Not Glinda
JP with Jaxx, Redsword, Trustno1 and Cindy
The stairwell stretched downward into the bowels of the earth, its claustrophobic passage lined with cracked concrete walls that wept with moisture. Max led the descent, his flashlight carving a narrow path through the choking darkness, its beam trembling as if reluctant to reveal what lay ahead. Each step creaked under his weight, the sound reverberating through the silence like a dirge. Behind him, the team followed, their breathing shallow, their footsteps muted by the ominous weight of the air.
The temperature dropped with each step, the chill biting through their clothing and into their flesh. The stench of decay grew more potent, an unholy mix of rotting meat and burnt metal that clung to the back of their throats. Max’s flashlight flickered briefly, and for a heart-stopping moment, the darkness surged forward, all-encompassing, before the beam stabilized.
The steps ended abruptly at a rusted metal door, its surface etched with deep gouges that hinted at something inhuman having passed through. Max paused, his gloved hand hovering over the corroded handle. His heart pounded against his ribs, the sound thunderous in his ears. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open.
The room beyond was cavernous, its dimensions distorted by the interplay of shadow and light. The concrete floor was slick with a dark, viscous substance that reflected the flashlight beams like pools of obsidian. Jagged stalactites of rusted rebar jutted from the ceiling, dripping with foul-smelling condensation. The walls bore more grotesque murals, these even more primal and violent—scenes of clawed beasts tearing through fields of screaming figures, their emerald eyes burning with malevolence.
In the center of the room, a massive iron cage loomed, its bars warped and twisted as if something had broken free with unimaginable force. The remnants of chains hung limply from the ceiling, their links smeared with a dark, congealed ichor that still dripped onto the floor below. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the air, vibrating in Max’s chest and rattling his teeth.
The team froze as the sound grew louder, rising from the shadows at the far end of the room. Max’s flashlight beam cut through the darkness, landing on a hulking figure that seemed to emerge from the very walls. The Beast-Clad Juggernaut stepped into the light, its emerald eyes glowing with an unnatural brilliance that pierced through the gloom.
The creature was a grotesque fusion of feline grace and monstrous brutality. Its fur rippled in the dim light, shifting from velvety smoothness to jagged, spiked patches that bristled with menace. Its face was a horrific parody of a cat’s, its barbed-wire whiskers twitching as it snarled, revealing rows of serrated fangs. The creature’s musculature was a patchwork nightmare, as if stitched together from countless beasts, each sinew bulging with terrifying strength.
Max’s breath hitched as the creature’s massive hands, tipped with claws that glinted like freshly sharpened steel, flexed with a deliberate, menacing rhythm. The growl deepened, a seismic rumble that seemed to emanate from the very core of the monster. Dust rained down from the ceiling as the sound shook the room, and the faint metallic tang of fear filled the air.
The Beast-Clad Juggernaut’s gaze locked onto Max, its emerald eyes burning with an intelligence that was both predatory and ancient. It crouched, its limbs coiling with lethal energy, the barbed-wire whiskers trembling as if tasting the fear that hung thick in the air. The room seemed to contract around the team, the shadows pressing closer as the creature prepared to strike.
Max’s grip on his weapon tightened, his muscles coiled like a spring, every instinct screaming at him to run, to fight, to survive. The Beast-Clad Juggernaut let out an ear splitting roar, the sound a hellish symphony of rage and hunger that reverberated through the chamber and into the marrow of their bones. And then, with terrifying speed, it lunged.
"Alyssa, everyone get behind cover!" yelled Sartre.
Agent Powers grunted as he endured the earsplitting roar. It helped that his real body was sealed inside his muscular slime body and he could reduce the side effects of the loud noise. As the Beast-Clad Juggernaut charged them with an open maw, Agent Powers quickly pulled the two white phosphorus grenades from his belt and popped the pins just before he hurled them like baseballs at two hundred miles per hour into the mouth of the Beast-Clad Juggernaut. Then he spun around and grabbed Alyssa and Ekaterina to get behind some cover since Sartre was ready for action. Once he secured them Alyssa and Ekaterina he readied his shotgun to shoot when he had a shot.
