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LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/Game Over

2014-12-06T05:20:54Z

Durlin: Created page with "'''Game Over''' "Want the last piece?" Talia said. "Yeah!" Adrian said. "What was [Player's Name]'s plan? How did she-" "I ..."

'''Game Over'''
 

"Want the last piece?" Talia said.
 

"Yeah!" Adrian said. "What was [Player's Name]'s plan? How did she-"
 

"I meant the last piece of poppadom."
 

She nodded at the white shard which rested among the crumbs, sharp and narrow like a blade.
 

"Oh... No, go ahead."
 

Talia took it with thumb and forefinger, held it up, and regarded it with a gaze that was almost mournful. She glanced at a nearby table. A young man and woman sat and laughed there, exchanging sweet words and starters. He shoveled his salad onto her plate. She retaliated by depositing a lamb chop on his. The man's hand came to rest on her fingers. Their eyes swam and shone with more than alcohol. Adrian Zanfran smiled.
 

"And the world goes on," Talia said. "People fall in love. Robots roll off TALOS' production lines. There are wars and peace and everything in-between."
 

She sighed, and dipped the shard into the little bowl of mango chutney. It came away bloodied with thick orange-gold that slid down the crisp whiteness in a slow, viscous rivulet. Her eye followed it for a long moment before she slipped the blade into her mouth.
 

Adrian waited while she crunched it between her teeth. And, mostly because he felt awkward just watching her eat, he reached for the jug of mango lassi. His tentacle's suckers latched onto the smooth glass, ignoring the handle. He looked to Talia. She nodded, and he topped her glass up before filling his own for the first time.
 

The drink was sweet and sugary. Thick, like a good milkshake. He took a long gulp, before the vodka's fire burned at the back of his mouth and made him cough.
 

"I thought all writers drank hard. That's what Ragnar's friend told me."
 

"Svana Spunbracher?"
 

"Yeah."
 

"I'll work on it." He waited for a second or two, then said: "Lady Hollister's assassination, and the massacre in the robot factory..."
 

"I already told you about those. If you want me to tell everything twice, it'll be a long meal."
 

"But... Does anyone else know? That the Kalaxians were responsible?"
 

"Maybe." She shrugged. "But if they do, we never heard anything about it. Just the official story -- same as everyone else. Centi Priders murdered Hollister, and anti-robot extremists attacked TALOS."
 

"Can I..."
 

"If you want to write about it, go ahead. Everyone'll think it's one more conspiracy theory."
 

"But-"
 

Adrian paused when the waiter appeared beside them, and murmured his thanks as the Rylattu laid out their main course. The curries steamed in oval dishes -- the masala a rich, bright red like a stop sign; his vindaloo a deep, dark brown, with tiny tentacles poking above the sauce. Spicy scents curled in the air between the diners, ethereal fingers teasing, tantalizing, and beckoning. The bowl of colorful basmati rice lent its own subtler fragrances to the melange. So did the neat triangles of garlic naan.
 

When the Rylattu was gone, Adrian fiddled with his glass.
 

"You don't have to wait for me," Talia said. She ladled rice onto her plate. "If I had any table manners left after the military, eating with Ragnar killed them. Every meal was like a massacre."
 

"I'm just scared of the vindaloo."
 

She laughed, and it warmed her face.
 

"It's been a while since I've had an anaconda masala. Every time, I think of that last dinner we had with Illaria."
 

"I'm sorry."
 

"Don't be. I want to remember that night, for the rest of my life. We didn't have time for a big meal before we moved against cult. Everyone was too busy getting ready. Kind of a shame, but it wouldn't have been the same anyway. And I think we all said everything that needed to be said..."
 

***
 

"Hey, Tel," you say.
 

"Hey."
 

His mech's cockpit canopy flips open, revealing the prince. Lights from the control panels, bright in the gloomy vehicle bay, illuminate his face in shades of green and yellow that remind you of Halloween zombie costumes.
 

"I was testing the night vision."
 

"Yeah?" You scale the mech, finding familiar hand and footholds, and sit beside him. "You should be more worried about the psionic dampeners."
 

"They'll work. And those cult guys can't use their psychic stuff if we're chainsawing them."
 

"We? Please tell me you didn't..."
 

"Yeah! My palace guards use laser-edged chainsaws now!"
 

You grimace. When the Kalaxians established a base on a world near Gallea, they probably didn't think it'd bring a band of chainsaw-wielding lunatics down on their heads. But that's life.
 

"I told them to hold off," Tel says, "in case the cult's watching my planet. They won't head out till I'm almost there. Then we'll hit them fast, like you said."
 

"Good thinking."
 

There's a moment of silence. It isn't uncomfortable -- you know each other far too well for that. But unspoken things hover around you, begging to be said.
 

"I'm sorry," you say.
 

"Huh?" He stops fiddling with his controls and looks round. "For what?"
 

"For not being there, when you needed me. By the time I heard..."
 

"It's okay. You've been busy, getting kicked through windows and stuff."
 

"Great... I go through one window, and suddenly that's all anyone wants to talk about."
 

"Hey, it got more hits on the net than anything else you've done."
 

"Seriously?"
 

"Yeah."
 

"Sometimes I think we should just burn the galaxy down and start over..."
 

"I'll need a bigger mech for that."
 

"You'll need a bigger one anyway. In a couple of years you'd have to cram yourself into that cockpit."
 

"Yeah... Guess so."
 

"It's a shame." You pat the armor plating next to your thigh. "I'll miss this old thing. We've been through a lot together, huh?"
 

"Us and the mech, or you and me?"
 

"Both. Maybe the next one can have a crown, and you can take it to your coronation."
 

He looks away, and his smile fades.
 

"Tel..." You think of changing the subject, of talking about happier, carefree things. But what kind of friend would you be then? "Talia said your seneschal..."
 

"Bermund?"
 

"She said he wants you to take the throne. That there're some things a prince can't do, legally."
 

"Yeah..."
 

"If Gallea needs a-"
 

"My father was a king. He was smart, and..."
 

"Tel, I've seen you hack systems, repair this mech of yours, and guide a missile to make an impossible hit."
 

"Yeah, I'm smart at games, and blowing stuff up! Not ruling a planet!"
 

"But you're young enough to learn, and you have advisors to help you until you do."
 

"Wu said he'd help teach me."
 

You laugh before you can help it. He looks at you, lips twitching -- confused but still infected by your merriment.
 

"Sorry. I was just imagining you dressed in mini Wu robes, stroking a fake moustache while you plan secret deeds. And Wu may be gone, but he left all those writings behind. Besides, he isn't the only leader we know. Just don't take advice from Dupont..."
 

"My father was a good king, and he died because of me."
 

"Tel..."
 

"Don't tell me he didn't. If I hadn't attacked the Centurians, they wouldn't have killed him!"
 

"If you hadn't attacked the Centurians, they'd have killed me, Illaria, and Talia. And after that? With no one to stop them? The Besalaad might be running human space by now. The decisions we've made, the things we've done, change everything. Good and bad. If you just think about the bad stuff, you're letting the past ruin the present and the future."
 

He stares at you.
 

"What?" you say.
 

"That's the kind of stuff the Princess used to say."
 

"Yeah?" You smile and let out a soft sigh. "I've been inside my head, and other people's heads, a lot lately. Maybe it's making me think more than I used to. Or maybe I'm just getting philosophical in my old age."
 

Silence descends once more, soft and warm. Filled with welcome ghosts and memories. Telemachus fiddles with his controls, while you watch him work.
 

"Think you can beat Noir?" he says, without looking at you.
 

"Maybe. I have to try. Even if we take out the rest of the cult, Noir's too dangerous to be left out there."
 

"What if he wins?"
 

"I don't know, Tel. I don't know..."
 

"You'd better kick his ass then, huh?"
 

"Yeah."
 

'''Literature and Lacerations'''
 

"Did you bring a gun?" Svana Spunbracher said.
 

"I didn't think that would be appropriate..." Rektor Hrolfsson sighed and looked at her.
 

The hovercar's autopilot kicked in with a soft beep, seizing control from the distracted driver. It guided the vehicle round the next turn and along a streetlight-splashed road.
 

"Yeah," he said. "Okay. I've got two pistols."
 

Svana tapped the dashboard. A hatch slid open. The compartment's bright glow bathed her face, almost the same shade of gold as her hair.
 

"Take this axe," she said. "If they get close, start hacking."
 

Rektor winced.
 

"I don't know..." he said.
 

"Trust me." Svana bit her lip. Her eyes widened. "Grenades! You should have grenades, in case they attack in a horde."
 

"I'll pick some up on the way."
 

"Promise? I don't want you going in there without grenades."
 

"Promise."
 

"And get someone good to watch your back. Not Greta. She'll start running before the first axe flies. Maybe Donnie. Especially if he has the machinegun with him."
 

"I will." He smiled at her. "Bet you're glad you don't have to go to these things anymore, huh?"
 

"No kidding. I always hated parent-teacher night. Ugh... It's like they don't even know how crappy their kids are. You tell them their girl's a screw up who comes to class with chems leaking out of her nose, and they act like you've pissed on an angel."
 

The car slowed down. It stalked the illuminated store fronts like a jungle cat, creeping past wandering shoppers and slumbering rows of parked vehicles.
 

"Things aren't so bad now," Rektor said. "Most of the kids are still scared your friend'll come back and rip their legs off."
 

"Good."
 

A deep, growling voice sounded from the dashboard.
 

"You have reached your destination. Get out and pillage!"
 

The passenger door rose, and a gust of warm city air toyed with Svana's tresses.
 

"There's still time to blow off parent-teacher night and join me," she said.
 

"I'd love to. But then I'd go in tomorrow and find Greta's head stuck on a spike."
 

He leaned over and kissed her.
 

"Good luck," she said.
 

"You too."
 

Svana Spunbracher got out of the car, and watched it pull away. She wondered if she should call Ragnar Ragnarsson. Maybe he could recommend a good death squad, just in case the educator ended up needing a little fire support. But Rektor had survived these things before.
 

She sighed and turned towards the door. Svana paused there for a moment, inspecting her reflection in its dark glass. Her hair looked pretty. Nice and curly, with good volume. But her expression... She experimented for a few moments, widening and narrowing her eyes, pursing and curving her lips.
 

The door swung open. Svana's face froze somewhere between somber wisdom and a coquettish smirk. The bald man stared for a long moment, before shuffling around her. He kept his eyes fastened on Svana, perhaps suspecting that she was a madwoman who might eat his kidneys the moment he looked away. She sighed. When the door clicked back into place, she watched her cheeks redden.
 

Svana adjusted her facial features once more. After a minute or so, she settled on a look of jovial genius which seemed appropriate for an author. Thus armed and armored, she stepped into the bookshop's warmth.
 

A tall, gorgeous blonde woman in a mail bikini was waiting beyond the doorway. Svana had just enough time to wonder if she'd walked into a strip club by mistake, before the scantily clad female spoke.
 

"I'm Valkyrie Bloodsword, author of The Saga of Drunken Ragnar! Come here tonight at seven and I'll teach you about the secrets..." The literary valkyrie winked and leaned forward -- contorting her body in a way which indicated that cleavage was more important than spinal health. "...of creative writing."
 

Svana glared at the hologram.
 

"It doesn't even look like me!" she murmured.
 

Svana Spunbracher clenched her fists, and wished her agent was within punching range. But he wasn't. She'd have to pummel him later -- and hope the little pervert didn't enjoy it too much.
 

"I'm Valkyrie Bloodsword, author of-"
 

She walked past the image, which thankfully fell silent with no one there to appreciate its unrealistic anatomy. The frown melted off Svana's brow an instant later. It was hard to stay angry in one of her favorite places.
 

Dark wooden bookcases surrounded her on three sides. Each of them was a work of art; every inch of wood bore sculpted images, depicting longships, sea serpents, geometric patterns, rows of blooming roses, and sundry other designs. Those decorated shelves framed leather-bound volumes in a multitude of sizes and colors. Svana reached for a book at random. Its purple spine slid out from its neighbors' embrace, bearing Alexander Pope's name alongside that of an ancient epic. Svana turned it in her hands, stroking the jagged edges of yellow-brown pages, and brought it near to her nose. It smelled old and ponderous and wonderful. The scent was synthetic. And she knew the pages had come out of the printer that way, simulating books from the days when readers cut knowledge free with a blade. But she loved it all the same.
 

Thus fortified, and with a smile of genuine contentment in lieu of her practiced expression, Svana returned the tome and walked between the bookcases. The path twisted and turned. A magical labyrinth sprawled around her, mysterious and decadent. Gloriously unintuitive. This wasn't a place for novices. Its paths had to be discovered, its secrets earned. And Svana Spunbracher knew them all.
 

