LotS/The Story/Because I'm The Wanderer

"Intro"=
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Please state your full name.

TALIA RYX: You know my name. It was on that stupid summons you sent me.

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Let the record show that the witness is refusing to cooperate. Mr. Lu Bu, kindly advise your client to address this inquiry in a more appropriate manner.

LU BU: Talia...

TALIA RYX: Fine... Talia Ryx.

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Miss Ryx, what is your relationship with [Player Name]-

LU BU: Mr. Secretary-General, please remember that former holders of the office of Imperial Jian continue to bear that title as an honorific for the remainder of their lives.

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Very well. What is your relationship with the... Jian?

TALIA RYX: She's my friend. You already know that. That's why I'm here.

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Indeed. Would you say that the two of you are close friends?

TALIA RYX: I'd take a blaster shot to the head for her.

FRANCOIS DUPONT: You'd show such loyalty to a woman responsible for millions of deaths?

TALIA RYX: [expletive deleted] you!

FRANCOIS DUPONT: King Telemachus-

LU BU: Prince.

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Excuse me?

LU BU: My client is the Prince of Gallea. He hasn't yet undergone the coronation process which would formally bestow the title of king upon him.

FRANCOIS DUPONT: I see. Prince Telemachus, were you at any time given foreknowledge of the Jian's planned nuclear attacks on Centurian worlds, or her decision to destroy escape pods containing innocent civilians?

[The witness leans over to his counsel.]

PRINCE TELEMACHUS: Do I have to answer him?

LU BU: No. As a head of state, you'd be well within your rights to-

PRINCE TELEMACHUS: Then I'm out of here!

[The witness rises and walks towards the exit, stopping briefly to make an obscene gesture in the direction of the secretary-general.]

FRANCOIS DUPONT: You were actually beside the Jian when she initiated her illegal assault?

RAGNAR RAGNARSSON: I was there when the Centurians got what they deserved.

LU BU: I must remind this inquiry that the legal status of Jian [Player Name]'s actions are still under dispute. It is highly inappropriate-

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Your objection is noted. Now, Mr. Ragnarsson, can you explain why you made no effort to stop the Jian? Were you perhaps intimidated, and placed in fear of your life?

RAGNAR RAGNARSSON: Intimidated? I'll show you intimidated!

[The witness stands up, lifts the table above his head, and throws it in the direction of the secretary-general -- causing him to duck for cover. He then strides towards the exit, barging past the security guards who try to restrain him, and leaves the chamber. Some seconds after the door slams closed behind him, the secretary-general reappears from behind the bench.]

LU BU: I'd like to remind everyone that my client enjoys full diplomatic immunity as the Sian Empire's ambassador without portfolio...

WU TENCHU: There have been many occasions on which harsh military measures, including strikes against civilian populations, were deemed necessary to bring an end to a conflict. For example, the atomic attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the twentieth-

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Mr. Prime Minister, there can be no such justification here. Councilor Dule was willing to end hostilities before the Jian engaged in her illegal-

[The witness' counsel rises to his feet and makes a coughing noise.]

FRANCOIS DUPONT: ...her disputed actions.

WU TENCHU: Jian [Player Name] was never made aware of this.

FRANCOIS DUPONT: This is utterly untrue! I personally communicated with her before she initiated the attack on Centurian space, and demanded that she stand down!

WU TENCHU: With the greatest of respect, Secretary-General, I do not believe there is any evidence that this conversation ever took place.

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Only because the murderous criminal who struck me down deleted the logs! And because Captain Silea and her crew have chosen to aid in the conspiracy!

LU BU: These accusations are most improper! Let the record show that no formal charges have been made against any crew member who served aboard the Illaria under the Jian's command or at any time subsequent.

WU TENCHU: One might also question how this 'murderous criminal' could have entered your home to assault you, without triggering a security system to which the UHW devoted considerable financial resources.

[The secretary-general glares at the witness for several seconds.]

FRANCOIS DUPONT: I have our finest agents searching for clues as to the identity of that cowardly, despicable person. Rest assured, they will be brought to justice! No matter where they hide, or what they... Aaarrrggghhh!

[Added to the record later:

The secretary-general's moustache caught fire. The clerk recording the session was forced to jump up and douse Mr. Dupont's face with water to extinguish the burning facial hair. The inquiry was suspended while security personnel searched the building for the party or parties responsible, and Secretary-General Dupont received medical attention for the minor burns he suffered. It resumed approximately 1 hour 03 minutes later.]

WU TENCHU: The Sian Empire would like to extend our condolences for the apparent spontaneous combustion of the secretary-general's moustache.

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Spontaneous combustion! It was an assassination-

LU BU: Of a moustache?

FRANCOIS DUPONT: ...attempt! Someone is trying to undermine this inquiry! I shall not allow that to happen! I shall...

[By mutual consent of all parties involved, the secretary-general's profane tirade has been expunged from these records.]

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Mr. Prime Minster, where is the Jian?

WU TENCHU: Where indeed...

-- Extracts from official transcripts of the UHW inquiry into the Centurian Incident |-|

"Everyone's a Superhero"=
Everyone's a Superhero

"What'll it be?"

"Whisky."

"What kind?"

"Anything without an 'e' in the word."

The barmaid's brow furrows. She turns round, revealing the slogan that dances across the back of her t-shirt in glowing letters ("Look, Love, But Don't Touch Unless You Tip Real Good!" -- accompanied by a downwards arrow), and inspects the rows of bottles arrayed along the length of the wall like a battalion of mismatched soldiers. Perhaps she's new to the job, or else used to serving nothing but cheap malt liquor. Either way, she seems lost as she tries to locate your desired beverage. But she's making an effort... She scrutinizes a collection of Neo-American bourbons, named after old states, long-dead presidents, or archaic firearms, and rejects each one in turn. They bear the insolent vowel that separates the Scottish product from those of other dominions.

"One shelf up, over on the left," you say.

Her eyes fall upon the dusty bottle. She gives a squeal of girlish satisfaction, perhaps delighted by the discovery that the fabled spelling does indeed exist, and celebrating this addition to her alcoholic understanding. Then she snatches it from the shelf and places it before you. There's a beaming smile across her face. She reminds you of a dog who's fetched something for her mistress and now wags her tail in anticipation of approval.

"Thanks."

Her smile widens. Your lips return it of their own accord, infected by a merriment that doesn't reach your eyes or mind. She reaches under the bar for a tumbler. You give the bottle an idle perusal while you wait.

According to the label, this Glenmorangie spent ten years acquiring and evolving its taste. Good old Scots... Still doing things the traditional way. An off-world distiller once moved to Scotland and set up a plant where they used artificial aging. He disappeared a week later. The rumor is that he was turned into haggis. You're not entirely certain what haggis is, but you can't imagine the process was pleasant.

From the look of the bottle, it may have spent twice as long gathering dust on the shelf as it did gathering flavor in the barrel. But it'll still work.

The bottom of the tumbler makes an unsatisfying tap against the faux wood surface of the bar. Soft glass. Designed to splat rather than shatter if you hit someone with it. This drinking hole must see a lot of fights. If one breaks out, you'll have to remember to use the bottle instead...

But if the glass is cheap, the measures aren't. The barmaid sloshes amber liquid into the tumbler until it's nearly full to the brim. Yeah, she's new all right. You make a mental note to tip high, to cover the real cost of the drink.

She trips away to serve someone at the other end of the bar, the clicking of her heels playing her off with their percussion -- leaving you alone with your scotch and your thoughts. The memory this reawakens isn't a welcome one. So you stare into the long mirror behind the bar for a distraction.

The first thing you see is a strange face. A woman, her gaze locked with yours. Only the reflection's position allows you to recognize the unfamiliar features as belonging to your own visage -- or at least the one you've adopted.

There are countless humans in the galaxy, trillions of distinct faces. Even the most famous or infamous should be able to slip into anonymity if they divorce themselves of the clothing and trappings for which they're known, and perhaps make a few minor changes -- a pair of cyberpunk goggles here, a splash of bubblegum pink hair dye there. But it's not a risk you're willing to take. There could be any number of people out hunting for you. So you're hiding behind a holographic disguise, staring into another countenance when you look in the mirror.

Maybe you should get something permanent done instead, have a surgeon slap a new identity on your skull. But first you'd have to find one you trusted well enough to let her put you to sleep and take lasers to your face.

You glug the sweet, oaky scotch. Your eyes remain fastened on your reflection's, as though challenging her to a drinking contest. Unsurprisingly, you both set an empty glass down at the exact same moment. The barmaid's heels click their way over. She flashes a smile in which sympathy, understanding, and amusement mingle, then refills the soft glass vessel with the same cornucopian generosity. You decide that you like her.

The rest of the dingy bar is spread out behind your dubious doppelganger. You focus your attention on its denizens as the second dose of whisky follows the first -- hoping to find entertainment in lieu of contemplation.

Two young women sit on either side of a small table, dressed in a way that would make prostitutes blush. The drinks before them -- one yellow, the other pink -- throb with a bright glow which brings to mind neon signs and toxic waste. Alcopops. Twice as strong as beer, as easy to drink as lemonade. Chemistry is the natural enemy of sobriety.

Judging by their laughter and high-pitched babble -- inane even by the standards of their demographic -- these aren't their first drinks of the night. The same thought has probably occurred to the two boys watching them from a nearby table, pondering whether to make their move now or wait until further inebriation will make them seem more handsome and charming.

Teenage courtship rituals... You direct your gaze elsewhere, leaving them to their future of drunken romance and hung-over regret.

You're just in time to see a man get out of a booth, leaving a weeping woman in his wake. His stride is firm and fast. Muscles ripple under his dark flesh. A weapon bulges beneath his shirt. He's a fighter -- primal strength and deadliness radiate from him, tens of thousands of years of evolution warning the universe at large to keep its distance. And yet there's moisture at the corners of his eyes.

The woman cries something out, but it's made unintelligible by the tears which lacerate her thick makeup -- turned into a banshee's wordless wail. Her face slumps onto the table, nestled in her arms, and she shudders with the force of her sobs.

He keeps walking. By the time he reaches the door, a single tear has rolled down his cheek, leaving a glistening wound. Wherever he's going, neither of them believes he's coming back.

You drain your glass. This time the barmaid's heels are silent -- muffled by your thoughts.

"You sure, honey?" She raises the bottle and her eyebrows.

You nod. The amber pours.

"Not seen you around here before. New in town?"

"Just passing through."

"Figures. We don't get a lot of visitors in New Culverton. Except wannabe vigilantes, or supervillains trying to get in on the action. And most of both end up dead in a couple of days. Where you heading?"

"Nowhere in particular. But my ship needed fuel, and I needed a stiff drink. This seemed as good a place as any."

The barmaid waits for a few seconds. When you don't offer any further conversation, she clicks away in search of drinks to replenish.

You take another glug. This Glenmorangie deserves to be treated as a sipping whisky. But you're in the mood for gulping. As the sweet burn works its way down your throat, you return to the looking glass -- seeking interest in the mirrored world beyond.

This time you find something more pleasant than the drunken teenagers (who're now sharing the same booth, kissing and fondling with the clumsiness of drink and desperation), or the crying woman.

There's a group of men sat around a collection of pushed-together tables, the surfaces of which are littered with drained glasses -- the debris of a drinking session that must have lasted for some hours, perhaps ever since they left work for the day. Their laughter and chatter are rough and rugged, sometimes spilling into indecency. When the barmaid comes near she has to field catcalls, propositions both matrimonial and sinful, and slap away groping hands. She does this all with a pleasant laugh and a winning smile that manages to encourage without exacerbating.

The easy camaraderie is enjoyable in spite of its churlishness. You find yourself drinking the spectacle as much as the scotch, taking in the jokes and banter with the sponge-like absorbency of the solitary drinker.

The tumbler is emptied twice, but slower than before. You're savoring instead of glugging, allowing human interaction -- albeit from the perspective of an onlooker rather than a participant -- to supplement the alcohol. Sobriety, or as near to it as a woman with a few scotches in her system can claim to be, is tolerable enough with such distractions.

You're so engrossed in your voyeurism that you don't fully notice the wave of silence washing through the bar until it submerges the men you're observing. First the words and laughs die in the throats of the ones facing towards the door. Their companions follow suit the moment they turn around to see what the first lot saw.

She appears in the mirror first. A young woman, no more than eighteen from the look of her, with a blonde hair and a low-cut top. Pretty, but not good-looking or voluptuous enough to have quietened an entire bar. Perhaps she's some sort of celebrity, a singer or an actress -- part of the vast swath of interstellar pop culture which exists beyond your knowledge or concern. No... There's anger on some of the faces in the mirror. Derision. Disgust.

When you study the woman in the flesh, glimpse the right side of her face instead of the reflection of the left, you understand. There's a semi-perm tattoo on her cheek -- the kind you heat up, slap on your skin, and have to remove with a special chem. From its cheap sheen and bright colors, it's new. Probably applied tonight. And it depicts the Centurian Collective's emblem.

Your fingers tighten around the tumbler, indenting its soft glass.

You saw newscasts about this kind of thing while you were aboard the Silver Shadow. Centurian Pride, they called it. After the Collective's defeat in the war, many of its citizens around the galaxy decided to start displaying their colors. Some of them were interviewed, either crying about the deaths of loved ones and talking about shared grief or else screaming about solidarity and justice.

There's a soft murmur that increases in volume and variety as conversations pick up again. People are returning their attention to drinks or friends. As far as they're concerned, the girl and her tattoo are only of passing interest. Varlec was a neutral world in the conflict -- a collection of autonomous settlements such as New Culverton that had neither the capacity to commit military forces nor the inclination to offer support. To most of the bar's patrons, the battles and the fate of the Centurians were just things viewed on a screen or read in a holo-paper, no different from soap operas, celebrity gossip, or the plight of some unpronounceable species of quadruped on an inconsequential backwater world.

You avert your gaze, throwing your attention back at the mirror. Just a stupid kid. Not worth starting anything over... You swallow a glassful of whisky. The flavors pass you by, leaving only a quick burn.

The group of reflected men, who provided such entertainment just a moment before, haven't returned to their light banter and merriment. One of them is glaring at the girl and muttering to the others in a low voice. Your aural implant relays a torrent of slurred vitriol from the movement of his lips.

"What'll it be, honey?" the barmaid asks.

Her eyes flick between the girl and the men. She's noticed it too. The sign of impending trouble.

"Tyger, Tyger." The Prider says the brand name as though it were a challenge. Her eyes are practically smoldering.

She seems disappointed when the barmaid sets a cylindrical bottle before her, containing a bright orange liquid marred by oily black stripes. Yes... She wanted to be refused service, so she could make a fuss. You've seen her type before. Young, stupid activist out looking for a reason to throw her cause in someone's face. The kind that keeps going until they get what they want or get punched in the face -- which sometimes amounts to the same thing.

The men are leaning in close to each other, their mannerisms reeking of collaboration and conspiracy. The ringleader's face is hidden by someone's shoulder now, concealing his words.

"Honey, you want to be careful-" the barmaid begins.

The Prider glares at her. If looks could kill, the ranks of bottles would be festooned with the barmaid's innards. She takes the hint, stops talking, and clicks away. The Prider takes a long drink of her Tyger, Tyger, as if in celebration of a victory or as a taunt. When she sets it back down, the sloshing black stripes reassert themselves into the 'fearful symmetry' proclaimed in the ads.

Her eyes meet yours in the mirror.

"What're you looking at?" she asks.

In your mind's eye you lunge over, grab her by her blonde hair, and smash her face against the bar until the tattoo is drowned in blood. In reality you look away, leaving her to take another celebratory drink at the thought that she's stared you down.

"Oi, Cent-bitch!"

The men are on their feet now. The dark-haired ringleader calls out again.

"Your lot killed my cousin!"

"Yeah? And both my parents were killed guarding Zhen Bao," she replies, without turning round. "Screw you."

The man's eyes blaze. Red lights flicker at his wrists and shoulders. You can't tell if they're genuine cybernetic implants or just fashion statements. But either way, the Prider's in for it now...

The men march towards the bar, knocking chairs out of their way, bumping against tables and sending glasses tumbling to the floor -- where they make a series of anticlimactic splats. The girl keeps drinking. As much as you hate her, you can't help admiring her guts.

