LotS/The Story/Between Heaven and Hell
<tabber>
"Intro"= Alexa didn't scream this time.
The same nightmare coalesced around her when she returned to consciousness. Inescapable material held her from beneath, from head to heel. Her naked body was embedded in the surface she lay upon, sunk inches deep into oppressive, claustrophobic softness. Cold restraints held her forehead, wrists, and ankles, completing her entrapment. Binding her like a sacrifice upon an altar, an offering to the monster that loomed above her imprisoned form.
It glared at her from glittering cyan orbs in an azure reptilian head. Savage jaws were on the verge of opening, poised to speak damning words or descend and swallow her. Even now, staring into the terrible visage for the second time, knowing its nature, Alexa Haelia's heart beat faster. The perspective and bright, vivid colors were chilling in their perfection. A painting so utterly real that it made the world around it seem phantasmal. She averted her eyes, focusing on the strange machinery instead. Illuminated contraptions blared light at the edges of her field of vision. Black cables snaked from them and sucked at the contacts fastened to her bare flesh.
And there was something far, far worse than all this. She was alone. No voices spoke from within, offering guidance, protection, and the destructive power they commanded. Their absence was a gaping void, wider and more awful than the dragon's maw would be once it opened. For the first time since she was a teenager, her flames were distant, voiceless. An intangible flicker buried deep in her being. Smothered into silence by inscrutable forces.
A nightmare. The same appalling, abominable predicament that had made Alexa shriek on her prior awakening. But now she was quiet, even as fear and panic threatened to burst through her mouth -- scattering shattered teeth in all directions. Because last time her screams had brought the old woman.
She shivered. The face hovered in her memories, with its skeletal aspect and parchment-like skin drawn tight over the bones. And those eyes... Lidless mutilations, glowing multifaceted cyan gemstones that had neither pupil nor iris, yet bored into her brain. The old woman hadn't said a word. She'd simply stared at Alexa, like the dragon, gazing down with no expression on her ancient features.
How long had the woman stood over her? Minutes? Hours? An eternity. Saying nothing as questions and pleas for mercy trembled from her lips. Just staring, until skittering insects had crawled through Alexa Haelia's mind...
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Her eyes widened. The woman! She could read Alexa's thoughts! She was returning, summoned by memory and fear, returning to pierce her with those-
But when a face floated into her sphere of vision, it belonged to a younger woman in an azure robe. Raven-black hair framed a countenance that was softer and fuller than the crone's. Almost pretty.
The stranger reached towards her. Alexa flinched, tried to burrow deeper into the soft prison.
Warm, gentle fingers stroked her cheek.
"My name is Emera Tresc."
"Help me! Please! I-"
"Don't be afraid, Alexa."
The tenderness in the woman's voice was impossibly soothing. Her other hand rose into view. It held an expanse of shimmering silk, an elegant blanket that she laid across Alexa -- covering the pyrokineticist's nakedness.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"Because you have so much potential inside you. The wyrm-mother sees it."
Emera Tresc pointed to the ceiling. Then she turned and walked away.
"Wait! I-"
But the woman was gone. Alexa's eyes gazed upwards once more, straight ahead of her. And she gave a start. She'd been mistaken... The dragon's mouth wasn't opening in viciousness, to spew deathly words and rend bone.
It was smiling. Smiling down at her... |-|
"If Angels Fight (1)"= If Angels Fight (1)
"When asked for comment, the senator grabbed the flag, fired his gun in the air, and jumped through the nearest window. He remains at large." The newscaster smiled from the holographic screen, displaying teeth so dazzling they appeared to glow. "And in interstellar news, tension continues to mount between the angels."
A garish graphic consumed the screen, while an invisible choir sang what sounded like a catchy jingle version of a medieval hymn. Three cartoon angels glared at each other for a second. Then they started scrapping, until their solid-color bodies disappeared in a turbulent ball of smoke, flashing stars, and streams of nonsensical text symbols. The words "Trouble in Paradise" flashed over the cartoon carnage.
The image disappeared, revealing the anchor once more. The radioactive smile still lingered on his face.
"Let's go over to Mindy Mazmarth on Jerusalem Maior for more on the story."
The screen spilt in two, shunting the anchor over to the left while a new window opened on the right. It showed a woman with a perky smile and a turquoise blouse.
"I'm Mindy Mazmarth, reporting from Jerusalem Maior."
"The viewers already know that, Mindy. I just told them."
"Go to hell, Roy. And while you're there, tell your mother she raised a douchebag." Her smile remained unbroken save for a slight twitch at the corner, and her voice maintained the same tone as she continued. "This world has been the focal point of several theological and political disputes over the years. But analysts believe matters are coming to a head, and if not handled carefully could spill out into widespread armed conflict. The Archangels, who control Jerusalem Maior, are under pressure from the Fallen Angels and the Electric Angels, religious offshoot groups who each demand full access to the planet and its Grand Temple."
"I understand that talks are scheduled to begin tomorrow, in the hope of resolving the situation."
"That's right. Prime Minister Wu Tenchu of the Sian Empire arrived here this morning. Wu, one of human space's most respected political figures, has been chosen to act as an arbitrator during the summit. Meanwhile, dignitaries from several other UHW members are also on-world -- meeting with the different angel factions."
"And I hear a number of celebrities are lending their dubious support to the cause."
"Yes, in the proud tradition of celebrity attention whoring, singers, actors, athletes, and socialites have flocked to Jerusalem Maior to promote peace through concerts, film festivals, and other events that nobody asked for and, by and large, nobody wants. The one that's garnered the most attention is the upcoming thugby match pitting the Sian Dragons-"
The screen went blank, banishing the anchor and reporter. The woman in the spaceship's stateroom had heard enough. She rose from her chair and crossed the chamber, to where a full-length mirror adorned the wall. Hard eyes stared back at her from a middle-aged face, beneath a bob of dark, close-cropped hair. There was a tattoo on the reflected woman's right cheek. A hand rose, and two fingers traced the mark's outline.
She held the reflection's gaze for several long moments. Then the face shifted, its features flowing and rippling like water. When the ripples had settled, a young, pretty woman gazed at her from bright, warm eyes. The tattoo was gone.
Her fingers brushed the bare skin where it had been.
"Soon..." she whispered.
"Here come the Dragons, Bob!"
Jesse Shark's voice rang out over the stadium, projected from the commentary booth nestled high among the boxes. Emerald green figures were emerging from the tunnel onto the field below.
"There's Talia Ryx," his partner, Bob 'Blam' Boser said, "leading her team out. You know, Jesse, if I was a Sian Dragon, I'd have a few words with my captain right about now. A friendly match? What's that all about?"
"And there we have our first indecent gesture of the day. I don't think Talia appreciated that comment, Bob. But for anyone out there who's just joining us, this match between the Dragons and the Angels has indeed been declared a 'friendly'. That means the players won't try to maim or kill each other."
"Is it thugby or hopscotch? I can't believe they made us come out here for this!"
"Fans of thugby-related fatalities like my broadcast colleague may be disappointed, but this match is being heralded as a wonderful diplomatic event. Look -- there are the Angels! This brand new team includes members from the Archangels, Electric Angels, and Fallen Angels. They've all set aside their differences, come together, and put on the same armor for this special charity match. Come on, Bob! Isn't that what sport's all about? Bringing people together?"
"Not thugby! It's about tearing them apart and eating their organs! Blood and guts, Jesse! Blood and guts!"
"Ha! Okay, Bob! But still, in the middle of all this religious and political turmoil..."
"Save the speech! The teams are getting into position, and we're about to get started."
"The referee's tossed the ball in, and there's the scrum. This may be a friendly, but those punches they're throwing sure aren't! That Snuuth Angel knocked Kai Wung spinning!"
"But look at Virgil Jackson, Jesse! He's swinging at Angels left and right. It's like a scene from Paradise Lost!"
"Nice literary reference, Bob! You liked Milton's poem?"
"Poem? I watched the movie! Poetry's for losers, Jesse!"
"Oh! 'Great Wall' Guan just broke through, and he has the ball! He's running down the pitch! And one of the Angels' defenders is heading over to intercept him... The number on her armor is 'Rom 12.1'... According to my display, that's Mary Ronara, one of the Fallen Angels."
"Rom 12.1? What kind of number's that?"
"It's a Bible verse, Bob! All of the Angels are wearing their favorite Bible verses as numbers. Ronara's fast... She's cutting across the field and moving in for a front tackle. This could be a mistake! Oh... Did you see that?"
"Guan smashed through her like she was the queue at an 'all you can eat' buffet! He launched her straight into the crowd! Where's her God now?"
"Bob! You can't say things like that on Jerusalem Maior! The local fans will lynch us... Or crucify us!"
"They've got other things to worry about right now, Jesse. That's a touchdown! One-nil to the Dragons!"
"Mary Ronara's staggering back onto the field, and her teammates are going over to help her. They... Wow!"
"Ha! He shoved her on her ass! And now he's yelling at her!"
"That's '2 Sam 23.12', Tarzark Krun of the Electric Angels."
"He's blaming her for the touchdown!"
"That's not really fair, Bob! I'd like to see Krun try to stop 'Great Wall' Guan when he's charging at full speed!"
"Another Angel's getting in his face now! And... I knew it! The punches are flying, Jesse!"
"Look at that! Talia Ryx and Leif Gunderson are pulling the fighting Angels apart!"
"Spoilsports! Ha! But they're too late! The rest of the Angels are getting in on the action! They're all beating the hell out of their own teammates!"
"The entire Sian Dragons team is trying to separate them, Bob -- but they aren't having much luck. What a disaster for this well-intentioned diplomatic effort..."
"You know what they say about the road to hell, Jesse."
"What?"
"No idea... But in a couple of minutes you'll be able to pick up a Ouija board and ask some of those Angels down there!"
Wrath of Heaven
"Remember, kids," Talia said, "stay in school!"
She signed the glossy photograph, a picture of herself in full thugby armor save for her helmet, and passed it to the little girl in the pink dress.
"Why?" the girl asked. "School sucks!"
"Because..." Talia, who'd never cared much for education either, at least until she'd entered the military, groped for a suitable reply. "Because you'll learn stuff!"
"Is that where you learned how to knee Gut-Phager in the face?" asked the boy in the yellow shirt.
"Yes. Yes, it is."
An expression of dubiousness creased the girl's face. It imbued her with an adorable seriousness. She looked to Telemachus, who was standing beside the thugby-playing gunslinger.
"Do you go to school?"
"Me? I-"
"Of course he does," Talia said. She clamped a hand on her companion's shoulder, and gave it just enough of a painful squeeze to dissuade him from revealing that he spent his time playing videogames and chainsaw-massacring people instead. "If you want to be a prince, you have to get a good education."
The boy in the yellow shirt stared first at the prince and then at Talia, his jaw gaping.
"You mean if I get good grades, I can be a prince?"
"No-" Telemachus began. "Ow!"
He rubbed his shoulder and glared.
"No kidding!" Talia said. "So be good to your teachers!"
The boy and girl ran off, clutching their signed photographs.
"That hurt!" the prince said.
"Sorry, Tel. I was just being responsible."
"How're good grades going to make him a prince?"
"Maybe they'll impress a princess, and she'll marry him."
The two of them sauntered down the plaza, as they'd been doing when the children accosted Talia for autographs. Shoppers milled around them in streaming crowds, hunting for bargains amongst the stalls and stores. Other inhabitants of Jerusalem Maior merely seemed to be enjoying the evening air -- made fragrant by the food vendors' scented delicacies and refreshing by the spray from ornate fountains.
Talia and Telemachus observed them as they passed by. If these people believed they stood on the brink of war, they gave no sign.
"Maybe Wu was wrong," the prince said.
"How often does that happen?"
"Yeah..."
But everything she'd seen and heard, at least after the unfortunate thugby match, had helped quell the gunslinger's concerns. After watching the news, she'd expected the streets of the capital city to be flowing with blood. Stupid journalists...
If it had been anyone other than Wu Tenchu who'd given her this assignment, she'd have shrugged her shoulders and hit the bars. Or left the planet with her teammates. But it was hard to refuse the mandarin. The fact that she was captain of the Sian Dragons in the first place was testament to that. So when he'd told the four companions to gauge the mood on the capital's streets, Talia, Telemachus, Ragnar, and Lu Bu had acquiesced. The prime minister had even suggested that they might use their status as war heroes to insinuate themselves into groups of the winged warriors. After all, hadn't members of the three angel factions joined the fight against the Centurian Collective?
"Maybe I'll call the others," Talia said, "and we'll grab dinner."
If she was going to mill around the streets, she mused, she might as well do it on a full stomach. She pulled her communicator out of her pocket. The sub-vocal device implanted in her throat could have sent her words straight to Ragnar's ear or Lu Bu's computerized brain. However, after she'd been woken up by raucous Niflung drunk talk on more than one occasion, and following a few awkward conversations in which voices had sounded in ears whilst biological or romantic matters were being tended to, the friends had agreed by mutual consent to only use those devices for emergencies.
"Talia..."
"Hang on, Tel..." She reached for the button.
"Talia!"
"What?" She looked up. "Oh..."
The captain of the Sian Dragons broke into a run. Telemachus wasn't far behind.
Further down the plaza, two winged forms were yelling and gesticulating while a crowd looked on. One was a man, dressed in the blue and white of the Electric Angels. The other was a woman, wearing the black garb, wings, and halo of the Fallen Angels. Even from this distance, Talia recognized them from when the Angels and Dragons had met prior to taking the field.
"Useless cow!" the man shouted. "I'd have stopped the fat twerp!"
"Yeah?" the woman retorted. "Then stop this!"
Her fist crashed against his jaw.
Blessed Are The Peacemakers
"Bitch!"
"Bastard!"
"Heretic!"
"Techno-tosser!"
"Jezebel!"
"Circuit-screwer!"
"Emo brat!"
The insults were flying as thick and fast as the punches. Each angel had grabbed the other with one hand, and was bombarding them with punches from the other. Talia had seen drunken hockey players fighting with more skill and finesse.
Some of the crowd stared in silence. But others were yelling cheers or taunts at the belligerents. Comments on sporting prowess and theology mingled in the air.
"Yeah! Learn to play thugby, you harpy!"
"Technotheists are going to hell!"
"What would Jesus say?"
"Jesus would have done a better tackle, that's for damn sure!"
"Ha! The Fallen's crying!"
"Those are painted on, douchebag!"
"Destroy the puny human!"
"They're both human, you bubble-headed prat!"
"Then destroy them both!"
More than a few onlookers were aiming electronic devices at the spectacle, recording footage which was no doubt already being scattered across cyberspace. And to make matters worse, a handful of the spectators were jostling and shoving.
Talia was a thugby player. She knew just how quickly a crowd could become a rioting mob.
"Out of the way!" The gunslinger shouldered a path through the thinnest part of the pack. "Move!"
"Oi!"
One of the men she barged past reached out to grab her. But the woman he was with grasped his arm.
"That's Talia Ryx!" she hissed. "The thugby player! She'll rip your guts out and slap you silly with them!"
The gunslinger filed that one away for future use. Then she was at the front of the crowd, and it was time to act.
"Hey! Quit it!" she exclaimed.
Both angels continued beating away at each other. Talia hadn't really expected that to work, but it had been worth a try... She wondered whether she should draw her pistols and inflict a few non-lethal wounds to separate them. A blasted-off kneecap was sure to take the fight out of someone. Yet in a rare moment of wise contemplation, it occurred to her that this might be one of the very few situations in life which wouldn't be improved by gunfire. In fact, that might even make things worse.
So instead she wrapped her arm around the Electric Angel's neck, pulled him into a headlock, and dragged him away.
"Get off me!"
He thrashed and struggled. She tightened her hold and spun him around to wreck his balance.
"Hold that jerk, so I can rip his face off!"
The Fallen Angel lunged at the grapplers.
"Stay back!" Talia put her body between the two angels. "I'll-"
Telemachus darted in front of the black-winged woman.
"Move it, kid!"
He kicked her in the shin.
"Argh!" She hopped on one leg, her hands clamped around her injured bone. "You little brat!"