"There you are!" Milly Tenderbrook's head, framed by a veritable bascinet of ginger hair, popped out from between the cases. "Oh... I thought you'd be wearing the costume. Doesn't matter! Doesn't matter! Come on -- they're all waiting."
 

She took Svana's arm and dragged her down a short, book-lined passage, towards a wooden relief sculpture of galloping, lance-wielding Arthurian knights. The bookshop owner pushed one of the double doors inwards, bisecting the impressive artwork. Svana followed her (without much choice in the matter, since she wanted to keep that arm) into the room reserved for author nights.
 

"Here she is, everyone!" Milly continued to yank the captured limb, pulling the writer up onto the stage -- as though she feared Svana might escape if left to her own devices. "Valkyrie Bloodsword!"
 

Svana Spunbracher found herself behind a lectern, gazing out at dozens of faces which seemed to hover above blurs of clapping hands. She waved. The audience was much as she'd expected. There were nerds sporting a range of amusing or incomprehensible t-shirts, a few people dressed like Ragnar Ragnarsson, a smattering of middle-aged women who looked like they'd just knocked back their seventh or eighth glasses of wine, and a couple of glaring malcontents -- the sort who only came to these things to complain about whichever element of the author's work most offended them. Svana had dealt with their kind before. She tended to take comfort in the fact that her fans would usually beat them up in the parking lot afterwards.
 

"Thank you, thank you!" Svana said. She waited a moment for the applause to die down. "Sagas! Back on Earth, our ancestors-"
 

"Die!"
 

"...believed that stories could... Huh?"
 

A young man with a freckled face stood up in the middle of the audience. He pulled up his t-shirt (which bore a cartoonish, two-dimensional replica of Ragnar's muscular physique), and reached for the pistol wedged behind his waistband.
 

"This is for... for... using the passive tense too much!" he said.
 

"The passive is a voice, not a tense!" Svana said. She shouted the words before she realized that this was perhaps the less important part of the situation at hand.
 

Everything slowed down. The lunatic's gun slipped out from his pants. His face twitched, and there was a faint flicker that betrayed his holographic disguise. Everyone else flickered too. Within the rapid thoughts bouncing around Svana Spunbracher's head, she wondered if the entire universe was being broadcast on faulty technology. That would explain a lot...
 

The gun rose.
 

So did everyone else. The entire audience leapt to their feet, and... expanded? Holograms blinked out of existence. Muscles rippled. Chain armor glinted. Energy pulsed blue, orange, and red along the edges of swords and axes. The eclectic audience sprouted into a host of muscular men and women who encircled the deranged fan. The gunman gawped. The Niflungs roared. Weapons rose and fell.
 

Blood sprayed. Milly cried out. Chunks of gore flew in all directions.
 

Something larger hurtled at Svana's face. She caught it between her hands out of instinct, and stared into the deranged fan's eyes. They were surprisingly nonchalant for someone who'd just been decapitated. Then the disguise vanished.
 

A featureless mask... Just like her omnicidal friend had warned her about. Svana Spunbracher tossed the severed head over her shoulder and gazed at the blood-spattered audience.
 

"Everyone?" she said. "Really?"
 

The warriors exchanged sheepish looks.
 

"Sigurd told us to keep an eye on you," a seven foot tall valkyrie said.
 

"Death to the Spinebreaker's enemies!" a berserker said.
 

"Death!" the others chorused.
 

They began to bustle along the rows of chairs, making for the exit. Svana's eyes narrowed.
 

"Stop right there! I came here to give a talk about literature, and I'm not giving it to an empty room."
 

"But..." the towering Valkyrie said.
 

"Sit down!"
 

The warriors looked at one another, then at the warlord's glaring daughter, and returned to their seats. Svana Spunbracher gave a little grunt of satisfaction.
 

"As I was saying... Back on Earth, our ancestors..."
 

'''Between a Snuuth and A Hard Place'''
 

Arshad Malik's eyes were closed. They had been so for at least an hour, during which he'd slept for perhaps three dispersed minutes and pretended to slumber for the rest. Yet the old woman sitting on his right, whose boney elbow dug into his side like a torturer's tool, was still babbling away. Light from her datapad brightened the darkness behind his lids.
 

"And this is my other great-grandson, Crispin. He's a chem dealer on Drekchester. Such a nice boy! He sends me some of my favorite pills every Christmas, and prints little angels on them -- just for me. I don't like his husband though, because he's always..."
 

Malik tried to tune her out and focus his hearing elsewhere. But the alternative wasn't much better. On his left -- within rolls of hot, sweaty flesh that spilled over the armrest and seemed on the verge of entombing him beneath an avalanche of pure fatness -- came a series of popping, churning, burbling noises. They culminated in a breaking of wind which might've heralded judgment day. And the ensuing stench made Malik long for that apocalypse. God... What had the fat bastard been eating? Sewage? The smell was almost physical, smothering his face with thick, fecal warmth...
 

He turned his head away, opened his eyes, and gasped.
 

"Window!" he said. "Someone open a window!"
 

"Sir..." A Piscarian stewardess trotted over. "We're in space. If these windows opened, it'd kill us all."
 

Her nose twitched. Her smile faltered. She clamped her hand to her mouth, and bright pink flesh bulged on either side of her face.
 

"I..." She backed away down the narrow aisle. "I'll bring you some smell-canceling nose buds!"
 

"Hmm?" the Snuuth said. He sniffed the air. "Is there a smell?"
 

"I can't smell anything these days, dear," the old woman said. "Not since that last operation..."
 

She leaned over, driving her elbow deeper into Malik's body until he was fairly certain its point scraped his spine, and held her datapad out. The Snuuth's bulk fell upon him as the alien tried to get a better look at the screen. Malik let out a wheeze, while the alien smothered him and old woman ground his organs to mush.
 

"Look at the mess that surgeon made of my nose! My daughter-in-law's a solicitor..."
 

"Like a prostitute?" the Snuuth said.
 

"A little bit. She's a lawyer. She said I could sue that hospital for..."
 

Malik extracted himself from the alien's flab and slumped over onto the woman, gasping for breath.
 

"Young man! Young man!" The boney joint thudded into him again and again. "You're taking up too much space! Young man!"
 

He groaned, and tried shield his bruised ribs.
 

"Attention!" The perky female voice echoed over the ship's speakers. "We're approaching our destination. Please resume your seats as we prepare for atmospheric entry. Thank you for flying Neo-American Spaceways. Oh... And please be aware that two of our cargo compartments came open during the flight. If your belongings were among those accidentally jettisoned into space, you'll be entitled to claim a free cup of coffee on your next Neo-American Spaceways flight. Thank you."
 

The Snuuth shifted like a collapsing mountain. Malik exhaled and righted himself. The old woman sniffed, and murmured something about young people.
 

Sanderson never had to fly interstellar economy class. That thought burned in Malik's brain till it seemed as though his eyes might ignite -- and possibly kill them all in an explosion of detonated methane. The bastard got to take the company ship on his business trips. Well, not after today. When Malik got to that meeting and wowed their clients with the presentation, his bosses would have to take notice. Then Sanderson would be the one taking commercial flights like a bum! Malik tried to comfort himself with this dream as the ship rocked, hurling him into the Snuuth's gut and then onto the woman's elbow.
 

The cabin shuddered. Metal screeched and whined. A few children screamed. Someone yelled, "Death to Neo-America!" -- though that was fairly standard, in Malik's experience. He'd heard about a nun who became a mass murderer after putting up with one of these trips.
 

But the ship came to a halt without either bursting into flames or smashing them into the spaceport building. So at least there was that.
 

"Please leave the cabin as soon as possible," the speaker-voice said, "so we can board our next passengers. If the person in front of you is causing delays, please push them aside."
 

A surge of people swept Malik along, and spurted him through the exit hatch like the cork from a champagne bottle. He landed on all fours. A woman wearing a stiletto stood on his hand. Someone else kicked him in the butt. He scrambled to his feet, glaring, but the perpetrators were long gone. The tide of human and alien flesh had borne them away.
 

"Are you okay?" a woman's voice said.
 

Malik turned around, and a torrent of pent-up abuse rushed up his throat, ready to unleash itself in a cataclysm of bitter sarcasm. But it faltered on his tongue and slid back down again. The woman standing in front of him was beautiful. Hair like ebon silk, mysterious and enticing in its rich blackness, shaped and stroked gentle olive features. Deep purple eyes and soft, shapely lips the exact same color held genuine concern.
 

"I... Yeah," Malik said.
 

The lady reached for him, and he almost stepped back or raised his arms out of instinct. She smiled, as though sensing his hesitation, and adjusted his tie.
 

"There we go. If you're going somewhere you need to wear a tie, you have to look smart."
 

Arshad Malik beamed. Smugness expanded in his stomach. And Sanderson had said ties were ridiculous, archaic...
 

"You must be here for something important," she said.
 

"I'm giving a presentation to some very influential clients."
 

"Good luck!"
 

"Thanks! I-"
 

The lady leaned in and kissed his cheek. She laughed at his surprise.
 

"I'm staying at the Tritac on Decros Street." She bit her lip, and it made her lovelier. "Maybe after you impress them, we can go for a drink?"
 

"Uh, yeah! I-"
 

She giggled again and slipped away with the streaming crowd. Malik stood there for some moments, barely aware of the shoulders bumping into him and the accompanying swearwords. His fingers rested where her lips had been just a moment before. His eyes shone. Things were looking up already!
 

He laughed, ignoring the blank stares it attracted, and let the flow of people carry him towards the spaceport building on its inexorable currents.
 

'''Hot Flash'''
 

"You stay out of sight," Rachel Thrane said. "I'll give you a brain prod when I've got him."
 

"I always have to play back up," Sandeep Singh said. "Just because I'm not psionic..."
 

"No. It's because you don't look like this."
 

Rachel performed a slow, elegant pirouette. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the leafy branches and lingered on her curves alongside Sandeep's gaze. The tight purple jumpsuit was more like body paint than a garment.
 

"And by the way, I can see what you're thinking."
 

"Oh! I..." Sandeep blushed. "I... I was just..."
 

"Yeah." Rachel rolled her eyes. "So, one more time..."
 

"You go to the door. He opens it, and you do psychic stuff."
 

"Right. If he knows where [Player's Name] is, I get that info -- and the grandmistress will love us forever. After that..." She sighed. "When I said she'd love us, that's not what I meant! Get that out of your head. Now!"
 

"I can't help it! If I know you're looking in there, I can't help it! I get embarrassed, and then I think of that stuff, and then I get more embarrassed!"
 

"We're going to have to work on your mental discipline, and... Really? Discipline?"
 

"Stay out! Just stop looking, okay! For the love of the wyrm-mother, stop!"
 

"Fine. But seriously, work on that. Now, the rest of the plan..."
 

"You get what you need out of his brain, then send me the signal. I'll come along and shoot him in the head."
 

"Just don't come before I tell you. Flashheart's dangerous. If I don't have him locked down..."
 

"I know. I've got this."
 

"Good. Let's go."
 

Rachel stepped out from the little copse of trees and darted across the lawn. Sandeep watched her run, and hoped she wasn't reading his thoughts. He waited a few moments, till she was near the house, then followed. The building they approached was large but otherwise unremarkable and unassuming. He'd somehow expected to find the exterior lit up in the manner of a Cytheran brothel, with naked women lounging around the gardens like weary nymphs. But apparently the microcosmic Sodom and Gomorrah he'd heard about were locked within its walls instead.
 

Sandeep crouched behind a corner of the house. He drew his pistol and leaned around. Rachel stood at the front door. She looked at him, while her voice whispered in his mind.
 

"Remember -- wait there."
 

"Got it." He thought the words instead of speaking them. Then other thoughts intervened. "Oh... Damn it!"
 

Her sigh echoed in his skull. Sandeep winced. It wasn't his fault! Whenever he knew someone was reading his mind, his asshole subconscious decided to sabotage him by making him think indecent thoughts!
 

Rachel rang the doorbell. Sandeep leaned back, putting himself out of sight. A few moments later he heard a man's brash voice.
 

"I'd ask what brings a lovely lady like you to my doorstep, but I think we both know the answer's me! So let's get you inside, peel off that jumpsuit and... Hey! What..."
 

"[Player's Name]," Rachel said. Her voice was soft and booming at the same time. A sweet avalanche that echoed across the planet and whispered inside Sandeep's mind. "Tell me everything you know about [Player's Name]."
 

