A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 4: Threads of Survival

Michael sat on his cot in the dim basement of Strangefellows, his hands resting in his lap, his eyes half-closed. To anyone who glanced at him, it would look like he was resting after another long shift. But inside his mind, he was far from idle.

The swarm was always there—ants, spiders, beetles, cockroaches, flies—moving through his mental landscape with the precision of a well-tuned orchestra. Each insect was its own instrument, playing its part, and Michael was the conductor, guiding their movements with ease. His range had grown steadily over the past week, stretching out in a three-block radius around Strangefellows. It wasn't just insects that lived within the building anymore; he had started drawing in creatures from the streets and alleys beyond.

It was like breathing now, natural and effortless, even as he focused on his other tasks. He could manage hundreds, even thousands, of insects simultaneously, each one performing its own small function within the larger whole. Tonight, he'd decided to push his abilities in a more practical direction.

He was making silk.

The idea had come to him while folding his new bargain-bin clothes. They were functional but far from comfortable. The thought of wearing cheap socks and stiff, scratchy underwear for weeks on end had sparked an idea. If spiders could spin webs, why couldn't he direct them to make something better?

It started with small tests, commanding spiders to spin threads in patterns he dictated. At first, it was messy—uneven lines, tangled webs—but as his focus sharpened, so did the results. He guided the spiders with exact precision, using their natural silk to form threads, layer by layer. It was slow at first, but as his confidence grew, so did the complexity of his designs.

Now, while working shifts at Strangefellows, Michael divided his attention. Part of his mind stayed on his tasks—cleaning tables, hauling crates, and handling whatever Alex threw at him—but another part was with the spiders. They worked in the quiet corners of the basement, spinning silk according to his will.

By the end of his shift, he had socks that fit perfectly and the beginnings of underwear. The fabric was soft, durable, and surprisingly comfortable.

On his break, Michael sat down to examine the results of his efforts. The socks were smooth, seamless, and perfectly shaped. He slipped them on, marveling at how they conformed to his feet like a second skin. The underwear was still a work in progress, but the potential was clear. The spiders had outdone themselves, their natural ability amplified by his guidance.

"Not bad," he muttered to himself, flexing his toes in the silky material. "Not bad at all."

As he worked, more insects entered his range. He could sense them as they moved through the cracks in the walls and the shadows of the alleys outside—new additions to his ever-growing swarm. Each one brought a fresh perspective, a new set of senses for him to explore. He guided them gently, welcoming them into the fold, and set them to work collecting resources for his next project.

His multitasking ability was astounding, even to him. He could clean the bar, listen to Alex grumble about the patrons, and still direct the spiders with pinpoint accuracy. It was like his mind had expanded, growing more intricate and interconnected with every passing day.

Later that night, as he sat in the basement, Michael leaned back against the wall, letting the swarm's collective hum soothe his tired body. The silk-making project wasn't just practical—it was a test, a way to push the limits of his control and coordination. So far, it had proven to be one of the most satisfying uses of his power yet.

He couldn't help but smirk at the irony of it all. A few weeks ago, the idea of using spiders to make clothing would have seemed absurd. Now it felt like second nature.

The Nightside was forcing him to adapt in ways he'd never imagined. And, for better or worse, he was rising to the challenge.

Alex was leaning against the doorframe to the basement when Michael sensed him. His connection to the swarm made it impossible to miss—flies had buzzed past Alex as he entered, and the vibrations of cockroaches on the stairs gave away his approach.

"Michael," Alex said, his voice carrying that familiar edge of dry annoyance. "What the hell is this?"

Michael turned slowly, his stomach sinking. Alex stood there with his arms crossed, his gaze sweeping over the basement. The air was alive with motion—spiders weaving, ants marching in coordinated lines, and flies buzzing in precise loops. The swarm wasn't subtle, and there was no denying what Alex had stumbled upon.

"Uh…" Michael scratched the back of his neck, trying to gauge Alex's reaction. "Okay, so, this might look… weird."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Weird? Weird doesn't cover it. You've got a freaking insect circus down here."

Michael sighed, standing up from his cot. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Really?" Alex stepped farther into the room, his sharp eyes flicking between a particularly large spider and a swarm of flies hovering near the ceiling. "Because it looks like I should be calling an exterminator."

"You don't need to worry," Michael said quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I've got it under control. They're all under my control."

