an apartment, with a real live girl. A girl who seemed to want to do things with him. His palms were sweating, the Solo cup suddenly slippery in his grasp. He had to play this cool, come up with something suave and charming and mature to say, something that would impress her...

But his mind was a buzzing blank, thoughts scattering like startled birds. "Uhhhhhh," he said eloquently, staring at her with wide, vaguely panicked eyes. "I, uh... I don't... um..."

Words. What were words? How did you make them do the thing, the talking thing? It was like his brain had short-circuited, leaving him gaping at Poppy like a dead fish.

She just smiled at him, a secretive little curve of her glossy pink lips. "Relax, Gregory," she cooed, reaching out to trail one perfectly manicured fingernail down the side of his jaw. "We've got all the time in the world, okay?"

Greg nodded rapidly, not trusting himself to speak without babbling like an idiot. He took another sip from the red Solo cup, glancing around the dimly lit living room as he swallowed the tart-sweet lemonade.

Frowning, he took in the cracked, peeling paint on the walls, the stained, threadbare carpeting, the ancient TV that looked like it belonged in a museum. The whole place had a dingy, neglected feel to it, like no one had bothered to clean or update it in years. It was a far cry from the tidy, well-maintained home he'd imagined a girl like Poppy living in.

"Hey, Poppy?" he ventured, the words slipping out before he could think better of them.

"Yeah-huh?" She turned to him, head cocked, platinum blonde hair spilling over one shoulder.

"Not trying to be rude or anything, but like... what's the deal with this apartment?" Greg paused, taking another sip of lemonade to wet his suddenly dry throat. The buzzing in his head was getting worse, a dull throb pulsing behind his eyes. He shook it off, determined to get an answer. "I mean, do your parents not make you do chores or something? 'Cause this place is kinda..." 

He trailed off, not wanting to say "a dump" out loud.

Poppy's smile remained fixed in place, but something in her eyes seemed to shutter, going blank and cold. "My parents are dead, Greg," she said flatly.

"Oh." Greg's cheeks burned, a hot flush of embarrassment crawling up his neck. His stomach churned, a sour, sinking feeling that had nothing to do with the off-tasting lemonade. "I... I didn't mean to–"

"It's okay," Poppy cut him off with a light, airy laugh, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm totally over it. No biggie!"

"O... okay. Good, I guess?" Greg replied slowly, not entirely convinced. He took another awkward sip of his drink, just for something to do with his hands. The lemonade tasted even worse now, bitter and chemical on his tongue, but he forced himself to swallow. "So, uh... you live with other family, then?"

Poppy shook her head, glossy lips curving into a wry smile. "Nah, most of my family's back in Boston," she said breezily. "I live with my friends now."

There was something about the way she said "friends," a sly, secretive undercurrent that made Greg's skin prickle. "And your friends don't... clean?" he asked, brow furrowing.

Poppy let out an undignified snort, waving her hand to encompass the dingy living room. "Oh, please. I don't actually live here," she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"What?" Greg blinked, confused. The buzzing in his head was getting louder, his thoughts scattered and slippery. It was getting harder to focus, the edges of his vision starting to blur.

"I just use this place for... work stuff," Poppy purred, lowering her lashes and biting her plump bottom lip. The last syllable left her mouth in a breathy sigh as she winked, slow and deliberate.

"W-w-work stu–" Greg started to ask, but the words died in his throat as a sudden wave of dizziness crashed over him. The room tilted and spun, the cracked walls and water-stained ceiling whirling around him in a sickening kaleidoscope. "I... I don't..." he mumbled, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth, the words slurring together.

Poppy's face swam before him, her features blurring and distorting. But her eyes remained clear, glinting with something dark and predatory, like a cat toying with a mouse. "Shhh," she cooed, leaning in close, her cloying perfume filling his nostrils. She pressed one slender finger to his lips, silencing him, as he stared into a pair of gray eyes that seemed to flicker red for scant moments. "Just relax, Gregory. Let Poppy take gooooood care of you."