But even if she's nonchalant about her impending homicide, the establishment isn't. Two big heaps of flesh lumber out from a darkened corner. They stop between the men and the Prider, their muscles undulating like boulders shifting through treacle. The bar's Snuuth bouncers.

"Time to go, boys," one of them says. His tone is friendly, but when he cracks his knuckles it sounds like a skull being smashed open. An inauspicious omen for anyone who's thinking of starting trouble.

There are only two bouncers. The men have them outnumbered three to one. But the Snuuth are big. And if this lot are regulars, they'll want to drink here again. So the ringleader raises his hands in a palms-out gesture of acquiescence.

"Fine! Don't wanna drink in the same bar as a Collective whore anyway!"

His friends echo that sentiment as they bustle towards the door. The bouncers bring up the rear, escorting them from the premises.

The girl finishes her drink with a sharp, flourishing upturn of the bottle. She gestures for another before the last drop has slipped into her mouth, the empty cylinder still extending straight up from her face as though she were performing a balancing trick.

A fresh Tyger, Tyger is placed in front of her. Your tumbler is refilled.

The two of you drink.

After a few gulps of her burning bright, symmetrical beverage, she scans the mirror -- taking in the entirety of the bar. From the snort she makes, it doesn't please her. Of course not... With those men gone, there's no one left to hassle her. No chance for her to play the aggrieved martyr, and take a kicking for her allegiance. No bruises to show off when she meets with other Priders.

"We may've lost the war," she says, her raised voice cutting through the conversations floating behind her, "but those Sian bastards don't have their Emperor anymore, do they? Or their damn Princess! Let 'em celebrate the win in hell!"

The tumbler crumples in your grasp. Whisky sloshes over your hand like spilled blood.

She gazes around, making eye contact with everyone who can be bothered looking in her direction. But none of them take the bait. No one's interested. So she snorts again, polishes off her drink, swipes her credits to settle her tab, and heads out the door.

You settle up as well. Then you make for the exit, fists clenched at your sides.

Your Enemy's Keeper

The night air is an icy whisper across your face, after the warmth of the bar and the fire of the scotch. It slashes sobriety into your mind like the cut of a cold blade. But it doesn't cool your anger.

No sign of her on the street, in either direction. Where is she?

The universe answers with a scream. A girl's scream. Followed by jeers and laughter, all male.

They came from the alleyway that separates the bar from the neighboring pawn shop, dividing the place where the desperate gain their credits from the one they fritter them away in.

There, illuminated by the gaudy glow of purple and cyan lights... The men from the bar. And the Prider. Five of them are standing back, blocking the alley's mouth, cheering and hollering like the crowd at a Twisted Steel event. The sixth, their ringleader, has the girl by the throat. She's pressed up against the wall, her eyes wide and unblinking -- the frozen stare of prey looking upon a predator. Spluttered squeals slip from her mouth. Her hands press and claw at the wall behind her, as though hoping to find some form of escape there.

"This is for my cousin, Centi!" he hisses.

His free hand reaches down towards his belt.

You turn and walk away. The Prider was looking for trouble, and she found it. You'll leave her to her fate, and the men to their sport.

"[Player Name]!..."

The voice brings you to a halt.

"[Player Name]!! You can't let them do this!"

It's her voice. Stronger than soul, closer than conscience. The voice which commanded your obedience when it came from living lips, and still overpowers you even from memory and imagination.

"[Player Name]!!"

You turn back, towards the terrified girl, the leering onlookers, and the man struggling to work his belt buckle one-handed.

The people blocking the alley cry out in protest when you shove your way past. You ignore them and keep going, until you're close enough to see the spittle on the ringleader's lips.

"Get off her!"

There's fury in your words. It isn't just directed at him, loathsome as he is. You're angry at the Prider for causing all this trouble, enraged that you have to intervene to help a girl with a goddamn Centurian Collective tattoo stamped on her face. But he doesn't know that. So the anger will show him that you're serious, that he'd damn well better listen if he knows what's good for him...

He eyes you up and down.

"What's your problem? You some kind of Centi-lover?"

The other men are moving behind you, as subtle and stealthy as a gang of drunken rhinos.

"I hate the Centurians more than you could possibly imagine. But I'm not going to let you do that."

They're closer now, almost in striking distance.

"Piss off!" A blob of spittle punctuates his sentence. It splats against your cheek.

Well, you gave them a chance...

High-Kicking Heroine

A punch glances off the side of your face, powered by intoxicated enthusiasm but ruined by the lousy balance of tipsy legs. When you punch back, your feet and thighs lend force instead of stealing it. Knuckles hit the solar plexus. A drunken fool hits the ground.

Scotch is an unreliable ally in combat. But you could drink Scotland dry, along with the entire distillery world of Argyll III, and still be able to handle these punks.

You whirl round, intercepting a kicking leg with your elbow and sending the kicker spinning. Circular motion doesn't agree with him, or at least not with the contents of his stomach. When he falls onto his hands and knees, they make their colorful escape. You shuffle away from him, leaving him to puke a rainbow where he won't trip you up.

If you wanted to, you could have pulled your sidearm and put a shot in each of their heads. But you're not killing anyone for a Centurian. So you pick your blows as carefully as whisky and circumstance allow. You want them to walk away from this one.

The ringleader comes at you next. He's less drunk than the others. Either that, or he can handle his liquor better. He even has the presence of mind to feint with his left before throwing his right in a crisp, sharp cross. The man knows how to box. But the Sian Empire doesn't train its people to lose street fights.

Your forearm parry might have come out of a textbook. Even after all these years, hour upon hour of martial drills have left their imprint. Your arm rotates, hitting his with first one side and then the other -- distributing the impact between both of your bones. A rigid, stylized, traditional block. The kind taught more as a matter of form, as part of kata, than for its practicality. It should be ineffective against a decent boxer. But you're fast, your reflexes those of an ace pilot.

If the block came from a textbook, the riposte comes from the gutter -- a headbutt that sends the top of your skull crashing into the point of his jaw. He collapses forward. You shove him away, hooking his leg with yours as he goes. He falls on his butt, hard.

The others are already stumbling and staggering towards the mouth of the alley, like a pack of zombies chasing after a victim. They've had enough.

Their leader stares up at you, his hands pressed against his chin as though they're all that's keeping the mandible bone attached to the rest of his head. His eyes are sharp and shocked.

"You! Didn't know was you! Sorry! Sorry! Have her! Yours! All yours!"

He scrambles to his feet.

"All yours!" he repeats, with almost comic earnestness.

Then he runs after the others.

"You!" This time it's the Prider who fires the second-person pronoun at you. She's leaning against the wall, as though still pinned there by her assailant's grasp. Her eyes are just as wide as before. But the fear is gone. "You bitch!"

It's then that you tilt your gaze downwards. The shape of your nose is remarkably familiar. Not at all like the one you were wearing earlier tonight...

You sigh. Maybe it was the headbutt that messed up your holographic disguise.

"You bitch!" she shrieks. "You bitch!"

The woman's face twitches. It makes her seem like a malfunctioning robot, her computerized brain locked into a subroutine -- unable to do anything other than spit out the same words again and again.

Then something clicks. Her mind moves on, grasping its next thought. Her eyes flash.

She lunges at you, shrieking and clawing.

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

The backhand you give her is light. Closer to a slap than a punch. But it takes her in the side of the face, right on the Centurian tattoo, and knocks her clean off her feet. She doesn't brace herself well for the fall. Her forehead thuds against the ground. A soft groan and a trickle of blood emerge from under a messy wave of blonde hair.

You sigh. Just a stupid kid... You need to make sure she's okay...

That thought hits you, and you crouch down beside her. Then something else hits you.

Sprawled on the ground. Not good. Moved out of instinct. Slipped some of the blow. Still hit hard. With what? Feels like a battering ram. Warm liquid in mouth. Blood. Great...

"Stay down, creep!"

A woman's voice... Familiar? Head throbbing, but still... Recognize it.

You slip into a roll. Another maneuver made natural by years of training. The smooth, instinctive motion gives you clearance, moving you further away from your attacker. And it helps you clear your head. When you rise in a fighting stance, arms ready to block and counterattack, your mind is focused once more.

"You!"

That pronoun, fired at you again. It's been one of those days...

The woman stands above the groaning Prider like a sentinel, her chestnut hair swaying in time with the movements of her lithe combat stance -- the weight shifting from leg to leg, threatening to throw her into a myriad different forms of attack or defense. There's a light blue glow around each of her boots. And you know they're not just a fashion statement. Nor is energy-discharging footwear the most dangerous element of those long legs...

For the third time tonight, you stare into eyes that gleam with recognition. But this time there's no shock. There's only steely resolve. Unflinching determination. Righteous anger.

"From interstellar war crimes to beating up young girls in alleyways?" she asks. "How the malevolent have fallen."

"Save the superhero babble, Mech-Leg. There aren't any cameras around, and I'm not in the mood."

"You're wanted for questioning by the Union of Human Worlds. Come quietly, and I won't give you the beating you deserve for what you did here."

"She started it..."

"Princess Illaria would be ashamed of what you've become."

"Damn it, Leg! I told you -- I'm not in the mood. Knock off the golden age crap! Take that girl to the hospital, or whatever stupid super-secret clubhouse you guys have, and stay out of my way. I've had enough of this town."

You storm off towards the street. But you don't get far.

Movement flashes at the corner of your eye, where she's standing. You don't look that way though. You know what this one can do, how she fights... Instead you look up.

There she is, at the apex of a jump that would be impossible for human muscle alone -- launched there by the power of her cybernetic legs -- slipping into a diving kick that looks as if it could take your head clean off.

The Leg and the Fist

Her boots flash through the air, each deft kick so swift it seems as if a hundred trailing afterimages are burned into your vision -- a luminous chronicle of the entire fight, fading and evolving every second.

You don't try to block them. Her augmented legs are like metal bars. And now that she knows whom she's up against, Mech-Leg isn't holding anything back. She understands what you're capable of. If you put a forearm in front of one of those kicks, you might need a surgeon to stitch it back on again.

So you dodge, slipping away from the burning barrage -- wishing that you hadn't drunk so much.

A high kick arcs round at your face, threatening to scramble your features so badly that you'll never need a disguise again. You duck under it, throw your arms against the back of the leg. Classic jujitsu: use her momentum against her. Put her off balance. But they didn't have to deal with cybernetic enhancements in feudal Japan...

The leg she's standing on doesn't give way at all. It might as well belong to a steel sculpture. Instead the raised one sweeps round in a circle, thwarting your technique, and cleaves down at the top of your skull in an axe kick. You move aside to let her descending heel flash past you, ready to capitalize and slip a punch through her guard. It doesn't work out as planned.

Her heel stops at shoulder-height, making a mockery of momentum, and her left leg chooses this moment to relinquish its seemingly unbreakable hold on the ground. She twists in mid-air, and thrusts her left foot at your chest.

It isn't a powerful blow, relatively speaking. From that position, she can't throw her full force behind it. But that's cold comfort as you slam into the wall. Your ribs have been through a lot. They remind you of this with a burst of pain that seems to dredge up a host of unwelcome memories.

That's it... You didn't really want to hurt her, but...

As the resolution crystalizes in your mind, and you move away from the wall to engage Mech-Leg again, things go from bad to worse.

This time you're ready, at least. You knew he might show up. He doesn't get to blindside you like she did.

When Tech-Fist drops down from the pawn shop roof, his gauntleted fist drives into the ground where you were standing a split-second before. The crunch, and the network of little fractures that radiate across the concrete like messy wounds, give you ample reason to be glad of that.

The science-nerd-turned-vigilante rises, his armored hand apparently none the worse for having been shoved a couple of inches through the ground.

"You!"

"The next person who says that is getting shot in the face. Yes, it's me. @PLAYERNAME. Now, if you'll just explain to your wife here that-"

"I caught him attacking a young girl."

Tech-Fist's eyes narrow.

"For the last time, she..."

You gesture towards where the Prider lay. But there's only a little rivulet of blood there now. She can't have been that badly hurt after all.

"...started it."

"What happened to you, [Player Name]?" He jabs an accusing finger in your direction. The gesture would seem more impressive if you didn't know that he practices it in front of the mirror. "You were a hero! Children looked up to you! And now you're a fugitive from justice, a low-life criminal, a-"

His sentence ends with a spurt of blood. You've heard enough of this crap...

Over Tall Buildings...

Within five seconds, it's clear that you're in trouble.

Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg are used to fighting crime together. They complement one another perfectly, each creating openings for the other, neither interfering with their partner's lines of attack.

Her flashing kicks and his thunderous punches drive you around the alleyway in a ridiculous dance. You can't even muster a good counterattack. The moment one of them leaves themselves open, the other makes sure you can't take advantage.

You could draw your pistol... Go for non-lethal targets...

The thought of shooting at former friends is repulsive. But as you slip another punch that would have fractured your jaw, dart back from one more hook kick, it starts to seem more palatable...

A loud boom bellows through the night, echoing across the city like a peal of angry thunder. The ground shudders underfoot. It's as though the heavens are passing judgment on your thoughts.

The crime-fighting spouses pause in mid-strike -- her right leg raised and chambered, his computerized first drawn back for a punch.

"That was an expl-" you begin.

Tech-Fist raises his palm to silence you. He taps one of the buttons on his eponymous gauntlet. A holographic image pops into existence. It's a cartoon boxing glove, replete with big round eyes and a broad mouth.

"Fisto, what just happened?"

"Fisto?" you ask. "Really?"

"The New Culverton Bank is under attack!" the boxing glove exclaims, in a robotic voice that seems like it should belong to an archaic computer. "It appears to be the work of the Hat!"

"The Hat?" You roll your eyes. "Does anyone in this town have a grown-up name?"

The two vigilantes frown at you.

"The Hat's a dangerous criminal mastermind," Mech-Leg says.

"We don't have time to deal with you, [Player Name]," Tech-Fist says. "Consider yourself lucky."

The two of them run towards the wall of the pawn shop. She launches herself high into the air, touching down on its roof. He follows a moment later, firing some kind of grappling hook from his gauntlet that latches on and draws him up.

They disappear from sight.

Now would be a good time to get back to your ship. But if they're about to go into danger... Tech-Fist fought alongside you in the liberation of Sian. Even after this, you can't desert him.

You sigh, and look around for a fire escape.

By the time you get up there, the crime-fighting couple are some distance away. They're good at this. But you've had a little experience with rooftop parkour yourself...

Malevolent Millinery

Superheroes and villains are onto something with their predilection for rooftop travel.

The buildings in this part of New Culverton might almost have been designed to give vigilantes, criminals, or traceurs a quick route across the city -- sparing them the monotony of walking the streets like a normal person.

Sprinting across roofs, leaping over narrow alleyways, you follow Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg as they work their way across the city they protect. She's no role model. With her augmented legs, she could easily take a route you'd never be able to follow. But the Fist's legs are no more adept at jumping than yours. Anywhere he can go, so can you.

Only a handful of gaps provide anything like a challenge, and give you that feeling of impending doom as your body passes over a stretch of distant concrete made impossibly vast and seemingly unconquerable by panicked perception. You handle them just fine in spite of your qualms, without plunging to an embarrassing death by misadventure and painting the ground with foolish brains. The thrill it sends through your body is exhilarating.

Even if the athletic figures of your former allies, and more recent adversaries, weren't ahead to guide you, the destination would be impossible to miss. A twisting plume of black smoke rises over the city, a monument to the audacious crime. Robbing a bank... These days most people prefer to hack into systems for that kind of thing -- to simply move credits around on holographic displays, if they possess the skill to work such electronic espionage with impunity. Who'd think it was a good idea to blow a vault open and try to escape with inconvenient piles of hard credits instead?

But this is New Culverton, where crime is as much a hobby and a form of art as it is a way of making a dishonest living.

As you near the billowing black pillar, hear the shouts and sirens that provide orchestral accompaniment to the business of bank robbery, the Leg and the Fist disappear -- dropping down into the street below. It's several moments before you reach the edge of that last building. When you do, the scene which greets you is... ridiculous.

Amid the flame and smoke that caper in destructive triumph around the bank's damaged wall, the two vigilantes are doing battle with the miscreants you assume must be responsible -- more of whom are pouring out of the building each moment. There are men and women, humans and assorted aliens, all wearing the same absurd outfit: long magenta coats and top hats. It reminds you more of a circus than a crime scene.