She put her leg down, glared at the prince, and clenched her fists. But some semblance of propriety restrained her. Being recorded beating up children? Having such footage spread across human space? For a religious order, the optics weren't good.
So she moved to go around him instead. And was rewarded with a second kick.
"Get lost!" the boy said.
"You show her, Tel!" Talia grinned.
But it faltered on her face as the crowd fell back around her. They were making room for the group of Electric Angels running over from one side of the plaza, and for the Fallen Angels who approached from the other.
Behemoth
"So I said, 'Transubstantiate this!' and hit him in the face!"
The other Archangels around the table roared with laughter. Ragnar didn't see what was so funny. Perhaps you had to have been there... But he had a few pitchers of beer inside him, and inebriation was as good as humor. So he chuckled along.
Quaffing continued in silence for some moments. The rest of the Niflung's angelic drinking partners may have been wondering how they could possibly follow a story involving the punching of a pope. But at last one of them, a young man with a cherubic face and golden curls, turned to Ragnar and spoke.
"Joel said you know Jian [Player Name]."
Glasses were lowered. Every eye looked from the youth to the omnicidal mercenary.
"Yeah," Ragnar replied.
"Is it true? Did he really murder all those-"
The Niflung held up his finger, forestalling the rest. A voice rang out in his ear.
"Ragnar! Get to the main plaza! Electrics and Fallens are fighting!"
"On my way!" The words were sub-vocal. So when he rose from the table amidst the Archangels' stares, he said, "I need to smash someone."
"Wait!" the young man exclaimed. He raised soft hands to shield his face. "I was only asking a question! I-"
"Not you."
"Oh..."
Joel, the commander whose pope-bashing story had evoked such laughter, caught Ragnar's arm.
"Is this something I should know about?"
The Niflung paused. He was brash. And by the standards of humanity at large, possibly a raging psychopath. But he wasn't stupid. Dragging another faction into the battle would be like throwing beer and axes over the wall of a young offender institution: amusing, but not necessarily helpful.
"You should keep drinking," Ragnar said.
The angel shrugged and followed his advice.
People swarmed across the plaza, running towards, away from, or around the commotion in the manner of disarrayed masses of humanity everywhere. This might have proven an impediment to most individuals. But when a hefty mass of muscle and cybernetic augmentation charges, everyone else has a choice between getting out of the way or ending up splattered across a brawny chest like a bug on a windshield. As one might expect, the bystanders elected for the former.
So Ragnar thundered through a widening channel. And he came upon the pack of Fallen Angels who were rushing to join the battle.
"Ragnar!" The gunslinger's voice sounded in his ear once more. "Stop them!"
"Done."
"Don't kill them!"
The Niflung grunted. He stepped in front of the black-clad angels. As it happened, the one at the front of the pack was a Snuuth -- a massive alien who cut a ridiculous figure in his tight outfit, painted tears, and a halo which nestled atop his egg-shaped head like a ring that was in the process of landing on a peg to score victory at a carnival game. He didn't slow down, trusting to his mass and momentum as Ragnar had done. The Snuuth trusted in vain.
Ragnar grabbed him by neck and groin in mid-charge, hoisted him high overhead, and tossed him into a nearby fountain. A torrent of displaced water splashed over the bystanders.
Three other Fallen Angels halted. They looked from the Niflung to the flopping, foundering Snuuth, and back again. But to their credit, they weren't cowed for long. The three of them hurled themselves at Ragnar. One wrapped herself around his brawny arm and tried to apply a flying armbar. She ended up hanging from the powerful limb like an oversized barnacle. Another shot in for a single-leg takedown. He may as well have tried to tackle a tree trunk. The third leapt on the Niflung's back and threw a rear naked choke around his neck.
"Remember what I said about not killing them!"
Ragnar grunted once more. But he conducted himself with laudable restraint, and broke very few bones.
No Respecter of Angels
"You don't have a soul," the priest said. "Ergo, you aren't alive."
"An interesting hypothesis," Lu Bu replied. "So by this logic your status as a living being is defined by the notion that you do indeed possess a soul?"
"Yes. My soul confers-"
"May I see it?"
"...the gift of..." The priest frowned. "Excuse me?"
"Your soul... I would like to examine it, and establish to what extent it proves or disproves your theory."
"I can't show you my soul, godless machine! It's incorporeal! Intangible!"
"Unverifiable? Though perhaps one might argue that psionic abilities or the use of what certain friends of mine refer to as 'chi' constitutes evidence. Are you psychic, by any chance?"
"No!"
"Or a kung fu expert capable of causing grievous wounds with his bare fists?"
"I..." The priest appeared to consider this, before opting for veracity. "No."
"Then it would appear that... Ah, forgive me. I have an incoming transmission."
"Lu Bu!" Talia's voice spoke within his mechanical mind. "We need help in the main plaza!"
"Understood." The robot bowed to the priest. "I'm afraid I must go. But I do hope we can continue this discussion at a later time. Perhaps you will have located your soul by then."
The priest frowned.
"That was intended to be a joke," Lu Bu said.
"I'll find my soul when you've found your sense of humor, robot."
"Lu Bu!"
This time Talia's voice reached him via his auditory sensors. She was on the ground, holding an Electric Angel in a headlock and pinning him down beneath her. A second adversary, this one a Fallen Angel, was entangled by the gunslinger's legs. Both angels were struggling, but neither seemed able to break her holds.
Telemachus had his latest gizmo in his hand -- a pocket-sized, flip-out version of his laser-edged chainsaw. He was waving the whirring weapon from side to side. A group of angels advanced on him, but scattered away in terror whenever he lunged in their direction.
Ragnar blundered around some yards away from the others. Perhaps half a dozen Fallen Angels clung to him like cats, struggling to immobilize his limbs and bring him down. As the robot watched, one of the angels went flying, launched by the Niflung's arm. Another hurtled over the crowd when he kicked out with his right leg.
But there were more angels, both Electric and Fallen, who had made it past Lu Bu's companions. Now they brawled in the middle of the plaza. It was to this fracas that Talia's cry directed him.
He strode into the fray, his amplified voice blaring.
"Cease this violent action, or as a concerned bystander I shall feel obliged to put a stop to it through physical force. And though I will make a concerted effort not to inflict irreparable damage-"
A Fallen Angel woman turned around and punched him in the face. As she was barehanded, and he made of metal, the ensuing cry of pain was her own. Lu Bu capitalized on her folly by throwing her over with an aikido wristlock takedown. She hit the ground hard. Air rushed out of her lungs, taking her belligerence with it.
"Wretched robot! I shall destroy you with my superior theology!"
The Rylattu angel leapt at Lu Bu. A metal fist struck the middle of the alien's blue face just hard enough to cause serious soft tissue damage without fracturing the skull beneath. It proved more than adequate.
"Your mechanical body is a tribute to God," a Snuuth Electric Angel informed him. "Don't make me break it!"
"I wouldn't advise you to try."
The Snuuth refused to heed his advice, so Lu Bu shattered the angel's collarbone with a swift, sharp chop of his hand.
He hoped the city's hospitals would prove accommodating.
Sky Commander Bethany
"Sky commander." Wu Tenchu bowed.
"Prime minister." Bethany returned the gesture.
She stood in the middle of the training chamber, outlined against the colorful magnificence of the stained glass windows behind her. Each of them depicted an angel brandishing a sword. They flanked her on either side, a battalion of illustrated warriors standing as though ready to do her bidding.
The sky commander was dressed in a suit of wingless training armor that covered her from the neck downwards in sleek, tight-fitting brown material decorated with strips of glowing blue light. She wore no helmet, disclosing short chestnut hair that had been disheveled by her exertions, and an attractive face that might have belonged to a woman decades younger. A pair of bright, intelligent eyes held Master Wu's gaze. They seemed to him both more radiant than the stained glass and more piercing than the weapons which lined one of the walls.
She held a broad-bladed knife in reverse grip -- tip pointing downwards from the bottom of her hand. It was a practice blade. A faint light blue shimmer danced around the metal, promising to coalesce into a protective sheath when the weapon was wielded.
Her sparring partner, a woman both taller and broader across the shoulders than the mandarin, bowed to him as well before leaving the chamber.
"I apologize for my lateness," Wu Tenchu said when the two of them were alone. "Vanessa and Arianus each named their spaceships as the locations for our preliminary discussions. I've only just returned from orbit."
"Should I be worried that you visited both my counterparts before you came to see me?"
"A leader should always worry. But I merely wished to acquaint myself with them in person."
"And your opinion?"
"They seemed... displeased by my involvement in the matter. But they were willing to converse."
"The UHW endorsed your presence here. They can't afford to alienate the rest of human space, and risk making my faction look like the reasonable party."
"Their convictions are powerful. Yet neither is blind to reality. I believe the three of you can reach a compromise."
Bethany's mouth twitched, but the sentence went unformed and unspoken.
"Unless there are things of which I'm unaware." His words were almost, but not quite, intoned as a question. There was a second or two of silence. He broke it himself, before it could evolve into something uncomfortable. "May I?"
He gestured at another training dagger, the twin of the weapon the sky commander held.
"Please," she said.
Wu Tenchu took the dagger from its wall mount and inspected it.
"I've heard you have some skill with blades," Bethany added.
"A modicum, perhaps."
"Will you indulge me?"
"It would be impolite to refuse one's hostess."
"Touché."
Bethany spoke the word out of instinct, but it was unnecessary. The strike was indisputable. Master Wu had deflected her arm and slipped behind her with the swiftness of a cobra. His training blade was still pressed against her back. Its blue energy field throbbed, tickling her flesh even through her outfit.
She took a step forward and turned to face him. They both bowed.
"An assassin's blow," she said. "How very interesting."
"Perhaps politicians and assassins are simply kindred spirits?"
"Or-"
Twin bleeps came from their communicators.
They each answered, listened, and met one another's gaze.
"The plaza," Bethany said. |-|
"If Angels Fight (2)"= If Angels Fight (2)
"...the amateur footage shows a brawl between members of the Electric Angels and Fallen Angels, Roy."
"A disturbing turn of events, Mindy." The anchor's happy smile didn't diminish one iota. "Were there any fatalities?"
The words "Death Count" appeared in the corner of the screen, beneath a rolling number display which showed a sequence of zeros. The length of this counter indicated that someone was either absurdly pessimistic or ghoulishly optimistic.
"No. The violence resulted in over a dozen injuries requiring medical attention, but none were life-threatening."
The graphic disappeared with a sad pop.
"That's fortunate for the population of Jerusalem Maior," Roy said. "Bloodshed could have quickly spread across the planet."
"They can thank a few good Samaritans for that. The vids show a group of bystanders intervening to prevent the fight from getting out of hand. And they've been identified as Talia Ryx..."
A picture appeared on the screen. It showed a sports stadium, where a woman wearing emerald armor was in the process of smashing a large man's jaw with a flying knee.
"...captain of the Sian Dragons thugby team, Ragnar Ragnarsson..."
Another picture replaced the first. This one was also of a sporting arena, though it contained a ring instead of a field. A hulking Niflung stood on the canvas, cleaving a man's head in two.
"...a notorious mercenary, Prince Telemachus..."
The third picture contained a young boy with a bright, merry face. He wore a conical party hat on his head, and brandished a laser-edged chainsaw from which wrapping paper hung in ruined scraps.
"...the ruler of Gallea, and a robot named Lu Bu..."
A fourth image supplanted the third. It showed a long chamber lined with tiers of plush green benches, teeming with hordes of politicians. Some had their backs turned, whilst others looked on in horror as a robot incapacitated one of their number with a jujitsu hold.
"...seen here assaulting a Novocastrian politician."
"But what effect has all this had on the upcoming negotiations, Mindy?"
"Sky Commander Bethany of the Archangels, the faction in control of Jerusalem Maior, was quick to respond. Just minutes after the incident ended, she released a statement promising that the talks would go ahead as planned."
The newscast turned to other matters of apparent galactic importance, such as the arrests of mediocre TV stars and the increasing demand for penguins on Pluto. The woman in the stateroom let this babble wash over her unheeded.
She stood before the chamber's large window, gazing out into the void.
Jerusalem Maior floated in the distance. Shoals of spacecraft hovered beyond its atmosphere, forming a glittering belt. She could just make out the clustered Electric Angel and Fallen Angel fleets.
It was almost time.
God's Is The Quarrel
Sunlight fell in glorious golden waves, filtered and directed by the chamber's windows so that its illumination shone upon each of the frescos which adorned the walls. Angels flew, fought, and prayed there -- captured by an artist's brush and vision, laid out in celestial wonder and the style of Earth's Renaissance.
The aureate luminescence fell on angels of flesh and blood too, sat around a table. They were wingless. Those appendages had been relinquished for comfort and convenience, as they always were at such gatherings. Diplomacy flowed better without sudden movements leading to the buffeting of arms and heads.
The other angelic attendees were clad in their finery. Blue energy flowed and throbbed beneath the transparent areas of Arianus Zelb's armor. Intricate patterns of silver circuitry decorated the opaque white plates he wore alongside them. Even his cybernetic eye gleamed. Vanessa, the woman who called herself "the Lamenter" in lieu of a surname, wore black tears of animated anguish. They dripped down her cheeks in an eternal stream, unending sorrow. An ornate halo, a black crown of twisted thorns, floated above her night-black locks.
But Sky Commander Bethany was dressed in sparring armor. It might have been the very same suit she wore when she challenged Master Wu, and later as she spoke to the assembled journalists. If so, it had been cleaned and polished since then. Yet it remained a simple, Spartan affair at such a gathering.
Wu Tenchu pondered this. The Archangels held the power. Jerusalem Maior was theirs to control, however much the others yearned for it. Was her choice of dress a gesture of humility? An attempt to avoid the appearance of arrogance? Or did Bethany intend her martial aspect to remind the others of her faction's superior military prowess?
The mandarin had elected to dress in modest fashion himself, albeit for other purposes. He was an observer and mediator. It would have been unseemly to arrive in any of the luxurious robes that filled his prime ministerial wardrobe. Thus he and the sky commander were a matching pair in their austerity. He hoped this wouldn't be regarded as evidence of illicit collusion.
Bethany began by formally introducing Wu Tenchu to the others, as though his private meetings on the previous evening had never occurred.
"Thank you, Prime Minister Wu, for lending us your impartial wisdom and political acumen."
Such pleasantries were fleeting. Their echoes had barely died before the quarreling began.
"We're willing to repeal the Third Jerusalemic Proclamation," Bethany said, "and allow both Electric Angels and Fallen Angels to make pilgrimages here. If they pledge not to disrupt the religious activities of other pilgrims with unwelcome proselytizing, or attempt to destabilize planetary order, theological disagreements need no longer-"
"And the Grand Temple?" Vanessa asked. She waved her hand to the side, encompassing the room in which they sat.
"The Archangels would of course retain control of it. But certain areas could be opened to outsiders on specific-"
Arianus Zelb's cybernetic eye flashed.
"Then the temple's..." He glanced at Wu Tenchu, before looking back at the sky commander. "...contents would be sealed away from us?"
"You have no right to claim them as your own, sky commander," Vanessa said. "Those..."
She too looked at the prime minister.
"...items belong to all the faithful."
"This is vexing, Bethany," Zelb said. "Did you request Prime Minister Wu's presence here to prevent us from speaking openly? So we couldn't talk of the most sensitive matter before us?"
Bethany stood, and planted her hands on the table.
"That was never open to negotiation. The temple's treasures must-"
Arianus Zelb leapt up, as though enraged by the sky commander's words. But neither his natural eye nor its cybernetic counterpart were focused on her. His left hand was cupped against his ear.
Communicators blared, emitting emergency signals. The door flew open and an Archangel ran into the chamber, a blaster in his hands.
"Sky commander!" he said. "We-"
Zelb shot him in the face.
Tree of Knowledge
"What the hell was that?"
Saiton Miyoto, captain of the Tesla Storm, followed his words onto the bridge. There a huge screen displayed a larger, closer, more terrible view of what he'd seen in miniature through the window. It answered his question and stole his breath.
Explosions bloomed in the blackness of space, triggering phantom sounds of hellish destruction from the captain's aural implant.