Panic seized him, icy claws raking down his spine. Some distant, primal part of his brain was screaming at him, a shrill alarm blaring DANGER DANGER DANGER. This was wrong, all wrong, a horrible mistake. He had to get out of here, had to run, had to–

But his body wouldn't cooperate, his limbs heavy and leaden, weighed down like they were encased in concrete. He tried to struggle, to push Poppy away, but his arms just twitched uselessly at his sides. The red Solo cup slipped from his nerveless fingers, tumbling end over end in slow motion. It hit the threadbare carpet with a dull, muffled thud, cheap lemonade splashing out in a sickly yellow arc, seeping into the dusty fibers.

Greg's head lolled back against the musty couch cushions, his eyelids fluttering, suddenly too heavy to keep open. The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was Poppy's smile, wide and sharp and full of teeth.

Then the world fell away.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg blinked awake, his head pounding like a jackhammer was drilling into his skull. The first thing he noticed was the cold, hard surface beneath him, rough concrete scraping against his cheek. The second was the smell – dank, musty, with an undercurrent of something sharp and chemical that made his nostrils burn.

Groaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain lancing through his aching head. What the hell happened? Where am I? The last thing he remembered was Poppy's face looming over him, her smile razor-sharp and her eyes glinting with something dark and hungry. Then... nothing. 

Just a blank, gaping void where his memories should be.

Panic rising in his throat, Greg looked around wildly, trying to get his bearings. He was in some kind of cell, the walls bare concrete, the floor cold and hard beneath him. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow glow over everything.

And chained to the wall by one ankle, a thick metal manacle biting into his skin.

"What the fuck?" Greg whispered, his voice hoarse and rasping, barely recognizable to his own ears. He stared down at the chain in disbelief, giving it a tentative tug. It rattled but held fast, the links far too strong for him to break.

This has to be a dream, he thought wildly, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. A really fucked up, vivid dream. Any second now I'm gonna wake up in my own bed and laugh about this.

But no matter how many times he blinked or pinched himself, the cell remained, cold and dank and far too real. Greg's breath came faster, his chest heaving as panic clawed at his insides. This wasn't a dream. This was real. He was trapped, chained up in some dungeon straight out of a horror movie.

And he had no idea how he'd gotten here.

Think, Veder, think! He forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The last clear memory he had was of walking into Poppy's apartment, his palms sweating and his heart pounding with nervous excitement. They'd kissed (his first kiss!) and she'd brought him lemonade and then...

Then it all went fuzzy, like a TV screen filled with static. Had she drugged him? That had to be it. She must have slipped something into his drink, some kind of roofie that knocked him out and wiped his memory.

But why? What could she possibly want with a loser like him? Was this some kind of sick prank, a twisted joke to humiliate the nerdy virgin?

Swallowing hard, Greg looked down at himself, taking stock of his condition. He was still wearing the same clothes from that night – his white t-shirt and black jeans – but his red jacket and sneakers were gone. Someone had taken them while he was unconscious.

Fuck, I loved those shoes, he thought mournfully. They'd been a birthday gift from his mom, expensive Nike high-tops he'd been eyeing for months. And now they were gone, just like his freedom and dignity.

Sighing, Greg leaned back against the damp wall, wincing as the cold concrete bit into his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. He drew his knees up to his chest, trying to conserve what little body heat he had. His socked feet scraped against the rough floor, already filthy and damp. You know what, it’s nothing to worry about, he tried to keep his thoughts positive. They’ll find me in no time at all. No time at all.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

How long had he been here? Hours, days, weeks? There was no way to mark the passage of time, no windows or clocks, just the endless, oppressive gloom. He'd seen a few other people being dragged in, limp and unconscious just like he must have been. They were locked up in cells like this one, chained to the walls like animals.

None of them seemed to know any more than Greg did. Whenever he called out to them, trying to get some answers, all he got back was fearful silence or confused, barely coherent mumbles.

The only other people he saw were the jailers, if you could call them that. They wore long, dark robes with hoods that shadowed their faces, and they carried wicked-looking daggers and swords at their hips. Greg had never seen anything like them outside of fantasy movies or video games.

Where the fuck am I? he wondered for the thousandth time, fear and frustration warring in his gut. Trapped here for who knows how long, getting nothing but some bread, a bowl of ground beef and corn and a cup of water at semi-regular intervals.