But the violence is serious enough. Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg are laying into the identically-dressed criminals with brutal punches and kicks, as the gang swarms around them like a pack of garish wolves.

You watch the raging combat as you clamber down the building, using its deep window recesses as stepping stones to the street. At least those stupid costumes will let you know which people to beat up.

The Hat

Your uppercut hits the woman so hard that she practically backflips before collapsing in the street -- a big purple puddle in her voluminous coat. And yet her hat remains in place on her unconscious head.

"What're you doing here?" Mech-Leg asks, glaring.

"Behind you," you say.

Her glare remains unbroken as her right leg swings upwards, the limb perfectly straight -- as though she intended to axe kick you again. Instead, the toe of her boot reaches over her shoulder and meets the face of the man who was coming up behind her. His nose explodes. He falls in the street. But once again, his hat stays on with laudable tenacity.

"This isn't your fight," Tech-Fist says.

He's holding one of the purple-hatted men in a headlock, throwing punches into the poor sap's face in time with his words.

"And freeing Sian wasn't yours. But you came anyway."

He frowns, and tosses the groaning criminal aside.

"If you're still here when we're done, I'm taking you in along with them."

With that, he turns round and charges at a hatted Snuuth -- throwing a shovel hook into his abdomen that seems to deflate the whole of the alien's flabby body.

Only half the gang are left standing. The rest are strewn around in various stages of injury and consciousness, writhing in pain or sleeping the sleep of the unjust. Fist and Leg can take it from here. These top-hatted jokers may keep them occupied for a while longer, but they don't seem like much of a threat now.

You should leave, before you have to go another round with the superheroes...

Something glimmers amid the smoke, drawing your eye and derailing your train of thought. The golden glimmer becomes stronger, supplemented by a hint of chrome and throbbing pinkness.

A hover pallet rises up, breaking free from the entangling darkness like a bird seeking freedom. It's laden down with a big pile of metal. So this is what happened to the loot...

The hard credits stop a dozen feet above the ground and float there, as though taunting those brawling in the street below -- a fabulous prize awaiting the victor of the struggle. No... It's not for them. It's for him.

A man emerges from the smoke, detaches himself from its grey-black folds as if he were part of it, his ashen coat and dark hat formed from the fruits of his devastation. Orange orbs glow from a purple mask so tight around his features that it resembles paint rather than fabric. A cane sways in his hand, conducting an invisible orchestra.

You're no expert on supervillainy. But unless the costume shop just ran out of purple coats and hats, you have a sneaking suspicion that this is the gang's leader. The so-called Hat.

The Hat's grin splits the lower half of his mask like a shark's maw. Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg are busy fighting his minions. They haven't even noticed him yet. He can walk away, escape with his haul. But he pauses, as though in contemplation. Then he angles his cane, aiming the knob towards the whirling melee. A bright blue light fills it, crackling like lightning.

You run. One of the purple goons staggers into your path, reeling from a gauntleted punch. Your shoulder hits him. He goes flying. You leap, arms outstretched.

"Hey!" Mech-Leg yells.

But your tackle comes from behind. She doesn't have a chance to lock her cybernetic legs and resist the impact. The two of you crash down in the street, at the same instant that a beam of bright azure energy sears overhead. It passes through the place where she was standing, strikes one of the goons in the chest, and blasts him across the street.

Mech-Leg shrugs you off and jumps to her feet. Or at least one foot -- the other lashes out before even touching down, and takes a gang member in the chest. You get up as well, grabbing a handful of purple lapel on your way and yanking its owner's face into an elbow smash.

"You'll have to forgive me," the Hat says. His voice is high, tittering. "That wasn't part of my ingenious scheme, but I simply couldn't resist. I've always thought that Mech-Leg would be better off without a head. And perhaps stuffed inside a refrigerator... Maybe that would finally pull the rod out of Tech-Fist's butt and spice things up around here!"

"I'd tell you that you're crazy," you reply, "but I don't think that's news to anyone who calls himself 'the Hat' and color-coordinates his henchmen."

"Guilty!" he trills. "Who's the new sidekick, Techy? I really must keep track of the people in your little crime-fighting circle, in case I ever want to arrange a death in the family!"

"She's not my sidekick!"

"I'm not his sidekick!"

The simultaneous statements become a chorus. The Hat giggles. Then he gazes at you with fresh intensity.

"Wait..." he says. His eyes widen, and his voice is different now -- deeper, stripped of its ridiculous flamboyance. "You!"

"Big mistake..." you reply.

You reach for your pistol.

Twin beams zap across the street, azure lances fired from the Hat's cane and his chunky blaster.

Mech-Leg jumps, letting the searing blasts pass below, and performs an elegant aerial flip that lands her right next to him. He turns. She kicks. His arm flies upwards, propelled by her boot. His blaster fires backwards over his shoulder as he stumbles, before it falls from his hand -- sending a blazing beam straight at the hover pallet.

There's a sharp fizz and crackle as electronic systems fry. The platform lurches and tilts, raining hard credits down to clink and clatter in the street below.

"Damn it!" the Hat cries. Again the camp accent is gone from his voice.

He brings his cane around, trying to shoot Mech-Leg at pointblank range. But you shoot first. The cane and a few fingers are scattered on the ground. He stares at the cauterized stumps on his hand as he screams.

Tech-Fist strides over to him. The villain cringes. But when the vigilante's gauntlet comes up, it isn't to punch. Instead it wags an admonishing finger.

"Who are you? You're not the Hat! Your voice is different."

"Screw you, man!"

"Wrong answer."

Some married couples finish each other's sentences. Others finish each other's happiness. As for Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg... Well, they finish each other's moves.

He punches. She drops, spins, and sweeps. Her boot hits the back of the Hat's leg at the exact same moment his computerized fist smashes into the villain's jaw. The criminal goes down fast and hard.

"Screw... Screw... You..."

His head slumps to the side.

Tech-Fist crouches and yanks at the man's mask. There's a soft, almost fleshy noise as it tears away. The eponymous hat stays in place, however.

You walk over, curious to see what he looks like unmasked. This time it's your turn to have your eyes widen in recognition. Beneath the villainous disguise is a dark face. It's the black man from the bar -- the one who left his girlfriend weeping on the table.

"This isn't the Hat," Tech-Fist says, glancing up at you. "The real Hat's white."

You shrug.

"If the hat fits..."

He and Mech-Leg frown. Apparently only superheroes and villains get to make cheesy comments around here...

The vigilante gets to his feet. His expression becomes somber as he stares into your eyes.

"I should take you down. But after this, we owe you."

"So...?"

"So get off my planet."

"Fair enough."

You turn and walk away. |-|

"Crush (1)"=
Crush (1)

Existence rushes by. Each little piece of creation flashes from future to present before disappearing into history, gone from sight and mind unless you deign to gaze upon its diminishing form in the rearview mirror.

A twist of the throttle. The engine roars -- a demon raging in hell, bellowing defiance at the deity that damned him, promising eternal rebellion and unending war on heaven. The din is utterly superfluous, an unnecessary affectation that could be shut down with the touch of a button. Utterly superfluous, but completely glorious.

Your right hand slips away from the handlebar. The bike veers to the left before you correct it. On a busy road, that might be the first step towards an unpleasant crash or the mowing down of a pedestrian. But here, on the sun-kissed plain, you'd have to go out of your way to find something to hit. Save for the birds gliding far overhead, little black shapes against the soft blueness of the sky, you could almost imagine you had the entire planet to yourself.

The hand celebrates its newfound freedom by passing the wealth on. It taps the button on the right side of your helmet before returning to its duties and spurring the engine to another hellish cacophony. A series of gentle mechanical clicks and clacks fills the space around your head as the helmet gives way. It pulls back from your face first, like a receding tide, before collapsing away from the sides of your head in turn. Tessellating squares of hard armor and softer shock absorbent material withdraw in a waves of geometric precision, retreating and folding in on themselves until they form a collar around your neck. An almost imperceptible bleep signals its new state of readiness. In the event of a crash, it'll reassert itself.

Gusts of wind kiss and caress your exposed face, run their fingers through your hair like ardent lovers celebrating your speed and mastery.

"Come on, captain! You ride like an old woman!"

The voice spirals its way through your memories, its joy undiluted by the years.

You twist the throttle. The bike zooms forward like the magnificent beast it is, turning the environment into a beautiful blur. Talia's remembered laugh expresses its approval.

Last time you were here, you were riding a military issue cycle. A good enough bike, though an obsolete hunk of junk compared with the exquisite vehicle that thrums with power beneath you now.

It was Talia's idea. Something to celebrate your elevation to captain of Princess Illaria's bodyguard -- one of the most prestigious positions in the Sian military. With that promotion came a period of leave. Ostensibly an opportunity for the honored warrior to meditate and contemplate the nature of her new duties. In reality it was seen as a chance to enjoy a little fun before assuming the role.

The gunslinger first suggested an interstellar pub crawl, a drinking binge that would likely have painted several systems with your combined vomit. You declined, however. If word (or worse yet, holo-vids) got out that a person elevated to so lofty and respected a station was reveling like an unruly teenager... The repercussions would have been undesirable, to say the least. Talia rolled her eyes when you told her that. Then she suggested a bike ride.

"Race you!" she yells.

"Where to?"

"Until something gets in the way!"

You're racing the same path now, albeit without your friend to compete against and mock you after her inevitable victory.

It started as an aimless flight, heading from Varlec out into the depths of space. But when you glanced at the display and saw Eclogue's system on the map, you just couldn't resist its allure.

Sunlight warms your shoulders, cooled by the whirling breeze into something pleasant and soothing, as though the planet is celebrating your decision or its own irresistibility.

It's a pleasant place. A lonely little world that boasts only a single colonized landmass, and that sparsely so. A planet for rustic peace, pastoral calm -- dotted with hobby farms and archaic townships in the style of Earth's distant past. The thought that Talia of all people introduced it to you is amusing beyond measure.

But it's great riding country...

The engine growls in approval, giving vulgar voice to its power. The bike is great too... Your friends filled the Silver Shadow's cargo hold with all manner of things. When you went to check on its store of supplies for the first time, you found great stacks of provisions -- sufficient to feed you for months on end. And that wasn't all. There were enough small arms and crates of protective clothing to equip a small army. Perhaps they didn't know what you'd need, so they just packed locker after locker with your vast collection of weapons and armor.

And there it was, standing proud in the midst of all that useful debris -- gleaming with glorious gold and majestic purple, its sumptuous body shaped in the image of a creature from Chinese mythology. The Dragon Cycle. A vehicle you obtained under the strangest of circumstances, both a challenge and a gift from a well-meaning madman. Its draconic eyes seemed to glitter as they met your own.

You tweak the throttle again. The dragon rumbles its satisfaction, roars its acquiescence.

There's a tree on the horizon, a lone guardian watching over the surrounding plain. As it grows larger, drawn towards you by inexorable velocity, you see that one of its long, twisting branches is dead. It's slowly rotting like a gangrenous limb.

Your right hand relinquishes the handlebar again. This time there's no swerve -- your left is ready to compensate.

The pistol leaves its holster and takes aim. This is so reckless, so stupid, so... Talia.

Your first shot goes wide. In your head the gunslinger laughs.

"Nice try, captain. Leave the fancy shooting to me."

But the second shuts her up. It clips the branch, searing its way through the dead wood. You're going so fast that you're beyond the tree before it falls to the ground. You have to watch your triumph in the rearview mirror.

"Beginner's luck..."

The Doom That Came To Eclogue

The planet's twin moons creep into the still-blue sky, mischievous children sneaking out after bedtime to be part of the diurnal bliss or else to simply watch you ride. The silvery orbs -- one large and looming on the horizon, the other a dainty little sphere above her larger sister's shoulder -- complete the image, turning the landscape into a wondrous painting.

Perhaps it's the moons' appearance reminding you of the passage of time, or else their tidal effect on your water-based biology. But whatever the cause, you feel a sudden pang of hunger. Your stomach seems displeased at being neglected for so long, and is making its feelings known in the disagreeable way of disobedient innards.

You didn't leave the Silver Shadow empty-handed. Even amid such bucolic beauty, it never hurts to have a few weapons to hand. It's not likely that any of the UHW's agents could have tracked you here. Not when you flew into the atmosphere aboard a stealth ship. But there's no sense in tempting fate. If someone does confront you, you'd rather they did it whilst looking down a potentially death-spitting barrel.

However, you didn't bring any provisions. And a woman can't live off munitions alone.

When you rode here with Talia, the two of you bought your meals along the way. There were farmhouses and small settlements dotted about the landscape which were keen enough to offer a little rural hospitality to a couple of off-world visitors with credits to spend. Wholesome rustic fare is tempting (your stomach bubbles in agreement) -- and it'd be much quicker to reach a town than return to your ship.

So you turn the bike, placing the moons straight ahead as though you yearned to ride all the way over the edge of the world and onto the larger one's argentine surface.

The ground becomes harder, the grass patchier. Little clouds of dust caper in the air on either side of the Dragon Cycle's wheels. This terrain is familiar. The nearest town is one you've been to before. A quaint little place, built in emulation of a settlement from America's Old West. You remember walking into the saloon and being swamped by the wave of history -- the archaic photographs of long-dead lawmen and criminals on the wood-paneled walls, the pseudo-antique furniture and dialects. If you hadn't known better, you'd have thought the place a tourist trap. But it was how its inhabitants chose to live, with a historical veneer overlaid upon the comforts and conveniences of modern technology.

To each their own. You've seen far stranger things in this universe.

A smile crosses your lips when you recall Talia at the makeshift firing range behind the saloon, a revolver in each hand -- exact reproductions of historical armaments, the names and importance of which now escape you. The barman said he was the best shot in town. But after he saw Talia's marksmanship, the look on his face made you think he was about to drop to one knee and propose.

The smile remains there for some minutes, sustained by pleasant remembrances and anticipation. Then the town comes in sight, rising over the horizon to slap the happiness off your face.

A button on the left handlebar makes the bike fall almost silent, its powerful engine shunning affected anachronism and demonstrating its true capabilities. Another one opens the communications system. But all channels are as noiseless as your vehicle. Something's blocking the signal. Or else the local coms satellite has been disabled...

You twist the throttle. The Dragon Cycle zips across the dusty plain, bringing the grim sight closer and closer, throwing atrocity into sharper and clearer focus.

Buildings have been ravaged, ripped open -- as though ruthless explosions gutted them from within. Ruined structures stare at you for several moments, like the corpses of prisoners mutilated and then strung up as a warning to others. It's only when you get nearer still, slowing the bike and drawing your weapon, that the true extent of the atrocity is unveiled.

The town square is a scene of slaughter. Pools of blood glisten in the sunlight, crimson lakes and rivers that assail your nose with their coppery tang. And the bodies... They've been smashed. Strewn about the square and crushed into great depressions in the ground. It's as though meteors rained down from above in apocalyptic judgment, annihilating the population.

Your gaze roams the sky, searching for a ship or aircraft. But only circling birds mar the blueness.

You dismount, letting the bike's stand hit the dry ground with a soft thud. Weapon raised, you move across the square -- searching for survivors to aid or enemies to punish.

Path of Destruction

Inside the buildings there's only wreckage, the detritus of old-fashioned facades and the technology beneath -- an eclectic scattering of electronics and wood, historical clothing and the gadgets of modern leisure. Not a single survivor. Or a single body. The townspeople were all killed outdoors, slain in the streets and the square by whatever weight descended to crush them to death. It's as if they were herded outside for execution.

But of the murderers, the vicious forces responsible for the atrocity, there's no hint -- not a single clue as to their identity.

They haven't left without a trace, however. On the far side of town you find more impressions in the ground, shallower than the impacts which annihilated the victims. These lead off in two directions across the neighboring countryside -- stretching to the horizon. But only one contains crimson, painted with blood from the massacre. Whoever did this went that way, their vehicle marking the route with casual nonchalance.

Perhaps heading for another settlement...

You sprint back to the Dragon Cycle. In moments you're zooming across the plain once more, following the tracks, your mind swimming with images of broken bodies and flowing blood.

It's a walker. Nothing else leaves prints like these. And from their spacing, it's a large one. But who the hell would bring a walker to Eclogue? It's prime terrain for wheeled or tracked vehicles, or for aircraft. Generations of cartoons, toys, and videogames may depict giant mechs in gleeful abundance, but no serious armed forces employ such walkers when another form of vehicle will serve better. This isn't a military assault...