"It's the Unutterable Equation, sir!" Jasma Sunnhar, his second in command said, in tones of utter disbelief.
But Captain Miyoto had already recognized their flagship's beautiful contours and mighty engines. They were as distinctive as a friend's face, even in death. Burning fragments floated from the wreckage. The void ate their flames.
"Who fired on us?" the captain demanded. "The Fallens or the Archangels?"
"I don't-"
Sunnhar gaped at the screen. Another fiery detonation had burst into being, this one in the depths of the screen -- beyond their dying vessel. She slid her hand over her console and the image zoomed towards it.
Aural implants boomed and roared once more.
A sleek black spacecraft, like an ebony blade, was perishing beneath the weight of a dozen explosions. It was the Tears of Nazareth, Vanessa the Lamenter's flagship.
Saiton Miyoto jabbed at his command panel and opened a channel to the rest of the Electric Angel fleet.
"Who initiated that attack? Who-"
The entire bridge shuddered.
"We've been hit!" Sunnhar cried.
"Return fire!" the captain ordered.
The picture on the big view screen had zoomed out again. Now it displayed a tableau of darting ships and glowing streams of weapons fire that lanced across the void in all directions.
Three fleets clashed in the dark heavens above Jerusalem Maior.
Screams and explosions rang through the Grand Temple's corridors. Groups of Archangels ran towards the sounds of devastation, their panoplies clattering, wings unfurling, weapons ready to inflict retribution.
In the midst of the chaos, a woman in dark, wingless armor stepped from a side passage. A man walked a short distance behind her. The Archangels in the broad corridor let out a cry at the sight of their leader and her bodyguard. They hurried forward for information.
"Sky commander!" one of them yelled. "What's happening? Our coms are down!"
"The Electrics and the Fallens are attacking! Defend the temple!"
There were cries of anger and outrage. Then the warriors saluted her, before running off to execute her orders. Her bodyguard moved so his back was close to the wall, giving them a wide berth. After the angelic soldiers were gone, the woman smiled. She and her companion went in the opposite direction.
An ornate door opened to the woman's touch. Its security systems detected nothing more amiss than the soldiers' eyes had. The man turned side-on before he followed her inside, as though the entrance were half its breadth.
Luxurious frescos decorated the chamber's walls. One showed a blinded man driving powerful hands against the pillars of an ancient building. Another depicted a small, lithe warrior who wielded a sling as he faced off against a hulking brute who taunted him and brandished a spear. A third held the image of a verdant tree which bore blue fruit. It was to this latter painting that the woman strode.
Celestial War
Mindy Mazmarth was already screaming. Just seconds before, her camera-drone tech's head had exploded -- hit by a stray round that burst his skull and scattered gore over the reporter. Bits of his brain oozed in her hair. A tenacious eyeball clung to her forehead.
So when she looked up, into the sky where winged forms did battle, and a blast of energy zapped down towards her, she merely continued the scream that was already rushing out of her mouth.
Something crashed into her. It struck Mindy in the side and knocked her down the street -- sending her an impossible distance through the air. It was several seconds before she understood that she was being carried on a woman's shoulder.
Her rescuer set her down in the doorway of a building.
"You're Talia Ryx!"
"Yeah. So next time you report on my matches, say something nice."
"But-"
"Get in there and take cover!"
The captain of the Sian Dragons was already running down the street, snatching up a wailing child.
Mindy almost tripped as she scurried inside. One of her camera-drones bobbed through the door after her, like a loyal puppy.
The reporter paused. This building had thick, sturdy walls. No doubt that was why Talia had left her here. She was safe enough... So with brains in her hair and a third eye that made her look rather like a Vlarg, she activated the feed.
"This is Mindy Mazmarth, reporting from Jerusalem Maior -- where the entire planet has been plunged into chaos..."
Father Jonathon Neuhaus dropped onto his knees beside the Archangel and pressed his hands to her wound. Hot, sticky blood ran between his fingers.
"No good, father," she murmured. "No good..."
The woman's eyes fluttered and her warm breath rippled through his hair. He murmured a prayer.
"Pathetic heretic! Prepare to be destroyed!"
Father Neuhaus whirled round and pulled back at the same time. He fell on his backside next to the Archangel's body. A Rylattu in Electric Angel armor hovered a foot off the ground, his blue wings spread, a rifle in his hands.
"Wait! I'm not a soldier!"
The Rylattu pointed his weapon down at the priest's face. Jonathan stared into the barrel from whence his death would come, and whispered the beginnings of another prayer.
"Our Father, who art in heaven-"
The Rylattu's body landed in a heap. Lu Bu stood over him, his sword bloody.
"Are you injured?" the robot asked.
"N... No..."
"Then come with me. I'll take you to safety."
They were already down the street by the time the priest spoke again.
"Lu Bu..."
"Yes?"
"I still don't believe you have a soul. But I'll pray for you anyway."
Jonathan Neuhaus would never be certain, but he thought he heard the robot warrior laugh.
Three black forms descended in the same instant, surrounding Ragnar with flapping ebon wings, tear-streaked faces, and bobbing halos. Whips and swords pulsed with purple energy in the Fallen Angels' hands.
"You broke my nose last night!" a woman hissed. "This is payback!"
She raised her sword. The Niflung growled. This was what happened when you let your enemies live...
The angel thrust. And shrieked. Her blade was buried in another Fallen Angel's back. Ragnar had grabbed him by the throat and brought him in front as a human shield.
A horrendous blow crumpled her other ally's face. The ruined, smeared wreckage of his features blinked at her as he fell. And then she was alone with the Niflung.
This time Ragnar dealt with her properly.
"Get away from the windows!" the teacher said. "Stay under your desks!"
But Jerome had to see. The boy clambered onto a table and lifted his head over the windowsill. His gasp of awe and terror was lost amidst the teacher's cries, the children's sobbing, and the din of combat.
The big courtyard in front of the school, where the children had been playing no more than an hour before, was a scene of battle and bloodshed. Winged soldiers clashed in the sky above. Bodies fell from the air like broken birds, armored forms twisting, wings whirling and clawing. Smashed, cleaved, and blasted corpses littered the ground. The fighting had spilled to there as well, among the dead. Angels ran through the carnage, zapping and slashing.
An Archangel fired her weapon at a Fallen Angel. He darted aside and let the blaze of energy sear its way past him. A window shattered somewhere below Jerome. There was a scream. It was echoed by his own, turned into a chorus when the other kids joined in. But the boy stayed at the window, unable to even look away.
"Hey!"
The voice was a child's. It came from just outside the school. Jerome pressed his face against the glass and looked downwards, wondering in horror which pupil had ventured out into that maelstrom of
destruction.
A big orange form stomped its way forward, between the building and the combatants.
"Hey!"
The voice grew louder, projected from the mech's speakers. It was accompanied by a scything beam of energy fired from one of its arms. The beam cut through the heavens like a glowing blade, forcing the angels to scramble and scatter in all directions. One of the Electric Angels ran at the mech, swinging a sword. But he backed away when a huge laser-edged chainsaw whirred into life on the war machine's other arm.
"This is a school! Kill each other someplace else or I'll cut you in half!"
Perhaps it was the threat. Maybe the epiphany his words brought, the knowledge that they'd thrust young children into danger. But the angels dispersed, spreading in all directions like a flock of startled geese.
Blood of Angels
"We've been betrayed!" Arianus Zelb was shouting, his left hand still clamped against his ear. "To battle! All of you, to battle!"
"Was it the Archs or the Electrics?" Vanessa spoke into her communicator, and the voice emerged as a shriek. "Then-"
Zelb whirled round and fired. The Fallen Angel threw herself onto the floor, putting the thick table between her and Arianus, keeping the communicator pressed to her ear.
"Vanessa! What's-"
The device went dead. She stared at the screen. The signal... Some kind of interference?
"Zelb!" Bethany raised her hands, palms outward. "Listen to me! We-"
His blast hit her in the abdomen and threw her against the wall. Crimson sprayed across a painted cerulean sky.
Vanessa the Lamenter drew her sidearm. She leapt to her feet, ebon tears streaming down her cheeks, righteous fury burning in her eyes. Across the room, Bethany sprawled against the wall, her armor bloody. Wu Tenchu was crouched in front of her, shouting at Arianus and blocking his shot.
"Lower your weapon!" The Mandarin was reaching for something. "We have to find out-"
Zelb's head jerked to the side. His flesh and cybernetic eyes fastened on Vanessa. He spun round, aiming his weapon. There was a blinding discharge. Both his eyes disintegrated, replaced by charred, blind, weeping holes. He toppled over and crashed into a chair as he fell.
Vanessa flew backwards and bounced across the floor.
"Wu!" The sky commander leaned back against the desecrated fresco. "Are they..."
"Zelb is dead. I don't know about Vanessa." His dexterous fingers were probing her wound.
"What happened?" She pointed to her communicator, which lay a few feet away. "The wing commander said-"
"Attacks on the fleets in orbit? Communications lasting just long enough to spread panic before being cut off? Someone desires a war."
The sky commander's eyes flicked to one side and then the other. But the table's mass hid the other leaders from her.
"Their shock and outraged seemed genuine," Wu said. "Whoever's faction initiated hostilities, I don't believe either of them had a hand in it."
Bethany gasped.
"The vault!" Her bloody hand clutched at the mandarin's robes. "I have to get to my office! Now!"
"You require medical attention..."
"You don't understand! That's what they want... The Electrics, the Fallens... Whoever the hell it is! Help me!"
She tried to struggle to her feet, and fell back against the wall. Wu Tenchu took hold of her. The sky commander stared at him with wide, desperate eyes.
"There are artifacts hidden under the temple. Some of them are weapons!"
"What kind of weapons?"
"I... Just get me there. Please!"
Master Wu pulled her arm around his neck, supporting her weight, and helped her to the door.
Vunlac
Raphael's will had been strong. Even under torture he wouldn't have revealed anything, even confirmed the little that General Ialtha already knew, if it hadn't been for alien technology and a psionic assault beyond the limits of even his powerful mental defenses. But the Sian Emperor's mind had been strong as well, and Ialtha had managed to implant psychic conditioning deep into his brain. No man or woman was truly unbreakable.
The former sky commander's death hadn't been discovered yet. A doppelganger's charade continued unsuspected. By the time anyone learned the truth, it would be too late. Because Ialtha was within striking distance of her goal.
Flaming swords flew down the metal-walled passage, blazing towards the general. She pressed a device on her wrist. The floating weapons came to a halt. Their flames flickered away. And they clattered to the floor.
Her companion grunted behind her, in what Ialtha took to be approval. Perhaps pride. The mercenary's technology had allowed this. With the knowledge she'd extracted from Raphael's brain, it had simply been a matter of devising the appropriate countermeasures.
Metal clanked behind them. They turned round.
"The elevator!" she said. "Someone's coming!"
"Then they will be destroyed," her companion said.
His entire body shimmered. A disguise that was part holographic and part psionic evaporated -- and the armored man's form seemed to stretch and expand in all directions.
The elevator doors opened.
Bethany swore. Master Wu's eyes widened.
A metal corridor stretched ahead of them. At its far end, a huge, thick door was opening inwards. And a woman was slipping into the chamber beyond. But the mandarin's gaze only darted to her in passing, before coming to rest on the hulking alien who faced them in the passage.
Much of his tall, broad body was armored in heavy blue plates. But bare patches of skin revealed hard, yellow, almost reptilian flesh. Green eyes stared at them from a monstrous face. A Besalaad...
Weapon sleeves encased both of the alien's hands and forearms. His left ended in the barrel of a blaster, the right in a shining energy blade. He raised the gun and opened fire.
Bethany's pistol blazed away, throwing a barrage of gunfire on the mandarin's left. The Besalaad fired one shot at Wu Tenchu -- who jumped over it with a swiftness and agility that would have made his fellow politicians gawp -- before turning his weapon on the sky commander.
Her head and arm slipped back inside the elevator. The alien's shot burst against the armored metal doorframe.
That cover fire and distraction gave the prime minister all the time he needed.
Master Wu yanked his top off, muttered a word in Chinese, and hurled it at the alien. The garment flew with impossible speed for mere fabric. It hit the Besalaad warrior square in the face. And magnetized weights sewn into the material fastened it against the alien's armor, locking it in place, enveloping his skull.
The Besalaad's arms flailed towards his head out of instinct, but they fell away thwarted. Both his hands were encased in metal, trapped within his weapons. He couldn't pull the garment off...
His gun blasted, sweeping the corridor with blind fire. His energy blade slashed left and right. But the anticipated attack slipped past the onslaught.
A slim blade appeared in the mandarin's hand. He dodged the alien's blasts, jumped at him, and thrust the weapon through fabric, eye, and brain. Wu Tenchu was no longer the assassin he had once been. But his skills and blade were still sharp enough.
There was a heavy thud. Metal rang on metal.
General Ialtha shot a glance over her shoulder. The Besalaad mercenary was down, sprawled lifeless on the floor of the corridor. And her pursuers were advancing. Sky Commander Bethany, the woman whose likeness Ialtha had coopted, was raising her pistol. Wu Tenchu was taking aim with a small, dark weapon of his own.
No! Not when she was this close!
Ialtha ducked her head and ran across the room. Countless treasures flashed past her on either side, wealth and wonders that spanned the entirety of human history. But she didn't even glance at them. Her goal was on the wall opposite...
She wove out of instinct, trusting to the sixth sense which had never failed her before. Gunfire passed her first on one side and then the other. The blasts scorched the metal of the wall in front of her -- near a heater shield, which bore the image of a blue dragon and a pitchfork.
"Hold your fire!" Bethany shouted. "We'll damage the artifacts!"
Fast footsteps sounded behind the general. But she was already at the wall. Her hand slapped against the device on the shield, and the hidden doorway opened. She dashed into the small, dark room beyond. The general turned in time to see Wu Tenchu's face, just a few yards away. Then the entrance sealed itself and hid him from her.
General Ialtha laughed.
She was trapped in a small, dark room. But thanks to Raphael, and the secrets pillaged from his brain, she knew what rested in the chamber. Power. Inconceivable, incredible power. Enough power to destroy her enemies and rebuild the Centurian Collective.
Her fingers brushed her cheek, where the tattoo marked her flesh and her allegiance.
A spotlight flashed on. It cast down a cone of brightness, illuminating the object in the middle of the room. The general strode over to it.
Stolen memories flew across her thoughts. Raphael, standing before this same artifact. The lid opening. Golden light flooding forth. A feeling of immense strength and warmth flooding through the angel's body.
General Ialtha grasped the lid.
Wu Tenchu reached towards the shield, as he'd seen the woman do mere seconds earlier.
"No! Wu, no!"
Bethany grabbed his arm and pulled him away with strength that was irresistible in spite of her wounds.
"But-"
The mandarin's voice fell silent. Beyond the hidden door, past the shield and the azure drake, the woman screamed.
"What a mess..." Talia sighed.
Covered corpses were laid out on one side of the plaza, each faction's dead placed together for collection. Dozens of injured angels sat or sprawled on the ground. Medics tended to them, administering treatments to Archangels, Electric Angels, and Fallen Angels alike.
The battle had been bloody. But in the end numbers had told. The Electrics and Fallens on and above Jerusalem Maior had been faced with the choice of accepting a ceasefire or being wiped out. They'd thankfully chosen the wiser course.
"How long until they're killing each other again?" Ragnar asked.
"When they know what really happened..." Telemachus said.
"Even if Master Wu is able to convince them of the truth," Lu Bu said, "so much bloodshed will still have ramifications."
Talia nodded. She didn't envy the politicians who'd have to sort this all out. The gunslinger gazed at the dead and wounded, while something faint bleeped.
"Talia," the prince said, "that's yours."
She blinked, reached for her communicator, and put it to her ear.
"Barra? This isn't a good time. We..."
The Piscarian spoke, and the gunslinger's face grew pale. |-|
"They Just Fade Away"= They Just Fade Away
Air raid sirens wail amidst crashing rain like a chorus of drowning banshees. Drenched Londoners run through the storm and splash over puddles, propelled by the mournful sound -- dragging their children along or else carrying them huddled against their chests. A few managed to grab umbrellas before they fled their homes. Now they're wrestling with the greedy wind to keep hold of them. An old man loses that battle as you pass by, and cries out as the gale plucks the umbrella from his hands.
