June 17th, 1983
The First Banquet
Wren found herself seated in a grand castle dining hall.
Moonlight spilled through towering windows, but it was not the pale silver glow of an ordinary night. It was red—deep, rich, and unnatural. The light of a blood moon poured across the stone floor and long banquet table, staining everything in crimson.
Before her sat a gentleman dressed in extravagant clothing from another age. His attire was elegant, almost regal, touched with the fashion of some medieval aristocrat. He had medium-length blond hair, pale skin, and crimson eyes that gleamed like fresh blood beneath the moonlight.
Spread across the long dining table between them was a feast fit for royalty.
Platters of roasted meat.
Fresh bread still steaming.
Goblets of dark wine.
Fruit so vibrant it seemed almost unreal.
Every dish looked perfect.
Too perfect.
"It seems my guest has finally joined me," the man said with a soft chuckle.
Wren's eyes darted around the room, her pulse quickening.
"Where am I…? Wasn't I with—"
She stopped.
The memory hit all at once.
The hallway.
The gun.
Arlo's voice.
His final words.
Her stomach twisted violently, and she pressed a hand over her mouth, fighting back the urge to vomit.
The man rose smoothly from his chair.
"This is but a dream, my lady," he said, his voice calm and strangely warm. "I merely wished to speak with you… and perhaps enjoy a meal in the company of my guest."
He stepped closer and gently took her hand, lifting it with the care of a noble greeting a lady at court.
"You collapsed shortly after the incident."
Wren stared at him, her expression hollow.
"Did I really kill him?" she whispered.
For the first time, the gentleman's smile faded.
"I am sorry," he said. "You did."
Wren's breath caught.
"But you must not blame yourself," he continued, his voice low and composed. "There was no other path left to you. If it offers you any comfort, you may think of it this way…"
He guided her toward a chair at the table.
"You saved him from his suffering."
Wren's trembling fingers tightened.
"I saved him?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Indeed." The man pulled out the chair for her with a quiet scrape against the stone floor. "That foul creature polluted his psyche and defiled his body. Only through death was he freed. Only through death was he purified."
His crimson eyes met hers.
"There was never any other way."
"There will be many more deaths before this is over," the man said softly. "You must steel yourself, my lady. Only these hands of yours can save them from their suffering."
Wren's fingers curled tightly in her lap.
"Many more…?" she repeated, her voice unsteady. "What was that thing? How… how could something like that even happen?"
The gentleman regarded her with quiet calm, his crimson eyes almost pitying.
"I believe you called it Azathoth," he said, his voice smooth as velvet. "A foul existence. Merely gazing upon such an entity is enough to invite contamination. Your beloved husband was simply unfortunate enough to be chosen as its first victim."
Wren lowered her eyes, pain flashing across her face, but this time it did not break her.
It hardened.
"Then tell me," she said, her voice trembling less now, "do you know how to kill it?"
The man's lips curved into a faint smile.
"Kill it?" he repeated, almost amused.
A low chuckle escaped him as he lightly clapped his hands together.
"My lady, before one may slay a beast, one must first know how to behold it." His smile deepened. "At present, you do not even know how to look at it. Best concern yourself with solving that first."
Before Wren could respond, the great doors to the dining hall creaked open.
A woman stepped inside, dressed in an exquisite French maid uniform, black and white lace draped so neatly it looked almost ceremonial. In her hands, she carried a silver platter with a polished lid resting over it.
Wren's breath caught in her throat.
The woman had no head.
Above her collar was nothing but a ragged, blood-darkened stump where her neck ended, yet still she walked with perfect grace, each step measured and elegant, as if nothing about her were wrong at all.
The headless woman approached without a sound and gently set the dish before Wren.
The silver lid lifted with a soft clink, releasing a curl of warm steam into the cold crimson light of the room.
Inside was a smooth, creamy soup.
Its surface was glossy and pale, somewhere between ivory and beige, with a delicate swirl of cream floating across the top. Small green herbs had been sprinkled over it with careful precision, giving it the appearance of something served in the finest of noble courts.
It looked rich.
Velvety.
Almost too perfect.
The scent reached her a moment later—warm butter, roasted garlic, and something deep and savory that made her stomach twist with sudden hunger. Beneath it all lingered a faint metallic note, subtle enough to ignore, but impossible not to notice once it was there.
"Creamy Bone Marrow Soup," the man said with a pleasant smile. "Something warm and comforting, after all you have endured."
Wren hesitated only briefly before lifting the spoon.
The soup was exquisite.
It spread across her tongue like silk—rich, buttery, and impossibly smooth, with a depth of flavor unlike anything she had ever tasted before. It was the kind of warmth that sank all the way into her chest, dulling the sharp edges of panic and grief for just a moment.
Without thinking, she tore off a piece of the soft bread beside the bowl and dipped it into the soup.
That only made it worse.
Or better.
She could no longer tell.
Each bite made her want the next. The flavor was so luxurious, so unnervingly perfect, that it almost frightened her. Yet she kept eating, faster now, scooping up every last drop until the bowl was empty and the bread was gone.
Only then did she realize how desperately she had been consuming it.
Wren stared down at the empty bowl.
To her own surprise, she felt disappointed.
"Do not despair," the man said, a quiet chuckle escaping him. "We shall share many more meals in the future."
Something about the way he said it made her pause.
Many more.
Wren slowly looked up at him.
"What's your name?" she asked. Only then did it occur to her that she had never once asked the name of the man hosting this impossible banquet.
The gentleman placed a hand lightly against his chest, his smile faintly amused.
"My name?" he repeated. "Ah… yes. I had nearly forgotten people cared about such things." His crimson eyes narrowed with something almost nostalgic. "Though I fought very hard to earn mine."
He inclined his head slightly.
"You may call me Faker."
Wren frowned.
"What a peculiar name," she muttered.
Faker smiled wider.
"No more peculiar than Wren, I believe."
"Now, now," Faker said softly, "I believe it is time for you to wake."
He smiled as though the end of their conversation were merely a brief interruption, not a farewell.
"Do not fret, my lady. We shall meet again."
Wren rose slowly from her chair, still feeling the lingering warmth of the meal in her chest, though the memory of Arlo's death remained like ice lodged in her heart.
"Goodbye," she said quietly. "And… thank you. For the meal. For helping me calm down."
Faker placed a hand over his chest and gave her a small, courtly bow.
"Goodbye, my lady."
Then he clapped his hands.
The sound rang through the dining hall like a judge's final verdict.
And Wren woke.
Her eyes snapped open to a dim, unfamiliar room.
It took her a moment to realize where she was.
Nicholas's quarters.
They were exactly what she should have expected—small, sterile, and painfully dull. The room was almost unsettling in its emptiness. No decorations. No photographs. No keepsakes. No sign that anyone with a life beyond work actually lived there.
Just a bed.
A desk.
A chair.
And silence.
Nicholas sat at the desk, half-turned toward her. The glow from the nearby lamp cast faint shadows across his face.
"Oh good," he said, leaning back slightly in his chair. "You're finally awake, boss."
June 17th, 1983
On this day, the first banquet took place between Wren Cromwell and Faker Mimic.
It would not be the last.
These banquets would remain the only friendly exchanges ever shared between A.E.G.I.S. and humanity's worst monster.
The Boogeyman.