"You're a saucy mare, aren't you? Five seconds after meeting me, and you're already in my deep dark places! Normally it's the other way around!"
 

"Your bravado won't save you! I can see into your soul! Into your deepest... secret... innermost... Oh, Flashy!"
 

"Huh?" Sandeep said.
 

Rachel's voice disappeared from his skull with a soft pop, as though his brain had unfurled to recapture that stolen space. He looked around the corner. And his mouth hung open.
 

Captain Flashheart's trim, handsome figure stood there, wearing a red jumpsuit and a woman in purple. Rachel's arms and legs were wrapped around him so tight that Sandeep might've thought she was assassinating him with a grappling hold -- except for the face that her tongue was down his throat.
 

"What the hell?" He got up and ran over. "Rachel? What're you-"
 

Their mouths parted. Rachel gazed into Flashheart's eyes, and if she'd seen the expression on her own face, she may've recognized it from Sandeep Singh's deepest, most embarrassing fantasies.
 

"I wasted my life worshipping Kalaxia!" she said.
 

"Bloody right!" Flashheart said. "If that silly blue cow I saw in your head comes back, she'll be worshipping me!"
 

"Rachel!" Sandeep said. "You-"
 

"Oh, shut up, culty!"
 

The captain drew his pistol, locked lips with her again, and shot Sandeep in the face.
 

'''Sports Entertainment'''
 

The security line inside the spaceport was long. In fact, it was so long that Malik suspected some of the older passengers might die of old age before they reached the front -- and he'd have to step over their corpses. But that was okay. Today this additional inconvenience of commercial space travel couldn't remove the smile from his face. Even a targeted nuclear strike or extinction-level meteor would've found that difficult.
 

"Take your shoes off," one of the security people up ahead said.
 

"I'm a cyborg," the traveler in question said. "Those are my feet."
 

"Then take your feet off!"
 

The woman... Malik didn't even know her name, but that didn't matter. What mattered were those amethyst eyes and lips... Her gorgeous face... That lithe but voluptuous figure. And she liked him!
 

"We're going to have to confiscate those, sir."
 

"What? Have your brains been melted into slimy filth-goo? If you take my doomsday weapons, how will I destroy stink-beasts with my superior technology?"
 

"Visit a gun store."
 

She liked him! Malik jumped up and tried to click his heels together. He missed, and gave himself a hard bang on the calf instead. But that was fine. She liked him!
 

"And one final question, ma'am. Were you involved in the Centurian genocide?"
 

"Yeah, I fragged some Centi escape pods. So what?"
 

"Then thank you for your service, and please accept this complimentary Prince Telemachus badge."
 

"Cool."
 

She swam in Malik's mind. Her naked body pinned him down... Those beautiful eyes stared into his, promising him everything the galaxy had ever kept back for men like Sanderson and his piece of crap bosses with their fancy ships and-
 

"Sir!"
 

"Huh?" Malik blinked.
 

"You're next." A Vlarg in an orange jumpsuit stood in front of him. Her three red eyes seemed to stare at different parts of his face. "Get into the chamber."
 

"Oh. Sure."
 

Arshad Malik stepped onto the platform, raised his arms, and waited for the lights to play across his body. That one on the right was the same color as her lips... His cheek burned with glorious, radiant warmth. Tomorrow he'd ace his presentation. Then he'd go to her hotel and-
 

He frowned. Why were all those sirens going off?
 

Malik looked around, through the chamber's curved, tinted glass walls, and his jaw hung open. Men and women in sealed orange suits were running around out there -- waving wands at everyone, like conjurers performing magic tricks.
 

"Hey!" he said. He grabbed at the door and tugged it. "What's happening? What's-"
 

"Sir!" a woman's voice said. It came from beyond a helmet's opaque window. She pressed her gloved hands against his glass prison. "Do not try to leave the chamber! I repeat, do not try to leave that chamber!"
 

"What's happening? What the-"
 

"The med teams will be here any minute, and they'll put you in quarantine. Don't resist! Your condition is highly infections. They'll use their chainsaws and take you there in bags if they have to!"
 

In Malik's mind, purple lips laughed.
 

***
 

"Hey! You can't be here!"
 

The stocky human in the blue uniform stepped in front of Leilarki and held out his hands to block her. He was shouting, but the horrendous din still almost drowned him out.
 

"Huh?" the Piscarian said. She leaned towards him, turned her head, and cupped her hand around her green ear.
 

"I said..."
 

He took another step closer and pressed something on his belt. A low, electric thrum vibrated in the air around them -- muffling the cacophony from the arena, quietening the crowd's shrieks to a dull murmur.
 

"...you can't be here! Fans aren't allowed on this level!"
 

"I wanted a better view," the Piscarian said.
 

"Yeah? Then buy a front row tick-"
 

He gurgled and fell backwards. When he hit the ground, the voices of thousands of Twisted Steel fans flooded the corridor once more. Leilarki jerked her left wrist. The bloody blade slid back into its dock beneath her green flesh. There was a mild quiver while its cleaning systems went to work. She crouched down, undid the guard's belt clasp, and pulled it off him.
 

When it was around her own waist, she turned it back on and let out a sigh. She hadn't expected the losers to be so loud. Rookie mistake. Either way, she needed some aural implants so in future she could adjust the surrounding volume herself. Maybe Kalaxia would provide... After all, Professor Bonderbrand would be grateful for this one.
 

Leilarki glanced down at the body and shrugged. No one else was scheduled to patrol this part of the stadium for at least fifteen minutes. And if she tried to drag him somewhere, she might miss her window. So the Piscarian walked past his corpse and found the door she was looking for.
 

She opened it a crack and peered through. But the intel was good. Whatever this little balcony was used for, it was empty. There weren't even any seats. A deactivated terminal was the only furnishing. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and went over to the waist-high barrier. Leilarki wasn't prone to vertigo, but the view still made her stomach flutter. The crowd fell away below -- a multicolored landslide of t-shirts and waving signs, cascading towards the ring.
 

"Perfect," she said.
 

Her cybernetic leg's compartment opened with a click and a hiss. She pulled out the metal rod and pressed a button on its side. Leilarki smiled when it unfolded. This rifle always reminded her of a toy she'd had as a kid, though that one had deployed itself into a robotic shark.
 

The Piscarian knelt down and rested the barrel on the balcony's lip.
 

Exactly four minutes and forty-two seconds later (she'd wasted eighteen more seconds with the guard than she'd anticipated), the crowd got to their feet, waved their arms and signs, and clamored loud enough to be obnoxious even over the noise-dampening field. It was the best signal Leilarki had ever had on a job.
 

The young man in black and gold business attire strutted down the long aisle which bisected the sea of spectators, swaggering like he owned the place -- which was appropriate, under the circumstances. He stopped to bump fists with one fan, punch another, and kiss a third. Curiously, all three seemed equally delighted in his wake. He sprang up the steps leading to the ring apron and slipped between the ropes.
 

Leilarki looked through her scope, zooming in on his face. That was him. And if there had been any doubt, it would've vanished when his voice reverberated around the arena -- louder than the crowd's roar.
 

"I'm Shane Vortex, damn it, and..."
 

She fired.
 

"...no piece of crap assassin's going to take me out!"
 

The Piscarian's eyes widened.
 

"Hologram!" she said.
 

"That's right, sweetie," a female voice said.
 

Leilarki spun round, leveling the rifle. Green metal flashed. Something crashed into her jaw...
 

"Your main event!" someone said.
 

The crowd... Shouting... Screaming... Roaring... Thousands and thousands of demonic, bloodthirsty throats all clamoring.
 

She opened her eyes.
 

"What..."
 

Everything was strange. Distorted. Her limbs and face were trapped, enclosed... It was a moment or two before Leilarki realized she was wearing armor. Her mind reeled.
 

"Shane Vortex..." The words bellowed from the stadium's sound system. "...versus Fried Fish!"
 

"Fried Fish..." she murmured. "Stupid... Stupid... name."
 

She stood up and shook the cobwebs from her head. Her vision began to clear, and she gawped at a myriad faces.
 

"Come on!" Shane Vortex said.
 

Leilarki whirled round towards the sound of his voice, and stared across the ring at a figure dressed in a black and gold battlesuit.
 

"These people paid to see slaughter," he said, "and they're going to get it!"
 

He charged. And then everything got very quick, blurry, and painful for the Piscarian.
 

'''Multheru'''

LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/The Four Kasans

2014-12-05T21:27:29Z

Durlin: Created page with "'''The Four Kasans''' "Who's Erebus the Black?" Telemachus says. "A dragon," you say. "Huh?" The faces around the..."

'''The Four Kasans'''
 

"Who's Erebus the Black?" Telemachus says.
 

"A dragon," you say.
 

"Huh?"
 

The faces around the Silver Shadow's mess room are pretty much as you'd expect. Telemachus stares at you from his perch atop the counter. The prince's eyes widen and dangling legs stop kicking the air when he realizes you're not joking. Ragnar puts down the donner kebab he bludgeoned out of the food printer, ignoring the glistening stream of grease and chili sauce which bleeds across the table's smooth surface. His grunt has a distinctly interrogative note to it. Ali's leaning against a bulkhead some distance from the others. The pyrokineticist mutters something under her breath, which your aural implant translates into an internal monologue about your sanity. Lu Bu's in the middle of the room, upright, shiny, and stalwart, as though awaiting a military inspection. Yet his gleaming metallic visage somehow manages to convey disbelief, along with a vague suggestion that you may've been hitting the whisky too hard. Talia and Screaming Barracuda look up at you. The Piscarian sits back in her chair, booted feet up on the table, and plucks at the guitar resting across her lap. Opposite her, Talia's fiddling with one of her pistols -- perhaps about to shoot in self-defense if Barra starts playing. The two of them already heard a similar explanation during your trip back to the Shadow. But based on their expressions, that forewarning didn't inoculate them against incredulousness.
 

"In the sense that Talia's a dragon?" the robot says. "He belongs to an organization or species which merely takes their name from-"
 

"No," you say. "In the sense that he's a big scaly monster with wings."
 

Your friends look at one another. The wordless dialogue which passes between their gazes makes the blood rush to your cheeks. Ragnar breaks the awkward silence, first with a snort then with his gruff voice.
 

"This is the guy who kicked you through a window on Blackpool?"
 

"Yeah."
 

"The one we saw on the vid?"
 

"Yeah..."
 

"He didn't have wings."
 

"I know, but-"
 

"And he wasn't that big," Tel says, because this is apparently 'act like [Player's Name]'s a small child or a dangerous lunatic' day.
 

"He did have scales though," Talia says. "We all saw what he looked like under that mask, on the vids from Wu's trap."
 

Those images, shot from different angles, replay themselves in your mind. Automated weapons ravage fabric and metal, shredding it with their fire. And all the while Noir stands there unharmed.
 

"That bint with the funny eyes did say he was Erebus the Black," Barra says. "Me and Talia heard her too. But [Player's Name] here'd just kicked the crap out of her in some kind of brain fight, and then those ninjas-"
 

"Sian operatives?" you say.
 

"Whatever... Then those ninjas stuck her full of chems. She was as wrecked as a Drekchester club girl. Surprised she didn't say the wanker was Father bloody Christmas."
 

"Trust me, if I had a choice, I'd rather pick a fight with Santa instead."
 

"You're certain she was telling the truth?" Lu Bu says.
 

"Yes. I was in her head just a moment before. And those chems Zhao Chen's people put in her weren't for fun. They're for extracting info."
 

"And Wu Tenchu's agents know their craft... Then are you sure this Erebus the Black is a dragon?"
 

You can't help cracking a smile. What kind of a universe is it where that's one of the things you can cling to with unshakeable faith? But here you are...
 

"Crazy dragon stuff, remember?" You tap the side of your head. "Erebus was the first dragon my ancestor killed. I know his name as well as I know yours."
 

Ragnar shrugs. His huge shoulders rise and fall like shifting boulders. He tears a chunk of naan-wrapped meat from his kebab, and masticates it as he speaks.
 

"That punch of yours... We know you're not psionic. Or you weren't before you... Before. People keep calling it 'chi', but that's just an old Chinese word for 'crap we don't understand'..."
 

Lu Bu seems to wince. Ali grins, and her tattooed flames bloom like a dozen laughing mouths.
 

"So if you say it comes from special dragon blood," the Niflung continues, "then sure. We know you're not crazy. Because if you're crazy, what does that make me or Talia?"
 

The gunslinger glares at him for half a second. Then she smiles.
 

"He's got a point," she says. "You're the sane one."
 

"You lot need to meet more people..." Barra says. "Sane one my arse..."
 