"By Jove!"
His exclamation is almost inaudible against the downpour, the screaming sirens, the pounding feet. So is his shout of gratitude when you catch its handle and return it to him. He continues on his way with it held low against his head, making for the nearest shelter along with the rest.
A few soaked faces stare at you as you pass by, perhaps wondering why you're sauntering instead of running, and heading in the opposite direction from everyone else. But most pay you no heed. They're too busy shielding their faces from the rain. Almost all of them are bareheaded, of course, choosing patriotism over comfort.
The ruined shell of the Sword in the Stone glares at you from the glassless windows of its sole remaining wall. A reminder of last night's bombing raid, turned into a threat when the nearest siren wails louder than before. You ignore the warning. But you take a moment to appreciate the posters someone's pasted on the pub's cracked bricks. The first one shows a beautiful blonde woman standing atop a weedy looking man, pressing his face down into the dirt beneath her green metal boot. The slogan reads: "Natasha hates conscientious objectors!" The second poster shows the same woman, but this time she's embracing a youth in a soldier's uniform. "My hero!" its text proclaims.
Even the rain can't wash the smile off your lips. By all accounts, a soldier might find the battlefield less dangerous than a night with Miss Cybersmash. But if it encourages a few more enlistments...
A young woman hurries down the street towards you, skittering along in high-heeled shoes she hasn't learned to run in yet. Her dress is plastered to her body, soaked and almost transparent. Wet auburn hair slaps against each side of her face. She's embracing herself with pale arms, shivering against the cold. Stupid. Going out like that is a good way to catch pneumonia. But her wide, wild eyes drive the admonition from your thoughts. She's terrified. Too scared to have stopped for a coat before blundering out into the night when the sirens sounded.
Her shoe catches on the pavement. She gives a soundless gasp as her body jerks forward. The girl's shivering hands go down in time to spare her face. But her knee hits the paving stone so hard it makes you wince. She stays there on all fours, rain lashing against her back, hair flopping down in a dirty red curtain.
You dash to help her. By the time you get close, two forms have detached themselves from the shielded space beneath a shop's awning. The first is a fat man in an apron, the other a dark-skinned bobby whose blue uniform and helmet are almost black in the rain. They take hold of her and help her to her feet, then retreat back under cover -- drawing her out of the downpour.
"The shelter!" she says. She's almost hopping on her uninjured leg, leaning against one of her rescuers for support and clutching a handful of his apron. "We... We have to go!"
"Don't worry about that, love," he says. He comforts her with a flabby arm. "There'll be no sodding bombers out tonight. Let's get you inside before you catch a cold."
"But... The sirens!"
"He's right," you say, as you slip alongside them.
Thwarted rain patters on the awning above, adding its percussion to the sirens' chorus. Light pours from the shop's window and its open doorway. The four of you stand bathed in a gentle glow. Dozens of pies bask within the soft illumination on the other side of the glass.
"[Player Name]," the policeman says. He nods his head and lifts the brim of his helmet.
"Marcus, Hugh." You return the nod with a pair of your own, the first to the inspector and the second to the fat pie man.
"The sirens!" the woman repeats. "The bomb-"
"It's a false alarm. Even the Centurians aren't crazy enough to fly in this weather."
A distant peal of thunder rumbles in agreement. The woman stares, her uncertain eyes shifting from you to Hugh, before coming to rest on the bobby and the authority of his badge.
"[Player Name] knows what she's talking about," Inspector Marcus says. "She's a pilot."
"The best in the bloody RAF," Hugh adds.
You try to look suitably modest.
"Oh..." the girl says at last.
"Come inside, love. A warm fire and a blooming good pie are what you need." Hugh maneuvers her towards the pie shop's door. He looks back over his shoulder before they enter. "Fancy a nice bit of steak and kidney?"
"Thanks," you reply. "But I have places to be."
Marcus meets your gaze as Hugh's bulk and the girl's thin, rain-soaked frame pass inside.
"If you need help..." he begins.
"I'll be fine. No sense in both of us being out in this weather."
He touches the brim of his police helmet once more. Then he goes inside to warm pastry and friendly company, while you head back into the storm.
The sirens stop after a few minutes, ceding the night to the rain -- which patters down harder as though to fill the void. You gaze up at the dark, cloudy heavens and let it wash over your face. Water infiltrates your mouth. It catches in your throat and wobbles there all the way to your destination.
Down a dark alley, over the old cobbles. Past a poster of a sailor sitting on a park bench, chatting with a pretty girl while ominous eyes glare down from a featureless masked face above, in the shadow cast by a fedora's brim ("Loose lips sink ships!"). The wooden door is unremarkable, just one of many that open out into the alleyway. But you stop and knock.
A little hatch slides back at eye level, revealing a brutish purple face, its rough features studded with golden crystals.
"Yeah?"
"I'm here for a good time," you say.
The oroc glares at you.
"I know you... You're [Player Name]. The fighter pilot. I've seen you on a poster!"
You wince, partly from being recognized and partly from the memory of that absurd illustration -- a picture of you posing with a mug of coffee in your hand and a gormless smile on your face, above the words: "[Player Name] needs a new plane! Buy more war bonds!"
"That's... That's right!" you say. "And I always fly on chems. So it's your patriotic duty to serve me!"
The oroc blinks. His brow furrows, making the crystals embedded there scrape against one another.
"God save the king!" you add, reaching into your coat pocket and flourishing a big wad of banknotes -- from which King Jamus' face stares in regal splendor.
"Welcome to Cythera."
He grunts the words without much enthusiasm, but he pulls the door open. After you step into the gloomy passage he closes it behind you. Bolts slide, scrape, and thud into place.
"This way."
The oroc lumbers towards a door at the far end of the hall. It opens to reveal a descending stairway. Halfway down those steps, the raging storm's clamor does battle with the melody of hedonism. When the door at the bottom is opened, revealing the pleasure den's main room, it's entirely drowned out.
Beautiful women and handsome Adonises glide around a chamber adorned with eastern silks and western flesh, colored lanterns and whispers of intoxicating incense. Some bear trays of liquor, cigars, and assorted chems, which they flourish before less wondrous individuals -- who accept refreshments as they grope and leer. Others offer themselves instead. On your left an incubus slides into a large woman's lap and tickles her nose with the tip of an absurdly long tongue. Across the room, a gorgeous gorgon giggles as she draws a blushing bespectacled man through a shimmering curtain.
Crimes of lust and indulgence tantalize the senses on all sides. But you're not a peeler, and that's none of your business.
You sit at a vacant table in the corner. A muscular elf clad in only a loincloth struts over almost before your buttocks have sunk into the plush cushion.
"What would you like, madam?" His oiled pectorals flex. "A drink? Chems? Or some fun in the back rooms?"
"Scotch," you reply. "Make it an Islay."
He pouts, winks, and struts to the bar. Cythera's service is on par with its sin. A moment later peaty whisky burns its way down your neck, filling your gullet with its salty aftermath. The elf hovers before you for a moment, preening and flexing. But you simply raise your glass. He pouts once more before seeking his night's fortunes elsewhere.
The brine lingers in your windpipe while your gaze roams across the chamber. Agent Sezrachus was right. Only a few indiscreet privates have been foolish enough to come here in their uniforms, but there are plenty of others whose polished boots and military moustaches proclaim their service. Nor do the handful of civil servants and politicians escape your notice. The ones who stay in the main room, glugging their booze or snorting their chems, don't concern you. If they want a little pleasure before facing enemy guns, or making decisions that might condemn thousands of men to their deaths, so be it. The scotch you're drinking isn't just for show. Nor are the bottles that fill your cabinet at home.
It's the ones who go through the shimmering curtain that perturb you.
You need to get back there...
A whistle catches the elf's attention next time he passes by.
"Another drink?" he asks.
"Two. And you."
His smile is heavenly, the gleam in his blue eyes sinful. You follow him through the curtain, into a long corridor lined with doors -- brandishing a glass of whisky in each hand. He takes you inside a room decorated with so much pinkness that it reminds you of an iced cake. Moisture tingles in your mouth. How long's it been since you ate?
"Here..."
You pass him one of the drinks. The other travels down your throat in a single gulp, and you set the glass down on the bedside table.
"Don't try that," you say. "It's strong stuff."
He raises a slender eyebrow, the pointed ear next to it twitching. The elf rises to the challenge. A second later his empty glass clunks down next to yours.
"What'll it be?" He stares at you from triumphant eyes threaded with redness. "I know the Writhing Wyv-"
His pretty eyes roll back in his head. You catch him as he collapses.
"Sweet dreams," you whisper, when you lay him on the bed.
A peek into the corridor outside reveals that the coast is clear. The cries of pleasure and occasional screech of pain from the other rooms tell you the same. So after a quick glance at the curtain you make your way to the opposite end of the passage, drawn by instinct that hardens into certainty when you open the door to a storage room. On the far wall, beside a rack of wine bottles, there's a thin sliver of light. You know a hidden entrance when you see one...
The secret door's well oiled. Its hinges don't make a sound when you push it inwards. Hence the occupant of the small, dimly lit room beyond doesn't turn around at first. She remains sat at the table, her back to you, and keeps talking into the radio in front of her. The skin revealed by her backless dress is scarlet.
"The British fleet will-"
"Will not be betrayed by a strawberry slut."
She whirls round and stands in the same motion, quick as a cat, knocking the chair aside. The barrel of your revolver is waiting to greet her.
"Who are you?" Her voice is a serpentine hiss. Malice and surprise dance a waltz in her eyes.
"Just a servant of the empire." You gesture at her radio with a jerk of your pistol. "I'll have to have a word with some of our servicemen. Loose lips sink-"
There's a scarlet flash. You pull the trigger, but the bullet crashes into the radio. Her left hand's on your wrist, pushing the weapon aside. Stars burst inside your skull when she punches you with her right.
"Heil Hatler!" she shrieks. Her fist pulls back for a second blow. "Heil-"
The knee to the groin is instinctive, a technique you've used before against dozens of male enemies -- a blow you've trained and practiced until it's one of the most powerful in your repertoire. It apparently works pretty well on girls too. She moans and doubles over. The grasp on your wrist weakens.
Your revolver roars again. This time the bullet hits her skull, and her brains decorate the wall.
"What the hell!"
"What's going on out there?"
"That was a gunshot!"
"Blimey!"
Doors are opening in the long corridor behind you. But there's no other way out. So you snatch up a bottle of wine with your free hand, holding it by the neck like a bludgeon, and go to face the startled patrons.
"Out of the way!"
Your yell and a wave of the gun send most of them scurrying away. Doors bang behind some as they retreat into their rooms. Others burst through the curtain, tearing it aside, and scramble through the main room -- spreading chaos with their screams.
"Heil Hatler!"
A door flies open on the left, and a Rylattu lunges at you before you can bring your pistol to bear. But instinct launches a blow from your bottle. Glass shatters, wine splashes in a dark arc, and he collapses.
"Heil Hatler!"
You spin round and shove the broken remains into an orc's throat. He gurgles blood as he falls to his knees. His right arm twitches up, as though trying to perform the Centurian salute. He flops onto his side and dies with it uncompleted.
The big room is pandemonium. Most of Cythera's denizens, both patrons and staff, are in an immense scrum by the exit, trying to shove their way through and escape up the stairs. But the rest...
"Heil Hatler!"
This time the cry comes from several throats at once. Handsome men and beautiful women are reaching under the furniture, their faces twisted in fanatical fury.
"Heil Hatler!"
A felpuur springs up behind the bar, shoving a hat onto his head with one hand and leveling an automatic pistol with the other. You squeeze your trigger first. The round catches him in his furry chest and throws him against the wall. Bottles smash beneath his hurled bulk. Their shards rain down to join him in death.
Bullets whizz past you, one so close you feel its sharp breeze on your ear. The oroc doorman's blazing away, a gun in each hand.
"They're Centi spies!" someone exclaims.
You wish you could reply with cutting sarcasm about how quick he is on the uptake, but you're too busy vaulting over the bar for cover. And his stating of the obvious seems to do the trick.
"Centies! Get the bastards!"
When you pop back up, aiming your revolver across booze-splashed wood, the oroc's being wrestled to the floor by a band of young men in combat boots. He puts up a good fight, until one of them shoves a knife through his eye. The crunch when it enters his crystal-crusted brain makes you grimace.
A bookish looking gentleman in horn-rimmed spectacles has his hands wrapped around a girl's throat. He's shaking her so hard that the fedora falls off her head and the gun drops from her grasp.
"I'll kill you, mother!"
That doesn't seem like a healthy war cry, but he's getting the job done. So you help him out by putting your next bullet through the head of a hatted Piscarian before she can shoot him in the back.
"Heil Hatler!"
A machinegun rattles and roars, spitting its fire across the room in a sweeping, scything arc. Men and women shriek. Blood sprays across the walls. Bullet-riddled bodies fall and twitch on the floor. You have a glimpse of a woman in red leathers, with an eyepatch over her left eye. Then you drop down behind the bar before her Tommy gun can rip your skull open, shielding your face against the rain of alcohol and hail of glass cascading from the bottles that perish on the shelves above.
"Heil Hatler! Heil Hatler! Heil Hatler!"
Her screech plays counterpoint to the roaring, death-spitting weapon. Splinters fly above your head. You lie flat against the floor as her bullets tear through the bar, chewing up the wood.
"Heil Hatler! Heil Hatler!"
Your face is pressed into the carpet. But the sound of splintering destruction is so clear and close it could be inside your brain. It's getting nearer, the barrage of gunfire eating its way towards you, a split-second from ripping you apart.
And as you wait for death, the only thing you can think of is how stupid you looked in that poster.
"Heil Hatler! Heil-"
It becomes a wordless scream. The gunfire stops.
You get up into a crouch and raise your eyes over the ravaged bar. The woman's standing there, her fallen Tommy gun on the floor by her feet. Her eye is staring downwards. But not at the Thompson submachine gun. She's gazing at the long blade protruding from her chest.
A dusky face looms over her shoulder, beneath the dark blue dome of a policeman's helmet.
"Marcus?"
"I followed you," he says. The woman slides off his sword and slumps in a crimson pool, leaving the two of you alone amidst the carnage. "I thought you might need help."
"You-"
"I know you're with military intelligence."
You exhale and begin to come out from behind the bar. But you pause, slip your weapon into your coat pocket, and grab one of the few unbroken whisky bottles instead. Its stopper departs with a soft pop. You reach for a second bottle and do the same. Only then do you emerge from the wrecked wooden barrier, which now seems impossibly flimsy for something to which you entrusted your life.
Marcus has already wiped the blood off his sword. He sheathes the weapon and takes hold of the bottle you offer him.
"Not anymore," you say. "After this, I'm out."
You clink your bottle against his.
"I'm a pilot, damn it. I belong up there taking down Centurian bombers, not..."
You gesture at the bloody corpses. Then you take a drink. Sweet, smooth scotch nourishes your tongue and floods your mouth.
For King, Country, and Her
Water encases you in its warmth, soothing your muscles. A contented sigh deflates your lungs. You draw in a fresh breath and close your mouth, capturing it. Then you let your body slide along the bottom of the bathtub until your head slips under the surface. Your senses shift, hearing, vision, and touch muffled or altered by your new aquatic existence. Wellbeing flows through your wet flesh, accompanying the blood along veins and arteries, spreading to every extremity.
It's one of your favorite rituals after a flight. A little relaxation to wash the weariness from your thews. Infantrymen sometimes scoff at a pilot's work, and ask how you could get tired when you just sit in a chair. It's only with great fortitude that you resist the urge to punch them in the face.
As the exhaustion of your last aerial exploits leaves your limbs and chest, its reminiscences fill your submerged brain. Your resting mind conjures up sights and sounds to remind you of every little triumph and failure the skies bore witness to. The ratting of the Spitfire's cockpit is so real it makes the water shudder like a sea rocked by tides. And the contrails might almost be painted on the murky depths of the ceiling instead of the blue heavens.