Alyssa held her ears from the noise and took cover with Ekaterina, but then remembered Sungs protection and the knife. She kept down but threw the knife at the creature getting ready to attack them. Hopefully, it would, at least, slow it down.
The Blade of Prudence and Remembrance flew through the air ans flashed once more, its light carving jagged rifts in the suffocating darkness. Alyssa gasped, every nerve in her body igniting as the knife's supernatural properties roared to life. When it plunged into the Beast-Clad Juggernaut’s chest, the creature’s piercing scream reverberated like a chorus of steel tearing apart.
The beast staggered, clutching at its seared flesh, its claws gouging deep furrows into its own chest. Its emerald eyes dimmed, its barbed-wire whiskers drooping like wilting thorns. But the blade wasn’t done. Alyssa felt her mind split wide open, as if the knife had found its way into her very soul, unlocking doors better left sealed It still moved.
Alyssa’s vision swam, the darkness around her folding inward before shattering like glass. In its place stood Prue Halliwell, radiating a fiery confidence that Alyssa had only glimpsed in fleeting moments of herself. Prue’s black leather jacket gleamed under an unseen light, her arms crossed, her stance exuding effortless authority. Her smile was sharp, sardonic, but her eyes softened as they landed on Alyssa.
“I want to be remembered for something bigger than me,” Prue said, her voice as steady as the earth beneath her feet. Her tone held no trace of doubt—only conviction, the kind Alyssa craved but rarely allowed herself to feel.
Prue Halliwell’s voice was as clear as sunlight cutting through a storm. “I want to be remembered for something bigger than me.”
The vision of Prue shimmered into view, standing before Alyssa in her rebellious confidence—a leather jacket slung over her shoulder, her piercing gaze steady, her stance defiant. She smirked, her tone shifting to something almost conspiratorial. “Look, Alyssa, you’re tough. You’re fierce. But confidence doesn’t come from that fancy tech you’re always glued to. It comes from knowing you can handle whatever life—or some oversized alley cat—throws at you.” She leaned closer, her grin wicked. “Oh, and Alyssa, maybe when this is over, you should let loose more than the little you have , have a little fun. You’re not dead, you know.”
Alyssa flushed, her cheeks burning, the comment striking somewhere between mortifying and strangely comforting.
Prue took a step closer, inspecting Alyssa as if weighing her worth. Then her smirk grew wicked, her lips curling into something that made Alyssa’s cheeks burn before the words even came. “You’ve got a good thing going with Peter . Maybe stop holding yourself back and let him see you do something blush worthy for real. If I were still around? Alyssa, I’d show him a real wild night. Just saying.”
Alyssa’s face turned crimson, her mind scrambling for a retort. But before she could sputter out a word, Prue winked, her grin widening. “Relax, Wilson. You’ve got this. Now stop second-guessing and start acting like the badass I know you are.”
The scene melted as Prue’s smile lingered—a soft, knowing look that only Alyssa could see.
The vision shifted. Alyssa was no longer holding the blade or standing in the basement. Instead, she was outside. Moonlight beating down on a pristine lawn, where a global summit was in full swing. She recognized the setting immediately: the G7. The American flag fluttered in the breeze, and beneath it stood Donald Trump and J.D. Vance, their postures rigid, their expressions unreadable.
A voice said, "The boy who Cried Wolf."
The stars burned above them, bright and indifferent, as if mocking the insignificance of the moment. Delegates in tailored suits bustled around, their laughter and small talk masking an undercurrent of tension. Then, without warning, the air cracked with the deafening sound of a gunshot.