The Niflung picks up his kebab and takes a huge bite. He munches for a few moments, as though waiting for dubious meat, fiery sauce, and pure fat to nourish and lubricate his brain.
 

"And if you've got a dragon blood punch that kills everyone it hits..." Dark meaty slivers and white chewed up chunks of naan toss around his mouth like wreckage from a downed vessel. "...and Noir just catches it, then maybe he's got dragon stuff inside him too. Just more of it. You don't have scales. And Wu's scans said he was part human, part something else."
 

He shrugs again, and focuses his attention on the remainder of his meal -- oblivious to the stares and the ensuing silence. Apparently Noir hit you so hard that you've entered an alternate reality where Ragnar's the logical one...
 

"He... He has a point," Lu Bu says, perhaps pondering much the same thing. "If one accepts certain notions as plausible, the rest does flow from there."
 

"Regular aliens don't survive gunfire like that," Talia says. "And they sure as hell don't just dust themselves off after getting a nuke to the face. Fine... He's a dragon."
 

Despite everything that's happened, all the loss and lunacy, your friends' nods and words of acquiescence give you some small measure of satisfaction.
 

"So how do we kill him?" Ali says. She stares into space the second the words leave her mouth. "You? Don't be stupid! If he can take a nuke, what're you guys gonna... Shut up!"
 

She coughs, meets your gaze again, and continues.
 

"Like I was saying... How can we kill him and save Alexa?"
 

And just like that, the pleasant feeling ebbs away.
 

"I don't know," you say.
 

"You said your ancestor eliminated him," Lu Bu says. "How was that achieved?"
 

"I saw a glimpse of that battle. She and her warriors attacked Erebus outside a walled town. I think they killed him with swords, spears, arrows..."
 

"A nuclear bomb didn't work," Talia says, "and you want to shoot an arrow at him?"
 

"In videogames..." Telemachus says.
 

"Thanks, Tel, but I don't think [Player Name] can beat this guy by leveling up a few times or finding a +5 sword of badassery."
 

The prince glares.
 

"In videogames, there's always someone who knows how to kill the monster. Or maybe a book. You just talk to them, or read it, and get the info."
 

"This Dragon-Rider..." Lu Bu says.
 

"Wait," Ragnar says, "did she kill dragons or ride them?"
 

"Both," you say.
 

"Sounds like a conflict of interests..." Ali says.
 

Lu Bu makes a noise which sounds very much like a cough, and manages to silence them.
 

"She may know more about this subject," the robot continues. "Things you weren't able to glean from your dreams... visions..."
 

"Delusions..." Ali says.
 

"Can you talk to her?" Tel says.
 

"I... I don't think so. Last time, I just watched. I saw things happen but I couldn't do anything. Same as watching a holo-vid. But..." Your brow furrows. Your brain tightens, clenching like a fist. "That British pilot... It seemed like he knew I'd touched him. He smiled. I think he sensed something was there. Something on his side. And Medea... The elf with the harp... She saw me. I don't know... Maybe there is a way to talk to the Dragon-Rider?"
 

Screaming Barracuda beams.
 

"Let's give it a try!" she says. "And if it doesn't work, at least you'll all get a free gig out of it!"
 

From the looks on their faces, the others would rather fight the dragon.
 

***
 

"Kalaxia," Emera Tresc said.
 

"Kalaxia..."
 

The greeting was softer, more subdued, than the grandmistress had ever heard it. A whisper in the darkened room. Her gaze drifted to the empty space at the table, the void between the holographic heads which floated above every other seat. For years she'd wondered what could be more perturbing than the glare of those cyan gemstone eyes. Now she knew: their absence.
 

"Brothers and sisters," she said, "you've all heard."
 

That, at least, was a small mercy. News of this magnitude spread throughout their network like a raging inferno. And thank the wyrm-mother for that. Emera couldn't begin to imagine how she'd have revealed it, beneath Noir's burning azure slits.
 

"Victoria..." Bonderbrand said. His eyes, normally so kind and avuncular, were hard and bloodshot. She realized with a start that he'd been crying. "A direct descendent of the prophet Judith Ashdown. A woman who spent decades serving Kalaxia, and guided each and every one of us. Our sister... Our mother. Murdered! Murdered in her own home!"
 

His jowls quivered, like those of bulldog about to growl, bite, and rend.
 

"Murdered by the traitor's blood!"
 

His body was invisible, but Emera sensed Bonderbrand's big fist hammering down on his desk. Its impact shuddered through her body.
 

"[Player Name] must die!" the professor said.
 

"She must and she will," Noir said. His elegant, well-spoken voice was as composed as ever. The second voice, though... That growl... It chilled her more than Victoria Ashdown's glare ever had. "But for now she hides from me. She fears another confrontation, after our last encounter."
 

"The damn coward!" Bonderbrand said.
 

"[Player Name] has friends," Multheru said. The Quiskerian's oral tentacles fluttered in front of his face like the fingers of a clawing hand. "People she loves as we loved Lady Ashdown. And we know how vengeance twists her heart. That's how we'll lure her into the open."
 

"Yes," Noir said. His azure eyes blazed. "When she emerges from hiding to attack us, we will have our opportunity to destroy her."
 

"Her allies are powerful," Emera said. "Some of them have fleets and armies at their command. You saw what he brought down on the Centurians. We can't hold off an assault from TALOS, or the Novocastrians..."
 

"Then we will strip those allies from her..."
 

'''The Emergent'''
 

"She just sings, and it triggers these... episodes?" Lu Bu said.
 

"Yeah," [Player's Name] said.
 

Ali thought it sounded like a load of crap. Psychic music? Trips through time and space? That was the sort of thing she heard from people with more chems than blood in their bodies, right before they jumped off a roof or used a blaster barrel as a lollipop.
 

We think it sounds smart.
 

"Oh, well if you think it's 'smart', that changes everything, doesn't it?"
 

Yes, let's have sarcasm. Because sarcasm's always helpful...
 

"Shut up!"
 

All of a sudden, Ali became aware that every eye in the mess room was on her -- and that her words had coincided with the first strum of Screaming Barracuda's guitar. That must be why the Piscarian was glaring bloody murder at her...
 

"Sorry..."
 

"Keep playing, Barra," [Player's Name] said.
 

"Bet that's the first time anyone's ever said that," Ali murmured.
 

We love her music! It's amazing! Way better than the stuff you sing in the shower.
 

"You just want me to argue..." She glanced around, making sure no one with an aural implant was watching her whispering lips. "...so they think I'm crazy."
 

It was worth a try...
 

"Men of Kruna, stop your drinking,
 
What the bloody hell're you thinking?
 
Can't you hear the foemen slinking,
 
On the battlements?"
 

Everyone looked from the Piscarian to [Player's Name] and back again. The singer's eyes were closed. Her green face bore a serenity that was almost holy -- the radiant expression of a worshipper uttering a prayer or exalting heaven with her hymns. [Player's Name]'s eyes were open, but glazed over, staring into nothingness. The Sian hero's brow furrowed. Her mouth pursed, forming a hard, straight line that trembled a little at the edges. And because Ali was so busy watching, it was a moment before she noticed that her flames weren't talking anymore. They were... humming?
 

The tune vibrated through her blood, hot and heavy but not unpleasant.
 

"You're on fire!" the boy said.
 

Orange-yellow tongues danced on her shoulders, moving and flickering with the music, as though singing along.
 

"It's okay," she said. "They... I... It's okay."
 

This song! We know this song!
 

"How?" Ali put her hand over her mouth, pretending to stifle a cough. "I've never heard it."
 

We don't know. But it's old. So old...
 

She sighed. Just what she needed... More crazy mysteries.
 

***
 

Last time, you let the song guide you. Barra's or Medea's. Perhaps it was both... Drawing you through history, showing you what it wished. That made it easier. Now you're a swimmer fighting against the tide, crashing and splashing through sensory oceans, bombarded by sights, sounds, smells -- in volleys too vast to comprehend.
 

Have to focus...
 

The Dragon-Rider... Need to find the Dragon-Rider...
 

Your brain's on fire, burning with intent. In the distance, worlds away, your muscles tense and tighten like lumps of steel.
 

Come on, damn it! The Dragon-Rider!
 

You try to hold her in your mind, latching onto the images you shared beyond the veil. The two of you alone in the darkness.
 

"Dragon-Rider... Kasan!"
 

Multicolored waves explode around you, bursting, blooming, and settling. The shapes it forms are blurry, indistinct. A universe seen through the eyes of someone who's glugged all its alcohol. But it's sharpening by the moment.
 

"Dragon-Rider?"
 

You yell the name, hoping against hope that someone will hear it. That you'll find the hero amid this psychedelic haze. That she'll cry out to you in turn, voice bright with recognition. That she'll have the answers you crave.
 

Instead, there's a groan...
 

***
 

"Men of Kruna, grab a bludgeon,
 
Lest you earn the nobles' dudgeon,
 
And get thrown in the dungeon,
 
You bloody drunken sods!"
 

The plan had sounded just as ridiculous to Talia as it had to everyone else. But now, watching Barra play, seeing [Player's Name]locked in that... trance? Seeing was believing. Whatever was happening in [Player's Name]'s head, behind that twitching face and its glistening beads of sweat, it was something big. Because she knew how strong the captain's mind was, and Durlin looked like she was fighting hard every step of the way.
 

"Talia!"
 

"Huh?"
 

She looked round, at Telemachus. The prince pointed. Talia glanced down.
 

"Oh! Thanks..."
 

The gunslinger grabbed her communicator and went out into the corridor. With the music flooding the room, filling it with guitar and voice, and her eyes locked on [Player's Name], she hadn't even heard it ring.
 

There was no name on the display. Wu Tenchu's agents seldom used them. They had symbols instead, and she recognized this one. She tapped a button, deactivating the device's audio systems, usurping them with her implanted tech.
 

"Chen?" She spoke sub-vocally, rather than trying to fight against the music.
 

"Talia, we've broken the encryptions on some of the materials we found in Victoria Ashdown's home. There were layers of neural encoding, so we were forced to... shall we say, perform improvised surgery? I'm transferring everything we've decrypted so far, but-"
 

He swore in Chinese.
 

"What's wrong?"
 

"Another call. It's from Prime Minister Fan. One moment..."
 

***
 

Dark... Everything's dark...
 

Can't move. Arms, legs... Trapped beneath impossible weight. Muscles weak and useless. Mountains pin them down, grinding and crushing.
 

Dust... No. Not just dust. Bigger, heavier pieces among the particles. Niggling hardness in eyes, nose, mouth. Mixing with warm, sticky blood. Choking her. Can't lift a hand. Can't wipe it away.
 

Oh God! Oh God! Buried! Buried alive!
 

That realization's a lightning bolt, flashing across her brain. She struggles, tugging at powerless limbs. She has to battle her way loose, claw through the dirt, free herself from the grave! Wait... The... grave?
 

No... No... That doesn't make sense.
 

Can't panic. The Phaeton Project taught her better than that, damn it.
 

"Moxie's strength, Professor Helios' flames, Billy Stopless' teleportation..." The Abyss' eyes are pieces of sharp steel, gleaming in the darkness of his hood. "That's not why they win. It's because of their minds. Their willpower. If they panicked, if their mental fortitude crumbled, all their abilities would be as worthless as guns without firing pins."
 

Desperation's a time for clarity. Because clarity, awareness, cunning... Those keep you alive. So she thrusts everything else aside. The bloody grit in her mouth and in her eyes don't matter. Distractions. Just distractions.
 

She isn't in a grave... That was just disorientation. Sensations triggering and nourishing imagined fears.
 

Oh... She remembers...
 

The insanity of the past three days floods back in an instant. Flashpoints around the globe. International threats, drawing the big-hitters away. Sending the Genesis Squadron to the other side of the world. And then the prison breaks... Dozens of villains, let loose on Culverton. All the work of this mysterious 'Gorgon'.
 

Three days without sleep. Fighting battle after battle. Smashing scores of Daddy-O's bots, subduing the Emergents he'd turned into puppets with his tech, then taking on the deranged cult leader's massive war machine. Trading blows with the Mad Confectionist, plummeting into the vat of molten caramel that would've drowned an entire block. Trying to stop the Variables from conjuring up the Formula with their sinister mathematics. Trying and failing, then going toe-to-toe with the transdimensional juggernaut himself.
 

Pain. Exhaustion. And then... Sunder.
 

The bastard threw a school bus. God! The kids! No... Empty. It'd been empty. And he'd missed. Hit the building instead... Brought it down.
 

Rubble. That's what it is. Not graveyard dirt. The building's shattered innards, trapping the Emergent's weary, battered body.
 

