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November 19, 2019 17 mins

The Deep asks the questions now, and Synøve Pan struggles to survive an otherworldly inquisition.

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Speaker 1 (00:00):
M follow the production of My Art Radio. This episode
contains depictions of strong violence, drug use, and sexual coercion.
The second oil mage, I'm a mild case. As long

as you don't get in my way, you're not my problem.
I'm sort. History is a weapon, your pay is a weapon.
Not suffer you to be tempted above that we are able,
but will with the temptation also make a way to

a safe that he may be able to beast. Now
tell me, tell me erth I did. She pried me,
first with pleasure, then with pain, until the difference no

longer felt distinct. My left arm burned, and I feared
some other interrogation failsafe might have activated in my body.
But then the next wash of sensation crackled through me,
and all I could do was giving me oh. Toward
the end, she crouched by my side like a harpy,

her blood swollen eyes unflinching, her smile pure sadism as
she reached into my mind with her waves, at least
until I told her about Veil and about the shifting
thing that looked like her. Only then did she relent.

Without another word, she rose and backed away from my
crumpled body. I watched her through the crook of my
arm as she walked over to the Triton observer, its
silhouette like that of a horned king in the shadows.
They touched foreheads for a moment, exchanging some communication. I

could only guess at it had to be something about
veil or the thing that wore her face. It gave
me time, but for what. I ran fingers over the shackle,
up the sutured wound in my leg, to the throbbing
in my arm, just beneath my old fashioned skull tattoo.

I felt something move beneath the skin at the touch
of my fingers, but she was already approaching me again.
Someone told you, told me what whispers of the void walker,
the shapeshifter in your midst No one told me anything.

You've held them better than expected. Imagine if you had
your black drug and your vile marks, you wouldn't need
no much to craft a lie. I wounded it. The
blood was amber. If you're telling the truth, your crime
is even more repellent because it means you helped the thing.
How could I know what it really was? It was

pretending to be her. They don't pretend to be anything.
They take. They wear masks of pilfered consciousness, but there's
nothing underneath. It became her to finally reach us, and
you let her in. I thought she was harmless. No,
that's not true. I thought she was right about what

the world My people tell a story of two tridents
on an ancient shore who glimpsed Man's first imperial towers
rise towards the sun. Let's end it now, the first
one said, raize waves against their walls and drown them

to the last poor child before they ascended too high. No,
let us watch, the second said, and see how they
might grow. Will tutor them, cultivate their growth. So we
let you spread across the earth, and we remain below.

But never did we forget our choice and what we
could have wrought. As you laid waste to world and kin,
bloodied sea and sky and air, as you pursued the
voice and vision of your early mind through faith, tinged
horrors viler than anything we've ever dared to dread. Till

the last you are incapable of seeing beyond your horizon.
You abhor the law change near as much as them.
She raised one hand and signed to the triton It
retreated into the gloom. But your survival is ours too.

Now we are no longer suppert species, and if all
you say is true, there is even less time. I
need to be sure I told you everything, not about
the ones who made you, the ones so adept at

countering our infiltration. We need to be sure there's no
complicity between Apathus and the outer darkness. There's nothing left.
I need to go deeper. That's when I began to
feel the numbing trickle of ice water across the cavern floor.

You can go to Canada, you can go to Australia
without all lonely gets you so far. See, it's a
global agenda people, that's beyond question at this point. Especially
soup filled baked goods. The kids these days are drinking
it with a straw. That's eating like a fish. Ask

any theologist, any ex theologists just inhaling it disgraceful. Plus,
real soup is thick, hearty, beefy, and chunky. A real
American choose is soup? You could choke on it? Next caller, Hi,
this is Chris from Oregon. Welcome to the show. Chris,
Thanks for calling in from the front lines. What's on

your mind. You've spoken before about the threat posed by undocumented,
recombined people in our society, and I know a lot
of people don't believe you. I didn't believe you, but
I just left. I just left a job at a
major technology corporation, and I definitely encountered unmarked our CEOs.

It's not that they even looked like us. They were beautiful.
They were breathtaking. They could just look at you and
make you antasize and do things. I had a family
and they they two of them joined the company in April,
and they've already manipulated their way into high level, influential positions.

I'm talking corporate partnership, decisions, international policy, you name it.
And this was just one company. Just think what they're
accomplishing around the world at the highest levels of government.
I looked into their eyes and all I saw was Chris.
Chris from Oregon. Chris. I was really feeling that way.

Are you Chris? Come back to me? Chris? We lose him.
Tonight on Dress Wars, the epic showdown continues. Daphne Carlos
slip its with only two episodes remainings. One Dress shall
Rule them All, But who will be the master. I
didn't come here to make friends. I came here to

make dressing. Just when you thought the sticks couldn't get
any higher, Trial by dress returns, plus there's even more drama,
and the Dress Bunker as an infamous competitor from season twelve,
pops in for a visit. You've seen dress Some people
would not belief Dress War seventeen, bursting at the scenes,

tune in only the salt water trickled around my fingers
and flooded the grooves in the stone. It was rising.