A grey phalanx of unpainted aircraft looms before you. Bombers, their vile wombs filled with the infernal destruction they intend to rain down on British cities, to roast the flesh and break the spirits of King Jamus' subjects. Smaller planes, fighters, swarming around them like eager suitors at a dance.
Your hands twitch in the water, remembering every pull of the controls. Your thumbs move as though pressing down on the buttons. Chattering machinegun fire makes the bathtub tremble. And it brings a smile to your pursed lips. It was a good night for the Royal Air Force. For you in particular. Two fighters spiraled from the sky under your guns, and one of the bombers exploded beneath the eviscerating bullets -- decorating the heavens with its fiery demise.
Every twist and turn of the battle replays itself in your swimming thoughts. There are places where your skill, your reflexes, your pilot's instincts, served you well. But there are other times when you made mistakes, tactical errors. Things you should correct before your next flight. And with that realization, that understanding, comes mental tranquility to join the physical restfulness.
Trouble drifts out from your pores, diluted and obliterated in the warm water. All is well. All is-
The bathtub shudders. Ripples distort the surface and ceiling above your eyes. A bubble of air escapes your lips. That was a footstep... A heavy footstep, right here in the bathroom.
You sit up. Water lodges in your startled throat, making you choke and splutter. It cascades from your body and falls in rivulets from your hair. You're on the verge of leaping out of the bath, ready to inflict a burst of sudden, naked violence on the intruder, when you pause and groan instead. For the interloper, the towering, muscular purple form with dark horns sprouting from his head, is no stranger.
"Agent Sezrachus..." You glare at him.
"[Player Name]."
"I'm in the bath!"
"Yes. Get out and get dressed. I have a mission for you."
The purple demon's voice is perfectly level, his expression neutral. If he's making a joke, there's no sign. And it sure as hell isn't funny...
"Maybe I wasn't clear last time... I'm done with spy work. If you want a new covert operative, pick someone who isn't staring from posters like an imbecile."
"We need-"
"You need to get out of my house. My war's in the air, not the shadows."
"We... The empire needs you to go to Centurian occupied France."
"Why don't you get out from behind your desk for a change and do it yourself?"
Sezrachus actually cracks a smile at this. He glances down at his broad magenta chest.
"Seven foot tall demons find it... challenging... to blend in. Even in France. Besides, I'm needed elsewhere."
It's on the tip of your tongue to call him a coward. But you know better than that. During the last war the Centurians called him the terror of the trenches.
"You have whole dossiers of agents. Any of them-"
"They aren't your equal, my friend. We both know this. And you have a... personal stake in the matter."
All of a sudden, the water chills your bones.
"You mean-"
"We sent her to investigate a Centurian stronghold. But-"
In the next instant you're out of the bath, water streaming from your naked body. Agent Sezrachus doesn't resist when you shove his huge frame against the wall.
"What happened? Is... Is she..."
Dark presentiment gnaws at your brain and soul. Your throat bubbles, filled with terrible blackness that threatens to choke you.
"She's alive. We believe they're holding her prisoner there."
Relief trembles through your muscles as you exhale.
"Then..."
"Yes. Your task is to rescue her."
"I'll do it."
"I expected no less."
Pilferers and Patriots
She moves like a shadow. You're watching for her, yet her arrival still takes you by surprise. The diminutive woman doesn't enter the cobbled alleyway from either of its mouths. Instead she drops from a roof and lands beside the waiting motorcar. She turns her masked, hooded face to cast an appropriately furtive glance behind her. But the dark depths of the night reveal nothing. The wicked flee when no man pursueth... So she opens the rear door of the car with a four-fingered hand and darts inside the gloomy interior, bringing a hefty sack with her.
"Drive, Jeeves," she says.
The engine rumbles into life. The vehicle trundles down the alleyway, its wheels bumping on the cobbles, until it turns into a broader thoroughfare where it picks up speed. In minutes it's out of the city. Trees flit by on either side.
"Jeeves, you're going the wrong blooming way!" she says.
"Sorry, Miss D'Tang. I'm afraid I'm new at this job..."
The masked gnome gasps.
"Who the bloody hell are you? Where's Jeeves?"
"My name is [Player Name]..."
"The lass from those sodding posters?"
"Yes. And your manservant's in the boot."
"If you've hurt him..." A dagger's blade glints in the starlight.
"He's fine, but I had to restrain him. He's a loyal one. I offered him money, and he tried to break my arm."
"What do you want? If it's about these bleeding things..."
She raises the sack.
"It's not. Though I am curious about why a wealthy noblewoman would resort to thievery..."
Rissa D'Tang laughs.
"For the sodding thrill, of course. It's a bloody boring life, being a rich girl. I mean, shooting pheasants, riding horses, and rolling around with the stablehands can be a bit of fun... But the rest of the time you're just swanning about in dresses while dirty old coves stare at your baps."
"Which finishing school taught you to speak like that? You sound like a Cockney chimneysweep."
"The same one that showed me how to pick a bleeding lock and make a bloke sing soprano. Anyway, what's it to you, as the fishwife said when her neighbor saw her chucking her husband's body off the bridge?"
"Just curious."
"Well now that I've satisfied your blooming curiosity, you can take me home quick smart."
"I thought you liked excitement? That's what I'm offering."
The gnome leans forward.
"Keep talking, mate."
"Even been to France?"
"Course I have. When I was a lass, I had myself a bloody good time in their casinos. Had to scarper though, after... But that's another story, as the forgetful bard said. Why?"
"I'm going on a trip."
"Hate to be the one to break this to you, mate, but the Centies are in France now. The Frenchies shouldn't have got goblins to build their sodding Maginot Line... Lazy buggers, goblins. Now gnomes... We'd have finished the bleeding thing instead of leaving a bloody big gap for the Centurians to come through."
"One of our agents... a friend... is being held at a Centurian base. I'm going to get inside, rescue her, and kill every damn Centi who stands in the way. Does that sound more exciting than robbing museums?"
"Suppose I'd better brush up on how to parlez-vous the bloody old Francais..."
The cacophony of cooing tells you that you've either found the right place or strayed upon some form of avian symposium. You push the door open, and almost stagger back from the concentrated stench of dozens of caged pigeons and more bird crap than you ever expected to have the misfortune of experiencing at any one time.
Only a few pairs of black eyes stare. Most of the birds are busy eating, cooing, staring off into space, nibbling at their wings, or adding to the waste at bottom of their cages. But that's fine... You didn't have anything to say to them anyway. The person you're here to speak with is at the far end of the long shed, past the rows of coops, outlined against the square of daylight that fills an open window.
Her back is to you, presenting a view of a young woman's figure clad in a short pink dress and matching boots. Her jet-black hair's been pulled back into a girlish bob on either side of her head. They wobble up and down as she fiddles with the bird on the table in front of her, reminding you of the movements of her pigeons' heads.
"My name's [Player Name]-"
"Be quiet! I've got a new tweet!" She removes the message from the bird's leg and unrolls it. "Huh... It's about you. Come here."
She turns around, revealing a pretty face, a pair of garish yellow glasses, and the characters 'Z' and '#' which adorn a triangular area of whiteness on her outfit. The girl holds out the ribbon of paper, allowing you to read the typed message written across it in neat little characters:
---
[Player Name] is a friend. Help her. #purpledemon
---
"It's from Agent Sezrachus," she says. "So what do you want?"
"You're Zoemg?" You butcher the word into something that vaguely rhymes with 'among'.
She snorts.
"It's #Z03MG, noob! Zoh-em-gee."
"Oh... Anyway, I-"
"Wait... Another tweet's coming in."
A new pigeon flaps its way through the window and lands on the table -- forcing its predecessor to scurry aside amid much cooing. Once again she extracts the rolled up message from its leg.
"Those losers!" she exclaims, before shoving the message in your face.
---
Z03MG sucks! When we conquer England, she can tweet from a prison cell! #HeilHatler
---
"Well," you begin, "if you want to-"
"STFU! I need to tweet back!"
She grabs a pen and a slip of paper, then commences writing. You look over her shoulder as she inscribes the message.
---
WTF? Don't make me blast you Centi peeps! #rulebritannia #whodoyouthinkyouarekiddingmrhatler?
---
- Z03MG nods, apparently satisfied with her missive, rolls it up, and attaches it to the bird. She makes a tweeting noise. The bird nods its head, before flying back out into the world -- presumably to bear her message to the appropriate recipient.
"So what is it?" She turns around. "If you want me send some tweets for you..."
"Can you send messages from anywhere?"
"Anywhere with pigeons."
"Good... I'm going to France, and I need a communications expert. Plus I hear you have certain other skills..."
"Blasting peeps? Duh!"
She spins back to the window, extending her hand as she rotates. A blast of yellow electrical energy flies from her fingers and crackles away into the distance. A few moments later there's a terrified lowing, followed by a man's voice.
"Damn it, you little blighter! I told you to stop doing that!"
"Sorry, Farmer Giles!" She's wearing a smirk when she faces you again. "But why'd I want to go to France?"
"For king and country?"
Her lip twitches.
"And so you'll have something to tweet about?"
"One sec..."
- Z03MG picks up a new piece of paper and scribbles on it.
---
Can't talk for a bit, peeps. Going somewhere special. #secretmission
---
"Rautha! Rautha! Rautha!"
The crowd of men and women are pressed up against the top of the fighting pit's wall, leaning so far over in their eagerness to get close to the action that it's a wonder none of them fall in. Their champion's name bellows from their throats.
"Rautha! Rautha! Rautha!"
The well-built warrior in the middle of the pit waves his arms to either side, urging them on. Perhaps he's drawing strength and a surge of adrenaline from the chant. You hope so, because he'll need all the help he can get. His adversary, a hulking ogre with pale blue flesh and glaring red eyes, looks like he's in the mood for homicide.
"Come on, you fat sack of crap!" Rautha jabs his finger towards the massive creature. "Rautha's ready!"
The ogre roars and beats his ham-like fists against his chest. His flabby gut undulates with each mighty blow. Then he springs into action, faster than you'd have expected. And apparently faster than Rautha expected too. The ogre's punch sends him flying through the air. He crashes against the wall of the pit, and the cheers turn to groans and gasps.
"Rautha... Rautha... Rautha..." The pit-fighter staggers away from the wall, each leg falling forward in a kind of zigzag pattern, and chants his own name from a bloody mouth. "Rautha..."
He topples over. There's a second barrage of groans when his head thuds against the pit's concrete floor.
The ogre laughs, and his merriment jiggles his flab even more than the thumping fists did. He plods over to where his opponent sprawls prone. His foot rises into the air, ready to stomp Rautha's skull and splatter its contents like a cowpat. Some of the women in the crowd scream. A few of the children cheer. You wince. He's no good to you with splattered brains...
The ogre's heel thunders down. It hits with a horrendous crash. But it only hits concrete. Rautha rises from his roll, into a crouch, and launches himself forward before his adversary can turn. He strikes the back of the ogre's knee shoulder-first, throwing his whole weight against the joint. It proves too much even for that mighty creature. The ogre roars as he falls forward, but it becomes a moan when his skull bashes the pit wall.
A snaking fissure opens in the stone. Two men and a woman fall forward, dislodged by the impact, and land on the ogre as he collapses. They scramble up, screaming, and run across the pit -- where one of the arena's workers has opened the door to the changing rooms.
Rautha's on the ogre before he can rise. A barrage of fists, knees, and elbows rains down on the blue skull -- until a hefty hand slaps the ground thrice in surrender.
"Rautha! Rautha! Rautha!"
The victorious fighter walks to the middle of the pit, basking in the cheers.
"Heil Hat..." He coughs. "I mean, God save the king, bitches!"
With that pronouncement he heads to the dressing room. And that's where you find him a few minutes later, standing in front of a mirror and rubbing embrocation into a big purple bruise on his chest.
"Good fight, Rautha."
"Thanks." He looks at your reflection in the mirror. "I'd rather pound Centurians, but till that happens..."
"They still won't let you enlist?"
"No. Sure, they loved it when I defected. Great stuff for the newspapers. Then when I tried to fight, they fobbed me off with some stupid story. They don't trust me!"
"Today's your lucky day then. Because I do trust you..."
Flashy Flying
"Agent Sezrachus said our pilot would meet us here," you tell the others.
Rissa, #Z03MG, and Rautha are lined up beside you, bathed in the early morning light that falls between wispy clouds. A transport plane waits on the runway nearby. It's a fat, bulky, inelegant contraption compared to the fighters you're used to flying. But you could hardly take your team over in your Spitfire.
"You're a blooming pilot, mate," Rissa says. "Those posters make out that you're some kind of bleeding hotshot. Why don't you fly the sodding thing?"
"I am. But even the best pilot in the world couldn't fly us over there, parachute out, and get the plane back to England in one piece."
"I don't know about that," a voice says from behind. "I think I could give it a bloody good try."
You sigh. You'd know that voice anywhere... And when you turn around, there he is in all his bluff, handsome, moustached glory. Captain Harry 'Ace' Flashheart.
"So you're the lot I'm flying into the clouds? What a coincidence! Last night I took two lovely ladies to heaven, and now I get to do it again!"
Rautha snorts. You roll your eyes. But Rissa and #Z03MG swoon. How does he do that?
"[Player Name]!" He comes forward, and the girls attach themselves to each of his arms en route. "How are the skies treating you?"
"Not bad. I-"
"Me, I always treat her like I treat my women. First I-"
"We should get going. Now."
"Of course! Jolly eager to be at those Centi bastards aren't you? Well, let's get to it!"
- Z03MG is writing on a ribbon of paper. You can't resist a glance.
---
OMG! Flashheart is so hot! #flashysgirl
---
She makes a chirping noise, and a plump pigeon descends from the sky. After a little dexterous fiddling from her pink-gloved hands, it flies away with her message attached to its leg.
"So I told Queen Lena we were keeping the Elgin Marbles, but I said she could get her hands on another national treasure..."
You enter the cockpit to find Flashheart sat at the controls, and your female companions gazing at him with rapt expressions on their faces.
"Me! She's a saucy mare, that one! Pretty as a sunrise and strong as a drunken Niflung!"
"Lucky girl, as the fishwife said when her sister's husband pegged it."
- Z03MG writes out another tweet.
---
I'm way hotter than Queen Lena! Stay away from my man, bitch! #flashysgirl
---
You can only hope she won't try opening a window to send it...
"Hang on," Flashheart says, distracting them from their scribbling and wistful musing. "We've got company! A bloody Centurian squadron!"
His eyes are sharp. And so are yours. You can make them out as well, distant grey shapes amongst the streaks of cloud.
"Time for a good old dogfight!" the pilot exclaims.
"We're in a transport plane! We can't-"
"I could fly rings around the Centies with a box kite! Get to the gunner stations if you lot want to join the fun!"
There isn't time to argue with the mad fool, so you run for the ladder and clamber up into a small enclosed bubble -- where the controls of a heavy machinegun are waiting.
Streams of gunfire rip through the sky, spewed out by the fighters' weapons as they make their first attack run. By all rights it should be impossible for them to miss so large a target. Their bullets should be chewing up your wings, gutting your bulging body. Instead, your plane weaves through the air and evades every last round.
The first thing which occurs to you is that Flashheart might just be a better pilot than you after all. The second is that it's time to return fire.
Your thumbs press down on the buttons. The machinegun roars to life. Its bellicose breath tears into a Centurian plane, punching right through the cockpit. Blood spatters against broken glass.
More streams of fire lance from your aircraft. The big guns on the wings are blazing away, chasing a fighter that's trying to evade the onslaught. The fighter's tail breaks off, cleaved away. The rest of the plane plummets after it.
A bright yellow beam flashes on your right. It's coming from another gunner station... You crane your neck to look. #Z03MG is sat at the gun. Electrical energy surges from the Emergent's hands, coating the weapon with its crackling might as she fires it -- and lending that same power to the rounds it's spitting across the heavens. She only grazes the fighter she's aiming for. The bullet barely scratches the unpainted metal. But the aircraft's entire wing sparks and burns.
The English Channel eats well, gobbling the entire Centi squadron one by one.