She grunts, flexes her muscles.
 

No... Too weak. Too worn out. Nothing left.
 

Ugh... Killed by Sunder? The ridiculousness makes her smile through the agony. Of all the villains she's faced, it's that stupid, musclebound moron who'll get credit for the kill.
 

She begins to sigh. It emerges as a groan.
 

Death... She isn't afraid of it. The reaper lurks in the shadow of every hero who puts on tights or a mask, just waiting for the day speed, strength, and powers won't be enough to save them from destruction. She wonders if death knows the Abyss. They probably go to the same tailor...
 

She tries to laugh, but just groans again instead.
 

The city... Who'll protect the city? All those people...
 

Something dances across the darkness of her eyelids. Death's come. Well, she'll look the bastard in the face. She fights against her heavy lids, struggling to lift quivering flesh. Dust and dirt sting her eyes.
 

Nothing. Nothing there...
 

"Dragon-Rider..."
 

The words rustle in her ear. Not just words... A name. She's heard it somewhere before, hasn't she? But...
 

"Dragon-Rider!"
 

Someone's in here with her! In the rubble!
 

"Help!" The word comes out as a tiny rasp. It's all she can manage. "Help..."
 

"Kasan!"
 

This time the voice is even closer. Inside her head, thundering through her consciousness, drumming against the walls of her skull. A psychic?
 

"Who's... Who's there?"
 

It's easier to speak now. Strength flows through her limbs, replenishing empty muscles. Someone's trying to help! It isn't over! Hope pours into a weary mind, washing away despair, fatalism, and surrender.
 

She isn't going to give up! Not with this stranger watching!
 

"Kasan!"
 

"K... Kasan..." the Emergent says. The word's meaningless, perhaps a war cry from a foreign language or exotic martial art. But it's good on her tongue. Deep and powerful.
 

She growls. Then she roars. Then she rises.
 

Shattered masonry groans, scrapes, and shifts. Chunks of stone fall and crash. And sunlight blankets her in glorious golden waves.
 

She steps forward, boots scrabbling on the debris, on the jagged rocks that scatter underfoot, and almost loses her balance. But she stays up. She wipes blood and filth off her face.
 

"Help!"
 

"Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!"
 

Voices cry out, drenched with terror -- as though they've absorbed everything she's just sloughed off.
 

A man and woman in police uniforms back away from an advancing goliath -- a hulking brute with metal skin. Their guns tremble in their hands. Because both know their bullets will have no effect. As the villain stomps towards them, fists raised to crush their skulls, they know they're doomed.
 

"Sunder!"
 

"Huh?"
 

Tommy Tungsten looks over his shoulder. Behind him, the dusty, disheveled Emergent jumps down from the rubble and grunts. The hero gestures at the devastation, at the crushed and crumpled carcass of the school bus.
 

"That all you got?" she says.
 

Then she charges.
 

Sunder's eyes widen. The villain stumbles round to meet the attack, to face the glowering foe who looks like she's just fought her way out of hell itself.
 

"Oh, fuc-"
 

The tackle puts Tommy Tungsten down. Hard. The street cracks, breaking under his bulk. Winded, groaning, he stares up into the hero's eyes. And whatever he sees there makes him scream.
 

"I surrender! I-"
 

The first punch shuts him up. It might be the eleventh that knocks him out. The Emergent battering him with fists and elbows doesn't know. She hits him a few dozen times more, just to be sure.
 

She stands, and gives her unconscious enemy a kick for good measure. That feels good. Victory courses through his body, rich, warm, invigorating. It won't last. Adrenaline and the thrill of battle never do. But for now, in this moment, she feels stronger than she has in days.
 

The Emergent looks back at the toppled building. At the debris which was almost her tomb. There's no sign of her mysterious savior, the psychic who touched her mind and inspired her to continue. But she'll solve that mystery later.
 

She nods to the grateful cops, then runs towards the sounds of distant commotion. There are still villains on the loose in Culverton. And Gorgon's out there somewhere, perhaps watching this very minute -- celebrating the atrocities all these machinations have inflicted on the city.
 

There's more work to be done before the hero can rest.
 

Her hands clench into fists.
 

***
 

"Prime Minister Fan," Zhao Chen said. "To what does a humble operative owe this honor?"
 

Zhilan Fan stared at the face on her screen. She was almost certain Chen was being impertinent, but it was impossible to tell. The agent's features were impassive, inscrutable. Just like those of the man who'd trained him. That thought made her glance around the room -- the office which had been Wu Tenchu's sanctum within the imperial palace -- as though she expected to find the mandarin watching her from the shadows. Mocking her with his unfathomable cunning.
 

"Where are you?" she said.
 

"Forgive me, but it isn't customary for an agent to reveal such information over this channel, as-"
 

"I order you to answer me!"
 

"Very well. My ship is in Novocastrian space."
 

"I've spoken with the new minster of intelligence, and he authorized no such operation."
 

"I exercised the level of autonomy which your predecessor granted me, for situations where I deemed it necessary to act swiftly in the empire's interests."
 

"From this moment forth, you have no such autonomy."
 

"Master Wu felt-"
 

"Wu Tenchu's methods led to a nuclear explosion in our capital!"
 

Not a single muscle moved on Zhao Chen's face, yet Zhilan Fan could have sworn she glimpsed a flash of anger.
 

"Operative Chen, you will offer no further assistance to Jian [Player's Name]." This time his features did twitch, and Prime Minister Fan allowed herself a smile. Wu's people weren't the only ones with sources and secrets. "If you learn of the Jian acting outside the law, and bringing the Sian Empire into disrepute, you will inform your minister at once. Is that understood?"
 

"Yes."
 

"Dismissed."
 

Zhilan Fan terminated the connection, and opened another. A monstrous reptilian face appeared on the screen. Two cyan eyes glared at her.
 

"It's done," she said.
 

"Thank you," a woman's voice said. "You'll find our friendship far more pleasant than Wu Tenchu found our enmity..."
 

'''Remembered By The Sea'''
 

She heard you! This woman in the superhero costume heard you! That thought reverberates through your mind, echoing with every punch she rains down on her enemy's metal face. You'd suspected that this turning point in human history, an age when superpowered beings battle in the streets, would be a prime place for the Kasan blood to shine. And here's the proof.
 

This hero.
 

Your ancestor.
 

She stands up, leaving her enemy motionless on the ground. Sunder's chest rises and falls. The villain's still alive. Apparently you and this forebear have very different ways of doing things. She believes in the criminal justice system. You prefer to shoot people in the head or punch their organs out.
 

"Nice work," you say. "My name's [Player's Name]."
 

She looks around, and for a moment you think she's about to answer. But she just looks at the rubble.
 

"Dragon-Rider?" you say.
 

She turns away and runs off.
 

"Kasan!"
 

Your shout follows her down the street, but she doesn't look back. If she hears it, she gives no sign. Disappointment niggles at your stomach. Part of you wants to chase after her, yell in her ear, and try to reestablish that severed connection. But other thoughts spiral through your mind. Theories and possibilities.
 

When the world starts to disintegrate, you don't resist. This isn't where you need to be. It's not the time or place you'll find the answer you seek.
 

But maybe being here's given you an answer...
 

***
 

"What've you guys got?" Talia said.
 

"Just a diary," Ragnar said.
 

"Any diabolical plans?"
 

"Yeah... But they're from the nineteenth century. Judith Ashdown?"
 

"Different Ashdown," Talia said. "The one we killed was Victoria. It's her plans we want. How about you, Tel?"
 

"These ones look important," the prince said. "I'm trying to break them open with that brain scan thing Zhao gave us."
 

"Get up there and start attacking!
 
All their skulls need a-cracking!
 
Spill their guts and crush their nuts,
 
Let not your violence be lacking!"
 

Barra's song drifted in through the open doorway, and seemed to hover above the little room where the three friends sat, surrounded by physical and holographic screens. Talia didn't know how many times the Piscarian had sung her way through that thing by now. But she found herself whistling along, and wondered if she'd ever get the tune out of her head.
 

"She talks about some places here," Talia said. "Maybe a few of the cult's churches... temples... compounds... Whatever cults have."
 

"Find a good one," the Niflung said, "and I'll go there with my axe. That'll get them to their dragon god faster than praying..."
 

The gunslinger continued to flick through the pages in front of her, whilst glancing at another display where an AI whizzed through the files in a blur of text and imagery -- stopping now and then to toss something of potential interest her way. She'd rather have had Lu Bu's computerized brain on that task. But when she'd gone back into the mess room after speaking with Chen, the robot had remained still and silent. As entranced as [Player's Name].
 

Probably analyzing the song, or their friend's vitals, or something. Either way, she hadn't tried to snap him out of it.
 

"Mycroft!" Tel said.
 

"Huh?" Talia looked up.
 

"This one's about Professor Mycroft."
 

"The bastards want his research?" Ragnar said. "He's got experiments that'd blow up a battleship!"
 

"No... It's about everything he's done with [Player's Name] and us."
 

"Oh, hell..." Talia got up. "They're tracking the captain's friends."
 

"That can't be good..."
 

"Start making calls. We need to warn people!"
 

The gunslinger dashed out of the room, into the passage. Towards the music. She needed the rest of those files broken. Right now.
 

***
 

The bracing, briny tang of sea air reaches you first. Next comes the loud, heavy whisper of tides washing against cliffs. Scent and sound paint their picture -- one so crisp and clear that they might be depicting a place you've known since childhood. When the world coalesces in front of your eyes, vision only superimposes itself over what's already there in your mind.
 

Morning light softens the sky. It brushes the roof and walls of a humble rustic dwelling, strokes the grass stretching across a cliff top, and casts its blanket over the woman who lies near the edge. Dark blood shimmers.
 

Dead? No. When you crouch at her side, there's life in her eyes. But they're the last lingering threads. Crimson flows from the gaping wound in her torso, carrying the rest of it away.
 

She blinks. That darkening gaze latches onto you, but there's no hope written in those orbs.
 

"Kasan," you whisper.
 

"Yes," she says. Her voice is soundless. Its volume has poured from the wound amidst the blood, spent on the ground. But you hear it anyway -- conveyed through something more potent than your aural implant. It quivers in your soul.
 

"I know you..."
 

Images spin through your consciousness. No, not just images. A story. This woman's tale. One that's echoed down the ages, as much a part of your own as the Dragon-Rider's.
 

She's crossing the sea, voyaging to a country from whence enemies once banished her glorious family. There's a smile on her face and a hero's crest on her shield as she stands at the prow. She's coming to liberate her ancestral homeland. Yes... That's what she believes. She'll save the kingdom and make its grateful populace celebrate her family's deeds once more. So noble, so naive. A master of war and weapons, might and magic, but dreaming like a child.
 

Fate is on her side at first. Her blade cleaves flesh, and protects innocent lives by the dozen. Does she revel in slaughter a little more than she should? Are her ears too keen to hear people cheer her name? Perhaps. But a bold hero can be forgiven for such things.
 

Foe after foe falls before her. She battles her way to the frozen north, where she shapes your fate and the fates of all who came before you. She drinks from the goblet, just as Medea revealed. And your power comes from this one moment. When red droplets dye the snow, and the Kasan blood mingles with that of the blue drake.
 

This hero doesn't stop there. She's inscribed her destiny on the future, on the universe itself, but it isn't enough. She continues her quest, her saga. She triumphs over countless enemies -- among the living and the dead, on Tor'gyyl and even in the depths of hell. A magnificent victory on purple plains marks her zenith. But then...
 

"You're a murderer," you say. "A liar and a betrayer."
 

Death, suffering. Crimes beget crimes. Bloodshed begets bloodshed. Fire and slaughter. She's no hero. This woman, whose heritage burns in your veins, is savage, wicked, abhorrent.
 

"Oh?" Again her voice sounds in your head, though her lips barely tremble. "You judge me? You?"
 

And then you feel her phantom fingers for the first time, rooting through your memories as you rooted through her.
 

"You've murdered worlds," she says. "Massacred more innocents in a second than I did in a lifetime. Listen to them! Listen!"
 

Screams. So many screams... A million. A billion. A trillion. Numbers that crush your soul with their magnitude. Men, women, and children. Shrieking as they die. Shrieking as you kill them.
 

"You don't understand! They..."
 

"Hide behind excuses in your own head," she says, "not in mine."
 

You try to pull away, to break the connection. You have a mission. You're searching for the Dragon-Rider! You can't waste your time here! Can't...
 

"Look," she says.
 

And the rest of her tale flows. Beyond the arrogant sneer and murderous blade, and all those baser things that marred her soul. A woman wanders the world. She walks unknown, under a false name. Her shield is blank now, for she doesn't believe herself worthy to wear the dragon and the pitchfork. There's no glory in her heart. No yearning for praise or immortal fame.
 