Theories flash through your brain as the ground zips by, still indented with the machine's passage.

You've never heard of space pirates possessing anything like this. And that level of wanton carnage, of casual destruction with valuables left among the debris instead of being snatched up... It isn't their style.

A small building comes over the horizon. It's a farmhouse. Or at least it was... It's been torn apart, just like those in the town. You slow down, scouring your surroundings for any sign of survivors. Again there's only death.

You're no scout, but the signs are so clear that even a simpleton could read them. The walker's footprints leave its former path. They approach the farmhouse. And then...

Two crushed bodies, a man's and a woman's, lie framed by blood and compacted soil.

After that, the tracks continue onward.

A turn of the throttle. Rapid acceleration. You have to reach the next town before the walker does, warn them, rally whatever defense forces they have...

The Colossa

A few hundred yards from the farmhouse there's another corpse, this one splattered and smeared across harder ground. Once more the footprints tell the tale. The attackers, invaders... Whatever they are... They didn't even get out of their vehicle. Instead they ran him down and stomped on him. Then they continued on their way.

The terrain is hillier now, the plain giving way to big mounds and ridges of rock and grass, surmounted by trees. The tracks disappear around them. You start turning the Dragon Cycle to follow.

Then you stop. Was that...

A voice. A woman's voice. Wordless... Moaning in pain. It's soft but loud, as though projected. Yes, there's a faint hint of electronic 'fuzz'.

An image smashes its way into your mind. A lone survivor, an injured woman, crawling over to a broadcast terminal to cry for help -- but managing only a frustrated, agonized moan.

The Dragon Cycle zips round the corner.

Then it stops for a second time. The breath catches in your throat.

The footprints end. They go no further, for the walker went no further. There it is, right before you -- amidst the ruins of a large building. It's sitting.

It isn't a transport. Or a weapons platform. Not a bulky, boxy walker or even a rigid, blocky mech like those you've encountered in the past. It's shaped like a woman -- a titanic, metal, curvaceous female figure lounging among the wreckage as though it were a living being, its head turned skyward. Its movements are lithe, subtle. The shifting of its limbs is fluid, the smooth motions of the fingers that stroke the debris so natural they're somehow chilling.

A giant robot! No mech moves like that! It has to be...

The moan is repeated. It comes from the thing's head. Its upturned jaw even moves, like that of a flesh and blood woman giving voice to the utterance. Its body twitches, shudders, shifts. It's not groaning in pain. It's moaning in ecstasy.

One of its feet presses against the ground, twisting and turning -- grinding -- against the earth. There's one final moan, accompanied by a hard, sharp twist of the foot. Then it rises and moves aside, angling backwards so you can see its sole. There are glowing yellow lights across it, large luminous discs with a network of lines running between them. And there's crimson...

On the ground, where the robot's foot was a moment ago, is a smear of red. A few chunks of unidentifiable gore are all that remain of the person the thing just crushed to a bloody pulp.

Then the robot's head tilts downwards, revealing a face as perfectly shaped as the rest of its body -- as though the entire machine were one great sculpture designed to capture feminine beauty and render it in the unliving coldness of steel.

Bright red eyes fasten on you.

Metal lips widen. The robot giggles.

"I didn't know I had company!"

Time freezes. You stare at the colossal robot, your mind awhirl. It stares at you in turn, an engine of destruction that wears a female smile.

The gear strapped to your bike... Could one of the heavy weapons damage that thing? Are its eyes weak spots, offering a path to sensitive systems? Would you even have time to try? These thoughts and a myriad others batter their way through your brain, a tempest of stratagems for an insane situation.

The robot giggles again.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

"Who... Who built you?" The question tumbles from your lips. Yes... Get it talking. More time to think, to plan... "You're not a TALOS design."

"Built me?" Its laughter is musical, as lovely as it is terrifying. "Do you think my Crush Colossa's a robot?"

"But..."

"Have you ever seen a robot like this before? What would I be -- a hundred foot tall pleasure bot?" She laughs again. "But I don't suppose you've ever seen a mech like this either..."

The toes of the raised foot wiggle in the air. Their movements are perfect. What the hell kind of mech has lifelike toe motions engineered into it?

"A custom design," she replies, as though reading your thoughts. "My own specifications. Very expensive. Worth every single credit."

"Why?" you ask. The word is foolish, inadequate... One syllable to encompass all this insanity, the slaughter...

"I wanted to squash people, silly!" She laughs once more -- a charming, pretty, seductive laugh. It's the most appalling thing you've ever heard. "I wanted to feel them squish under my feet."

She gives a soft moan of remembered pleasure. The balls of her feet press against the ground.

"You can't imagine what it's like... To move through a town like a girl in a candy store, to rip a building open with your hands, to see the people running out into the street... And then step on them."

She moans the word 'step', as though it were a lover's name. Then she giggles again.

"But sometimes I like something a little different... I talk to a person. Tease them. Toy with them. Before I crush them."

Giant metal feet push against the ground. The Crush Colossa rises, its feminine form towering above you like a wicked goddess.

Riding for Your Life

The Dragon Cycle speeds across the ground, silent and determined, as though it knows it's racing for survival and can't spare the breath to cry out. It zips past the hills, out into the plain beyond.

Footsteps thunder like earthquakes, crashing inside your head.

There are huge grey-brown clouds in the rearview mirror. Everything behind you is one great explosion of dust, broken only by the gargantuan, pounding metal feet.

She's fast... So fast...

The throttle is twisted forward, held in that position in your frantic grip. The bike accelerates, picking up speed with each passing second. But the crashing footsteps are still close, so near and so loud that you expect one of the mech's feet to fall upon you at any moment, smashing your bones, bursting your organs -- leaving you smeared across her sole, crushed like an insect.

"Keep going!" she laughs. Her projected tones are soft and playful, even as her feet crash and thunder. "It's the first time anyone's ever given me a good chase!"

Your eyes leave the rearview mirror, catching something at the periphery of your vision. A huge rock face -- right ahead of you. A range of mountains, breaking the plain.

"You're running out of road, sweetie!"

She thinks she has you. If you turned, veered away from the mountains, she might catch you, stomp you, squish you. But you're not going to do that. She hasn't seen what you've seen...

"No!" she shouts.

Now she has...

The motorcycle flashes across the ground, so fast now that it barely seems to touch the world beneath. It's like you're in your ship, flying through space. The cave mouth is ahead. So close... A gaping black hole offering safety and sanctuary.

Her tread becomes louder -- each crashing, earthshaking step further apart as she runs.

Grasp of the Colossa

Her angry scream rings in your ears.

But your bike careens into the cave. There isn't time to slow down. You go in fast, your wheels bumping against the rocks.

The light from the entrance goes dim. In the rearview mirror... A giant metal hand, thrusting its way through the cave behind you. Titanic metal fingers open, ready to grab and crush -- or to seize and capture, to pull you out so that she can step on you like all the others, moan with pleasure as she squishes you underfoot.

Bachanghenfil

Something jars under the bike. It hits something... Turns, twists, slides like an injured animal in its death throes. You fall, thrown as though from a bucking horse. The bike screeches on, sliding deeper into the cave amid a shower of sparks.

The world is slow. Each agonizing detail is crystal-clear to your fighter pilot's brain as it unfolds. The Crush Colossa's grasping hand rushes towards you. Tessellating plates move around your body, the biker gear's protective systems triggered by your unceremonious dismount.

You hit the ground hard. But the armor is in place. It absorbs the shock as you roll and tumble, bump and bang against the rock. When you come to a stop, sprawled on your chest, you're alive and unbroken.

"Where are you?" the woman howls.

Metal fingers claw at stone, thudding and scraping. But you're out of reach.

You gasp as you scramble to your hands and knees, exhaling relief like a thick mist.

The colossal hand slaps against the ground. A tremor undulates across the cave, tickling your body as it filters through the shock absorbent layer. Then the great metal limb withdraws, slithering back out of the cave mouth by degrees like an immense serpent.

The hand vanishes. Sunlight pools on the ground by the entrance. Then darkness returns, as an expanse of metal and a glowing red eye fill the opening.

"Maybe I'll come back for you later," she hisses. "After I've squashed everyone else on this little ball of rock."

The Colossa's face disappears.

There's a crash. It booms its way through the cave, making the entire world shudder around you. Then another. And another. The pounding blows of giant metal fists, reverberating from wall to wall in a hellish cacophony. Rock trembles. Then it gives way. Tons and tons of it, collapsing beneath the assault, smashing down in a massive heap of tumbling stone and surging dust.

The mouth of the cave is blocked, choked by the Colossa's vindictive assault.

There's one final laugh, cold and cruel. Then the faint thud of her departing footsteps.

Entombed in darkness... For one long, seemingly endless moment, it's like a starless void -- black and silent. Then something growls behind you, a low bestial sound that shivers along your bones. It's followed by a shuffling, lumbering noise.

You whirl round and press a button on the left side of your helmet. A broad beam of light pierces the blackness. It illuminates the face of a hulking monster, a great yellow-brown mass of thick muscle and armored hide, with big curved claws at the ends of its arms.

The creature blinks in the sudden brightness, stunned by the rush of light. Then it roars, revealing a maw filled with vicious teeth.

You duck, throwing yourself into a roll and letting the monster's huge claws flail above your head.

A bellowing roar echoes across the cave as you rise into a crouch beside the Dragon Cycle. It's followed by a series of fleshy pops.

Thick spikes push their way up from the creature's shoulders and the outsides of its arms -- forming a fresh layer of brutal weaponry that threatens to rend flesh and break bone. It's as though the thing were covered in primordial switchblades... Two more pop out from its head, creating a pair of demonic horns. The beast roars again. But the sound is different this time, bearing an unmistakable note of challenge -- almost arrogance.

Two can play at that game... You reach towards the motorcycle and unhook something from its side. Then you stand, brandishing it before you in a combat stance. You don't know if the creature's ever seen a sword before. Either way, it doesn't seem impressed. Until you press a button, and green energy flashes across its blade.

The monster growls. It charges, arms raised high -- claws ready to descend with tearing, bludgeoning might. You lunge and thrust.

Your sword passes through its face, plunging into the middle of its grotesque features in a large but precise incision. Emerald energy parts flesh and bone and brain, until it burns its way through the back of the thing's skull.

For a moment it stands there, arms still aloft as though it's being held at gunpoint. Then it topples backwards, slipping off your sword with a soft hiss of seared flesh, and thuds against the rock. |-|

"Crush (2)"=
Crush (2)

You're trapped in a cave, buried alive. Yet your own plight isn't what fills your mind and consumes your thoughts. She'll keep going... Trampling Eclogue beneath her feet, squashing its inhabitants like insects. A mass murdering deviant, moaning in rapture as she crushes and kills.

Have to escape... Warn them...

Cycle Spelunking

The Dragon Cycle lies on its side in mournful majesty, illuminated by a pool of torchlight from your helmet.

A quick onceover shows that it's undamaged. When you push the ignition button and turn the throttle, it hums to life. Its eyes gleam, proud and strong like the creature they were built to adorn. Its headlamp floods the cave with its brilliance. This piece of engineering was built to last.

The rest of your weapons are intact as well... Could you cut or blast your way out?

You cast a dubious glance at the masses of rock blocking the entrance. Perhaps... But it would take far too long. Then you look in the opposite direction, deeper into the cave. As powerful as the bike's lamp is, the far reaches of the tunnel are still lost in blackness.

It could lead nowhere. But what choice do you have?

So you head down the passage, wheeling the cycle along over the uneven ground, allowing its lamp to scatter the shadows -- eyes and ears wary in case any more of those creatures are nearby.

Hope surges in your breast when the tunnel gives way to a large cavern. Several passages branch off from it. The first is a narrow, irregular opening in the stone wall. Perhaps dug by the same monstrous claws that tried to slaughter you. But the others... They're much bigger, broad and high. And from the look of the rock it's clear that they were made by industrial equipment.

Mining tunnels.

The headlamp flashes down one of them, disclosing the trappings of human development -- signs admonishing workers to wear proper safety gear, disused terminals mounted upon the tunnel wall. And from the markings on the ground, their varying depths chronicling the passage of transport containers both loaded and unloaded, the way out is clear enough.

You mount the Dragon Cycle and ride down the large passage, scanning the ground for any nasty surprises that might send you tumbling. But the path is clear, long ago smoothed by man's industry and not yet reclaimed by nature. If your luck holds, there'll be a way out at the end...

Daikaiju

A simple barrier blocks the mouth of the tunnel, an expanse of plastic mounted to cap the rock passage -- no doubt erected when mining terminated and the place was abandoned. Perhaps it was intended to keep children from straying inside. It certainly wasn't built to resist your weapons...

Sunlight washes over you when you ride through your impromptu exit, bright and glorious and warm. You find yourself on the same side of the mountains as before. It doesn't take long to locate the Crush Colossa's footprints.

Within minutes you're whooshing across the countryside, following the intimidating indentations. She wasn't in a hurry. From their spacing, she might even have been sauntering -- just a woman out enjoying a summer stroll beneath the daylight moons, with joyful thoughts in her mind instead of perverted murder.

You push the Dragon Cycle for all it's worth. Maybe you can catch her before she reaches the next town, even get ahead of her and...

But that hope soon flutters away in the rearview mirror along with the hurtling landscape. The town comes into view. It's a larger settlement than the last, its architecture modern and technology unhidden by any archaic facade. And there she is, towering above it -- clawing at the buildings with giant metal hands.

Weapons fire rains on her body from below, bursting and flashing against the curvaceous metal on all sides. But if the onslaught has any effect, there's no sign. Even from this distance you hear her laugh, projected far and wide from the mech's speakers, as she raises a gargantuan foot high above the ground. Then she stomps down.

This is insane... And yet you keep riding, zooming towards the town and the murderous titaness.

Shadow of the Colossa

You hit the cruise control button, locking the handlebars into position. Now isn't the time to take risks.

Then you run your hands over your gear, the plan forming itself in your brain even as you zip towards the battle at breakneck speed. You grab item after item, unlatching them from the bike and pulling them free whilst desperately trying to keep your balance. The smaller ones you shove into the recesses of your outfit. The larger one you sling across your back.

Screaming men, women, and children run towards you when the Dragon Cycle winds its way past one of the outlying buildings. Can't ride any further, not without mowing people down...

So you dismount and start sprinting, pushing past the town's denizens as they flee in the opposite direction. One of the men leaps onto the vacated motorbike. He cries out in frustration, slams his fist against a handlebar, gets off again, and continues running. DNA lock... No one's going to be riding away on it.

If you can't stop the Colossa, these people are all going to die. No matter how fast they run, she'll catch them and step on them -- hunting them across the landscape for sport and sensuality.

Melodious laughter fills the air above, washing down on you between the tall buildings. You round a corner, and once more gaze upon the metal lips that move as though shaping it.

The Crush Colossa towers above the plaza, a giant sculpture of death and destruction. Ruined buildings surround her legs. Smashed corpses and great expanses of blood are smeared across the ground. The square is one big charnel house.

Men and women scurry amid the carnage, insects at the murderous feet of a goddess, crying out in fear or rage as they fire their weapons at the woman who's come to crush their lives and loved ones. Others are on the roofs or at the windows of ravaged structures, blasting away from those vantage points.

These people are well armed... Local militia, perhaps. There's damage on the Colossa, scars and burns across her burnished female form. But if it affects her, she gives no hint. She's still laughing.

Once more she raises her foot -- slowly, deliberately, as though relishing the action. A man screams as its shadow falls upon him. The rifle drops from his hands, clatters in the street. He doesn't turn, doesn't run. He's frozen, petrified by his fear.

You sprint towards him, your ears and mind filled with the Colossa's laugh.

Crush Colossa

The man keeps screaming even as you tackle him and the two of you tumble on the ground, his screeching wail long and unbroken.

Her metal foot thunders down behind you, crashing against the surface of the plaza, echoed by her cry of rage. Then she giggles.

You get to your feet, yanking the man up after you, and give him a shove. He takes the hint and keeps going -- still screaming.

"Is that my little bike-rider?" she asks. "It's so hard to tell when you're all so tiny!"

She bends down, bringing her face and its glowing red eyes towards you. Weapons fire continues to rake her body, dozens of zaps and blasts. But she ignores them as though they were gnats.

"It is you!" Her voice is almost a squeal, an expression of unmitigated joy. "You got out! Now I get to squish you too!"