When you descend from the gunner station, you find #Z03MG leaning against the ladder opposite. She's writing another of those little notes she loves so much. And again you feel the urge to take a look.
---
Shot down Centurian planes. Learn2fly, noobs! I hope Flashheart saw! #flashysgirl
---
But perhaps she'll be disappointed. Because when you return to the cockpit, you find Rissa in the ace pilot's lap -- all but devouring his lips with her own. You give a slight cough and back away, leaving them to it.
Behind Enemy Lines
"He totally liked me more!"
"No, he blooming well liked me more!"
The argument rages on either side of you as you parachute towards the misty French fields below. It's been going on ever since you jumped out of the plane. And you're almost tempted to undo your harness, so you'll plunge to your doom and thus pass beyond the range of the women's voices.
You blame their distraction for the fact that you land in a pond, and emerge dripping wet -- your mouth filled with foul, disgusting water. At least the look on your face puts paid to their argument. Instead all three of your companions burst out laughing. You don't share their amusement.
Your anger evaporates too, however -- displaced by far more important things. You're in France now. Where she's being held prisoner...
"Rissa..." You point to a lofty oak. "Climb up there and get our bearings."
"On my way, mate, as the drunk said when the beer truck crashed."
The gnome sprints towards its trunk and leaps perhaps twice her height. Her small hands catch at a branch and pull her up into the foliage.
"#Z03MG..." you begin. The cooing of a pigeon interrupts you.
She holds out her arm and lets the bird land there. After she's detached the message from its leg, the pigeon flutters down to the ground and starts prospecting for worms.
"It's from Guillaume De Chauntallion," she says.
That's the name Agent Sezrachus told you about. The local leader of the Resistance. You take the note from her.
---
Welcome to France. Meet me in the basement of the tavern at Lissane-les-Fontaines. You can trust the barman. He'll keep all others away. #vivelafrance
---
"I marched through here once," Rautha says, hefting his machinegun. "That town's right next to the castle."
Chateau Lissane, the medieval edifice the Centurians snatched and turned into their base of operations. Your destination. All your instincts cry out for you to make straight for it. But De Chauntallion might have valuable intelligence...
A sharp whistle sounds from overhead. Rissa D'Tang's hooded head pops up from the top of the oak's uppermost branches, along with her arm. She's pointing to the west.
The loud buzz of the motorbikes' engines reaches you a moment before they appear through the mist.
"Scout patrol!" Rautha says. "They must have seen us drop!"
"OMG!"
There are two grey bikes, each attached to a sidecar emblazoned with the Centurian emblem. Their wheels churn up the wet grass, spraying mud on either side. And Rautha's right. As soon as they see you, the uniformed riders execute a shallow turn until they're heading right for you.
"Try to save those bikes," you say. "We can-"
The machineguns mounted on the sidecars open up, and the rest of your sentence dies amidst the gunfire.
"Behind the tree!" you shout.
It's an unnecessary command. The oak's the only cover nearby, and #Z03MG's already running for it. You and Rautha sprint after her. His weapon sprays unaimed bursts as he goes, throwing a wild swarm of bullets in the direction of the bikes. And luck or fate guides one of those stray rounds into a soldier sitting in a sidecar. The Centurian's skull explodes, throwing his helmet and his brains backwards. The machinegun he was operating falls silent.
The driver stares at the gruesome corpse beside him. So he doesn't see the bolt of yellow energy, sharp and precise, that sears its way towards his head. In a split-second driver and passenger are a matching pair. Their vehicle comes to a halt.
The other bike swerves, panicked. Its bullets trace a wide, impotent arc -- perhaps trying to keep you back. It makes no difference. When death comes for them, it comes from above, in the form of a pugnacious gnome.
Rissa lands on the back of the sidecar, a dagger in each hand. The passenger yanks his pistol from its holster as he turns towards her. But he isn't fast enough to stop a sharp blade burying itself behind his ear. Her other weapon severs his partner's brainstem. The agile, surefooted gnome knocks the driver's corpse aside. It tumbles in the churned up mud, lifeless limbs flailing.
Even over the din of the bike, you're almost certain you hear Rule Britannia whistle from Rissa's lips as she slips her bloody daggers back into their sheaths and grabs the motorcycle's handles.
The bikes make short work of the trip to Lissane-les-Fontaines. You ditch the stolen vehicles in a copse of trees, near the town's outskirts -- where the tavern stands surrounded by picturesque gardens. A sign over its door proclaims that it's the Chevalier's Casque. And when you enter its rustic main room, empty save for the portly barman, a beaming face and effusion of Gallic friendship confirm that you are indeed expected.
"My name is René," he says, after he's inflicted kisses on every available cheek. "Come, Guillaume is waiting."
He leads you down a flight of stone steps, into a candlelit cellar lined with huge wooden casks and racks of wine bottles. There's a long table in the middle of the floor. A handsome man of aristocratic bearing sits at its head. Plates of bread, cheese, and sausages cover its surface, along with jugs of wine.
"Eat, eat," René says. He's already halfway up the stairs again, speaking over his shoulder. "You must be hungry, n'est-ce pas?"
Guillaume De Chauntallion stands up and bows.
"So you have encountered trouble already, my friends?"
He gestures at the strip of paper on the table, the tweet #Z03MG sent to precede you.
---
Found Centurians. Killed them and took their bikes. LOL! #vivelafrance #rulebritannia
---
"Nothing we couldn't handle," Rautha says.
Guillaume waits till you're all seated before he resumes his chair. And though you intended to question him right away, an unexpected pang of hunger floods your mouth with saliva and compels you to join the others in shoveling food between your jaws.
"Sodding good wine this!" Rissa drains her glass and refills it.
"Sodding?" Guillaume says. "Forgive me, I do not know this word."
"No worries, mate. It just means this blooming wine hits the bloody spot."
The Frenchman blinks.
You pour yourself a glass and take a long drink. It's... curious. Sweet and fruity, but with a briny aftertaste that sticks in your throat. The sensation lingers there when the meal comes to its end, and Guillaume turns the conversation to the matter at hand.
"There are dark things happening in Chateau Lissane. We have received word that Reichsmarschall Dule himself has arrived there, to oversee them."
The news makes #Z03MG reach for a slip of paper (you grab her hand to forestall the tweet), Rissa drain a fresh glass of wine, and Rautha grin.
"Hatler's dog?" The former Centurian barks laugher. "I'll enjoy killing him."
"Do you know what the Centies are doing there?" you ask.
Guillaume shrugs his shoulders.
"I cannot say. It is well guarded. Your friend was the first spy to make it inside, and she never returned to speak of what she saw."
Those ominous words hang in the air as you make your plans.
The signal is impossible to miss. But just in case the horrendous explosion on the other side of the castle escaped your notice, a fat pigeon touches down on the grass in front of you, carrying one of #Z03MG's messages.
---
Did it! Rissa took out sentries. I overloaded electricity supply with my powers. #rulebritannia #goodluck!
---
In the distance Centurians are barking orders or screaming in confusion as they converge on the sabotage. You hope your companions can withstand the assault, and that you're capable of playing your own part in the mission. But it's too late to go back now. She needs you...
Reichsmarschall Dule
You sprint over dark grass, beneath the eyes of blinded spotlights. Reaching the castle wall sends a burst of triumph through your core. But you shove it aside. This is only the beginning, and the true dangers are still waiting for you.
Running footsteps approach through the night. Just one pair, from the sound of it. You hug the shadows. The wall juts out beside you, forming a corner that shrouds you in its darkness -- rendering you invisible and deadly. The soldier pauses when he passes you. Perhaps animal instinct lets him feel your gaze. Maybe some almost unnoticed sound or even scent triggers a primordial survival mechanism lodged deep in his brain. If so, evolution ultimately fails him.
Your knife is buried in his neck before he can cry out.
You pull his body into the corner, your accomplice and co-conspirator in this act of murder. There's a hard metal cylinder on his back... Some kind of panzerfaust. You remove it from his corpse and sling it over your shoulder, opposite your submachine gun. Waste not, want not.
The wall does you one final service, that for which Guillaume directed you to this part of the castle. Its old, dense ivy supports your weight. With the spotlights out and the guards rushing to the other side of the fortress -- hopefully to meet their deaths at your companions' hands -- climbing the wall is simplicity itself. Now you just need to find your entry point...
A few dozen feet above the ground, the impenetrable stonework gives way to a window. You reach up towards the protruding stone ledge. And find yourself staring into the barrel of a Luger.
The Centurian gasps. And because there's nothing like the specter of imminent death to quicken a woman's wits, you can almost see his thought processes playing out before your eyes. He's panicked by the explosion. Maybe he's hiding in the room instead of going towards the scene of the fighting. He hears rustling outside the window. It can't be anything... Just his nerves. But he'll pull his gun out and check. Just in case. And when he leans over the ledge, gun-first, to find someone staring up at him, he's startled.
All this passes through your brain in an instant. And you act before a bullet can follow it.
You grab at the gun with your right hand. The muzzle flashes, imprinting its flame on your vision. But the shot skims past your head. The Luger comes free when you yank it, chases the bullet down into the darkness.
If the Centurian were smart, he'd lay into you while he has the advantage -- batter you until you lose your grip and fall. Instead he turns and flees. Idiot... You hoist yourself over the ledge. He's still trying to remove the bar from the door when his neck snaps and crunches in your grasp.
You're wearing the Centurian's helmet and coat as you leave the chamber -- a decision that's validated mere minutes later, when a soldier rounds the corner of the candlelit passage in front of you, stares, and freezes. There's an instant's hesitation between seeing your uniform and realizing that he doesn't recognize your face. More than enough time for your revolver to widen his left eye into a bloody, gaping hole. You're long gone before anyone comes to investigate the weapon's booming, echoing report.
Guillaume told you everything he'd been able to gather about Chateau Lissane. Some of the townspeople earned a living here as maids or manservants before the Centurian occupation. With that knowledge revolving in your mind you navigate its old stone corridors, and reach a heavy wooden door ribbed with ancient iron. If the Resistance leader's information is accurate, the stairway to the dungeons is in the room beyond.
You push the door open.
"Heil Hatler!"
Two guns fire. Pain explodes in your chest.
You and the Centurian soldier both fall, you against the doorframe and she onto her knees. She stares into your eyes from across the room, while a crimson rose blooms on her jacket around a deep black stigma. Its twin is opening up beneath your thick coat, warm and sticky. The woman's mouth twitches in a smile or the beginning of an unfulfilled scream. When she topples forward, it's almost like a bow.
Agony bubbles from your mouth in a groan that reminds you of the air raid sirens.
The Centi had a gunfighter's reflexes. Or else her nerves were wound so tight that she would have blasted anyone who opened the door, friend or foe. She's taken the truth to the underworld with her -- leaving behind the knowledge that only luck put your bullet in her vitals. And that you might not be far behind her.
Dark, rich redness leaks from your wound. You press your hand over it, staunching the flow. But it's flooding inside as well. Cloying, choking warmth rushes into your lungs, your throat. You cough and splutter, spraying crimson droplets across the stone floor.
No... You have to find her. After that it doesn't matter. But you have to find her!
You stumble from the doorway, yanking your submachine gun from your shoulder. The weapon is heavy and cumbersome in your bloody grasp.
The stairs are behind the Centurian's body, a grey stone spiral that twists through deep shadow. Each step into the darkness hammers anguish in your chest. Your gullet feels flooded, a wine glass filled to the brim with sweet, sticky death. But it must be your mind playing tricks. Otherwise you'd be in hell with the soldier. Among fire instead of shadow.
A beautiful face shimmers before your eyes. And you chase it, down the stairs, into the subterranean depths. Electric light greets you at the bottom. There must be another generator down here... One that escaped the destruction #Z03MG wrought. Light, and voices...
"We should investigate!"
"No, we were ordered to stand guard!"
"But-"
Four Centurians are clustered a few yards beyond the stone archway, at the near end of a long, broad stone chamber. You brace your submachine gun, forcing the weapon steady through will alone, and mow them down in a hail of thundering bullets. Their corpses twitch against your boots as you walk through the carnage.
"Ah, we have company!"
The man's voice booms from a side passage. It's buzzing and distorted, coming not straight from a mouth but through the intermediary of imperfect electronics. The hissing of hydraulics and pounding thud of heavy machinery follow it.
"No! Run! Whoever you are, run!"
The second voice is almost inaudible over the mechanical din. Yet you know it all the same. A cry tries to burst from your lips, but there's only a fresh gargle of blood. Sezrachus and Guillaume were right! She's here! She's-
Your elation dies when the metal monstrosity emerges from a stone archway, its steel body bristling with weapons.
"What do you think of our newest weapon, Englander? Can your Tommies or the Americans stand against our technology?"
His laughter mingles with the screeching of his guns and the hellish cacophony of bullets ricocheting from thick stone. You're out of range and out of sight, up the staircase's twisting spiral. But your absence doesn't diminish his manic joy or the barrages of bullets.
"That's a nice toy, Dule!" you shout.
He stops shooting.
"What?" he bellows.
"I said that's a nice toy. Think you can get it out of here before we bomb the castle and bring it down on top of you?"
"You're bluffing, Englander! You've come here to save her, haven't you?"
"Her? I don't-"
"I have an ultimatum of my own. And this is no bluff... If you don't show yourself, I'll execute her."
He's lying... She's still alive because they need her, because they believe she has information they can get out of her. He wouldn't-
But the moment his machine's hydraulic limbs move, you know you can't take that risk.
"Okay! Okay! I'm coming out!"
You half-run, half-stagger down the steps. Crimson libations spurt from your chest. Your breaths bubble their way through an ocean of briny blood.
"Very good, Englander. Let us duel, yes? Flesh against steel! But it won't be sporting... Your weapons are no match for our technology!"
"Then it's a good thing I'm using yours..."
You step into the doorway and fire the panzerfaust.
The Reichsmarschall's right. Their technology is impressive. The rocket's explosion is cataclysmic in the underground chamber, a devastating sound that crashes from wall to wall and wakes all the castle's echoes. Its fury sends the war machine reeling like a drunkard. And the armored glass on Dule's cockpit shatters -- revealing the man himself.
You toss the spent panzerfaust aside and open up with your submachine gun.
Bullets rip across the Reichsmarschall's gaunt body. Bright red bursts paint the blackness of his uniform.
You laugh, but it becomes a choked gasp. Death is in your lungs. It's come to claim you.
No! Not yet... Have to... Have to...
Your gun clatters on the stone floor.
"[Player Name]?"
The edges of the world are growing dark. But her voice draws you, guiding your limbs even as the strength drains away from them. Through the archway Dule came from, down the short, broad passage. There's blood all over you, covering you from head to toe, encasing you and filling you.
"[Player Name]!"
You blunder into the room, and there she is. Her white dress and radiant, troubled face -- behind the black iron bars of a cell.
The darkness is deepening, battling to devour your vision and swallow you. Your voice is a splash of blood when you try to answer her. But your hand snatches the heavy key from the hook on the stone wall. And when you collapse against the bars of her cell, just inches away from her fearful eyes, you drive it into the lock and turn it.
Her arms are on you when the cell door opens, holding your sagging weight.
And knowledge ruptures its way into the world, piercing even the encroaching darkness and the fluid that bulges in your lungs and throat. This isn't real...
You gaze into Princess Illaria's eyes.
"I... I didn't save you."
"No..." Her mouth drifts into a sad smile. "But I can save you."
Her lips meet yours.
The universe ends, but the kiss lingers. It encompasses your mouth and your being. Far on the edges of perception, black waves roll across an ebon sea. A briny breeze drifts in from the darkness, infiltrates the bright chamber and hovers overhead. But those things are faint and faded. The kiss is strong and pure, bright and warm and blazing.
A green face rises from yours.
There's an instant of clarity, when the universe settles into impossible sharpness. Screaming Barracuda's kneeling over you, naked save for her soaked underwear. Water glistens across her skin. Relief and delight illuminate her face.
Your head jerks forward. A burst of salt water spurts from your mouth, bringing with it the remembered tastes of rain, Islay whisky, a warm bath, a French pond, cloying wine, and blood.