All across the kingdom, wherever her weary footsteps take her, people call out for help. Floundering in the ripples of her war. And she helps them. Her strength, her skills, protect the innocent and punish the wicked. Years pass. Years in which she strives and struggles each day for redemption.
 

But redemption doesn't spare her from justice. Her long-ago crime dogs her steps, and in the end a blade spills her life into the grass.
 

"I'm sorry," you whisper.
 

The woman's lips twitch. She manages a faint smile. And then she's gone.
 

But the screams still echo, long after the land and sea disappear.
 

***
 

"Any statement, Lady Hollister?"
 

The Novocastrian MP sank into the hover cab's deep back seat. Soft material embraced her, soothing her muscles. Not for the first time, she wondered why a cabbie had more comfortable seating than the grand parliamentary chamber. Probably because his customers paid, instead of being paid, for the privilege.
 

"Lady Hollister?"
 

She wallowed in luxury for a moment more, gazing out of the window at the Victorian-esque mansions down below, and composed her thoughts before answering the voice on the phone. When dealing with tabloid journalists, it was best to take a deep breath -- rather than spitting out the stream of profanity which first came to one's tongue.
 

"Lady Hollister, would you like to comment," the woman's voice said, "on the record?"
 

"Certainly. Edmund Rochester deserves to be hung, drawn, and quartered for his extortionate expenses claims. And if he gets those just deserts, he'd better hope my party remains in power -- because if his lot get in, and enact their idiotic healthcare reforms, he'll end up with the kind of surgeons who put people back together with hammers and rusty nails."
 

"Thanks!"
 

The MP smiled and put her phone away. She was looking forward to hearing Rochester whine about that one in the chamber tomorrow.
 

"Hey," the Snuuth cab driver said, "you're that politician, aren't you?"
 

"Yes, I'm afraid so."
 

"Can't you do something about all these bloody immigrants? Coming to our planet, disintegrating our women..."
 

Lady Hollister sighed, sank further into the seat, and let his babble transform into white noise. It was a trick she'd learned from her predecessor, who'd used it whenever he had to deal with a constituent. She was rather more selective herself -- but employed it here without a qualm. The cabbie would get his xenophobic rant off his flabby chest, she'd get some peace and quiet, and everyone would win.
 

Thus she sat and smiled until the cab descended, landing in front of her townhouse amidst a gust of swirling leaves.
 

"...should just blast them all into the sun," the Snuuth said.
 

"I'll be sure to write a green paper about it."
 

Lady Hollister swiped her credits, exited the cab, and went up the broad stone steps leading to her front door. She leaned into the facial recognition scanner.
 

"Welcome home, ma'am!" the automated voice said.
 

The door opened. She stepped inside, and the entrance sealed itself shut with the comforting click of electronic bolts -- locking out the world. Giving her a little peace and privacy. At least for ten seconds, before her phone rang. The Novocastrian aristocrat rolled her eyes and pulled it out of her pocket.
 

"Bloody journalists..." She glanced at the screen before putting it to her ear. Her tone and expression changed in an instant. "Prince Telemachus?"
 

"Lady Hollister!"
 

"What's wrong?" she shuffled off her heels and walked into the living room. This sounded like the beginning of a conversation which required brandy. "Is [Player's Name] all right?"
 

"Yeah, but..."
 

A soft, muffled footstep whispered on the thick carpet behind her. She turned, her butler's name on the tip of her tongue.
 

"...we think you're in danger!"
 

"Yes," she said. "I rather think I am..."
 

Lady Hollister groped for the pistol on top of the liquor cabinet. The flames were faster.
 

'''The Dragon-Rider'''
 

Flames. An inferno, raging within triangular eyes and the gashed mouth of a horrific visage. Glimpses of hell -- fire and torment blazing behind a face which would become a symbol of festive fun, distorted and diluted by the great collective unconsciousness of racial memory. Pure malevolence masquerading as amusement.
 

Terrible heat scorched Lu Bu's sensors, threatening to melt his mechanical mind. Cries of anguish swirled among scattered thoughts. The shrieks of long dead people from a long dead world. And through it all, celebrating pain, drinking their fear even as he sowed it, Jack rode across the nocturnal landscape. Green flames streamed behind him, painting the darkness in emerald hues. The fiend's laughter reverberated through the robot's chassis.
 

"Lu Bu..."
 

His name... Spoken by that slash of a maw. Impossible. But wasn't this all impossible? These sights and sounds, and-
 

"Lu Bu!"
 

*Tap* *Tap *Tap*
 

The universe rippled.
 

*Tap* *Tap* *Tap*
 

Clouds of haze bloomed from each impact in concentric circles, obscuring the scene and its demonic horseman -- thickening until the image was almost indiscernible.
 

"Lu Bu!"
 

The music returned. Screaming Barracuda's words and tune rang through his audio systems. The fog pulsed, dispersed, then gathered -- hardening into a different face and a tapping finger.
 

"Talia? What's..."
 

"We need you," the gunslinger said. "Now!"
 

She tugged his arm. Lu Bu followed her, into the corridor and a nearby room, his mind still sparking and flashing with strange notions. But Telemachus' words dispelled them.
 

"Talia!" The prince looked up from his screen, with eyes so large they seemed to consume his face. "Something's happened to Lady Hollister!"
 

"Not just her," Ragnar said. The Niflung growled. "Look..."
 

He tapped a button, and a new holographic projection -- bigger than the others -- popped up over the table. A feed from an interstellar news channel.
 

Even Lu Bu's voice joined the profanities which followed.
 

***
 

"My producer's telling me we have an urgent report from Mindy Mazmarth on Novocastria," the smiling anchorman said. His teeth flashed like white neon lights. "If this is about the expenses scandal, Mindy, I think that story's as old and tired as your face is under that megaton of makeup someone must've bombed it with..."
 

The reporter's video feed popped into existence, annexing the top right quarter of the picture showing the smug presenter in the studio. Perhaps it was the look in her eyes. Maybe the pallor of her face. But the anchor's smile faltered, and the edges of his lips twitched.
 

"No time for your crap, Roy. See that house?"
 

The camera pulled back from Mindy, revealing more of the street behind her -- where men and women in shining panoplies stood alongside tanks and personnel carriers, forming a cordon. Further down the road, other armored figures, these ones dressed in red, were directing water cannons' powerful streams through the broken windows of a grey stone building. Tongues of hissing smoke flitted out like exorcised spirits.
 

"That belongs... belonged... to Lady Hollister, the Novocastrian MP. Official sources haven't confirmed it yet, but we're hearing she was murdered -- burned to death with a flamethrower!"
 

"Jesus, Mindy! That's rough politics, even by parliamentary standards! Do we know who did it? A disgruntled voter? A member of the opposition?"
 

"None of the above, Roy! Centi Priders put out a broadcast claiming responsibility. And get this: it looks like they transmitted it while their assassin was murdering her!"
 

A graphic popped up in the bottom left corner of the screen. There was a black Collective emblem, which flashed and emitted little droplets of blood. Words appeared beside it: 'Centurian Slaughter!: Outrage on Novocastria!'
 

"Lady Hollister was an outspoken ally of the Centurians," Roy said, "and-"
 

"Enemy! She was their enemy! Fire that teleprompter guy. Or better still, learn to do your goddamn job!"
 

The anchor's smile crumbled, but regenerated itself an instant later.
 

"Of... Of course!" he said. "Who could forget Lady Hollister's passionate speeches in parliament, urging the Novocastrians to aid the Sian Empire?"
 

"The Prider broadcast blamed her for the genocide of their fellow Centurians, Roy. And they say she'll just be the first. They're threatening bombings, shootings, and..."
 

"You ask me, Mindy, those Centies are just sore losers! So they got massacred... Big deal! Don't those jerks realize the news cycle's moved on?"
 

"Roy, we-"
 

"Now, back to the dancing platypus..."
 

"If you cut me off, asshole, I'll cut your balls off! Breaking news! We have breaking news!" She tapped her earpiece. "Edmund Rochester's been stabbed! He was at a community meeting in his constituency when word spread about Lady Hollister, and a voter stabbed him!"
 

"Typical! Someone kills a politician, and suddenly everyone wants their fifteen minutes of murder-fame..."
 

"We're hearing that the attacker called Rochester a Centi-lover!"
 

"They have a point, Mindy. According to the tele... From what I recall, Rochester was one of the loudest voices against Novocastria getting involved in the Sian-Centurian War."
 

"We're already getting word of more attacks! The military's being deployed!"
 

"Damn. Looks like we won't need that platypus after all!"
 

***
 

A castle looms above you. Towers rise beyond the geometric preciseness of its crenellations, fingertips brushing the black vault. Constellations adorn the deep, dark sky between them -- crisp and clear. Diamonds decorate the heavens. They twinkle upon this grand edifice which is more home than fortress, warm and welcoming despite its sturdy stone.
 

High overhead, flicking light softens the gloom within one of the windows. And you know, certain and unwavering, that this is your destination. For a second or two you work out how you'd scale the wall, or else enter elsewhere and find that chamber among the halls and corridors. Old habits die hard. Especially ones like corporeality.
 

Instead, you let your consciousness drift. Or allow the world to reshape itself around you. Whichever happens is of no consequence. What matters is that you find yourself inside the room, beside the heat of a crackling log fire, gazing upon the woman who lies asleep in her bed.
 

So old, so frail... It's almost inconceivable. The great hero, the mighty warrior whose muscles wielded steel and split scales... But time is no respecter of men. And for those who survive their battles, who escape the thousand violent deaths which try to ensnare them, this is where the road ends. Not amid glorious carnage or tragic sorrow. In beds which hold weakening flesh, where peace and comfort are all you can hope for.
 

You sigh. And her eyes open. Keen, intelligent eyes. Your relief is warmer than the fire. Her mind is still there. Age and infirmity haven't worn it away.
 

"Do you remember me?" you say.
 

"I..."
 

She frowns, multiplying the grooves and wrinkles on her forehead, and stares at you for some moments.
 

"We met in the dark, didn't we?"
 

"Yeah. When we were lost."
 

"Strange... I'd forgotten. Old age perhaps?"
 

"I think those were memories we weren't meant to have, from a place we shouldn't have been."
 

"Have you come to say goodbye, like everyone else?"
 

"I've come to ask for your help."
 

"Oh?" She smiles, and coughs. It's a harsh, wheezing sound that shakes her chest. "I'll go get my sword..."
 

"I have to kill a dragon. One you know."
 

"All the dragons I know are dead, or my friends."
 

"It's Erebus."
 

"Again? He was always a troublesome one..."
 

"How did you kill him?"
 

"Mostly with swords, axes, arrows..."
 

"That's what I thought. But... A friend of mine used a weapon on him. Something more powerful than a million blades or bows. And it didn't even scratch him. I was hoping there was a secret. Something you could tell me."
 

"I'm sorry... I wish Lucian was still alive. He wrote a whole book on how to kill monsters. Maybe he'd have known how to help you."
 

"Lucian..."
 

You see another man, this one dressed in red and green robes as though he were a priest of some kind. Stacks of dusty books surround him, tottering with the weight of ancient scholarship. He smiles in delight as he dashes an inky quill across a piece of parchment, setting down his thoughts for future generations to ignore.
 

"When and where did he die?"
 

"Five years ago, in Drunsdorf's cemetery."
 

"He died in a cemetery?"
 

"His apprentice said he wanted to be alone there, at the end. There was someone he wanted to see..."
 

Images float from the Dragon-Rider's mind to yours, clear as a holo-vid. A quiet, somber place full of old gravestones and older crypts.
 

"I think I can find him," you say. "But I don't know if I can talk to him."
 

"You're talking to me."
 

"We share blood. My ancestors can hear me, when they're..."
 

"When we're near death, and the veil begins to part."
 

Of course. Just like the woman on the cliff. Seeing into your mind as you see into hers.
 

"Yeah. But Lucian..."
 

"Try. My story was bound to him, and he was bound to my story. Maybe he'll hear you."
 

She glances at the window. And her hearing must be as good as it ever was, because it's a second before you detect the faint sounds of quick, agile hands and feet scrabbling up stone. You glance at the Dragon-Rider, but she doesn't seem alarmed. Not even when a face appears over her window sill. A pale, beautiful face, framed by scarlet hair.
 

"Your window isn't warded?" Fangs glisten between the woman's lips.
 

She springs into the room, landing on the thick carpet without a sound.
 