Alex crossed his arms, clearly skeptical. "Explain."

Michael hesitated. How much should he say? He didn't want to lie—Alex would see through it—but he also wasn't ready to spill everything. "It started the night I got here," he said, keeping his tone calm and even. "After the… alley incident. I don't know how or why, but suddenly I could… well, control them. It's like I can feel them, sense where they are, and tell them what to do."

"And they just listen to you?" Alex asked, his voice sharp. "All of them?"

Michael nodded. "Yeah. They listen. Completely."

Alex stepped closer, squinting at a line of ants crawling in perfect formation along the edge of a shelf. "This is… something else."

"Here," Michael said, holding up a hand. "Let me show you."

He focused, sending out a silent command. The swarm responded instantly. Flies buzzed in intricate patterns, forming spirals and loops in the air. Spiders dropped from their webs on fine threads, swaying gently before climbing back up. Ants and beetles marched in coordinated lines, creating shifting geometric shapes on the floor.

Alex stared, his expression unreadable. "You're not kidding, are you?"

"Not at all," Michael said, smirking slightly. "Watch this."

With a mental nudge, he guided the swarm to form a humanoid shape in the center of the room. Flying insects hovered in place to form the head and shoulders, while crawling insects created the torso and limbs. The figure stood motionless for a moment, eerily lifelike, before Michael released the command. The swarm dispersed, scuttling and buzzing back to their respective hiding spots in the basement.

Alex let out a low whistle. "I'll admit, that's… impressive. Creepy, but impressive."

"Thanks," Michael said, lowering his hands. "It's still new to me, and I don't really understand it. I just know it's been there since I arrived."

Alex studied him for a long moment. "And you've been keeping this to yourself?"

"Yeah," Michael said, his tone serious. "And I'd like to keep it that way. The fewer people who know, the safer I'll be."

"Safer?" Alex asked, raising an eyebrow. "From what?"

"From anyone who'd want to use me," Michael replied, his voice low. "You know what the Nightside is like. If word gets out that I can do this, someone's going to come looking for me. And I don't think they'll ask nicely."

Alex nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Fair point. Powers like that tend to attract attention, and not the good kind."

"Exactly." Michael stepped closer, meeting Alex's gaze. "So, can I count on you to keep this between us?"

Alex smirked faintly. "You're asking me to keep secrets now?"

"Please," Michael said. "I need to stay under the radar. At least for now."

Alex let the silence stretch for a moment before nodding. "Fine. Your secret's safe with me. But you'd better not bring any trouble to my bar. Got it?"

"Got it," Michael said, relief flooding through him.

As Alex turned to leave, he paused in the doorway, glancing back. "You know, kid, you're full of surprises. Keep this up, and you might actually survive the Nightside."

Michael chuckled weakly. "That's the plan."

When Alex was gone, Michael sank back onto the cot, exhaling slowly. He didn't know how long he could keep this secret, but for now, it was safe. And in the Nightside, that was all he could ask for.

Not having to hide his abilities from Alex made things easier for Michael. With that weight lifted, he allowed his swarm to spread out more, using the basement of Strangefellows as his central hub. Rodents and pests became a thing of the past—any that dared to approach the bar were swiftly hunted down by his insects and fed back to the swarm. It wasn't pretty, but it was effective, and Michael took a grim sort of satisfaction in knowing Strangefellows was probably the cleanest bar in the Nightside.

His connection with the swarm grew stronger every day, and managing it became second nature. While Alex still gave him wary glances from time to time, he didn't ask many questions. Michael figured that as long as the bar remained rodent-free and no trouble arose, Alex would let him handle it his way.

The basement itself carried its own eerie weight. Michael had learned early on that Merlin Satanspawn was buried beneath Strangefellows. The powerful sorcerer's body rested somewhere deep below, sealed away after his betrayal of King Arthur. But that wasn't all—Alex's ancestor, Arthur Morrissey, had been bound to the bar by Merlin himself. Whether it had been a curse, a punishment, or a strange form of reward was up for debate, but the result was clear: Arthur's essence was tied to the bar, and so was his bloodline.

Every Morrissey since Arthur had been tethered to Strangefellows, obligated to protect it and ensure its status as a sanctuary in the Nightside. That duty wasn't something Alex had chosen; it was a burden he'd inherited, one that he bore with a gruff resignation. Michael didn't know if Alex ever thought about leaving—or if he even could.

