The stairs yawned in front of him: an intimidating chasm of dark unknowns, but still he stepped down. A bubble of nervous panic caught in his chest and he swallowed against it, ignored it. There was simply no other way to go. Horace trailed his fingers along the cool wall as he walked, feeling the harsh concrete of Deus give way to a smoother stone - a braille that spoke of older things. Hesitating, his mouth opened, lips poised to ask a question, but he swallowed it, and did not look back at Jan. Perhaps the man was no longer there, perched at the mouth of this cave like a watchful bird of prey. Horace told himself it did not matter. This part he had to do alone. Later, Horace knew that he would examine, re-examine, pick apart every word the pale-haired man had said until they were nothing more than syllables and half-heard emotions. He had felt a strange kinship with the other hunter - his hint of being targeted was more than enough for Horace to feel the need to somehow protect him. That was new, he thought, the burgeoning feeling of wanting to protect someone. New and entirely strange to think about a man who could almost certainly trounce him six ways to Sunday without breaking a sweat. It was, to be blunt, utterly ludicrous. Horace couldn't even protect himself, and that was why he was here - to become something greater than what he was.

His feet stumbled down the stairs and suddenly Horace was nothing more than a clumsy boy again, full of nerves and the sinking feeling that maybe he could never belong. No, not in a place like this, in the cool, concrete halls and bright lights of Deus. The soft hiss of his pod opening still echoed in his ears and he tugged on one lobe, rolling the comforting solidity of his earring between his nervous fingers. The pod room had been a little too clean, a little too perfect for someone as rural as he. He was used to dirt and dust and deep forests that held strange shadows where there should be none. And, funnily enough, that forest was why he was here - because Horace, weak, coward Horace Nokoni could see things that others said were not there. On a sigh, he reached the bottom of the stairs and it felt as though a chill mist swirled around his calves, although he could see nothing. He shivered and pushed up the bridge of his glasses. Here - he did not belong here either, in this strangely glowing cave, among the stone that silently told of years past, of longing, of waiting for the right person. How could he be that person? Horace was just an awkward boy from Oklahoma, easily bullied, easily beaten. He did not deserve bright lights or magic or anything that existed only in fairy tales.

{you deserve as you are given.}

Horace spun around, looking for the source of the voice in the small room. Grey syllables flickered through his mind and he turned, sneakered feet skidding on the stone floor. The glowing stone seemed to pulse sleepily with her voice as it beckoned him. A strange desire rose in him, a need to find, to be united. He darted forward, hands reaching, touching every glowing rune, questing for something he could not name.

{I have chosen you,} she said. And {find me,} she whispered. His name was a deathless murmur on the hum of her voice. He sensed monstrous things in her dusty speech, callous desires. Even as she was in his mind, Horace was in hers and he could feel a bottomless ambition, a thirst for knowledge obtained by any means, a need to use and use and use until all the world was a dried up husk ad nothing remained except her: Doctor Jannisari. Horace reached out blindly, touching sleeping stone after stone. One pressed inwards. And suddenly she was in his hands, shining, sharp. Beautiful. Tekkos - Horace recognized them only vaguely. He had read a romance novel once - the hero had used this weapon to kill several guards in close combat before spiriting away his princess. But Horace was not a hero and there was no princess. He was only here because there were too many dragons and not enough knights. He hoped he would be enough. Jannisari laughed in his mind. He was so, so young: malleable, perfect.

"Chosen me? Am I better than others?" His voice was incredulous, soft, as though he could never believe that someone would chose him above all others. And he didn't, but one day, maybe, he could learn to believe.

{than others... perhaps. because you are mine and will aid me. you are made of finer things - of determination and hope. better? maybe. useful? yes. MINE. you are worthless without me: a hunter weaponless. only superior until you fail. and then, you will be meaningless. but we will not fail, horace.} Her voice was a dry hiss in his mind; it wrapped around him, studied him, found him... adequate. Horace felt something strange blossom in his chest, an odd sense of belonging. He wanted to believe those silver-gilded words (he told himself he had no reason not to) and the tiniest sliver of peace they offered. He needed to believe them. And so, for now, he did. Horace closed his pale eyes as he felt Jannisari fall into even the tiniest corners of his mind. She shifted, probed, knew him in ways no other did. It was not a comfortable feeling and he leaned against the cool stone, feeling his palms grow slick with sweat.

The tekkos slipped in his hands, sharp edges tilting dangerously close to his thigh. Jannisari hissed out his name: a sharp, disappointed noise. Abruptly and without conscious thought, he unsummoned her and a blinding pain shot through his right ear. With a cry, his tanned hand flew up to dance around it, to pick at the earring that now nestled there. Jannisari had replaced his old earring; the light plastic of it rolled, forgotten, on the floor at his feet. But she was much larger, heavier than his old plug and the soft flesh of his lobe had torn around her, desperate to accommodate her sudden appearance. Horace felt her, carefully, running curious fingertips over engraved metal that was slicked with his blood. The pain had receded dramatically; she was damping it, fear shield curling across his skin although he could not feel it. Jannisari was ornate, though Horace could not figure out her design. His earlobe throbbed warmly, swelling. And somehow he knew she took this form so she could be near his pulse always.

{come, together we can be great, I will take you there. I am a Doctor, horace, and shouldn't you trust your Doctor?} A hint of humor tempered her edge of ever-present frustration, threading delicately through her mummified voice. He straightened up, hand still gingerly cradling around his bloodstained ear and the heavy earring that had invaded it. With slow, deliberate footsteps, Horace began to walk towards the exit.

{Yes, Doctor Jannisari.}