"No one wants to kill me anymore," the Dragon-Rider says. She sighs, and it became a splutter that makes her chest shudder and the vampiress wince. "I've outlived all my enemies. Most of my allies too. But not all..."
 

Her hand emerges from under the cover. She glides across the room and takes hold of it.
 

"It's been a long time, Mina. If I'd known I'd get to see so many old friends again, I'd have gone to my deathbed sooner."
 

The Dragon-Rider looks at you. Mina follows her gaze, and you wonder what the vampiress, this being who lives beyond life itself, will see. But she stares right through you.
 

"And some of you came so very far..."
 

She gives a faint smile, and then the world fades away.
 

***
 

Professor Bonderbrand's gaze swept the grid of projected screens. Each showed a different news channel, and the situation on Novocastria dominated them all. His jowls quivered.
 

Incitement was so simple it was almost frightening. If you knew where to apply force, news networks, social media channels, and sundry other pulleys allowed you to move star systems. All it had taken was a few crimes, coupled with a handful of threats. Momentum took care of everything from there.
 

Some Centi Priders had decried the assassination of Lady Hollister. The movement's most notable leaders claimed their people had nothing to do with it. But enough Priders posted gleeful messages, reveling in their enemy's death, to inspire revenge attacks. Retaliation from aggrieved Priders had followed as naturally as day follows night -- but so much faster. Riots grown in the blink of an eye.
 

The chaos wouldn't last long, of course. Novocastrian troops were already locking down flashpoints on their various worlds. But tensions and fears of further terrorist attacks would simmer long afterwards. They'd keep their troops on high alert. If [Player's Name] reached out to any remaining Novocastrian allies, she'd find precious little help available.
 

Bonderbrand was satisfied.
 

And this was just the beginning.
 

'''Lucian's Last Lesson'''
 

"They've got a file on Kess too," Telemachus said.
 

"Do they know where she is?" Talia said.
 

"No. They lost track of her after she left."
 

"Warn her anyway."
 

"We should be out there," Ragnar said, "not sitting here!"
 

His brawny arm slashed through a holo-screen, throwing ripples across a picture of Lady Hollister. The back of the Niflung's fist met the wall with a deep, metallic thud, and left faint imprints in the bulkhead.
 

"I know!" Talia said. "But what're we going to do? Fly around the galaxy and hope we get lucky? We don't know who they'll hit, or where!"
 

"Precisely," Lu Bu said. The robot's eyes shone and flickered, rivers of data flowing between his thoughts. "When we locate suitable targets of our own, that will be the time for violence."
 

Ragnar glared, but he continued with the rest of them -- scanning through the files, placing call after call, like the galaxy's most murderous telemarketer.
 

"Wilex!" Talia said. She glanced at the communicator's display. "You're on Plerna?"
 

"Ah, Talia! Yes, I'm here for the twentieth century science-fiction convention. But if you need me, I-"
 

"Do you have any battle bots with you?"
 

"No... I don't take them on holiday. Though maybe that would be an interesting psychological experi-"
 

"You need to get back to Capek."
 

"What's happened?"
 

"[Player's Name]'s got these cultists after her, and they're-"
 

"Do they wear masks with cyan eyes?"
 

"Yeah..."
 

"I thought he looked suspicious. I'm being followed."
 

"Are you still at the convention? With people around?"
 

"No. I was walking back to the hotel when you called."
 

"Do you have a weapon?"
 

"Yes!"
 

"Good. Then-"
 

"It's in my luggage."
 

"What?"
 

"The rest of us don't shoot people every day, Talia! I only brought it to-"
 

"Get back there fast, lock the door, and grab the gun. I'll... Hang on. Guys! Do we know anyone who's on Plerna right now? Wilex needs support!"
 

Telemachus' small hands sliced and swept through a series of screens, sending each one flying into oblivion.
 

"Got someone!" he said. "It's... Oh..."
 

The prince groaned.
 

***
 

Whispering winds rustle among the last leaves clinging to the dark branches of autumn trees. A few fall swirling, and join the rich gold carpeting the dirt and grass around the gravestones. It's a serene place. Cold and quiet. Silvered by the moonlight, as it illuminates forgotten names.
 

Are the words English? That should be impossible. But you can read them, just as you've never failed to understand anyone during these voyages. Most sound German. Hans... Fritz... Astrid... The names of dead men and women, outliving an entire world. That thought only adds to the tranquility which drifts through the cemetery like a gentle mist.
 

You wander for a few moments before you see him. A man in thick robes and cloak, sat on the ground with his back against the iron door of an impressive granite crypt. He's slumped forward. Long hair, the same color as the moon, falls in front of his face like a veil. You're too late. He's...
 

"Huh?" The scholar stirs. His nose penetrates the wall of hair first, followed by the rest of his old, wizened face. For a second his dark eyes are young, bright, eager. Then he sighs, and the spark dies away. "Forgive me. I thought you were... I'm waiting for someone."
 

"You can see me?"
 

He glances up at you, and his eyes flicker once more.
 

"Yes... I thought you were a ghost. But you're not, are you?"
 

"No." You reach towards him, and let your thoughts flow.
 

"Ah... A traveler from afar." The faintest of smiles creases his face. "I'd have enjoyed meeting you when I was younger. But now... Mysteries and curiosities seem rather inconsequential, when you're about to cross that final threshold."
 

"You don't seem shocked."
 

"My friends and I saw so many wonders and horrors. I fear very little would shock me."
 

"The Dragon-Rider said you could tell me how to kill Erebus."
 

"Erebus?" His eyebrow twitches. "Then perhaps I was mistaken..."
 

"You killed dragons with swords, pikes-"
 

"A cricket bat."
 

"Yeah... But in my time, he survived being nuked." You focus on a mental image, conjuring up the hellish inferno of atomic fury. "Nothing we have hurts him."
 

"Fascinating..."
 

"It's not so 'fascinating' when he's killing your friends."
 

"Quite... Quite. I was merely thinking about something Roland once said. He believed that a sword, even one without enchantments, could contain what he called 'the magic of its forging'. I mentioned this to a fellow scholar some years later, and she had an interesting theory. She suggested that our world is inherently magical -- that even the things we call mundane contain a sliver of eldritch power. Including our weapons, from a hero's axe to a lowly bandit's dagger. Of course, without conducting research into the matter, I can only speculate. But..."
 

"Magic?"
 

"Do they still make magical weapons where you come from?"
 

"No..."
 

"Ah..." Lucian darts through your memories, young and quick in that strange place beyond the flesh. "Here's something."
 

She lifts the chest's lid and throws it back. You both lean forward, to feast your eyes on the object which lies within. It's a sword, its sharp steel edge somehow contriving to gleam even in the gloom. The shape, the design... You've seen this weapon before.
 

"That sword," you say. "I recognized it."
 

"One of Roland's old blades. Either Rogar's Dream or the other one. I could never tell them apart."
 

"The pirate woman... One of my ancestors. She found it."
 

"Do you know where it is now?"
 

"No."
 

"Ah, a pity. But..."
 

Another image blazes across your shared consciousness.
 

"What about this one?" Lucian says.
 

"Yes!" Your laughter rings among the graves. But it dies an instant later. "Erebus... Noir... He's stronger. Faster. A better fighter. Even with that thing, I..."
 

"You can't defeat him?"
 

"I... I don't think so. But... Magic..."
 

"Yes?"
 

"I have an idea..."
 

"Whenever the Dragon-Rider said that, someone or something usually died."
 

"I'm counting on it. Thank you."
 

"My pleasure. One last lecture."
 

The scholar smiles, sighs, and exhales. His head slumps. You blink, startled. All that vivacious loquacity of a moment ago, snuffed out like a candle. And Tor'gyyl goes with it. Fading. Disintegrating.
 

But just before everything vanishes, there's a faint voice. Little more than a whisper on the wind.
 

"Hello, Nina."
 

***
 

Wilex ran the last block. He sprinted down the street, panting, cursing himself for his lack of exercise or cybernetic lungs. When he arrived at the hotel's glass doors, the remainder of his breath deflated in a relieved gasp.
 

"Doorman..." he said.
 

"I have a name, you know," said the burly man in the purple blazer.
 

The Chief Assembler glanced at his nametag.
 

"Door-Man?"
 

"It's pronounced 'Door Hyphen Man'. Makes me sound like a superhero."
 

He laughed. Wilex glared.
 

"Just a little joke, sir."
 

"Listen, someone's after me. If a man with a mask tries to get in, keep him out and call the police. He's trying to kill me!"
 

The doorman held out his hand. Wilex frowned. But he pulled out a card and swiped it over the man's palm sensor.
 

"Thank you, sir." He smiled as the tip registered and added itself to the daily tally displayed on his wrist. "I'll make sure you don't get murdered."
 

"Thanks..."
 

Wilex went inside. He looked over his shoulder as he crossed the lobby, and his gaze remained fastened on the entrance while he waited for the elevator. But no one came along by the time the doors dinged open. He stepped into the mirror-walled box, pressed the button for the third floor, and reactivated his communicator.
 

"Wilex? What's happening? Are you okay?"
 

"I'm safe, Talia. I just couldn't run and talk at the same time."
 

He gave a start and leapt back when the doors opened, then reddened at the maid's look of surprise, before shuffling past her cart.
 

"We sent backup," the gunslinger said.
 

"Oh?" Green light flashed from an ocular scanner. His door opened. He locked it behind him and walked across the small lounge. "I don't think that'll be... necessary..."
 

The Chief Assembler froze.
 

The masked man got up from the armchair. Cyan lights blazed.
 

"Wilex? Wilex!"
 

Talia's voice came from far, far away. He tried to answer, but his voice was far away too.
 

***
 

"Men of Kruna, with blood splattered,
 
Leaving corpses dead and battered,
 
Have all wretched foemen scattered,
 
Now let's have a drink!
 

Men of Kruna..."
 

"It's okay, Barra," you say, as the mess room hardens around you. "I'm back."
 

The singer blinks, and flames sputter on Ali's shoulders, amid the fading echoes of her last chord.
 

"Looks like the others pissed off," Barra says.
 

She stares at an open doorway with narrow eyes. Talia and Telemachus' voices float through it like invading armies, capturing the territory ceded by the vanished song.
 

"Lucky them," Ali says. "Find what you wanted?"
 

"Yeah..."
 

You exit via the opposite door, leaving their questions hanging in the air behind you, and jog down the passage. It becomes a sprint. You race through the ship, descending into its belly. Eagerness propels you between a parting barrier's halves before the gap's wide enough to admit you without banging your shoulder.
 

There might be enough weapons, armor, and assorted gear in the Silver Shadow's cargo hold to equip a small army. Just glancing around in here is enough to rekindle memories of all the adventures which brought them into your possession. There's the Twisted Steel battlesuit, the armor you and your friends built on Hyperia -- which saw you through those grueling matches in front of screaming crowds. And here's the knightly panoply you wore in the Novocastrian parliament whilst kicking the crap out of their war-shy politicians. The Blue Phoenix Crossbow that brought down the gigantic Crush Colossa. The training rifle Illaria gave you when she broke you out of your cell on the Child of Heaven. Your past, written in metal and fabric.
 

Sometimes you meditate in here. You sit and let the past wash over you, with all its glory and its pain. Drinking everything in. Remembering. Laughing or blinking away the tears. But not now. This time you head for one of the racks and pick up the object you and Lucian glimpsed together.
 

The double-bladed sword lay hidden inside the rock of an asteroid, until you battled a Besalaad warrior and excavated it with blaster fire. It's a weapon Wu Tenchu referred to as one of the mysteries he'd never be able to solve. But you've solved it for him. You know where it came from, who once wielded it, and what it can do. You know its name.
 

Talia was wrong.
 

You did find a +5 sword of badassery.
 

***
 

A burning cyan ocean crashed down on him. Titanic waves swept him away, chilling his flesh instead of immolating it, drowning and devouring. Sucking him towards a swirling, twisting, rushing whirlpool that could've swallowed a city.
 

No... Not a whirlpool...
 

The blazing water came together in an explosion of spray and an immense roar. Came together and rose up, shooting into the sky and giving birth to monstrosity. Chief Assembler Wilex shrieked. The dragon laughed. Then its mouth, a maw bigger than the Milky Way itself, descended to consume him.
 

"Rautha's here, bitches!"
 

"What?"
 

Wilex's mind spun. The world spun too. And it wasn't a world of cyan fire and galactic dragons. It was a hotel room.
 

The man in the featureless mask was staring at the door. Wilex's head snapped round, following his gaze. The portal was still sealed. But there was shouting and screaming from somewhere beyond it.
 

"I'm here to save you, Wilex!" a voice said.
 

