The world was no stranger to abnormalities; things that shouldn't exist, things that simply could, and things too alien to make sense of. Leticiel had learned to move among them. To document, to observe, to keep her hands steady on the camera and her conclusions loose.
Mostly.
A man in full plate armor sprints past her, his sword and gun belts rattling as he flees for his life. Chasing him, an amorphous mass of flesh dissolves the carpet, propelled by hundreds of human arms that extend and bend, crawling unevenly as it grapples inch by inch. She keeps pace, though the view behind her was even more surreal: a companion in tactical gear, frantically strumming an upbeat folk jig on mandolin.
Leticiel has it all on camera.
She keeps documenting content. She keeps moving. She keeps telling herself she is fine—that this is still something a normal person can do and remain intact afterward. Then the armored man slips, dies pinned under hundreds of arms, and passes into the sky like a