She lifts her foot. Bloodstained metal and bright yellow lights block out the sun, filling your vision with their utter finality.

You yank the Blue Dragon Crossbow from your back. Its limbs deploy with a click.

Her foot comes down -- not with a fast, hard stomp but in a slow, luxurious descent. She wants to enjoy squishing you...

You pull the trigger. A shaft flies, right into one of the yellow discs on her sole. She gives a slight hiss. That's all the confirmation you require.

When the explosive-laden bolt detonates, the woman screams in anguish.

You're already sprinting when her foot smashes down, well away from the impact. The Colossa totters, arms flailing as though she were dizzy. There's an immense crash, a rumbling earthquake. She's on one knee, that great metal joint planted deep in the ground.

"I wanted to feel them squish under my feet."

Sensors. Connected to her nerves. You'd suspected as much, had risked your life on the hypothesis.

The townspeople cheer, dozens of voices expressing victory and relieved hysteria in equal measure. But it's not over yet. You don't know how long the shock will keep her out of commission. And you don't intend to find out...

You draw a pistol-shaped item, one of the tools you took from the bike, and take aim. When it fires, a grappling hook flies at the end of a thin, strong cord. It finds purchase in the Colossa's metal, locks its prongs in place with unshakable tenacity.

A touch of a button and you're flying towards the giant metal face, yanked aloft as the grappling line retracts. The speed and force of the ascent might make someone else lose control of their bodily functions, perhaps even black out or at least surrender their grip and fall to their death. But you're a fighter pilot. You've endured much worse than this.

Your boots brace against the side of her head, preventing you from hitting the sleek metal in a clumsy splat. You're right next to the Colossa's ear. Close enough to see that you were right again.

A slender, cylindrical object appears in your hand, drawn from a secure pocket. Its end glows bright blue as you put it to work. An Ironic Screwdriver. They say these gadgets can unlock just about anything...

They're right.

The Colossa's ear opens up, metal panels sliding aside to reveal a cockpit. You thrust yourself inside.

And there she is. The woman herself, slumped in its control chair with her eyes closed, attached to sundry terminals by cables strapped all over her body. She's beautiful... Her figure, her curves, match those of the Colossa. It must have been modeled on her own body. She's barefoot, and in her feet -- each fastened to a dozen tiny connectors -- you see exact representations of those which crushed so many innocent people to death beneath their tread.

You snatch handfuls of cable and tear them away, severing her interface with the colossal machine.

Her eyes flicker open. She gives a soft groan. Then she blinks, focuses on you, and screams.

Your punch takes her in the jaw, shutting her up.

How did she get into this thing? Ah, yes... A small hover platform. It would have carried her up to the head when she wanted to board the Colossa. You pull her from the chair and sling her over your shoulder, before stepping onto the platform and letting it ferry you both out of the mech. It descends towards the plaza with gentle precision.

Dozens and dozens of locals gather round when you touch down, forming a deep semicircle. Some of them have their weapons raised, casting nervous glances from you to the Colossa and back again. But they lower them at the behest of the others.

You dump the woman on the ground like sack of refuse. A kick to her stomach makes her splutter back to consciousness.

"She's all yours," you say.

You step back.

"No!" she cries, as they press forward, surrounding her, hiding her from your sight. "No!"

First the shouting starts. Then the stomping. Boots and shoes rise and fall in haphazard, inharmonious chorus, thudding against the murderess' soft, helpless body. They keep stomping long after she falls silent. |-|

"The Butler Did It"=
The Butler Did It

"The butler did it!"

You whirl round, slashing your arm through the air like the blade of a scythe and punctuating the sentence by transfixing the named individual with a pointing finger. You're somewhat taken aback when an ominous, dramatic musical score sounds at that exact instant -- underscoring your words with its 'dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn'. You sweep the room with your gaze, but there's no sign of its origin.

"You triggered the ship's ambiance systems," the robotic manservant explains. "It believed you were performing a denunciation."

"Oh..."

Your pointing finger remains frozen in place for several seconds, like an unsheathed weapon denied the tasting of blood and now left hovering in awkward indecision. The butler glances at it for a long moment. Then he meets your gaze, somehow managing to convey the full measure of his disapproval without marring his aspect of outward politeness.

You withdraw the offending digit.

"As I was saying... The butler did it." This time you refrain from flourishing gestures. "He's the one who invited me aboard."

A few of the lounge's dubiously dressed occupants frown. Others roll their eyes. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...

"This is the Mysterious Murder, requesting aid from any nearby spacecraft. We've had an... unfortunate incident... and are in need of assistance. The matter would most properly be addressed by someone with a previous background in law enforcement."

That was the message that came over the Silver Shadow's communications system, floating on a suave and sophisticated accent that didn't quite manage to conceal the speaker's perturbation. It hadn't been directed at you in particular. You were invisible to the other vessel, as to anyone else who might have been nearby. Rather it was an eloquent and enigmatic cry for help, delivered as though to the galaxy at large.

It succeeded in capturing your attention, at any rate. You accepted the visual feed which accompanied the audio. A robot appeared on the screen, clad in an immaculate butler's outfit of the kind you'd seen on flesh and blood servants at Novocastrian functions.

"I'm sorry," you said, opening the channel at your end, "did I hear that right? Mysterious Murder?"

"Your hearing was indeed accurate, madam."

"That's the name of your ship?"

"Quite so. I must commend madam on grasping the obvious with such masterful aplomb." He gave a faint sigh before he continued, bespeaking the air of one who'd been forced to explain that curious matter of onomastics innumerable times in the past. "This vessel is what one might refer to as a... novelty ship. A place of entertainment. It hosts murder mystery events, in which guests are invited to play the roles of detectives and solve a simulated homicide."

"I see... So, what's the problem?"

"I fear that it's a rather delicate matter. May I ask to whom I'm speaking? The communication console appears unable to identify your spacecraft."

"That's a rather delicate matter as well."

"Ah..."

A few moments elapsed in silence, pregnant with the contemplations of two individuals pondering their secrets and the navigation of warring discretions.

"If you want someone in law enforcement, try one of the emergency channels," you said. "You'll have better luck that way."

"Regrettably, that course of action is unfeasible. I'm not at liberty to inform the duly constituted authorities. However, there's nothing to prevent me from seeking aid from a private individual who may happen to have a background in such a profession."

Things were becoming more curious by the minute. At that point, you just had to get involved.

"Your accent... Novocastrian, I believe?"

"Quite correct, madam. The Mysterious Murder is registered as a Novocastrian vessel, though of course my own possession of the accent is the result of technology rather than nurture."

"One moment..."

You closed the channel, and spent some minutes sending another transmission. It proved fruitful. A short time after that, you heard from the Mysterious Murder and its mechanical majordomo again.

"We've just received a communication from Lady Hollister, a figure for whom my late master had the utmost respect. Whilst the good lady was reticent about identifying you, madam, she assured me that you're an individual of both considerable talent and boundless irreproachability. In fact, she went on to apply numerous unflattering epithets to any hypothetical parties who might say anything to the contrary."

That made you smile. Lady Hollister had always been a loyal friend. According to unconfirmed reports from Novocastria -- political rumors regurgitated on broadcasts to fill tiny slivers of the perpetual news cycle -- she even went so far as to knock Edmund Rochester spinning when he traduced you in the parliamentary bar.

"Perhaps you would care to come aboard the Mysterious Murder, madam?"

A short while later, you stood in a lobby that might have been cut wholesale from a Novocastrian stately home. It was rendered in sumptuous decadence, emulating and imitating an architectural style from Earth which the butler told you was called 'Victorian'.

"Lord Ponsonby was a devotee of detective fiction from what he considered to be the heyday of the art," he explained. "A period of time encompassing portions of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. When he attained considerable success in his business dealings, he chose to use his newfound wealth to have the Mysterious Murder commissioned. The holo-tabloids said the most scandalous and derisory things when they learned of his desire, causing my late master to inflict bodily injury on several ill-bred journalists.

"For over thirty years, this ship was host to gatherings of the kind I described to you. Guests would arrive in the guise of their favorite sleuths from the portion of literary history favored by Lord Ponsonby, and proceed to match their wits against the various ingenious crimes he had us enact. Alas, his lordship passed away a few months ago. This is the first such event to take place without his august presence."

"If he's dead, who arranged all this?" you asked.

"I did, madam. His lordship was most explicit in his last will and testament. He instructed that murder mysteries continue to be held aboard this vessel, conducted according to the very rules he'd established, and that the costs be paid from the wealth of his estate."

You nodded. It seemed simple enough. Eccentric, perhaps -- but simple.

"So what went wrong?"

"There's been a murder, madam."

"Isn't that supposed to happen?"

"A real murder, madam. A genuine act of homicidal violence. One of the guests was found in his stateroom, slain. The gentleman had been stabbed through the heart."

"Has the killer been identified?"

"No, madam. But the list of suspects isn't extensive. All but four of the guests were in the main lounge when the crime appears to have taken place, enjoying a pleasant soiree. And all the servants have likewise been accounted for. Alibies are to be found in abundance."

"Four including the victim?"

"That's correct, madam."

"Could it have been suicide?"

"The weapon had been removed from the body. Though I confess to being no detective myself, I believe this happenstance indicates murder."

"So why not just call the authorities, and ask them to investigate?"

"While he lived, Lord Ponsonby was firm in his desire to avoid further embarrassment in the media. He therefore had all his guests sign legally binding documents in which they agreed that... to express it in colloquial terms... what happens on the Mysterious Murder stays on the Mysterious Murder. Even when two distinguished members of parliament came to blows in a stateroom following a drunken romantic tryst, the matter was never spoken of beyond this vessel."

"But Lord Ponsonby's dead..."

"Nevertheless, the terms of his will are abundantly clear. The rule must still be adhered to, and his posthumous reputation safeguarded. That was the source of my conundrum, which your presence here should solve. Given Lady Hollister's high opinion of your abilities, perhaps you'll be able to interview the three suspects and determine which of them carried out the crime."

"Wait... What about the other guests? If they're all amateur detectives, couldn't they solve the murder?"

"I did consider that possibility, madam, but it seemed... undesirable. The thought of a dozen budding sleuths fighting over clues, getting in one another's way, and clashing their -- if I may be so bold as to say -- immense egos together... Over the past decades I've seen what tends to result from such a state of affairs. I don't believe it would be most conducive to dealing with the problem at hand."

"I see. I don't suppose the ship's cameras..."

The butler gave a small cough.

"No cameras?"

"None, sir. Lord Ponsonby felt that such modern methods of crime-solving would be entirely out of place on a vessel such as the Mysterious Murder."

"And I suppose DNA testing of the crime scene..."

Another cough.

"Lord Ponsonby-"

"I think I get the picture," you replied.

"His lordship was most ardent that crimes be solved using methods of detection appropriate for the golden age of sleuthing of which he was so fond."

You sighed.

"Perhaps if I waterboarded the three suspects..."

The butler's gasp of horror reminded you that some of the methods you've employed in the service of the Sian Empire aren't necessarily suitable for every situation.

"Fine! I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, sir! I assure you that I'm most grateful for your assistance."

"First, I need to see the crime scene."

"Actually, it would be advisable to see the other guests first. They're waiting for us in the lounge. When I announced that I was bringing in an 'outsider', some of them became rather... undignified in their remonstrance. I hope that by speaking with them you might put their minds at rest and prevent any unpleasantness which could interfere with the smooth running of your investigation."

"If you insist. Lead the way."

The butler paused for a long moment. His face was the product of splendid engineering. It displayed his sense of awkwardness with as much eloquence as any organic visage could have managed.

"Madam, I fear there's something you should know before meeting our guests. You may find them rather... Bizarre."

"Bizarre? Men and women who spend their leisure time dressing up as old-fashioned detectives so they can solve made-up crimes? Surely not..."

The butler's lips twitched in the faintest of smiles, as though appreciative of your sarcasm.

"I'm afraid that it goes well beyond that. You see, in accordance with Lord Ponsonby's edicts, and indeed a general sense of propriety, our guests spend the entire duration of their time on the vessel in-character. They behave as if they were the literary figures they portray."

"You're joking?"

"Alas, no. I assure you that under normal circumstances the effect is most gratifying, and adds a certain ambiance to the affair. However, it may prove... inconvenient... given the seriousness of the situation at hand."

"So I'm going to be talking to a bunch of Victorian detectives?"

"Well, that description wouldn't apply to all our guests. But, to a certain degree... Yes. With the exception of a few necessities, they will retain their adopted personas."

"Necessities?"

"A genuine lady or gentleman from the nineteenth century might be expected to express some shock at encountering a robot manservant, or one of our alien guests. Lord Ponsonby was content for such things to be glossed over."

"Alien guests?"

"Yes, madam. A few guests belonging to alien species have attended these murder mysteries over the years -- those who share his lordship's love of classic detective fiction in spite of their vastly different cultural backgrounds. In fact, one of the three suspects is a Snuuth."

Upon seeing that he'd given you enough to consider for the moment, the butler led you off to the lounge.

"Preposterous!"

"Unseemly!"

"Quite absurd!"

"An affront!"

"Who is this person, anyway? Some sort of ruffian from the look of her!"

These and several other expressions of disapproval, outrage, surprise, and disdain bombard you from all quarters. For a bunch of people dressed like fools, the Mysterious Murder's guests are very judgmental...

"Ladies and gentlemen," the butler says, "if I may request a modicum of calm..."

"Calm?" splutters a man in a yellow-brown jacket, sporting an iron-grey moustache. "Calm? A man lies dead, and a friend of mine is being dishonored by base suspicion. Dash it all, man -- does this sound like a time for calm?"

At this pronouncement, there's a general intake of breath -- which you interpret as a replenishing of oxygen supplies before a second volley of discontent. You wince, preparing to weather the storm. But the barrage doesn't come. Instead there's a soft, almost imperceptible cough. The impending torrent dies on their lips. All heads turn to regard a slim gentleman at the back of the room.

He was silent while the others shouted, content simply to stare at you with a steady and enigmatic gaze. Thus you now hear his voice for the first time, and when he speaks it's with soothing dignity enveloped in a French accent.

"My friends," he says, "I think this lady is more suited to the task than you might imagine."

"Monsieur Dupin," says the man in the yellow-brown jacket, "surely you're not willing to accept this upstart's presence here?"

But there's a hint of uncertainty in his voice now. And most of the others are studying you with newfound interest -- as though trying to see what this Dupin fellow saw in you.

"Have you ever dealt with a murderer before?" a young man asks.

The guests' scrutiny intensifies. Dozens of eyes scan your face. As many ears wait to hear what you'll say. Now that you have an opening, the right answer might forestall a fresh eruption of disgruntlement...

You glance at the butler, remembering what he said about things on the Mysterious Murder remaining aboard the Mysterious Murder. You hope he was right.

"I was the one who brought down Colonel Mustard," you say, your eyes drifting from face to face.

"What?" The man in the yellow-brown jacket jumps to his feet. "You most certainly did not! I-"

"She's talking about the infamous Sussurran murderer, dear," an elderly woman says.

"Oh... Yes. Of course. Splendid. Jolly good show." He sits back down, looking suitably abashed.

"And I'm the one who caught Nemo, the space pirate."

You can almost hear the thoughts clicking into place inside their heads.

"That means you're..." the old woman says. "Oh."

Noiselessness flits around the lounge.

"A woman fully aware of the scope of human evil," muses a short, stumpy gentleman in the attire of a Catholic priest. "You can think like a murderer. That gives you an advantage."

Similar sentiments are murmured from other lips. It seems that you're done here... So you excuse yourself, and ask the butler to take you to the crime scene.

"Who was he?" you ask.

"Our guests' identities are-" the robot begins.

"His character, I mean."

"Sexton Blake."

"Who?"

"A British detective who was a prominent figure on the literary stage for some decades."

"Oh."

Whoever he was, he's solved his last pseudo-mystery. The wound in his chest tells the story. No need for any hard detective work there. He was stabbed through the left side of his chest, the blade passing through the jacket and waistcoat of his dark three-piece suit at an angle that would have put it through his heart. And the murderer wasn't content to leave things there. His face lies ruined, slashed at least a dozen times by what you assume was the edge of the same weapon.

"These were done after he was killed," you observe. "You can tell by the blood."

The butler says nothing. You glance up at him.