Panic erupted. Diplomats screamed, their faces contorted with terror as they scattered like leaves in a storm. Trump and Vance remained eerily still, their shadows lengthening unnaturally under the moonlight Alyssa’s perspective shifted, pulled skyward, where the cosmos yawned open, cold and vast. The insignificance of humanity struck her like a physical blow. These titles—president, vice president—were meaningless against the backdrop of an uncaring universe.
The scene snapped again. A lone trucker slouched in the cab of his rig, parked at a desolate rest stop. His face glistened with sweat as he stared at his hands, which twitched uncontrollably. Alyssa could see black veins spidering beneath his skin, pulsing with an unnatural rhythm.
In his ears, voices whispered—a maddening symphony of alien tongues and fragmented thoughts. The trucker slammed his head against the steering wheel, trying to silence them, but they only grew louder, clawing at the edges of his sanity. His flesh writhed as though alive, shifting in grotesque waves.
“Make it stop,” he rasped, tears streaming down his face. But the whispers didn’t stop. They consumed him, body and soul, until nothing human remained.
The vision warped again. Alyssa was now in a dimly lit boardroom. FBI agents shouted over one another, their arguments venomous. Across the table sat members of the Illuminati, the Templars, and the Dragon, their faces grim.
The air was thick with tension as FBI agents argued with secret society representatives. The Templars, the Illuminati, the Dragon—all locked in a bitter dispute over power, control, and secrets that could shatter the world. Their voices rose, accusations flying, and Alyssa caught fragments of words: “betrayal,” “dominion,” “endgame.”
“This is out of your jurisdiction,” a Dragon operative hissed, her eyes narrowing.
“We own jurisdiction,” an Illuminati representative shot back, his voice cold and precise.
The tension in the room was electric, the power struggle palpable. Alyssa’s chest tightened as the voices overlapped, each faction claiming dominance, each demanding control. It was chaos, and it was clear no one was truly in charge.
Alyssa’s breath caught as the scene shifted. Piper Halliwell stood in a dimly lit bedroom, her shoulders trembling as she clung to her husband, Leo Wyatt.
Piper Halliwell appeared next, her face streaked with tears. She clutched at her husband, Leo Wyatt, her cries raw and anguished. “Why does she keep leaving me?” Piper screamed, her voice breaking with unbearable grief. “Why can’t I save her? Why can’t I stop these dreams?”
“Why does she keep leaving me?” Piper sobbed, her voice raw with pain. “Why can’t I stop the dreams? I can’t sleep, Leo. I can’t breathe. She’s gone, and I can’t do this again.”
Leo’s arms wrapped around her, his own grief etched into his face, but his words were inaudible. Piper’s cries filled the room, a sound of such profound sorrow it felt like the walls themselves were weeping.
The vision shifted again.
The next vision was quieter but no less haunting.
Polling stations in 2028, a sea of quiet dread. Their faces pale and drawn Americans lined up to vote. The air was thick with dread, an invisible weight pressing down on everyone. Their faces etched with the same paranoia that had gripped the nation after 9/11. Whispers moved through the crowd like a current, fear palpable in the air. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.
The scene felt wrong, like a twisted mirror of normalcy. Whispers moved through the crowd, fragmented and paranoid. It was the day after 9/11 all over again, but worse—because this time, no one knew what to fear, only that something was coming.
A senator stood at a podium, delivering a speech to a restless crowd. His face was shadowed, his words a strange mix of hope and foreboding
The vision veered into darkness.
The scene fractured, reforming into an opulent mansion. The same senator, now at a lavish party, smiled as his daughter twirled in the moonlight. But the night twisted, monstrous howls splitting the revelry. Werewolves tore through the scene, their claws red with blood, the senator’s screams piercing the night as his daughter was ripped apart. The senator’s cries rang out, desperate and helpless, as his world was torn to pieces.
The voice returned, deep and resonant. “The Boy who Cried Wolf. But the wolf is not who you think it is. And it is not here. Yet…”
The room was small, stifling, and shrouded in a heavy, unspoken tension. Faded wallpaper, patterned with faint, curling vines, peeled at the edges, a slow decay that mirrored the unraveling of the lives within. A single dim bulb dangled from the cracked ceiling, its light casting shadows that danced like restless spirits on the walls. The air smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and despair, clinging to the tattered drapes like a ghost that refused to leave.