At first, the idea of being in the same space as a buried sorcerer and a bound guardian spirit had unsettled Michael. The basement felt heavy, as if the very air carried the weight of its history. Sometimes, late at night, he could almost sense the faint presence of Arthur Morrissey lingering in the walls, like the bar itself was alive with the echoes of its past. It was creepy, sure, but over time, it became just another part of his life. In the Nightside, there were far stranger things to worry about.

After a month of working at Strangefellows, Michael's life began to stabilize. Alex started paying him fairly—a surprising development, considering the man's gruff demeanor—and Michael found himself with enough money to consider moving out of the basement.

It was Lucy and Betty Coltrane, the bar's bouncers, who helped him find a place. The sisters, despite their intimidating presence, had taken a liking to Michael and were surprisingly resourceful when it came to navigating the Nightside's chaotic housing market.

"This one's not bad," Lucy said, gesturing toward a slightly rundown building a few blocks from Strangefellows. "One bedroom, 280 square feet, bathroom with a shower. The landlord's a bit of a grump, but he doesn't ask too many questions."

"And it's cheap," Betty added. "Six hundred a month. Considering the Nightside, that's practically a steal."

Michael followed them inside to check out the apartment. It was small, sure, and the walls could've used a fresh coat of paint, but it had a working bathroom, decent plumbing, and just enough space to feel like his own. Compared to the basement of Strangefellows, it was a palace.

"This is perfect," he said, turning to the sisters with a grateful smile. "Thanks. I couldn't have found this without you."

"Don't mention it," Lucy said, smirking. "Seriously, don't. We've got reputations to maintain."

Betty chuckled. "Just don't blow it, kid. Nightside landlords don't do second chances."

Michael grinned. "I'll keep that in mind."

Moving the swarm to his new apartment was a bit trickier than Michael had anticipated. It wasn't just a matter of commanding them to follow—he had to guide them slowly, in small groups, to avoid drawing attention. The Nightside was full of people who noticed the wrong things, and a swarm of insects suddenly moving through the streets would definitely raise some eyebrows. But Michael managed, keeping the movements subtle and methodical until his new home was as thoroughly scouted and occupied as the basement of Strangefellows had been.

The building was an old six-story structure, weathered by time and likely more than a few magical misadventures. Michael's apartment was in the attic, a small, slightly cramped space that came with its own quirks. The sloped ceilings gave the room an oddly cozy feel, and a hatch in the corner granted access to the roof. The narrow staircase leading up to his place was a pain to navigate—especially when hauling groceries or supplies—but it was a place of his own. That made every climb worth it.

The roof access quickly became one of Michael's favorite features. The view wasn't spectacular—mostly rooftops and the faint glow of the Nightside's perpetually dark skyline—but it gave him a sense of freedom he hadn't felt in weeks. He'd often sit up there at night, letting the hum of the swarm fade into the background while he stared out over the city. It wasn't peaceful, exactly—this was the Nightside, after all—but it was his.

The apartment had been a surprisingly good deal. The landlord had only required one month's rent as a deposit, which was rare in the Nightside. Michael had been able to afford it thanks to selling the revolver he'd taken off the mugger.

It wasn't something he liked to think about. The gun had been a constant reminder of that night—the man's screams, the insects swarming, the life he'd taken. Parting with it had felt like shedding a weight, even if it wasn't a memory he could escape entirely. And it had been worth it. The revolver had sold for 550 pounds, a small fortune compared to what he usually made at Strangefellows. It had been enough to cover the deposit and let him move in a month earlier than planned.

Now, as he sat on his secondhand couch, looking around the modest apartment, Michael allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The space wasn't much—280 square feet with just enough room for a bed, a tiny kitchenette, and a cramped bathroom—but it was his. He'd scrubbed every corner clean, arranged his meager belongings neatly, and made it feel like home.

The swarm had settled in as well, filling the cracks and corners of the building. He'd mapped out every inch of the structure, from the boiler room in the basement to the roof hatch above his apartment. Insects scouted the surrounding area, extending his range and giving him an almost omnipresent awareness of his new neighborhood.

As he leaned back against the couch cushions, Michael let out a slow breath. The Nightside was still dangerous, still unpredictable, but he was carving out a space for himself here.

And for the first time since his arrival, he felt like he was beginning to belong.