"Forgive me, madam, but Lord Ponsonby instructed me to always play the role of the detached manservant rather than the fawning, overly-impressed companion."

No other signs of damage or injury. His sleeves and hands are unblemished.

The room -- a spacious lounge and dining chamber -- is similarly unmarred, save for the blood that's soaked into the rug beneath the corpse. Its door shows no sign of having been forced, nor has anything been knocked aside. Only the dead man himself, lying on his back in the middle of the floor, provides evidence of the violence which took place there.

As a matter of course you explore the rest of the suite, but it's just a formality. Those slashes to the face... This wasn't a robbery. Sure enough, the other rooms are just as neat. They haven't been ransacked.

"What's this?" you ask.

You spot it when you return to the main room. On the lip of the stone fireplace...

"It appears to be a pile of ash, madam. Part of the aesthetic effect."

The butler indicates the larger grey heap deeper within, where a fire would burn. But those ashes are different...

"A clue!"

Once more the butler seems underwhelmed by your discovery. So you content yourself with transferring the ash to a little bag he provides and sealing it within. That accomplished, you head out into the corridor.

"I think it's time I met these suspects of yours."

Elementary, My Dear [Player Name]

"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to accompany you, madam?"

"Thanks, but I don't think I'll have much need for a detached manservant."

"Very good, madam."

The butler hands you the key, bows his head, turns around, and glides away in the appropriate manner of a trained (or in this case 'built') servant -- almost noiseless, just audible enough to prevent his employers from engaging in embarrassing indiscretions while he's nearby.

You pause outside the first of the doors he directed you to, hand raised in preparation for a knock. A simple matter of courtesy -- to announce your presence and make sure the man within is decent before you unlock the door and push it open. Then you remember that you're a detective, and that the door in front of you has a keyhole...

On a whim, you crouch down and put your eye to the small hole. It's purely an affectation. There are no tumblers and so forth in the wood around it. Instead the key's systems will trigger and disengage a series of electronic mechanisms. But the hole works just as well when it comes to prying into other people's affairs. And isn't that what being a detective's all about?

Based on this portion of its contents, the room beyond is a study. There's a desk across from the door, positioned beneath a large window. Sunlight pours through the glass, spilling over the dark wood and across the floor like a cascade of golden liquid. Holographic windows -- you saw them elsewhere on the ship. Designed to conceal the fact that you're on a spacecraft. These furnishings and a bookcase full of old-fashioned, leather-bound tomes are all that reward your spying. Probably not enough evidence to incriminate a man...

So you stand up and knock.

"One moment!"

The urgency in the voice, masked as it is by a veneer of friendly nonchalance, doesn't escape you. There's a sound of hurried footsteps from within. You drop back down to the keyhole. The suite's occupant, your suspect, is standing at the desk. He shoves something into one of its drawers, and closes it with a swift yet controlled motion -- careful not to let the wood make a telltale scraping noise. This accomplished, he tugs at his left shirt sleeve, neatening it and fastening it at the wrist. Then he moves across the room, out of sight once more.

"Do come in!" he says at last.

You put the key in the lock. It clicks open, issuing a counterfeit sound to match the archaic pretense.

When you open the door, the man is sitting in an armchair by the blazing fireplace, watching the dancing flames. He's wearing a long coat now, and a deerstalker hat -- a form of headwear made famous by the individual he's masquerading as, its name known to you purely because of the endless stream of movie and videogame adverts you've seen in which the renowned character sports it. His left hand holds a pipe in the corner of his mouth. A wisp of white smoke snakes upwards from its bowl.

He turns his head to face you, the gesture so casual it's hard to believe that he was darting across the room just a few moments before. If he feels any trepidation, even a hint of anxiety, it doesn't show in his intelligent, piercing eyes.

"I'm-" you begin.

He holds up his right hand, palm outward as though to bar the words that are about to tumble from your mouth.

"You're a skilled pilot, accustomed to being on military spacecraft for long periods of time. But you're also highly proficient in personal combat, well beyond the level to which it's customary to train a pilot. In particular, you're skilled in kung fu -- the Chinese form of fighting. This martial prowess was advantageous in your career as a bodyguard. You have my condolences. I see that the lady you were tasked with protecting is no longer with us. You cared about her a great deal."

Words freeze on your tongue and slip back down your throat. He's recognized you! That's the only explanation. You've been around enough psychics that you would have felt the warning signs if he'd tried to root around in your brain through psionic means. He knows who you are. But how?

You glance down at your nose.

"And you're wearing a holographic disguise," he adds.

You frown. You'd put it on so that your true identity wouldn't prove a distraction when it came to interviewing the suspects. For naught, it seems.

"Who told you?"

"No one. It was a matter of elementary deduction. Please..." He gestures at the armchair on the other side of the fire.

You sit down, mind reeling.

"You can tell a great deal about a woman from the manner in which she walks. And your stride is that of a longtime spacefarer. From the way you balance and distribute your weight, you're accustomed to navigating the corridors of a ship even in dangerous conditions -- when gravitational systems fail or the vessel is buffeted by enemy weapons fire. But the quick movements of your eyes are those of a pilot, not merely a crewman."

"Okay..." you reply, still dubious, "...but how did you know I was a bodyguard?"

"When you entered the room, you scanned it for threats in a way so natural and instinctive that it would have escaped the notice of most observers. But your instincts weren't for self-preservation. From the manner of your entry, you're used to placing yourself between a perceived threat and the person behind you. However, there are already the faintest signs of atrophy around this ingrained behavior. This leads me to conclude that your service in this capacity came to an end. And if you'll forgive me, your eyes betray a certain melancholy."

"How did you know she was a woman? That I..."

"Cared for her? Losing a woman always leaves a special mark."

He glances at a photograph on the mantelpiece. It shows an attractive girl in Victorian garb.

"And the kung fu?"

"That was perfectly evident." His gaze returns to meet yours. "During the aforementioned entry, your body was prepared to strike out at any hypothetical ambushers you might have encountered. In particular, your left arm was ready to drive against an enemy's solar plexus in the form of exaggerated straight left lunge, driven by the rear leg, more common in Chinese fighting systems. However, at the same time there was a slight motion in your right leg indicative of a potential kick should danger come from another direction instead. On its own, it may have belonged to any number of fighting arts -- such as savate. But when coupled with the nature of the punch..."

"That's amazing!"

"Watson often tells me much the same. But I fear that in the present investigation my role is that of a suspect rather than a consulting detective."

"Yes, I'm afraid so. I believe the butler has spoken to you about what happened?"

"He informed me that Sexton Blake had been murdered, and that I and two other individuals were regarded as suspects -- as the other guests had been in the main lounge for some considerable length of time when the crime was discovered."

"Exactly. Can you tell me what you were doing while the soiree was going on?"

A slight redness creeps into the detective's face, so subtle that you can't be sure it's not the effect of the fire. He glances at the photograph once more -- a gesture so swift that an ill-timed blink might have stolen it from you.

"I was working on my latest monograph." His voice betrays nothing. Perhaps you were imagining things... "It concerns the dropping of letters in a range of regional English accents from different social classes."

He leans towards the fireplace and upends his pipe, emptying out a little heap of ash. Most of it falls into the flame. But you track the descent of those ashes which go wide, falling onto the ironwork instead, with eager eyes.

"Would you like to examine it?" he asks.

"Excuse me?" you reply, wondering if he's discerned your train of thought.

"The monograph."

"No, that's quite all right."

A faint smile twitches his lips.

"Where are my manners? In the absence of my housekeeper or Watson, I suppose it falls on me to offer you a cup of tea."

"Thanks. Milk. Two sugars."

"I shan't be long."

He stands up and heads towards a doorway at the opposite end of the room. The moment he disappears from sight, you rise as well.

You make for the desk first, training and the thick, soft rug muffling your footsteps. A glimpse of Victorian London greets you through the window, of smoggy buildings and horse-drawn cabs. But you don't have a chance to drink it in at leisure. Your attention is directed elsewhere... From the movements you saw through the keyhole, he used the middle drawer -- the one above the leg space. You pull it open, taking as much care as he did when closing it. Your eyes widen.

The drawer is filled with small bottles, alongside a large leather case. You open the latter, tilting the lid up against the hinges on its upper length. It contains a fancy looking glass syringe. You close it, and grab one of the small bottles -- turning it to disclose the label. Cocaine. The great detective is a chem-abuser.

You return the bottle and close the drawer. The sound of clinking china comes from somewhere beyond the doorway. It isn't close. He's still making the tea, not bringing it in.

So you dart over to the fireplace, crouch down, and annex the spilled ash. Then you hold it up in the palm of one hand, letting it bask in the artificial sunlight, whilst pulling out the sample from the murder scene with the other.

To your intense disappointment, they don't match. Even to your untrained eye, it's clear from their color and texture that each came from a different type of tobacco. You tip your hand over the fire, disposing of the ashes from Holmes' pipe.

You're sat in the armchair when the detective returns with the tea tray, pretending to amuse yourself by gazing into the flames.

"Good tea," you say, after a sip. In truth your palate for English teas is no more refined than that of a Niflung berserker. But you felt obliged to say something complimentary.

"Brewing tea is an elementary matter of chemistry -- a field of scientific endeavor with which a man in my position has reason to be familiar."

For some time the two of you simply drink your tea and share meaningless banter. It's when you set your cup down empty on its saucer and Holmes does the same that you return to the investigation like two fighters leaving their corners at the ringing of the bell.

"What did you think of Sexton Blake?" you ask.

"His death represents a tremendous loss to our profession."

"He was good then? I hadn't heard of him before."

Holmes' eyes narrow.

"It's says very little to the credit of human civilization that one of the finest detectives in literary history has been forgotten so."

Psychological Detective

"Come in, mon amie!"

You step into a new room and, apparently, a new century. It's a large, bright chamber -- furnished in a manner that you know is archaic, yet somehow manages to seem modern and stylish compared with Holmes' Victorian apartment. Everything is neat and trim, with an abundance of straight, orderly lines supplemented by only the most obedient of curves. The term 'art deco' appears in your mind. You forget where you might have come across it or what exactly it entails. Nevertheless, it somehow seems fitting.

In this world of straight lines, the person ensconced in a red leather armchair stands out quite considerably -- an island of roundness in the middle of precise linearity. So this is the Snuuth suspect the butler told you about... He's as rotund as many of his species, his belly an impressive, mountainous bulge. His clothing is immaculate, even if it does seem comprised of enough material to create a substantial tent. The black jacket and trousers, light grey waistcoat, white shirt, and red bowtie are all perfectly pressed, brushed, laundered, or whatever verbs and treatment might best be administered to the respective articles of a gentleman's attire. You don't think you've ever laid eyes upon such a fastidious Snuuth before.

A remarkable black moustache adorns his lip, waxed into fine, glistening points that look as if they could take someone's eyes out.

"Mr. Hercule Poirot, I believe? I'm here to investigate the murder of Sexton Blake."

"Of course. I wondered how long it would be before the estimable butler, he found a woman most suitable for this unpleasant task. Between you and me, I am relieved that he did not select another member of our... how you say... little detective gang. They are charming -- especially Mademoiselle Marple -- but some of them have the ideas most confused about our profession. They become obsessed with the details most trivial, when instead one must focus on understanding the psychology of a crime."

"Um... Yes..." you reply, taken aback. You've never heard a Snuuth with that kind of accent before. The effect is quite something.

"Please, be seated," he says, indicating an identical chair opposite him, on the other side of a square table. "May I offer you a crème de cassis before we begin?"

"No, thank you. I don't think the butler would like me to drink and detect."

"A coffee perhaps?"

"Sure. Thank you."

"Bon."

You don't particularly want the drink. But you do want to see him move...

When he does so, getting up from the chair and trotting off to the kitchen, it's with surprising grace for a person of his considerable girth. You've noticed this among Snuuth before. Some of them may seem to be walking piles of fat, but they have a great deal of muscular power underneath. He could have struck the fatal blow with ease.

You explore the room while awaiting his return, inspecting the various artworks and searching for anything which might be deemed a clue. You even examine the canes and umbrellas in the stand by the door -- wondering how useful an umbrella could possibly be on a spaceship -- but find that none of them contain a hidden blade. If the murder weapon is somewhere in this apartment, it's concealed better than that.

Poirot returns with two cups of coffee, and the two of you resume your seats.

"There're a lot of French detectives onboard, aren't there?" you say.

"You are right, mon amie. Messieurs Dupin and Rouletabille, par example. But I am not among them. I, Hercule Poirot, am Belgian."

Your mind scrambles to process that information, and associate it with a proper piece of historical or geographical knowledge. But it's some seconds before anything comes to mind.

"Like the waffles?"

Poirot frowns.

"Yes... Like the 'waffles'." He says the word in the same way a prudish person might say 'whores'.

But the good humor returns to his face as he reaches over to a little side table beside his armchair and picks up a colorful cardboard box. He places this between your coffee mugs in the exact center of the larger table, adjusting it ever so slightly until the edges of box and table are precisely parallel.

"And also like the chocolates."

He opens the box, disclosing two dozen or so delectable squares, circles, and diamonds. You take one of them between thumb and forefinger out of politeness, and transfer it to your mouth. Your teeth penetrate the chocolate shell, exposing an exquisite, flavorful creaminess within. Your eyes widen. It suddenly occurs to you that your lack of knowledge concerning Belgian matters is a deficit you should remedy at greater length later on.

But for the moment, there's the small matter of the crime...

"Where were you during the soiree?"

"I was here all evening, reading a mystery novel written by my good friend, Ariadne Oliver."

"Did you know the victim?"

"I was acquainted with him. One of the breed of detective most tiresome, who believe that cases should be solved with duels -- as if fisticuffs were a proper substitute for the little grey cells!"

"The what?"

"The little grey cells! If you are to find the killer, you must exercise them! It is about the psychology, the method, the mental processes by which we may arrive at the truth."

"I see..."

He reaches into his jacket and withdraws a silver case from an inner pocket, opening it to reveal a number of tiny cigarettes. You shake your head when tilts it towards you. He removes one. It's like a toothpick in his hand.

This suspect likes to talk, you muse as he lights his cigarette and retrieves an ashtray -- which he places on the table alongside his coffee cup. Perhaps you can use that to your advantage...

"So, you didn't care much for Blake's work?"

"I most certainly did not."

"Perhaps you were glad when you learned he'd been bumped off?"

"No, mademoiselle. I do not approve of murder!"

"I should hope not. But you have to admire the murderer's cunning."

"Cunning? To stab a man through the heart and mutilate the face of his corpse? There is no cunning here! The great Hercule Poirot, he has dealt with the murders most intelligent. This is not such a person. Do you know who was the greatest murderer of all? Iago!"

"The space pirate?"

Poirot sighs.

"You do not know the works of the most excellent Shakespeare? My friend Hastings would be distraught to hear the fruits of his countryman neglected! Iago was a murderer who manipulated others into committing his crimes. He whispered here and there, using his words to fill people with dangerous thoughts, and then had but to watch as his will was carried out. He was a genius, mon amie. A wicked man, but a genius. For his power was to murder from utter safety. Yet the killer of Monsieur Blake? Only wicked."

"Have you ever killed a man?"

"I have. But only in circumstances most necessary. And you?"

"More than I can count."

"Then I pity you, mon amie."

He taps his tiny cigarette, dislodging its burned debris to form a little mound in the middle of the ashtray.

They're exactly the same as the sample you took from Blake's room.

The Lady in Red

You don't bother to knock before entering the third suspect's room. Whereas the other two were found in their quarters after the body was discovered, and locked within while the butler went to the communications room in hope of enlisting help, this one was located and detained in the library -- which fortunately has its own bathroom facilities and a bar. Apparently the ultra-wealthy never like to be far from places where they may consume and then dispose of alcohol.

The chamber disclosed beyond the opening door is stately and dull. Save for the space annexed by the window which shows a starry night sky, the broad fireplace and the large painting above it, and the doors, every wall has been consumed by floor-to-ceiling bookcases -- each stuffed with a plethora of ornately-bound volumes. It's a bibliophile's wet dream. Perhaps those detectives of a scholarly persuasion enjoy spending long hours in here, searching for information that'll help them crack one of their pseudo-cases. To you, the chamber only has one point of interest, one splash of brightness and color amid the drab, subdued colors of its ancient furniture and endless tomes: Miss Scarlett.

