"The church folks torched his body in one of their witch-hunt bonfire rituals. Even if the cultists chucked the corpse out to us, we couldn't reshape it like we did with the others—y'know, tweak it into whatever twisted form we wanted."
"All that's left is his soul, and part of it's already fused into this little voodoo doll we whipped up."
"Without a body to anchor him, that soul's gonna bail on the living world quick. It's too stained to climb up to heaven, and if it drops to hell... well, that's an endless plunge into the pit."
Dark Alessa tilted her head, squinting at the tiny straw doll in her palm, peering deep to gauge the soul hunkered inside.
At the same time, she was chatting it up with Alessa's main body, the one laid up in the hospital bed, sharing her line of sight like some psychic FaceTime.
"This ain't gonna be easy. If you wanna pull him through, you'll have to slice off a chunk of your own power. Otherwise, with what he's packing now, I'd just let him suck up coal dust for a few hundred years—maybe then he could scrape together a decent shell and wake up."
After dropping that bomb, Dark Alessa clammed up, muttering to herself like the other side was mulling it over.
A long beat passed before she piped up again.
"You're wondering... what if we'd crossed paths with him back during the fire, thirty years ago? Think it'd flip the script?"
"Alessa, trust me—if this guy's really got that Eastern mystic mojo everyone's whispering about, he wouldn't be sprawled out here like some stray mutt kicked to the curb."
"A good-hearted, stand-up guy like that doesn't deserve this kinda raw deal?"
"What? And now you're saying his mom's waiting up for him back home?"
"Oh... you're such a little softie."
"But yeah, you're spot on."
In the end, Dark Alessa sounded like she'd talked herself into it.
Her stark black-and-white eyes locked on the straw doll cradled in her hand, that dark red eyeshadow lending her this eerie, otherworldly vibe.
In the pitch-black guts of the Otherworld, her gaze flickered with hellfire, mirroring Barry's soul in her pupils—inky as midnight oil.
This was the first time she'd really zeroed in on his soul like this. Before, with his body in the mix, she could only skim the surface. But now? This witchy ragdoll couldn't block her juice.
And what she saw?
Right at the heart of Barry's soul, there was this swirling vortex churning away, a dim blob of shadow roiling inside like storm clouds in a bottle.
That spot? It was ground zero for the weird pull he'd always had—that magnetic tug.
Ah, gotcha. It clicked.
She'd figured him for just another oddball, kinda like Alessa: born with a natural knack for soaking up dark energy, only kicking in when death came knocking.
Boy, was she off.
If anything, Barry's core screamed more demon than her—small potatoes now, sure, but that spark of something bigger was peeking through.
So, game plan? Dark Alessa had it locked down.
She went full kid-in-a-candy-store, poking at the doll with her index finger like it was her new favorite toy, jabbing the chest over and over.
Her moves? Dead ringer for CPR on a code blue—hell, like 99% spot-on, straight out of an ER drama.
Press, release.
Each pump forced out the coal grit the doll had gulped down, spewing it from the seams in little puffs, syncing to her rhythm.
But here's the miracle: that flat-as-a-pancake body? Under her prodding, it started fighting back!
The shriveled straw frame puked up the undigested ash, then got zapped with Dark Alessa's precision-tuned soul jolt—dark power, dialed just right.
It was like that last-ditch spark when life's hanging by a thread, clawing for one more round!
An invisible whoosh blasted outward, and bam—the doll puffed up like a balloon on the verge of popping, full and taut in seconds.
Right on cue, a killer suction kicked in from its body.
The thing turned Hoover on steroids, vacuuming up every loose speck of coal ash in reach.
Layers of soot slapped onto its surface, but it wasn't enough. Dark Alessa flicked her wrist, and the sky rained down more grit, swirling into a smoky cloud that cocooned the doll tight.
"Go on, chow down. Don't let Alessa down now."
She kept funneling her own energy, force-feeding the starving Barry the fuel he needed to morph—like momma bird with a worm, but way more infernal.
"Maybe you'll even pitch in on my big scheme. Long as you wake up still you."
Figuring Barry's makeover would take a hot minute, Dark Alessa waved her hand, and the ash piled up into her all-time fave creation—Pyramid Head.
Built like a tank, ripped upper body crisscrossed with scars, rocking a grimy butcher's apron, hefting a massive cleaver that could fell a redwood.
Just eyeballing him, you knew: do not mess.
The kicker? That welded-on iron helmet crowning his dome—a heavy hexagonal-based triangle, straight out of some medieval torture catalog.
Pyramid Head was Alessa's go-to headsman, her personal punisher for the guilty. He'd carve up anyone she had beef with in the most brutal, no-holds-barred style—like the town's own Judge Dredd, but with a rusty blade and zero mercy.
Besides the ones Dark Alessa had modded into eternal-sufferin' freaks, most cultists bit the dust courtesy of Pyramid Head's handiwork.
On Alessa's say-so, he scooped up the ashy chrysalis from the ground—Barry's new digs inside.
With Pyramid Head thudding along in her wake, Dark Alessa led the way back to the hospital holding Alessa's real-deal body.
...
Fire. Endless, roaring flames everywhere.
In the middle of this inferno, he caught a whiff of thick sulfur, like brimstone straight from a bad Western showdown.
The blaze was blinding, smoke billowing like a fog machine on steroids—he couldn't make heads or tails of the surroundings.
But the roar of the crowd? That thundering cheer looping non-stop? Had to be cheers, even if he couldn't parse the garbled chants. His gut screamed it.
Ding!
A bell tolled sharp and loud, slicing through the racket like a knife—impossible to tune out.
Warning? Heads-up?
Barry didn't have time to puzzle it out before shit hit the fan.
Flames danced wild, smoke twisted like serpents.
In a heartbeat, a shadow lunged from the haze, and—crack!—a vicious elbow smashed right into his kisser.
Too slow to dodge, Barry ate it full-force with his face, slamming to the ground with a bounce like a Super Ball. But quick as that, his vision swam, a dizzy spell crashing over him like a hangover from hell.
He laid there, what felt like forever, before his brain rebooted.
Weird part? His attacker didn't follow up—no finishing stomp or anything.
As time dragged, his body started feeling... solid again. Real weight to it, like he'd leveled up from ghost to flesh-and-blood.
He hauled himself up, rage bubbling hot like lava in a Yellowstone geyser!
Son of a bitch! Who the hell pulls a cheap shot like that—straight outta some no-rules street fight in a back-alley Philly bar?
I'm gonna paste ya!
Barry shook off the cobwebs, flexing his senses like revving a muscle car.
"Ooohhh—!"
The crowd erupted again at his comeback.
And right on cue, his foe charged.
Whoosh!
Smoke parted behind him, a coal-black fist rocketing straight for the back of Barry's skull.
Thud!
A charred mitt snagged the punch mid-air. Barry whipped around, eyes blazing like a welder's torch, sizing up his equally scorched opponent. Then—payback!
Take this elbow, asshole!