Lee Harvey Oswald paced back and forth, his bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum floor. His frame was thin, his shoulders hunched as though the weight of his thoughts threatened to crush him. His face was pallid, drawn, and his eyes burned with a manic intensity that Marina had come to dread. She sat in the corner, arms crossed, her posture rigid and defensive. The baby, asleep in a crib beside her, stirred but did not wake, oblivious to the storm brewing mere feet away.
“You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” Lee spat, his voice low and sharp, like a blade slicing through the still air. He turned to face her, his expression a volatile mix of anger and desperation. “You think I don’t see the hypocrisy? The lies? They parade their capitalism like it’s salvation, while men like me—us—are left to rot in the gutters. Do you even understand what that means?”
Marina looked up, her blue eyes cold, her voice cutting in its simplicity. “And the Soviet Union is better? You talk of lies, Lee, but you cling to your fantasies like a child. Do you think they will create something better? The cramped apartments, the ration cards? You believe they would welcome you with open arms because you want to defect? They see you for what you are—a nobody.”
The words hit him like a slap, and his jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his temple. He turned away, fists tightening at his sides, staring out the window as if the answer to his torment lay in the dark streets of Dallas beyond. “At least they believe in something. At least they have ideals. Here, it’s just greed. Money. They build their empires on the backs of the poor and call it freedom. It’s a lie, Marina. A damned lie.”
“And what are you going to do about it, Lee?” Marina’s voice rose, her Russian accent thickening with her anger. “You sit here, ranting and raving, but you do nothing. Nothing! You are not a revolutionary. You are a man who cannot find a place in this world, so you blame everyone else. The Americans, the Soviets—who will you blame next?”
Her words hung in the air, heavy and cruel, and Lee’s shoulders slumped as if they had physically struck him. He turned slowly, his face pale, his eyes hollow. “You don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “None of you do. I see it. I see the cracks in the facade, the rot beneath the surface. Someone has to do something. Someone has to expose the truth.”
Marina shook her head, her expression weary, almost pitying. “You are chasing shadows, Lee. You are drowning in your own mind.”
For a moment, the room fell silent except for the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. Lee sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and Marina thought for a moment that he might be crying, but when he looked up, his face was dry, his eyes shining with a feverish light.
“They’ll remember me,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. “One day, they’ll see. They’ll understand.”
Marina said nothing, her heart heavy with an ache of futility. But then Lee’s gaze shifted, distant and sharp, as though he were seeing something she couldn’t. His voice dropped to a murmur, laced with a foreboding edge.
“Something’s coming. In Dallas.” he said, his words half-whispered, half-prophecy. “Something big. Bigger than any of us. It’s like a storm, Marina... a storm that will swallow everything.”
She stiffened at his tone, the weight of his conviction pressing against her chest like a stone. But she didn’t respond, didn’t ask what he meant. She simply turned away, the ache of futility settling deeper in her chest. She didn’t believe him, and worse, she didn’t believe in him.
Outside, the city hummed with indifference, its lights glittering like false promises against the encroaching night.
Finally, the visions settled on a dimly lit taxi. Lee Harvey Oswald sat in the back, his posture stiff, his voice flat. “I want to defect to the Soviet Union,” he told the driver, who glanced at him in shock.
Later, Oswald sat in a grimy bathtub, his face buried in his hands. He sobbed quietly, the sound of a man unraveling. He whispered something to himself, his voice barely audible. “Everyone’s afraid of the dark.”
Alyssa snapped back to reality, the basement pressing in around her. She stood frozen, the blade still glowing faintly in her hand. Her chest heaved, her mind reeling with what she had seen. The weight of the visions clung to her, heavy and inescapable, leaving questions that begged for answers.