Was this some kind of LARP thing that had gotten out of hand? He'd seen posts on PHO about a group calling themselves "The Faith," weirdos who ran around in costumes and talked about magic and curses. Most people dismissed them as harmless kooks, no different than the Adepts in New York, without powers too.

But this... this felt different. Darker, more sinister. The manacles around his ankle was painfully real, biting into his flesh with every movement. And the fear in the other prisoners' eyes, the hopeless despair... you couldn't fake that.

No, this was real. Terrifyingly, gut-churningly real. And Greg was trapped in the middle of it, with no idea what these freaks wanted with him.

Letting his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk, Greg closed his eyes, hot tears prickling behind his lids. Someone help me, he thought desperately. Please, anybody. Get me out of here.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg stumbled forward, the heavy chains around his wrists and ankles clinking with every shuffling step. His head hung low, greasy blond hair falling into his eyes, obscuring his view of the rough concrete floor. Not that there was much to see – just the same grim, grey expanse he'd been staring at for days (weeks? months?) on end.

The robed figures flanking him prodded him forward with sharp jabs to his back, their gloved hands rough and impersonal. Greg barely felt it, too exhausted and numb to care anymore. Maybe they're letting me go, he thought dully, a last flicker of hope stubbornly clinging to life in his chest. Maybe this was all some sick prank and they're gonna say sorry and let me go home.

Deep down, he knew it was a foolish thought. The Faith, or whatever these freaks called themselves, didn't seem like the pranking type. But the alternative – that they were leading him to his death, to be sacrificed in some twisted ritual – was too horrifying to contemplate. So Greg clung to his delusions, letting them wrap around his mind like a tattered security blanket.

He'd thought they were bringing him his usual meal at first – a flavorless slop of corned beef and limp, mushy corn that he'd grudgingly started to look forward to, if only because it meant he wouldn't starve. But instead of the usual dented tin tray being shoved through the slot in his cell door, they'd opened it wide and unchained him from the wall (Great!), only to clap even more chains on his wrists and ankles (Not so great).

Now, as they led him up a rickety flight of stairs, Greg felt his heart plummet into his stomach, a leaden weight of dread settling in his gut. Oh no. Oh fuck no.

The stairs opened up into a vast warehouse space, the ceiling so high it disappeared into shadows. Dozens, maybe hundreds of candles flickered on every surface, their dancing flames casting eerie, distorted shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the cloying scent of incense, underlaid with the coppery tang of blood.

And in the center of it all, painted on the concrete floor in what looked like still-glistening blood, was a massive pentagram.

Greg's steps faltered, his knees going weak with fear. This was it. They were going to kill him, sacrifice him to whatever fucked up demon they worshipped. He was going to die here, in this dank warehouse, and no one would ever know what happened to him.

Dimly, he registered the other prisoners huddled along the walls, their faces gaunt and haunted in the guttering candlelight. There were at least two dozen of them, maybe more, all chained and shackled like Greg. Some were weeping softly, others staring blankly ahead, their eyes dead and hopeless.

That's gonna be me soon, Greg thought, a hysterical giggle bubbling up in his throat. Just another body for the pile.

The robed figures shoved him forward again, forcing him up a short flight of wooden steps onto a raised platform. The boards creaked ominously under his feet, sticky with some dark substance Greg desperately hoped wasn't blood. Oh, wow. It’s me now. Wow. Wow.

At the center of the platform, right in the heart of the pentagram, stood a hulking figure in a sleeveless robe, his bulging, veiny arms bare to the shoulder. A dark hood covered his head, a red pentagram stitched onto the fabric where his forehead would be. In his hands, he held a massive, wicked-looking axe, the curved blade glinting dully in the candlelight.

Oh fuck me, Greg thought, his mouth going dry with terror. They've got a goddamn executioner.

Another robed figure stepped forward, smaller and slighter than the axe-wielding brute. When he spoke, his voice was reedy and aged, the quiver of an old man. "Brothers and sisters of the Old Faith," he intoned, spreading his arms wide. "We are gathered here on this holy night, the Feast of Morrigan, to celebrate the rebirth of our Lady of Might."