Yes... An instant of clarity. Then things begin to dissolve.
The last thing you see before unconsciousness draws you into its soothing embrace, an island of solidity amidst amorphous incandescence, is Illaria's smiling face floating on radiant tides.
"I can save you... And I always will."
Your lips form a smile as the world grows soft and dark. |-|
"The Man in Black (1)"= The Man in Black (1)
Alexa Haelia moved to the door with halting, hesitating steps. The metal portal slid aside with a soft hiss. She leapt back as though it were an animal's yawning maw.
It was a trap... She'd step outside the door, and they'd be there. Her captors. It was a lie. A trick to give her hope.
But even as those thoughts crossed her mind, she realized how absurd they sounded. What purpose would deception serve? She was already their prisoner. They could have left her shackled to the soft slab, naked, fastened to the machines. Instead she was standing in front of an open doorway, clad in a cyan jumpsuit Emera Tresc had given her.
"I'm afraid I can't let you leave. Not yet. But you're free to wander this place as you will."
The words, the warm, kind voice, whispered in her mind. Alexa took a deep breath and stepped out into the brightly lit corridor. It stretched away in both directions, expanses of wall decorated with azure and cyan patterns. Untenanted save for her.
She walked down the passage, her eyes roaming across the doors she passed. None of them opened to her presence or her touch. So she continued onward, turning from one corridor into another. And there she was no longer alone.
Alexa froze. A man in a jumpsuit just like hers was approaching, his face angled over the screen of the datapad he held in his hands. He glanced up as he drew near.
"I-" She didn't know what she was about to blurt out. But he forestalled her.
"Kalaxia watch over you."
The man smiled, nodded his head, and walked past her -- returning his attention to the datapad. Alexa stared after him until he disappeared round the corner.
She continued on her way, confused but emboldened. Rooms lined the passage on either side, and these ones stood open. They were large chambers, where men and women chatted, watched holo-screens, read, and whiled away the time. Some of them looked up at Alexa, but no one made a move to stop her or demanded to know who she was, what she was doing. In one room there were even children. Children! Playing their little games. Playing in this building that had seemed a horrific prison only weeks... No. Days? Hours? That was impossible... It had to have been...
She shook her head. That wasn't important.
Deep within, her flames mumbled in their sleep, offering somnolent approval. Their return had helped a great deal. They still hadn't spoken. But she could feel them resting within her, loyal dogs slumbering before a fireplace. In time they'd awaken, just as she'd awakened.
Alexa kept walking. She didn't know where she was going, or what she intended to do. When Emera had first told her of this, said she'd be allowed to roam the facility, Alexa had thought of escape -- of finding an exit and fleeing out into whatever settlement or landscape waited beyond. But now she wasn't so sure.
A heavyset man stepped out into the corridor ahead. His face lit up as his gaze fell on her.
"Ah, Ms. Haelia!" His broad smile made his big jowls wobble. "I'm so pleased to see you. There's so much I would enjoy discussing."
"I... I don't..."
"Ah, but of course. How rude of me. All that can wait until you're more settled."
He bowed and strode into a chamber on the opposite side of the passage. Alexa glanced into it as she passed, before the door slid closed behind him. And her heart thudded. The old woman was inside, sat at a table, staring at her with those hideous cyan gem-eyes.
Alexa hurried down the corridor, and the next, and the next. She had to get away from those eyes...
But now there were no more corridors before her. She'd come to a dead end, where a sealed doorway stood in lieu of an adjoining passage. It crossed her mind to retrace her steps. Yet that would mean going back towards the desiccated face and multifaceted glare. So she crept up to the door instead.
It slid open.
And once again Alexia Haelia's heart pounded against her ribs.
The room was dark, its walls clad in shadow. But the light from the corridor thrust a luminescent spear across the floor. And its tip illuminated the raised circular platform where a man sat cross-legged. A man dressed in black, his face hidden behind a featureless mask. Two burning azure slits stared at her.
Him...
Every fiber of Alexa's being told her to run. To flee from the brute who'd invaded her dressing room, strode through her flames, slaughtered the security guards, kicked her protector through a window...
But she couldn't. Those azure eyes transfixed her. And there was no escape. Not from this one. She knew how fast he could move...
"You killed her!"
The words flew from her mouth with such swiftness that her horrified brain only realized she'd uttered them a few seconds later. Her face grew pale. He'd murder her for that! He'd-
"You are speaking of [Player Name]?" the man's strange voice asked, with its curious accent and underlying growl.
"She was trying to help me, and you... you..."
"Tell me, what do you know of this woman to whom you ran for aid?"
"She..."
Alexa's eyes widened. What had he called her? [Player Name]? Oh... Oh! That name, and that face -- the one which had emerged from a holographic shimmer as the punches and kicks flew. She hadn't recognized it in the bar. Things had been too crazy, too...
"I have killed men and women. She has slain entire worlds. Destroyed escape pods filled with children. This is the woman whose death concerns you?"
Alexa Haelia blinked. Strength and courage flowed back into her limbs. She stepped away from the entrance. The door slid shut. Alexa stared it at for several moments, but he didn't pursue her.
She turned around and followed a different path through the branching corridors. The man's voice echoed in her ears as she went.
Noir looked away from the closed door.
[Player Name]...
Such a disappointment. He had been looking forward to the encounter, to destroying a worthy enemy. But [Player Name] had been weak. Perhaps one day he would find a better opponent. A foe whose own might was equal to the power that flowed within him.
The man in black closed his eyes and returned to his introspection.
Love
He shouldn't remember this. No man's memory should stretch so far. But he does.
A woman holds him swaddled against her bosom. She gazes down at her child with the purest love ever conceived by gods, men, or nature. There's awe in her eyes as well. For even now she can't believe that she has brought another being into the universe, added a spark of life to the untold billions of man's sprawling diaspora.
The blanket she's wrapped him in is black. He notes this with both amusement and interest. How early the seeds of destiny are sown... But he should know that better than anyone.
A man smiles down at the infant too. A father who feels love, delight, and awe vying for supremacy in his breast as the mother does in hers. There's pride as well. He and his wife have brought forth a fine son, who will become part of the great celestial purpose that governs them.
Mother and father speak of this. The infant listens, though he won't understand the import of their words until many years later. They say a name as they talk. His name. But it's of no consequence. In time he will wear his true name, one far more fitting.
When the man brings out the medallion, the baby is curious. He reaches for it with his tiny, undexterous hands. It's shiny. He likes shiny things.
The man and woman are overjoyed. They laugh, smile, and call it a sign. Perhaps it is.
There's an image on the medallion, a fearsome visage that might scare a child some years older. But the baby isn't afraid. He stares at the dragon, his mouth open. His parents are as amused and captivated by this as he is by the wyrm's countenance.
The dragon's eyes flash cyan. He giggles and waves his arms. It's the most wonderful thing he's ever seen.
His father touches the object to his head. The metal is warm against the baby's brow.
"Hail Kalaxia," the parents say together.
The baby laughs.
Loyalty
The boy is older now. His body has grown in strength just as his brain has gained in wit and resolve.
Someone's knocking on the front door. A shrill woman's voice demands to know what's going on. The boy doesn't answer. He stands where he is, his mind considering what he's done and what he should do next. Fate and determination drip from the thing in his hand.
He wonders whether he should open the door and kill the woman. But her death would serve no purpose.
Soon another, larger fist is knocking. The voice that shouts is gruff, masculine. It's heavy with authority. Locks click and retract, cast aside by that same authority. The policeman kicks the door open. He comes into the room, brandishing his gun. His partner is behind him. She has her weapon drawn as well.
They stop when they see the boy. Their eyes fasten on the bloody blade in his hand. Two gazes track the crimson trail from his feet to a darkened doorway.
The policeman tells the boy to drop the knife.
The boy wonders if he should attack. But again, it would serve no purpose.
His weapon is snatched away. Soon there's shouting, fear and horror even from two seasoned cops. Questions fly at him. Why? Why did he kill his parents?
The boy says nothing. Because he knows that he must say nothing. Nor does he speak to the doctors and psychologists when they add their questions. Even a psionic fails to elicit a response, cannot penetrate his young mind. This perturbs her. But the boy's will is strong. And his secrets aren't for the likes of these people to know.
Time flows on its inexorable path. Three years of questions and chemicals and therapy thwarted by his reticence. His lips remain sealed. He understands the value of secrecy.
And then a new psychiatrist comes. The one who waits till they're alone in her office before showing him a medallion emblazoned with a dragon's face. Cyan eyes shine at the boy.
"Hail Kalaxia," she says.
And when she asks why he killed his parents, he tells the truth. It's because they intended to betray the cult, and reveal its machinations. To betray Kalaxia. Their faith had grown weak, their loyalty rotten. The words and promises of investigators had proven an irresistible temptation. So the boy killed them.
The woman listens to all this. That night she takes the boy away. He has been tested, and now he has earned the right to join his true family.
Courage
The boy is strong, fast, cunning. His muscles and mind are becoming weapons worthy of his destiny.
Black still shrouds his limbs as it has from his earliest days. Even when the Kalaxians meet, hidden from uninitiated eyes, and the rest are clad in azure or cyan, he wears nothing else. Some questioned this. They said he should dress in the holy colors. The hues of allegiance and ceremony. But Lady Victoria Ashdown whispered words of the things she'd seen. And her voice quelled all others.
Greatness lies in the boy's future. But his present... His present is tiresome. He isn't yet entrusted with the cult's grand work, given the opportunity to do great things with his skills and abilities. So he finds his own diversions.
Another Kalaxian, a girl little older than he is, has been preyed upon by the dregs of society. A gang of lowly miscreants. If she tells the adults, justice will be done. But she has secrets she wishes kept, sins that brought her into their path and must not be laid bare before cyan eyes. The boy learns of this. And he decides to show the gang what becomes of those who make enemies of the Kalaxians.
He finds them where she said he would, in the wretched place they call their 'turf'. Rats in their warren. The first one opens a gold-toothed mouth, perhaps to utter a threat or demand, or else offer to sell him chems. But the words become a shower of blood and yellow metal. The boy's fist hurts, cut and bruised by the murderous force of the blow. It's a good pain. The pain of battle.
The next tries to reach for a weapon. But he's slow and stupid. A knee smashes his groin and an elbow breaks his jaw. The third provides more satisfaction. He's trained. A martial artist, all full of cries and kicks. The boy blocks his attacks, but their force bruises his forearms and rocks his body. It's exhilarating.
He counterattacks with a kick of his own, a powerful sideways thrust of his leg that smashes his enemy in the chest. Ribs crack. The enemy's martial shout becomes a wail. Then the boy is standing above three moaning, pleading, writhing forms.
No one will miss them. He knows this.
So he finishes them one by one.
Destiny
The boy has become a man. And he has done many great things for his family. The most important Kalaxians trust him, both for his deeds and for what Lady Ashdown has glimpsed with her far-seeing multifaceted eyes.
He has been chosen. The destiny which loomed above his footsteps for all the years of his life is now descending.
A dozen people stand before him, watching as he's fastened into the chair. Lady Victoria's old, severe face has twisted into a smile. Her gemstones shine. For all her visions and portents, she's excited. It twitches in every inch of her. Professor Bonderbrand's jowls quiver. He too can barely contain his delight, the child-like thrill of seeing this plan come to fruition after unnumbered generations. Multheru's alien face is less scrutable. But the young man reads enough in the twitching of those oral tentacles.
Yet though their gazes are locked on him, his rests on them for only a moment. Then it travels to the thing from the Jospur System that casts its shadow across the chamber.
There are many machines, attached to him by snaking cables. Marvels and miracles of technology. But science won't act alone. Chanting voices intone ancient prayers, ushering in the young man's fate.
Pain racks his body. His muscles convulse. Lashing tendrils flay the surface of his brain. And he laughs.
Master Hao
His destiny has come upon him. And with it his true name. He is Noir, the greatest of the Kalaxians' agents and warriors. The one the others look to with awe and deference. Even Lady Victoria Ashdown's haughtiness is gone whenever she addresses him.
The moment he rose from the chair and spoke, his words underscored by a low growl, their cheers filled the chamber. A grand design had come to fruition. An event of such magnitude that it would strengthen the faith of all who learned of it, and imbue them with redoubled yearning to carry out the rest of their lofty ambitions.
But Noir's first thought had been of battle...
He sniffs the air. Torrents of mingled scents flow into his mind, a mass of raw sensation almost overwhelming in its potency. In time he will grow used to this. But for now it's strange and intoxicating.
For several moments he drinks it all in, and tries to discern each thing from the next. Aureate threads run through it all. These flash knowledge in his brain.
Noir runs across the rooftop. His body, always strong and agile, now responds with inconceivable prowess. It's like wearing a panoply of armor. A powerful articulated battlesuit that encases him with its effortless strength and boundless potential. This too will pass, as he becomes more accustomed to it. He will no longer feel like a passenger or driver in his body. The irksome itching that surrounds his skin will diminish and eventually disappear. Until then, these things are a small price to pay.
He leaps over an alleyway, springing from one building to the next with such grace that he almost imagines he's flying. Perhaps after this is done he'll return here and keep running. Spend hours navigating the upper reaches of the city. For the moment he lets the golden particles draw him onwards.
The temple is hidden away behind an old, unimposing facade. Few who pass by would know what lies within. And none of them would care. Another religious building among countless which are scattered all over the city. As long as its adherents don't accost them on street corners or ring their doorbells to bring the good news, ask for donations, or inquire about the sound of one hand clapping, they can be ignored.
But Noir knows better. Their scent is strong because their faith is powerful. It weaves their chi in potent patterns, and harks back to ancient mysteries. The order's monks are mighty enemies. Lady Victoria has foreseen the harm they might do to the Kalaxians' schemes if they're left unchecked. So what better place for Noir to test himself?
The inside of the building is splendid, decorated in sumptuous saffron shades. Chinese art mingles with a style that only those with esoteric knowledge might recognize for what it truly is. This hybrid of cultures, civilizations, worlds, and peoples is displayed in all its glory by the Buddha statues. For each of those idols bears pointed ears.
Men and women in yellow robes occupy a large central chamber, flanked and framed by this splendor. Some are meditating. Others perform martial routines -- moving their lithe, agile bodies through sequences of attack and defense. Others still are sparring, bowing to their fellows before meeting them in skillful combat. All of them turn when Noir enters.
His aspect is enough to surprise them. For now his face is hidden, his features concealed by the smooth darkness of his ebon mask. Azure eyes stare from a cold black visage. And yet that isn't what causes them to abandon their activities and advance on him. It's his chi. They sense something terrible in its depths.
Fists and feet fly. And Noir exults in violence.
A woman's leg flails at his face. He knocks it aside, letting the kick's momentum carry her, and drives his knee into her spine. The crunch makes him laugh. Such speed... So much power...
Bones shatter beneath his blows. Throats are crushed. Organs ruptured. The human body breaks so very easily, and souls are sent flitting away to whatever awaits beyond.
Some of the monks grab weapons. A Chinese broadsword slashes Noir's back, tearing through his costume and scraping against his flesh. There's pain. But mere steel can't stop him. He whirls round, snatches the blade from startled hands, and lops the fool's head from his shoulders.
The man in black's clothes are already repairing themselves, expensive fabric and its miniscule machines knitting together to conceal his hide from those who might look upon it. Their work is made harder when a few of his opponents resort to more advanced armaments. Blasts of energy burn fresh holes, make his nostrils tingle with the scent of immolation.
He leaps between the shots and lashes out with his pilfered weapon. The carnage is supreme.
A door opens. A man cries out in rage and anguish.
The newcomer, a man with dark skin and Chinese eyes, stares in horror at Noir -- who stands triumphant above the strewn bodies.
Noir sniffs the air. This one is strong... A master far greater than any of his followers.
The broadsword falls to the floor. This will be a contest of flesh, not steel.
The master's fist is a blur. It strikes Noir's chest with immense speed and thunderous power -- bursting not against the surface but deep inside. An ordinary man would perish, felled by massive trauma and internal injury. Even a robot's metal body would break beneath the blow. Noir himself staggers back, impressed. He hasn't yet realized his full potential. His newfound abilities are still alien. And the warrior he's fighting is the greatest he's faced.