I looked up at my tormentor, clad in a skin
suit of Triton biotechne beautiful, like an animate corpse. Where
was she originally bound? I wonder service aboard Atlas, a
chance to fraternize with landsfolk before ascending, manipulating her way

into some key position. It was what they did. It
was the whole reason for a pathos. But instead here
she stood unfinished, a creature suspended between worlds, the loneliness
of demigods. I rubbed my fingers over the pain in

my arm, and I felt the sting of movement once more,
like graphink part calls stirring beneath the skin, only larger
our abilities work better through the medium of water. I'm
more useful to you alive. So far, you've only proven
useful to it. If it's really veil Veil's mind, then

I can speak to her, Maybe I can reason to
what end? She's just a mask there. It was a
fleeting look of doubt in her expression. But you're not sure,
are you? You might be able to kill it. But
what if I could get her to talk? What if

the mass can feel the face beneath it? Clever? What's
more valuable than intelligence on your enemy? It's impossible. They
only walk. You can't know. I winced as the thing
in my arm ruptured through the skin, thankfully shielded from

Thetis's view. A narrow shaft, slick with blood, emerged from
the rapidly coagulating wound. A hilt. We will provide for
you a weapon. Perhaps I could have pressed her, talked

my way out of it. The cracks were there, but
a pathos recruited me for my weakness, not my strength.
I slid my fingers around the hilt as the water
rose to my shoulders. We're wasting time. I felt the

psionic waves even before her fingers found the base of
my neck. She shoved my head beneath the water. The
knife came free into my right fist. She pressed down
on my back with all her weight, holding me beneath
the waves. She wrapped her arms around my neck in
a choke hold and pressed her forehead to the back
of my skull. Waves exploded through my mind. I felt

her inside me, prodding, leaking into the plundered corners of
my psyche, the boarded secrets. I barely recognized the black
halls of a pathos, the gutters of a Guang Jo
fort show show. I stabbed the knife back into her thigh.

I stabbed again, and her grip slipped. I drolled the
back of my head into her face with enough force
to crack bony. The waves dyed. I gasped for air
and glimpsed the triton observer moving in with terrifying speed.
I submerged once more. I jammed the blade into the
chain link that connected the shackle and twisted. I resurfaced

amid roaring, blood tinged waters. The triton surged across the
flooded room, the siphons of its twin tentacles propelling it
on jets of pressurized water. It reared back one of
its great webbed hands to strike, but the knife had
already flown from my fingertips. It cut clean through the
creature's brain an instant before its body barreled into me.

I surfaced and gasped for breath, broken ribs exploding with pain.
The fallen triton floated to one side, shaking and its
death throws. The scaled body fluctuated with golden bioluminescence. I
scanned the room for Thetis, expecting to see her pale

face breaching the surface of the water. But I didn't
see her, I didn't hear her, I didn't feel her
awful presence in my mind. I tried to swim, that
the pain in my side was too much. I slashed
and stumbled through the half flooded chamber, back towards the
proteus hewn tunnel I've marked earlier. I followed it up

out of the flood. I shivered along its twisting course,
bloodied and numb from frigid waters. The chatter of my
teeth echoed through the halls everywhere, the insane whorls of
mindless excavation. I followed it through stretches of complete darkness,

feeling my way, stumbling against the wall. The only lights
were those within my mind. The dark writhed with hallucinated images,
the shadowed saints, sulfurous breath, basilisk surging from the depths
of the earth, the rumble of the proteus in the
tunnels below. Mindless and unceasing, boring chasms in the dark.

For what I could not guess, some megaproject of you,
Decks or Triton, some desperate hole in the world. I
pressed on, grunting through the pain, fleeing sounds real and imagined. Finally,

the light ahead told me I was near, not the
purple glow of Triton Biotechni, but industrial led a metal
platform with an air lock set into the spiral embossed rock.
Twin plexiglass chambers, clearly intended to house pressure suits. One

of them stood empty, and Jack's waited beside it. You.
She raised the squid gun as I moved into the light,
but I was already sprinting. I jerked my head to
one side and narrowly dodged the first squid. The second
flew wide, and I locked the forearm into her skull.
Jack stumbled back, blood leaking from the suture, jelled gash

in her face, but she recovered her footing. She swung
the gun at me like a club. I ducked and
tackled her hard to the gritted steel beneath us. Her
hands found my throat and mine hers. She had every
advantage over me, weapons, clothing, a mind and body that
hadn't been ravaged by a goddamn nariad. But I was

on top. I had butted her hard enough to break
the skin. Her fingernails gashed my throat, but I tightened
my grip. I tightened it till I realized I was
the only one screaming. The second oil Age was produced

by Robert Lamb, alex william Slowing, Voberbaum, and Josh Stain.
This episode featured en Jel masters a Sinold Pond, he Mean,
Lloyd Esthetis, Annie Reese as Jack's, Noel Brown as tex America,
and Christian Sager as Chris from Oregon. Additional voice work
by Alexander Williams and Nicholas Takowski intro altro, and supporting

music created by the Weirding Module. Learn more at Module
five dot band camp dot com. M from more podcasts

from iart Radio, visit the irt radio app. Bapple podcasts
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