The Magician leaned heavily into the sink and rinsed the afterbirth from his mouth. He waited momentarily and listened to the water spiraling down the drain.
The Spider listened as well, “Feeling better?” said the Spider.
The Magician watched to the water, getting the raw taste of rot from out of his mouth, eyes, and lungs.
The Spider maneuvered himself across the overhead lamps and slipped down an attached web. It then climbed a cabinet, roughly some sixteen inches above the Magician’s tottering head.
“Nothing to say after all that?” asked the Spider.
This time the Magician had heard the eloquent voice, surreptitiously offered a glance about, as if he were hearing things.
“Who’s there?” blurted the Magician.
“A friend . . .”
“Friends? My friends are dead, I have no friends” said the Magician softly.
“You have made quite a mess haven’t you?” said the Spider.
“Mess?” said the Magician, and put hands to face and turned and looked at the Spider, hidden from the kindred thing’s solid black eyes; his once human skin had turned considerably to a deep blue scarcely covering the Magician’s tissue, veins, and muscle.
The Spider fled across the attached web, safe from capture, safe for now.
Yes, escape, my friend.
He’d been safe for centuries, and now the unthinkable has found him.
“There was no real escape,” the Magician simply answered. “Escape is the price paid for admission.”
The Spider said nothing, and listened.
“You think you’re alive little friend? Wrong! You’re in the same place I’m in, only I am the stronger, and they’ll come for you, as well. They’ll come for you and take you to the flesh farms, like they had done to me centuries ago, genetically reborn