There are certain things you expect to find in a library. Books, for example. And librarians. But a gorgeous blonde woman wearing a red dress that seems to be retreating up from her legs and down from her chest in a determined effort to become a belt, on the other hand, seems somewhat out of place in such surroundings.

However, she appears content enough with the present state of affairs. From the dazzling smile on her face, sitting on a table and toying with a long brass candlestick might be a marvelous way to spend an evening.

"Miss Scarlett, I presume?"

"Please, call me Scarlett, darling."

"Your first name is the same as your surname?"

"It's... complicated."

"I'm here to investigate the death of Sexton Blake."

"Oh, how horrible! The butler told me that it was a murderer, in Sexton's apartment, with a dagger."

"A dagger? The murder weapon hasn't been identified. What makes you think it was a dagger?"

"How silly of me... Force of habit, I suppose." Her smile widens, flashing pearly white teeth and ruby red lips in all their priceless glory.

"You seem pretty cheerful for a woman who's suspected of murder."

"Oh, I'm always a suspect, darling. But I didn't kill Sexton. I must have been right here when it happened."

"What were you doing in a library while a soiree was going on?"

"I don't seem like a bookworm to you?" She giggles. "I came here for a little fun..."

Her left hand strokes its way along the length of the cylindrical column she's holding.

"Miss Scarlett, in the library, with the candlestick?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"What a dirty mind you have! But no... I was with Sherlock."

"He was here? What were the two of you doing?"

She laughs.

"Do I have to draw you a picture? If I did, it might make you blush."

"Why the library? You could have just gone to your quarters, or his."

"That was my idea. Part of a little game I like to play. First it was Professor Plum in the ballroom, then Mrs. Peacock in the lounge, then Dupin in the billiard room... I thought it would be fun to complete the set. Though there isn't a conservatory on the ship..."

"How long were you both here? If you spent the evening together..."

"Spent the evening? Ha! He was only here for a few minutes. Then he started crying."

"Crying? Why?"

"I think he has... issues. He said he had to go back to his rooms for a few minutes, and left."

"You stayed here?"

"I thought he just needed a little cocaine to help him perform. So I waited. But he never came back. I must have fallen asleep on the rug in front of the fire. The butler found me lying there, naked. He seemed very embarrassed."

"He... He didn't mention that."

"He's such a dear, isn't he? Very discrete. What every girl wants in a servant."

The Murderer

"Is this a bad time?" you ask.

"I'm currently hanging upside-down above a floor laden with high-explosive mines, attempting to bypass one of the most complicated electronic security locks in human space before the hover-drones make their next patrol. Give me a few seconds."

Exactly four seconds later, Arthur Lupin's voice comes from the communications terminal again.

"All done, my dear."

"What did you steal?"

"Nothing."

"Really?"

"The jewels were rather tacky, so I simply opened the case and left a note next to them -- expressing my opinion of the lady's taste in unflattering terms. Now, what can I help you with?"

"It's a long story."

"Then I should return to the comfort of my ship before you start telling it, instead of perching on this roof like a common gargoyle."

You sit back and wait for him to make his undoubtedly daring escape from the scene of his dubious crime.

The butler was alarmed when he saw you heading towards the hangar. He thought you'd decided to give up the case. But you told him that you just needed to use the Silver Shadow's communications systems to open a secure channel.

"Fire away," Lupin says. This time video flashes into existence on the screen, showing the thief lounging in a spacecraft's flight cabin.

"Master Wu told me that your name was a literary reference."

"He was quite right. A composite of 'Arthur Raffles' and 'Arsène Lupin'. But if you've called to ask for my real name, I'm afraid-"

"I haven't. So, you know your way around nineteenth and twentieth century crime fiction?"

"Becoming a lover of literature?"

"Not exactly..."

Later, after an extensive conversation with the master thief has yielded its fruit, you return to the butler and ask him to convene the guests -- including the three suspects -- in the main lounge.

"We're gathered here because of a heinous crime," you say. "A man was brutally, viciously, nefariously-"

Disapproving faces stare at you from all sides. It seems that these sleuths don't want to hear a lengthy preamble from a novice, so to speak. You'd better get to the good stuff...

"Sexton Blake was murdered," you amend. "And one of these three people did it!"

This time you feel nothing but satisfaction when your sweeping arm and pointing finger evoke the dramatic score.

*Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn*

"Very good, madam," the butler says. "But I fear you're merely providing us with information with which we're all already acquainted."

"I'm summarizing. Butt out."

"Puns are the lowest form of wit, madam..."

"As I was saying... My task was to eliminate each innocent suspect in turn until I was left with the murderer."

"But, mon amie, there have been the cases most singular in which all the suspects were guilty."

"Perhaps... But not this time. First I eliminated Miss Scarlett. She may be a nymphomaniac, but that's a far cry from murder."

"Actually..." the man in the priest costume begins.

"Besides, if she were to commit murder I believe she would have chosen a more appropriate venue for the crime -- such as the ballroom, or the library."

"You know me so well, darling!" she laughs.

"That left me with two suspects, and I couldn't help but notice the evidence pointing towards Hercule Poirot. The man disliked Sexton Blake, saw him as a black mark on his respected profession. And the ash left at the crime scene came from the very same cigarettes that he smokes."

The gasps around the room are gratifying in the extreme. You're beginning to see why people attend these murder mystery events.

"But then I began to use my little grey cells..."

"Très bien!" The Snuuth sleuth nods his approval.

"A man as fastidious as Poirot would never have simply left ash lying around at a crime scene. It would have offended his sense of neatness and order. Furthermore, he wouldn't have struck the left side of his victim's body. Even in matters of life and death, his obsession with symmetry is well known."

"But in a violent struggle, even obsessions might have been neglected," a young Frenchman says.

"Perhaps. But from studying the scene of the crime, it's clear that the victim was taken by surprise. That's why he didn't protect himself and receive defensive wounds. The killer had ample opportunity to administer the fatal blow in a place of his choosing. So that left me with only one suspect... That man!"

Again your finger points. Once more the 'dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn' sounds. You could get used to that...

"After all, who would be more likely to use cigarette ash in the incrimination of an innocent man than someone who'd written an entire monograph on the subject?"

Murmurs of approval ripple through the assembled detectives. The face beneath the deerstalker hat is impassive, his emotions hidden, his sharp eyes fastened on you.

"When I discovered that Sherlock Holmes was a habitual cocaine user," you continue, "a theory began to form in my mind. What if he had been high on drugs, having injected himself with his chosen chem, and committed the murder whilst in a coked-up frenzy?"

"Holmes has been using cocaine for years," one of the American detectives drawls. A lump of black chewing tobacco emerges with his words, splatting on the floor and glistening with strings of saliva. "Why would he go crazy from it now?"

"Perhaps because he was in a state of emotional turmoil, after an embarrassing tryst with Miss Scarlett!"

"What?"

"Holmes?"

"A tryst?"

"Sex?"

"But he's..."

"Isn't he..."

"Does he even..."

The confused babble continues for several moments, and all the while Holmes retains his inscrutable gaze.

"It's true!" Miss Scarlett says. "Me, with Sherlock Holmes, in the library. A girl doesn't like to kiss and tell, but let's just say it was... inadequate. Then he ran off crying."

"Filled with embarrassment at his failure," you say, "and shame at his betrayal of the woman whose picture rests on his mantelpiece, Sherlock Holmes resorted to the cocaine bottle. And then-"

"It's true!" Holmes cries. "All true!"

*Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn*

The gasps almost overwhelm the sound effect.

"I'd always been jealous of Sexton Blake," Holmes continues. "He was the greater detective, and the greater man. So that evening, filled with anguish and cocaine, I went to his quarters and murdered him!"

*Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn*

Okay, now it's getting annoying... You gesture to the butler. He glides away to deactivate it.

"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen," you say. "Sherlock Holmes, emotionally and sexually disturbed, murdered Sexton Blake in a drug-fueled rage and tried to frame Hercule Poirot for the crime. That's what we were supposed to believe, anyway."

"What the devil do you mean, girl?" Colonel Mustard asks. "The man just confessed!"

"This man did," you say, walking over to the detective in the deerstalker hat. "But this man isn't Sherlock Holmes. He's none other than... Sexton Blake!"

He raises his hand to ward you off. But you're too quick. You snatch at his face, tearing away the false nose and other adornments which disguised Blake's features as those of Holmes.

There's no musical score this time. But you don't need one. The detectives' shouts and gasps more than suffice.

"So you mean that dead Sexton was a Sexton?" a young man dressed in rough clothing asks.

"What?" you reply, bemused by his accent as much as his incomprehensible words.

"Rhyming slang, guvnor. Sexton Blake -- fake."

"Oh. Exactly. The dead man was Sherlock Holmes. The mutilation to his face was aimed to conceal that fact. Blake lured him into his apartment, and murdered him."

"So it was Blake in the library?" Miss Scarlett asks.

"Yes. Pretending to be Holmes, as part of his scheme."

"How did you know?" Blake asks, his voice low and guttural.

"Elementary, my dear Blake. The farce with the cocaine? Obvious misdirection. The man I met in Sherlock Holmes' quarters showed no signs of recent cocaine use. And the cigarette ash? The furtive glance at Irene Adler's photograph? Far too obvious. You overplayed your hand. Besides, Sherlock Holmes would never have surrendered even to Miss Scarlett's temptations. It would have been a tremendous breach of character -- no less egregious than your act of murder."

"But why did he do it, madam?" the butler asks.

"Why?" Blake hisses. "Why? Because everyone knows Sherlock Holmes, and no one knows Sexton Blake! I solved more crimes than he ever did, hundreds and hundreds of cases! I was the greatest, most celebrated detective in the world! And for what? So people could forget my name, like I was no better than a Ferrers Locke or a Lord Peter Wimsey?"

Two men, presumably those named, cry out in anger.

"That's why you plotted to not only kill Sherlock Holmes, but to ruin his name aboard the Mysterious Murder," you say, "knowing that after the scandal no one would ever take it up again."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the butler says, "I believe the case is solved."

There are murmurs of approval. Even a few outspoken words of praise hurled in your direction. But most faces are grim, their eyes fixed on Blake.

"But what do we do with him?" Miss Scarlett asks. "We can't hand him over to the police, can we?"

"Most certainly not, madam," the butler declares.

"That's easily fixed," you reply. "I hear you like to duel, Sexton."

His eyes glint.

"I do."

"Then duel with me. To the death."

"Challenge accepted. If you people will be so good as to escort me to the chambers I usurped, I'll retrieve my weapons."

Sexton Blake knew how to fight. But he was no [Player Name].

That's why he's lying on the floor, his weapons and gadgets scattered around him, a hole in his head.

"Très bien, mon amie," Poirot says. "Under these most difficult of circumstances, what has been done is right and proper. It was, as my friend Hastings would say, playing the game."

"Jolly good show," Colonel Mustard says. "Fair and sporting, and the bastard still got what he deserved."

Sundry similar sentiments rain down on you.

"Madam," the butler says, "I feel you really must be rewarded for the invaluable assistance you've rendered us."

"That's very generous-" you begin, wondering how many credits he's going to throw at you.

"So I propose that chambers be set aside for you in perpetuity aboard the Mysterious Murder, that you may take part in all our future events!"

You open your mouth to decline with thanks. But Miss Scarlett chooses that moment to throw her arms around you, and plant her lips on yours. Thus you can only splutter while the others cheer. By the time she releases you from the kiss, it's far too late. So you simply smile and accept your fate. |-|

"Cyan Eyes"=
Cyan Eyes

It's the dreams that do it.

The same old dreams, longstanding acquaintances made familiar but not welcome by their frequent recurrences across the years and decades of your life. It would be wrong to call them nightmares. There's no gut-wrenching terror, no bitter grief to claw at your soul long after you wake. Only a sense of residual annoyance and disquiet that your subconscious has chosen to rebel against you.

They began when you were at school. In those days your nocturnal ramblings were as varied, weird, and wonderful as those of any child fed endless torrents of information from all quarters -- television, the information networks, books, your teachers, your peers... Innumerable things fight for space within a girl's brain, and all of them made themselves felt in your dreams, thrusting their way into the nonsensical perambulations of slumbering thought. But certain dreams recurred with unyielding determination, as though they squatted in your mind throughout the day, yearning for the moonlit hours when they might come forth to scamper around your whirling consciousness.

You're in one of the school buildings, bustling towards a classroom, surrounded by the friends and enemies of childhood. You go inside with the others, all of you taking your places in the good, orderly fashion of children who know that corporal punishment awaits misbehavior. A troubled sensation is already bubbling in your stomach, though you can't yet identify its cause. That's when it strikes you. The exam... You're here to take the exam. And you haven't revised. The paper is laid in front of you. The text difficult to read, changing and shifting. But you can read enough. You know that you don't have the answers. You're going to fail.

Even after you left school, your destiny taking you to the military academy, the dream persisted. Always the same -- still set within the environs of that former place of learning, even though you no longer walked its corridors in your waking hours. Whenever a test loomed on the horizon for which you hadn't done adequate preparation, whenever an essay would soon be due that as yet lay half-written, you'd fall asleep and be in that classroom.

It continued beyond that too, surprising you with its tenacity. Formal education lay behind you, left in your wake to ensnare fresh generations of children with its didactic tentacles. The armed forces of the Sian Empire became your new life. But still you dreamed that dream. If some task, some duty was undone, shunted aside for laudable reasons or else because the alluring demon of procrastination had seduced you, night found you back in that classroom ready to fail the unrevised-for exam.

The dreams came to serve as a warning. When they haunted your sleep, you knew that you had to accomplish whatever things were nagging at your subconscious. You accepted them as a tool of motivation, something to urge you on and compel you to tend to your duties in a responsible, timely fashion.

It had been a long while since you last had them. Then they returned, just the same as before, hurling you into a school building which may no longer exist, in the midst of boys and girls who haven't aged a day in decades -- frozen in youth and time even as their real selves have grown old, changed, and perhaps died.

For the past few days they've been niggling away at you. In the mornings you've woken with the absurd memories of failure swirling around your head. At first you couldn't even imagine what had brought about their resurrection. And then it finally occurred to you, an epiphany erupting across the surface of your brain and bathing everything in the hot glow of its explosion.

Yes, you feel them deep within. The blood and the darkness. Waiting for the word that will allow them to consume you. A black and crimson enigma, a mystery you can't begin to unravel. But the galaxy is vast. Perhaps there's an answer to it somewhere out there...

The thing you've thrust deep within mind and soul, shoved into some inner recess. There it remains, lurking and unmastered, a primal force that merely bides its time. Never forgotten, of course. That would be impossible. You'd allowed it to slip into the background of life and thought, however, like the sufferer of a disease who chooses not to dwell on their condition -- attempting instead to live each day of life as it comes.

Now the dreams tell you that you've neglected it for far too long.

You've allowed your wanderings to occupy you, filling your life with new sights and sounds and deeds. You haven't been idle. There are men, women, and children who're still alive because of your recent actions. Good people you've saved, and evil ones you've punished. In minute ways, through the tiny actions with which an individual may scratch their mark on the immensity of existence, you've made the universe a better place.

But you've neglected that task, that duty. You're no nearer to learning about the power that seethes in your blood, the mysterious heritage that empowered and damned you.

What can you do though? Even in the epiphany's light, the shadows of self-delusion chased away by its bright rays, you're left with that question. Aimless wandering is unlikely to bring you what you seek. There's enough of the Milky Way to keep you occupied for a myriad lifetimes, millions of adventures just waiting to challenge and enthrall you. But in the endless void, the seemingly infinite tapestry of space, the chances of you simply straying across a lead by chance are inconceivably remote.

You have to do something, find a place to begin your search for answers. But where? How?

Sun Xi could have helped you, if she'd lived. But she's beyond your reach now, separated by the veil of death. You've encountered many others with psionic abilities, including allies you might be able to call upon for aid. None with a fraction of Mistress Sun's power, however -- able to delve deep into the past and thus unravel the mysteries of the universe. Perhaps you could search for another psychic whose brain throbs with the same terrifying might. But how could you entrust a stranger with a secret of this magnitude?

There might be others like you out there...

This thought isn't new to you. You've pondered it many times before, in both drunken musings and sober reflection. The Emperor shared the secret. It lay within his blood as it does in yours -- an ancient link between two people unrelated by any contemporary measure. If there was common ancestry between you, it most likely lies so far back across the expanse of history as to be untraceable. Attempting to isolate it, to work your way through labyrinthine family trees that you know full well would disappear into distant darkness, would be an insurmountable task.