Snapping kicks knock the black helmet from side to side. His vision dances beneath the onslaught.
This warrior monk fights with a lifetime of training and martial learning sharpened by a moment of pure, murderous anger. The combination is devastating. Blows rain on Noir, battering him. Such a bombardment that it's almost as if the dead monks have risen to lend their limbs to the torrential violence.
For a second the man in black considers the possibility of defeat. He growls. His azure eyes blaze.
He leaps like a panther, a werewolf. An elbow catches him in mid-air. It buffets his sternum with the force of a speeding vehicle. He falls, crashes down on his back.
"That strike is of the Black Orchard," Noir says, "not the Golden Garden."
The master's eyes widen. Even his fury can't suppress his shock.
"Who are you?"
Noir flips backwards, throws his legs over his head and lands on his feet in a single graceful movement.
"My name is Noir."
"Your chi..." His guard falters as he perceives what went unnoticed in the heat of rage, revenge, and battle. "It's..."
He hurls himself at the man in black, legs sweeping, arms lashing in intricate circles. The master has sensed the truth. And now his purpose is not to avenge his students or punish a murderer. It's to destroy an abomination, a being that has no place in the galaxy. A creature that must be destroyed for its very nature and for what it might help usher in.
Noir understands all these things. They're written in the master's eyes, inscribed in every technique launched to bring about that destruction.
It isn't hate. It's fear.
That knowledge thrills and empowers.
The man in black feints for the first time. All his other blows have been thrown in earnest, fueled by confidence in his speed and strength. So when he begins high, the master counterpunches. And is caught when Noir lunges low instead. The monk's punch arcs over him. He grabs the attacking limb with his left arm. His right hooks his enemy's near leg.
A wrestler would recognize the beginnings of a fireman's carry, a judoka that of the kata guruma. Perhaps neither would be prepared for the explosive jump that accompanies the technique -- powered by thews beyond mere human muscle. Nor is the master.
When Noir leaps and spins, the sensation of flying fills him once more. But the air only holds the grappling fighters for an instant. Then they land. And their combined weight, all their momentum, drives the master's head straight down into the floor.
Physics is as inescapable as destiny.
Noir rises. The monk does not.
Azure eyes opened. Memories of the battle receded back into his mind.
He'd been careless, drunk with his new state of existence -- all of the power and potential that hadn't yet settled to rest easy about his being. And the master had been skilled. Today the fight would be far different.
Yet he treasured the recollection nonetheless. Strong enemies sharpened the Kalaxians and hardened their resolve. So it had been throughout the millennia of their existence, pitted against those of the betrayer's blood and others who tried to thwart them and bring about their destruction.
A pity (Player's name) perished so easily...
But there would be enough foes later. When the cyan eyes opened. |-|
"The Man in Black (2)"= The Man in Black (2)
"...unconvinced by Rex Carnage's defense. You may recall that the action hero said he was making a low budget movie, and that gunning down aspiring actors was much easier than employing special effects. He was sentenced to a week of community service, and ordered to appear in a public service film about the dangers of shooting children."
Roy Extho beamed at the camera, his smile as radioactive as ever.
"Oh, I'm being told that Mindy Mazmarth has an urgent report for us! Maybe she's finally found a man who can stand her for more than three minutes..."
The reporter appeared on the screen, wearing a blue top and a frosty smile.
"Screw you, Roy." She stuck her middle finger up by way of punctuation. "Thanks to my sources in the Sian Empire, our network can officially break a story concerning Jian (Player's name)!"
"The genocidal war hero?"
"That's right, Roy. Viewers might remember that the Jian has been accused of nuking entire planets and massacring innocent civilians. However, over the past months a concerted interstellar media campaign has spoken out in support of <his/her> actions and helped to shift public opinion."
"We're not here for a history lesson, Mindy. What's the breaking news?"
"I was just getting to that, Roy, before an overpaid jackass interrupted me. There have been sporadic reported sightings of (Player's Name) since the end of the war. But we've now obtained shocking verified footage of the Jian brawling with an unknown opponent on Blackpool."
A video feed of a garish neon bar appeared on the screen, shot from a high angle. Two people were fighting while a woman cowered in the corner. One was dressed from the neck down in distinctive Sian armor, the other in black from head to toe.
"It looks like (Player's Name)'s getting the hell beaten out of <him/her>!" Roy said. "I thought <he/she> knew kung fu or something?"
"If you think that's bad..."
The man in black kicked <Player's Name> in the chest, launching <him/her> through the bar's window. There the footage froze. (Player's name) hovered in the air, suspended with pieces of broken glass around <him/her>.
"Wow! When's the funeral?"
"Not so fast, Roy... He/She's alive! He/She landed in the planet's famous black ocean and was rescued. My sources say he/she's recovering from severe injuries, under the personal protection of Prime Minister Wu Tenchu!"
Wanted Criminal
"This is an outrage! It's... it's... outrageous!"
Francois Dupont, the Secretary-General of the Union of Human Worlds, glared and hammered the podium with his fist.
"Secretary-General, please compose yourself," Wu Tenchu said.
The prime minister spoke from a two-sided screen which floated at the front of the Assembly, displaying his face both to Dupont and to the other diplomats who filled the chamber.
"You're associating with a man/woman accused of war crimes! A man/woman who has been summoned before a UHW hearing but has refused to attend!"
"With respect, the Jian never refused. He/she simply didn't appear. Perhaps your invitation went astray..."
"This is no laughing matter! The people of human space deserve and demand justice!"
"Oh? Recent opinion polls have shown that a clear majority are against any attempt to-"
"Prime minister! You know full well that public opinion has been malevolently influenced by a sinister propaganda campaign designed to spread the abhorrent view that the Centurian genocide was acceptable!"
"Surely you don't consider the inhabitants of human space so foolish as to be swayed by a malevolent, sinister, and abhorrent-"
"The people are-" Dupont paused, glanced at the rows of cameras, and gave a small cough. "But such things can be discussed at the hearing. Where is Jian (Player's name)?"
"The Jian was gravely injured in a violent assault, and is recuperating aboard the Zhuge Liang, my personal vessel."
"Then you'll bring him/her to Earth to face-"
"No, Mr. Secretary-General. After we leave Blackpool's orbit, we will return to Sian."
"This is outrageous!"
"So a certain gentleman told me mere moments ago. But I fear that I must disagree. Now if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to."
Francois Dupont continued to glare. But he did so at empty air. The image of Wu Tenchu had vanished.
In the cockpit of a black spacecraft, azure eyes shone.
Victor and Vanguished)
Your eyes open. There's a moment's disorientation, as different realities try to assert themselves in your memory. In one you were kicked into the sea and saved from drowning by Screaming Barracuda. The other... Well, that involved a mishmash of confused history and ancestral recollection. It isn't difficult to discern which one is true.
And this awakening is better than your last. You're not sprawled on the floor, with water gushing out of your mouth. Instead you're in a soft, warm, comfortable bed. The room is soothing, its illumination gentle and subdued. There are medical machines nearby -- monitoring your vitals. But since nothing's displaying red lights or flat, droning lines, these don't concern you.
You shift under the covers. A collection of assorted pains ache across your body, making you wince. Each one reminds you of a powerful blow from black fists or boots. And with that comes a worse memory. A woman's scream...
Alexa. Ali's sister... You failed her.
A horrific image hovers before your eyes. Noir's tearing her apart, splashing his black mask with bright crimson...
Noir...
He beat you. A fair fight, unarmed combat. And he defeated you. The thoughts which fill your mind make you ashamed. What do they matter, next to the life of a woman you couldn't save? And yet you can't help pondering them -- drawing them to the forefront of your consciousness.
You're an expert in hand-to-hand combat. Trained by the Sian Empire to incapacitate or kill with your strikes and grapples. And you've had more martial experience than most professional brawlers. But Noir... Was he augmented? Filled with cybernetic enhancements like Ragnar? Perhaps... No. You're deluding yourself. Turning speculation into an excuse to save your battered pride. You've fought enough augmented enemies to know the difference. He wasn't loaded with tech like the Niflung.
"Kasan!"
The punch... That blow struck with the power of your miraculous heritage and destructive chi. A strike that causes exit wounds, shatters bones and splatters organs...
He caught it. Just caught it like it was nothing...
Your head sinks into the pillow. The greatest shame of all isn't the defeat. It's what you know deep in your heart.
You don't want to encounter Noir again. Because you're not his equal.
Noir's ship sliced through the void.
The Zhuge Liang was a distant purple shape through the cockpit window, propelled along a perpendicular course by the golden fire of its engines. The man in black's azure eyes blazed as they fastened upon it.
(Player's name) had escaped death. But death was coming for him/her once more.
The Mandarin and The Monster
(Player's name) closed his/her eyes. Wu Tenchu hoped he was sleeping, and not awake with dark thoughts weighing in his mind.
Master Wu deactivated the screen. It had come to life when (Player's name) regained consciousness, triggered by the machines monitoring his condition. The mandarin had considered speaking to him/her. But it hadn't seemed appropriate to intrude at such a moment.
Another screen played the footage from Blackpool. Wu Tenchu had watched the fight perhaps a dozen times. Now he examined it in slow-motion with his expert eye, scrutinized every movement, each attack and defense.
Noir... That was the name Ham had told Screaming Barracuda during his delirium, and which the Piscarian singer had spoken to Wu when questioned. The man in black who fought better than the Sian Empire's finest warrior. Who could withstand a punch that had... The mandarin blinked away the memories. He had no wish to remember the death and destruction it had wrought.
Wu Tenchu knew many things. High among them, a trait which touched and encompassed so many others, was that he understood people. What were strategies, tactics, and political schemes save for ways to employ this knowledge in the most efficacious manner?
And Master Wu knew (Player's name). Understood the warrior spirit in his breast and the lengths to which it would drive him/her. In the end, (Player's name) wouldn't allow an enemy to wound him/her so and live. Councilor Dule's grim demise and the deaths of Centurian billions were proof enough of that.
But if he/she fought Noir, tried to recover his/her pride and honor by challenging the masked man again... Then (Player's name) would perish. And whether it was through friendship, loyalty, pragmatism, or the wonderful woman they'd both cared so much for, Wu Tenchu couldn't allow that to happen.
The black ship skimmed in low, approaching the Zhuge Liang from above. Technology could thwart technology. Sensors could be baffled. But it was all for nothing if you allowed yourself to be glimpsed through a window.
It settled atop the big purple vessel. Magnetic docking clamps held the smaller craft in place, a dark leech fastened to its victim.
Moments later Noir's hover pad was lowering him into the Sian ship through an access hatch.
Hunter and Prey
You toss the blanket aside and swing your legs off the bed. Lying there is just making you restless in body as well as mind. You have to stretch your limbs.
So you dress in the jumpsuit that's been left folded on a chair, and head for the door.
Martin Chung's friends and detractors both called him 'Checkers'. That name had first attached itself to him at the academy, and it had spread through each vessel he'd served on.
It wasn't the most erudite of nicknames. He was called Checkers because of his obsession with checking things. It was a quirk that had been with him since he was a child -- when he'd leave the apartment only to return to the front door and turn the handle to make sure it was locked, or flit in and out of the kitchen because of a niggling feeling that he'd left the stove on. This trait had only become more pronounced in the military. If your work could mean the difference between life and death, it was only logical to check, recheck, and check again. All the sniggers and quips in the galaxy wouldn't dissuade him of this.
So although he'd tended to the security monitoring room himself, and set everything up exactly as it was supposed to be, Martin 'Checkers' Chung found himself going there again. Just one last check...
He entered the chamber and went over to the main console. A dozen holographic screens hovered there, ready to be selected and enlarged as an observer saw fit. His gaze roamed across them all. Everything was perfect. He hadn't needed to come here, but he didn't regret that he had. Better safe than sorry.
Martin turned around to leave. And found himself staring into a pair of bright azure slits. He raised his blaster, but it was too late.
The first punch shattered his helmet. The second crushed his throat.
Noir stepped over the corpse and gazed at the security screens.
"(Player's name)."
There he/she was, on one of the images. In a room that looked like a small museum or display chamber. Exquisite objects stood within glass cases, waiting to be marveled at. (Player's name) was inspecting one of them.
As good a place as any for him/her to die.
Noir (II)
The door opened, and Noir entered the chamber.
(Player's name) was on the opposite side, his back to the doorway.
The man in black paused. He sniffed the air. Ah... Deception.
Behind him the door closed and locked itself with a series of metallic clicks. The hologram of (Player's name) disappeared. Rectangular images came into existence on all four walls. Each of them showed the same thing. The face of Wu Tenchu, the mandarin.
"I congratulate you on this stratagem," Noir said. Even the growl within his voice seemed to issue approval.
"Thank you."
"But tell me one thing... Did (Player's name) agree to it? Or was it of your own devising."
"(Player's name) knows nothing of this."
"I believed as much... Shall we begin?"
Noir spread his arms to either side.
In all four corners of the room, turrets popped up from the floor and descended from the ceiling.
Bullets raked Noir, hundreds of rounds blazing away from spinning barrels. Beams of energy blasted and seared him, bombarding the man in black with huge bursts of red and yellow discharge.
His helmet shattered beneath the assault. His ebon garb was chewed up and obliterated. Thus his black, muscular, scaly flesh was revealed. Even naked, his azure eyes were two lone scars of color amidst the darkness.
Master Wu stroked his moustache. The barrage shredded Noir's clothing, but his hide was undamaged...
"Tell (Player's name) that I am coming for him/her!"
The voice rose above the whirring guns and roaring blasts.
Noir clenched his fists and strode to the door.
Wu Tenchu opened the door to his home, a modest building close to the palace. He had quarters in that grand imperial residence. For his duties often compelled him to spend his nights as well as his days there. But at times he liked to ensconce himself in humbler surroundings, where he could think without the distractions of state and opulence.
He crossed the hallway to his personal office. It was a comfortable chamber, with two deep armchairs, a fireplace that emitted a welcoming glow, bookcases filled with eclectic volumes, a table which held a weiqi board, and a desk bearing assorted terminals and screen projectors.
It was to the terminals that Master Wu went first. He'd been learning all he could about Noir, compiling information that might aid (Player's name).
"I attempted to access those, but I was unable to. Your own encryption methods?"
The mandarin froze for only a fraction of a second before replying.
"Yes."
"They are magnificent."
"You flatter me."
Noir emerged from the shadows.
"You were an assassin before loftier things beckoned you," the man in black said.
"That isn't common knowledge."
"We are not common people. Tell me, are you as swift and deadly as they say?"
"Tales often grow in the telling."
"I shall enjoy putting it to the test."
"A game of weiqi first?"
Wu Tenchu gestured at the board.
"Very well."
The mandarin and Noir sat on opposite sides of the table, the board and its grid between them.
"Black, I presume?"
Wu Tenchu slid the pot of ebony stones over to him.
And the two of them played.
White stones descended from the mandarin's fingers, their black enemies from Noir's -- each occupying an intersection where two lines met. They played in silence save for the clicking of stones against wood, and the soft, almost imperceptible rustling of Master Wu's moustache as he stroked it. Each of them claimed and conquered swaths of the board. They lifted away slain stones.
When at last the rival armies had consumed the board, the white forces dominated the field.
Wu Tenchu smiled.
"Splendid," he said. "I was hoping it would prove so."
"A fine victory, but your meaning eludes me."
"Had your skill been as great in strategy as in battle, I would have been most perturbed. It's a relief that it isn't so."
"We have tested ourselves at your game. Now we shall do the same in mine. And I do not believe the results will be so pleasing to you. But I shall relish discovering the extent of your abilities."
The two of them stood and moved into the middle of the floor.
"I shall destroy (Player's name). You have merely purchased him time."
"Perhaps... But only if you leave here alive."
"You are that confident in your assassin's tricks?"
"No. In my politician's tricks."
The mandarin whistled. It was a lovely, sonorous sound.
Thick metal barriers clanged into place, sealing the building's doors and windows.
Wu Tenchu smiled.
The explosion tore through the room in an apocalyptic wave.
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