"Praise the Lady," the assembled cultists chanted in eerie unison, their voices echoing off the warehouse walls. "She of Might. Praise the Lady. She of Might."

The old man brought his hands together as if in prayer, his head bowed reverently. "We beseech her for knowledge, for the answers to life's greatest mysteries. But the ultimate knowledge, my children, is violence. The ultimate answer... is war."

Greg felt bile rise in his throat, hot and acrid. These people were insane, totally fucking batshit. They actually believed this crap, believed that murdering innocent people would bring them closer to their psycho blood god or whatever.

And he was next on the chopping block, literally.

Greg's heart pounded in his chest as the old man gestured to his right, his gnarled fingers twisting in the air. "To begin our first sacrifice," he intoned, his reedy voice carrying over the assembled crowd, "our young Sister shall speak the words as she brings us the first lamb, the most pure of them all, free of two cardinal Sins entirely; both Lust and Wrath."

Sister? Greg stared, confusion warring with the icy terror in his gut. Lamb? What the actual fuck? This couldn't be happening. It had to be a nightmare, some twisted fever dream born of too many late nights browsing PHO conspiracy boards.

But the rough wood of the platform beneath his knees, the bite of the chains on his wrists, the cloying stench of incense and blood... it was all too real. Greg's vision blurred as hot tears welled up in his eyes. Mom, I'm sorry, he thought desperately, his chest hitching with suppressed sobs. I'm sorry I snuck out, sorry I was such a shit. I love you. I'm so fucking sorry.

A slender figure stepped forward from the line of robed cultists, pushing past the five surrounding the pentagram. Slim hands reached up to push back the dark hood, revealing a familiar face that made Greg's blood run cold.

"P-Poppy?" he croaked, his voice hoarse and ragged from screaming himself raw in that dark cell.

The platinum blonde smiled, her glossy lips curving in a saccharine grin. "Hiiii, Greg," she sing-songed, giving him a little finger wave. Her gray eyes glinted in the candlelight, a spot of red at the center of each iris making them look almost demonic. "I'm sorry about this, but you're just so cute and innocent and, well..." 

She pouted, her bottom lip jutting out. "The Faith needed you."

Greg's mind reeled, struggling to process the absolute insanity of the situation. "Needed me?" he repeated dumbly, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth.

"Yep!" Poppy chirped, as if they were discussing weekend plans and not his impending ritualistic murder. "If it makes you feel any better, I really did like you."

Greg narrowed his eyes, a flare of anger cutting through the haze of fear and confusion. "It doesn't," he spat, his hands clenching into impotent fists behind his back.

Poppy shrugged, her smile never wavering. "Alright then." 

She turned to face the assembled crowd, raising her robed arms in a grand, theatrical gesture. "Brothers and Sisters of the Faith," she called out, her girlish voice ringing with a zealot's fervor. "I stand before you a humble child of our Lady of Might, who has brought a lamb, neither his hands nor his weapon knowing blood. Virginal and pure, we offer him as a sacrifice to hasten our Lady's true Awakening and those of her Most High Siblings."

"PRAISE THE LADY!" the crowd chanted in eerie unison, their voices echoing off the warehouse walls. "PRAISE THE LADY!"

The hulking executioner stepped forward, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden platform. Up close, Greg could see strange symbols etched into the blade of his wicked axe, the lines filled with some tarry substance that glistened wetly in the guttering candlelight. Blood, maybe, or something even worse.

Panic seized Greg's heart in a crushing grip. This was really happening. He was going to die here, his head hacked off like a fucking chicken while these psychos watched and cheered. 

But as the executioner raised his axe, the candlelight dancing along the razor-sharp edge, a desperate idea struck him. "Wait!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear and desperation. "Wait, I'm not... I'm not a virgin!"

Poppy raised one perfect eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement. "Come on, Greg," she chided. "No one likes a liar."

Greg glared at her with pure, venomous hatred, wishing he could wrap his chains around her slender throat and squeeze until her lying tongue turned black. "You fucking bi—"

The axe slammed down.