Could DNA analysis, comparing the Emperor's material with your own, yield valuable data? This too is something you've wondered about. But even if the 'chi', as he knew it, were something that could be picked out in such a way, isolated by comparing each of your genetic makeups -- which you regard as a dubious proposition -- there's only one way you could bring it about. That's by returning to Wu Tenchu and the others, asking for their aid. It isn't something you can risk. Not after everything that happened...

So you sit in the Silver Shadow's flight cabin, grappling with a problem that seems to have no solution. You don't even know where to start looking for one...

Where to start...

Start...

And then it hits you. Even at that very moment, when it blazes with all the resplendent brightness of a fresh idea, you know it's a longshot. A crazy notion plucked from the ether. And yet the very randomness of its genesis seems to imbue it with mystical importance, as though it were thrust into your brain by the hand of fate. Foolish, perhaps. But it's something...

So you prepare for the hyperspace jump, filled with absurd elation even as you know that this might -- likely will -- prove fruitless. At least you're doing something, making an effort to grapple with the occult mystery which surrounds you.

Perhaps that'll be enough to stop the dreams...

The Woman Who Waits

Strange, colorful flora surrounds you. There are great fleshy things, like tentacles, swaying in the air high above your head -- their ends turned downwards, as though stooping to inspect you as you pass. Below these, alongside your thighs and chest, are bulbous blobs that wobble this way and that like the needles of gelatinous metronomes.

It's beautiful, gorgeous in spite of -- or even because of -- its bizarreness. The kind of alien landscape which makes artists reach for their tablets, writers for their datapads, and chem-addicts for their narcotics. But it wasn't always like this. Rainbows of plant life have grown over generations to conceal all evidence of the horrific combat that once raged on this very ground, churning up the soil and sowing blasted furrows with the charred body parts of slaughtered soldiers.

That battle helped shape the destiny of human space, ensuring the survival of the Sian Empire. It was fought by Daedun Qin, the First Emperor. It's the battle he claimed to have won with the aid of a blue dragon spirit...

Blue dragon. Orange eyes.

Scholars have debated his writings for generations, musing over what philosophical and metaphysical meanings the First Emperor may have intended his words to convey. But they don't know what you do.

You wander among the fantastic foliage, eyes drifting across land and sky in search of... something. Once again the notion seems ridiculous. Do you imagine that visions are like holo-vids, just waiting around until someone else comes along and decides to replay them? That the incomprehensible forces which aided Daedun Qin have been drifting around this multicolored landscape and biding their time until you deigned to visit them?

But the wondrous sights, the spicy-sweet blend of botanic scents, the bleep-buzzing song of the avian creatures that perch on the tall plants and weave their twisting paths overhead... These things infuse you with an inner warmth to match that of the pleasant heat against your skin. Ridiculous or not, you're glad you came here.

Time elapses disregarded as you wander, drinking in the world around you. You can't say whether it's minutes or an hour later that you notice her. A woman on the horizon, her back to you, the purple and cyan hues of her long dress mingling with those of the surrounding flora. Black hair cascades down her back, rippling in the gentle breeze that plays with the folds of her garment.

The sight of another person takes you by surprise, but only because of its suddenness after so long alone -- with only the native plants and animals to share the landscape. It's not unusual for Sian subjects to visit this former battlefield, to walk among the echoes of the empire's history.

Your first inclination is to turn your steps to the right or left, leaving her to whatever purpose has brought her here. But there's something about her that draws you, some vague sense of familiarity in her figure and pose that evoke your curiosity.

She doesn't move as you draw near, lost in whatever introspection holds her -- content to stand there as the breeze toys with her dress and hair, allowing the beauty of the world to drift over her.

You speak when you're still some yards away, so as not to startle her. A lone woman might not relish the unexpected appearance of a stranger at close quarters.

"It's a beautiful place, isn't it?" you say.

She turns round, her black hair dancing aside. The breath catches in your throat.

"It's wonderful," she replies.

The soft, lovely smile falters on her lips -- quelled by the way you're staring at her. You blink and exhale.

"I'm sorry..." you say. "You reminded me of someone."

The smile replenishes itself, illuminating her pretty face.

"Have you ever been here before?" she asks.

"No. I..."

"Me either. It's silly, but I came here looking for... something."

"Oh?"

"You're going to think I'm crazy..." She bites her lip, glances down at the ground. "But I've been having these dreams."

She looks up again. Her eyes widen as she reads your expression.

"Orange eyes?" she whispers.

"Yes!"

"You too?" She steps towards you, urgency in her gaze.

"What do you know?" you ask. "About..."

Your voice trails off, your brain unsure of what words could encapsulate and explain it all. But the woman nods.

"The First Emperor, and the dragon," she says. "And I know the word. Listen!"

She leans in close. You match the movement, bringing your ear towards her mouth, ready to hear that word from another's lips, to receive proof that you're not alone, that-

Your body convulses, thrown out of control, muscles wracked by powerful spasms. The fizzing crackle of electrical discharge flashes around you, in your ears and eyes and brain.

Legs crumple beneath you, dead and nerveless. The back of your head thuds against the soft ground.

The woman's smiling face fills the sky as blackness washes over you.

Windows To The Soul

"She's waking. Her thoughts are moving." A woman's voice...

"Yes... But I still can't penetrate them." A man's...

"Something's blocking us... Shielding her subconscious."

"The betrayer's touch?"

"Perhaps... The Mistress will know."

The voices drift across the blackness, slipping into the gathering fragments of consciousness. Your eyes open and blink, burned by brightness. There's something hard and cold under you... Metal. Uncomfortable. You try to raise your arms to block the light, try to get up off the hard surface. But your wrists are stuck, held in place by the same rigid coldness. And there's something at your neck... Softer and warmer, but still unyielding.

Vision clears, snapping itself into sudden sharpness. Oh... This isn't good.

You're fastened to a metal table, surrounded by bright lights and walls of green, holographic characters that flow in different directions like warring rivers. A man and a woman stand on either side of you, dressed in outlandish outfits -- tight azure fabric adorned with bands of glowing symbols, smooth featureless masks with glowing cyan eyes.

"I knew you'd let your guard down," the woman says. Her voice... "That's why I had the surgeons change my face, to look more like hers."

"Who are you?" you ask. "Centurians?"

"No," the man replies. "We serve something much greater."

Religious lunatics. Great...

"If you want the answer, you'll find it in our eyes," the woman says.

The cyan lights in their masks brighten, expanding in all directions as though widening to consume their entire heads.

You close your eyes, but it's too late. The cyan lights are inside, with you in the darkness...

"We couldn't get in while you slept..." Her voice is strange, echoing, distorted. "So we'll just have to use the front door instead."

There's only one light now, the four cyan bursts merging into a single entity. It fills your vision as it rushes to consume you.

The Vision

A cyan sun, burning and searing. Trying to force its way into your innermost mind. But you've dealt with more potent psychics than these two...

You concentrate on the edge of the light, willing its periphery into existence -- a place where it ends and gives way, where it finds its limitation. Your mental gaze traces the border, working its way around the brightness until its shape is clear. Defined. Restricted. Then you press in on all sides, with a thousand invisible mental arms, compressing it towards its center.

"She's strong!" the woman gasps. There's shock in her voice.

The man says nothing. But there's a faint, masculine groan.

You were trained to resist psionic attacks. And more importantly, you had Sun Xi in your mind -- testing you and strengthening you with her presence. These masked morons are nothing compared to her.

Your eyes flick open. The man and woman are reeling. The cyan lights in their masks blink, going alternately bright and dull.

"Very impressive."

Another woman's voice... She's somewhere beyond the upper edge of the table, where your head lies fastened in place -- unable to turn and glimpse her.

People move into your field of vision, dressed in the same costumes as the man and woman. They take hold of their disoriented comrades, steady them as they recover.

"But I expected no less."

The voice is still coming from the same place -- the speaker isn't among those who now crowd around the lower half of the table, gazing down at you from their expressionless masks and glowing eyes.

"Her subconscious was impenetrable," the first woman says. "So we-"

"No matter," the unseen one replies. "Her mind will open to us."

"Who are you people?" you ask. "How did you know about..."

"We're her children, her disciples."

"Why is that when people find religion they stop giving straight answers? Whose children?"

"You'll see..."

This time it's a dozen eyes that blaze from featureless faces, swarming and swirling around the edge of your vision... Like vultures waiting for a fresh corpse...

Something plunges into you with so much force that it seems to pierce your skull and part your brain. By the time you realize it wasn't physical, that your body is intact and your mind perceiving only a simulacrum of agony, she's inside.

The unseen woman's talons are clawing around, trying to force aside your inner defenses, probe deep into your mind.

Colors swim in the darkness, blending and blurring across your mental vision.

"Behold..."

Two cyan eyes glimmer in the midst of the color-strewn void. They're like those in the masks, but far greater -- pregnant with power that makes your teeth ache, your bones shudder.

"See her..."

The eyes are getting bigger, closer. Some of the colors are swirling around it, rivers of paint flowing together. An image is forming, coalescing around the cyan orbs -- framing them.

"Look upon the image of the Far-Seer."

A Dangerous Mind

A monstrous azure visage, a horrific face. It roars amid the maelstrom, its jaws spewing tides of primordial chaos. Nascent features undulate, blurring and unblurring, parting and merging, as though the creature's might is struggling against the very limitations of existence.

But the cyan orbs are unflinching, unchanging. Solid and blazing and unalterable. They're glowering, eyeing the mind they plan to rip asunder.

The colors tighten, flowing together and solidifying, giving final shape to the abomination they've summoned forth. It's demonic, reptilian... Draconic. A visage of wickedness that's almost primal, ingrained into the mind of man -- tainting his myths and theology with its ill-remembered violent majesty. It's an image to evoke terror, to herald destruction.

And yet that isn't what flashes across the tortured reaches of your mind. Instead there's... Recognition.

Yes... You've seen it... her... before. That's impossible. Where could... How... But it's true. Seen her face, heard her voice.

The dragon roars. You ignore it. Trying to distract you, stop you thinking. Pain explodes across your consciousness, a million different agonies screaming for your attention. You thrust them aside.

Where was it? What did she say?

"I see further still, to a time when your blood will flow across the void, blazing beneath a thousand burning suns."

There!

A door, so utterly sealed that it had melded into the very fabric of your mind, hidden behind a facade of nonexistence, flies open. No, not a door... A dam, breaking apart and unleashing the flood.

Oceans of sight and sound and smell and taste and texture crash down in one gigantic wave, an existential tsunami that washes over the dragon's face and scatters it into disparate colors once more. Only the eyes remain, disembodied and furious.

"There!" the unseen woman shrieks.

It isn't a cry of anguish. There's anxiousness, desperation, but also... victory. This is what she wanted. What she thrust herself into your mind to steal. No... it's more. She didn't expect all this. She's shocked, filled with avaricious glee. An ocean of impossible memory, so vast and varied as to be incomprehensible. But even now you can see little pieces of lucidity among it all, like crystals awash on the tide. Recollections that can be grasped and understood.

Dozens of hands are reaching for them, grabbing, snatching -- trying to loot what they can. Part of you yearns to join them, to take hold of these priceless treasures, unravel them and fathom them, gain their forbidden knowledge.

There isn't time. You have to stop them before they can pillage your mind, before they get what they want and can dispose of you while you lie helpless on the metal table.

Recognizing the dragon opened the way for them. Provided them with a shortcut to their plunder. It's served you as well, however. Your mind is clear, freed from the draconic assault. It's still swarming with invaders, but they're busy looting...

You have a chance. Could battle free, take command of your body, and... No. Still fastened to the table. Strong bonds. Trapped. Need a different plan, another strategy.

Oh... Their minds are in yours. Connected...

You rise up from the darkness, filling your flesh like warm liquid poured into a mold. Once it reaches your lips, you speak.

"Kasan."

The word bursts from your mouth and the dark fire flares around the edges of your vision. Agony, despair... Torment jabbing itself into each fold of your brain.

"Kasan."

Illaria's standing there, screaming in anguish. The Emperor's fist strikes her face, explodes her skull, bursts her brain.

"Kasan."

Redness. Everywhere redness. Forever and ever. And you understand.

"Kasan."

People are screaming. Some are in your mind, some are in your memories, some are around you. It doesn't matter. All the same.

You understand. The power of your blood, the thing these people want to steal... Awakened by trauma, by fury, by anguish. By the sight of Illaria's death. Redness. Power and pain bound together, inextricably woven. One and the same. That's why...

"Kasan."

Illaria. Death. Failure. Grief.

They tear through you like bullets, shredding your sanity. But shredding theirs as well. And they've never experienced it before...

"Kasan."

They aren't as strong as you. This is a power they have no right to.

They're staggering, screaming, thrashing. Hands are pressed to heads, as though trying to hold their skulls together. Blood's gushing from ears, spilling out under the masks from noses and mouths.

"Kasan!"

The shout is the judgment of the universe, irresistible and final. You wrench your body, feel the metal yield and break as your wrists tear free, your neck rip its way through the strap.

A million Illarias die before your eyes. Your heart dies a million deaths.

But they die too.

The masked men and women fall, a collection of arrhythmic thuds. You can hear them convulsing on the floor, their hemorrhaging brains making them dance like broken puppets.

You smile as you tumble into the familiar blackness.

Kalaxian Cult-Mistress

"Urgh..."

The groan comes from somewhere above your head, drawing your swimming mind into half-consciousness.

The unseen woman... She must have got out of your mind in time -- escaped before taking the brunt of it. Only knocked out instead of killed like the others. You were both unconscious. Sleeping enemies.

"You..." she murmurs.

She's groggy, but she's pulling herself together. It doesn't matter. You're free now.

You swing your legs off the metal table. Your feet are unsteady when they touch the floor. You have to grab the table to steady yourself.

There's the cult's mistress -- down on one knee, recovering her strength just as you are. Her mask is different from the others. It only covers the upper half of her face, revealing her pursed lips below. Four cyan eyes glimmer from its metal, giving it a strange, alien appearance. Flowing black hair and azure robes pool around her in waves, making her seem drowned and disheveled.

"Just so you know," you say, "I'm going to beat some answers out of you before I kill you."

The woman's lips draw back in a sneer.

"Kalaxia watches over me."

She grabs for the weapons at her belt.

She cries out in horror or surprise. It's hard to tell which, and a woman who's had a corpse thrown at her might be entitled to either emotion.

You didn't have a weapon. She had two, one of them ranged. You had to do something about that... So you dropped down when she started shooting, using the table for cover, grabbed a corpse, and hurled it at her.

The pistol flies from her hand, dislodged by her minion's posthumous betrayal.

You vault over the table before she can recover it, forcing her to meet your attack with her sword alone. It's a fine weapon from the looks of it -- a broad blade sheathed in pulsing, crackling cyan energy. But a sword's only as good as the arm that wields it.

She swings the weapon in both hands. You step in close and grab her forearms, thwarting the blow. She howls in frustration. Then she screams in pain, as the sole of your boot stomps at her leg -- inverting her knee joint with sickening crunch. The sword falls from her grasp, sparking and clattering on the floor.

But you don't let her fall to join it. Instead you keep your grasp on her arms, holding her up even as she desperately tries to keep the weight off her broken leg -- not an easy task when your body is trying to collapse that way.

"Now, about those questions..."

"Kalaxia!" the woman shrieks.

Blood gushes from her nose, erupts from her ears with so much force that it shoots from her head in either direction like a pair of crimson blaster bolts.

A psionic suicide technique. The equivalent of a cyanide-filled tooth.

You shrug, and let her body fall.

Even if you can't question her, you have something. Kalaxia... You can do some investigating, and see where that name leads. You doubt a bunch of lunatic, uniformed cultists have gone unnoticed in their forays around the galaxy.

And you have more besides...

You remember. The places you went with Sun Xi, the things she showed you... Much of it is a blur, just as it was back then. A swift sensory experience. But some of it remains clear and firm. You remember the woman you met in that place of nothingness, the warrior from a long-forgotten world. The hero who helped you find your way back home.

Forbidden knowledge shimmers in your mind.

You doubt you'll be having that dream tonight... </tabber>

LotS/The Story/Because I'm The Wanderer

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