"Who the hell's Wilex?" another said. "And get your hands off my girlfriend!"
 

"Girlfriend? Oh... Wrong room!"
 

"I'm in here!" the Chief Assembler said. "I'm-"
 

Agony tore his mind. Cyan flames flooded the universe, destroying stars, planets, and...
 

"Rautha's here too, bitches!"
 

This time the hotel room snapped back into focus in a split-second, amidst the groan of buckling metal and smash of splintered wood. The masked man stepped towards the doorway. His eyes flashed. But something else flashed too -- a big green bolt that fizzed past Wilex, bathing him in its heat, and detonated with a whoosh and a wet splat.
 

The masked man was no longer masked. Or headed, for that matter. Behind the cauterized stump of his neck, roasted brains and fragments of charred skull painted the wall with brand new art. His body crumpled.
 

"This better be the right room..." A tall, muscular man in a dark blue jumpsuit stood in the doorway -- surrounded by the debris of the last thing to stand there. "Wilex, right?"
 

"Yes!"
 

"You okay?"
 

"I... I think so."
 

"Then grab your stuff. I'm getting you back to Capek Major."
 

***
 

Multheru's howl pierced the room. The sound was bizarre, high-pitched. No human being would have recognized it as an angry roar. But a psychic would've shuddered, or fallen to their knees.
 

The appendages above the Quiskerian's mouth writhed and thrashed -- flapping, flailing. His acolyte's death shook inside his skull. But something rattled around beside it. Knowledge. The thing the man had pulled from the Chief Assembler's mind, and cast through the ether before the blast took his head. His final deed. One last act of loyalty.
 

"Hail Kalaxia..."
 

His oral tentacles slowed into a series of soft, undulating pulses. His eyes glittered. They had what they needed.
 

'''Sapphire'''

LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/Intro

2014-12-05T20:46:27Z

Durlin: Created page with "Adrian Zanfran had seen his share of weird and wonderful things. He'd watched fleets of shimmering spaceships arc through the void, carrying passengers across distances their ..."

Adrian Zanfran had seen his share of weird and wonderful things. He'd watched fleets of shimmering spaceships arc through the void, carrying passengers across distances their ancestors couldn't even have begun to comprehend. He'd napped beneath the shade of sentient plants, whose humming tunes soothed him like a mother's lullabies. He'd even seen an arm and hand blasted from his own body -- and gazed with horror at the purple tentacles he woke to find in their place.
 

The galaxy was strange. It was beautiful. And every day, whether he stared down the barrel of his editor's latest doomsday weapon or looked into his wife's loving eyes, Adrian was grateful for the life and job which had allowed him to experience so many of its treasures.
 

Perhaps the world which now loomed before the Fabled Zebra's flight cabin window wasn't as magnificent, bizarre, or breathtaking as others he'd visited. Yet his eyes gleamed. That familiar thrill darted from spine to stomach, heart to brain, as through preparing flesh and mind for the coming magnitude.
 

It was a pretty little planet. Blue oceans and trails of cloud formation reminded him of a prized marble he'd owned as a child. An unfaceted sapphire, its azure richness flawed yet sumptuous. But that wasn't what caught Adrian Zanfran's soul or made the tips of his tentacles twitch. History grasped at him, millennia of events which ignited decades of imagination and consumed them as fuel for their conflagration.
 

This was where everything started. Like a cosmic Helen of Troy, it had launched a million ships and set the galaxy aflame. Sian. Novocastria. Plerna. The floating station worlds of Alpha Centauri. All of them existed because of this blue dot, traversing the darkness. Proud in the golden light of its resplendent sun.
 

He couldn't bring himself to enter its atmosphere just yet. Instead he directed the Zebra into a winding, encircling path, then sat back in his chair.
 

"Panoptica," he said.
 

The vessel's walls vanished. External cameras painted their panorama all around him, blending into the window without a seam, till his comfortable chair seemed to orbit the planet alone. His eyes were wide. Tentacles writhed as he drank it all in.
 

That big blob of land, an island continent, was Australia. The place tourist manuals (or at least the one produced by the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might) referred to as Earth's own little death world. A harsh environment where dingoes ate babies, lurking spiders waited to stick venomous fangs into unwary humans, kangaroos kicked groins, and laser-edged boomerangs whirled through the air to sever the heads of rival gang members.
 

The planet rolled beneath him, displaying more of its wealth. Constellations of islands flowed into Asia's vastness, anchored by India and the Southeast Asian peninsula. There was China -- ancestor of the Sian Empire, which carried its culture far across the stars. The country where a funeral had once sparked war and genocide.
 

Adrian flew over the steppes of Russia, across Siberia where generations had endured the bitter cold through toughness of body, hardness of soul, and vodka. He passed Scandinavia's complex coastlines, from whence the Niflungs' forefathers had sailed to raid and pillage, and the Arctic's crisp white crown. The Canadian tundra gave way to immense swaths of wilderness, to forests and mountain ranges older than mankind. Beyond that sweeping land lay networks of colored lines, wide and bright, which carved America's disunited states into their latest political factions. Whilst the Fabled Zebra soared above, a series of pink lines blinked and flickered. They disappeared an instant later. Fresh green lines replaced them within the blink of an eye. Adrian could already imagine senators glugging bourbon and discharging firearms in either celebration or commiseration.
 

Central and South America passed by in turn, snaking dragons of green and gold. He gazed across the ocean and marveled. Had voyagers from Spain and Portugal really come all that way, battling the waves in simple wooden boats? That thought pulsed in his mind as the Atlantic's pristine glory zipped away, ushering in the grand scale of Africa. Artificial light glittered like diamonds across its length and breadth.
 

And finally Europe, the disparate land where centuries of war had blended cultures, enmities, friendships, cuisines, and all other measures of civilization. Over Italy's kicking boot and Greece's dreaming islands. Romania's forests and Germany's efficient illumination grids. Belgium's lauded chocolate factories and France's vineyards. Then the final turn, towards his destination.
 

He closed his eyes. The ride was smooth, as usual. Technology brought comfort and security. But atmospheric entry was always a little perturbing when it was combined with a panoptic view, and hungry flames raged all around you. So Adrian waited for the pleasant bleeping noise before his lids parted and his vision feasted once more.
 

The British Isles grew larger beneath him. Their illumination more brilliant. London was a bright beacon, as though that sprawling settlement radiated the language which had conquered human space and attained such dominance that some aliens referred to it simply as 'human'. His craft slowed as it descended into its diagonal path across England. Nearness and dissipating speed made the country seem bigger than Russia or Canada, Australia or Africa. It stretched on and on, rising to greet the Fabled Zebra and beckon the ship into its teeming lights.
 

A merry bleep told him he'd reached the northwestern city which had drawn him across so many star systems. Adrian gazed at its streets and buildings with redoubled interest. Why this settlement, out of the many thousands which dotted the planet? Choosing Earth was one thing. Perhaps he'd been a little surprised when he'd learned the meeting wouldn't occur on Sian. But what more fitting place was there to talk about human history, deeds, and heroes, than this blue world which had given birth to them all? Thus he'd relished both the opportunity and the sense of importance that choice lent to the coming interview. Why Manchester though? Why would the story be told here, of all places?
 

Adrian's eyes scoured the cityscape in search of epiphany.
 

There were stadiums. Green spaces embedded in grand luminescent halos, open to the heavens -- offering their spectacles to God and man alike, while worshippers cheered in the stands and sang blasphemous hymns. One was a cricket ground. On a whim he waved a tentacle, and a screen blinked open in the air beside him. Within its zoomed-in view, a Snuuth in white flannels ran with remarkable speed, torqued his body, and bowled a red ball down the pitch. It bounced towards a Vlarg batsman, who stood stalwart before his wicket. The three-eyed alien swung his bat and knocked the ball flying.
 

No... The person he'd come to speak with wouldn't be a cricket fan. Not this dull old game. Soccer maybe? The Fabled Zebra darted closer to the next stadium, as near as he could approach without its security craft intercepting him. This time his screen showed players in red shirts and shorts, vying with enemies in blue for mastery of the coveted ball. One of them secured it and launched it with his instep. It arced high above the field, and dropped down well beyond the blue warriors with their craned necks -- onto a waiting red chest, which deposited it in front of eager boots. He kicked. The goalkeeper dived, groped, and missed. The net puffed out. Its electric strands glowed and changed color in acceptance. The crowd cheered or groaned.
 

Adrian frowned. A soccer fan? This too seemed unlikely. But his mouth curved in a wry smile when he glanced at the concrete expanse outside the arena. Here too there were blue and red shirts. But they bulged around pendulous beer bellies, throbbing chem-filled muscles, and assorted cybernetics. Here the two teams weren't fighting for a ball. They were just fighting.
 

He winced when a metal fist met a jaw, and bloody teeth flew towards him on the screen. Yes... This was more like it. A brawl, where boots and knuckles battered bones, and hooligans crashed against the energy barriers which encaged their riot. Adrian Zanfran sighed. If he had to wade into the middle of that fracas for his meeting, he'd be going home with a few bruises. But his right tentacle invoked a second screen and he exhaled. The location he wanted was elsewhere.
 

"Panoptica off."
 

The ship reappeared around him. He tapped the nav console. The autopilot located a public landing area not far from his destination, and he let it take him down into the midst of the assorted vessels which rested on the black surface in colorful rows. Landing gear met the ground with a soft thunk. His communications console flashed at the same moment. A pinkish-red face appeared on the screen, framed by lengths of chunky, similarly colored fleshy tendrils.
 

"Puny husband!"
 

"Hi, Kwix."
 

"Behold, your sniveling young!"
 

The Rylattu reached beneath the bottom of the screen. Her hands returned a moment later, clutching a diminutive being with a bulbous red head. The child giggled and clapped its tentacular hands together.
 

"Pu-nee da-dee!"
 

"Yes, your father is indeed puny!" Kwix said.
 

"Hi, Adnan!" Adrian waved a purple appendage. The child mimicked the movement. "What did you do today?"
 

"De-stroy hoo-mans!"
 

Adrian sighed. When he got home, he'd have to talk to Kwix about the videogames she let Adnan play.
 

Kwix beamed at the child in her arms. Adrian did the same. Perhaps there wasn't much of his genetic material in the engineered mix, or at least not much of the stuff he'd been born with. But no one would ever mistake the tentacled tot for anyone else's son.
 

"When will you return, to engage in inferior human lovemaking?"
 

"I've just arrived in Manchester. Knowing my luck, in about five minutes I'll be running back to the ship with blaster bolts after me."
 

"Tell your pathetic and worthless interview subject that I'd avenge your death with my superior technology!"
 

"Will do. I'd better go, Kwix, or I'll be late. Love you. Love you too, Adnan."
 

"And I love you too, with superior Rylattu love!"
 

"Love you!" the child said. He clapped his tentacles again.
 

Adrian Zanfran deactivated the screen, got up from his chair, and made his way to the external door. His smile lingered on his face for some moments. But it began to evaporate when the exit hissed open, letting in the warm air and blended sounds of the city. He'd been joking about the blaster bolts. Then again, when you met dangerous people, and asked them questions, you never knew what might happen.
 

He locked the ship and walked across the tarmac.
 

"Oi, mate..."
 

He turned, wondering if he was about to be mugged. But the dreadlocked woman was wearing a crisp blue uniform and a security guard's badge.
 

"Are those... tentacles?"
 

"These?" Adrian glanced down, just to be sure. But his biology didn't appear to have altered itself during the past thirty seconds. "Yes."
 

"Freaky," she said.
 

The guard walked past him, whistling as she continued her patrol. Adrian blinked at the green tail that slithered in the air behind her. A forked tongue shivered between the serpentine fangs at its tip.
 

"Yessss. Freaky!"
 

"Excuse me," Adrian said.
 

She stopped and turned side-on, looking back at him. The eyeless snake head twisted round to face him as well.
 

"Yeah?"
 

"Yessss?"
 

"I'm looking for Wilmslow Road," he said.
 

"The Curry Mile?" she said. "It's just over there."
 

Her tail hissed and pointed.
 

"Thanks!"
 

Adrian Zanfran sauntered past the spaceships until he came to one of the streets bordering the tarmac. And sure enough, a big glowing sign -- which threw the legitimate street name into gloom and shadow -- proclaimed it to be the Curry Mile. Across the road, presumably for the benefit of metrically inclined visitors, its twin read, 'Curry Kilometer'. He doubted either measurement was accurate.
 

The road stretched off into the distance. On each side, lights painted the buildings in neon hues that reminded him of Blackpool or Drekchester. Big crowds thronged the pavements, either jostling their way down the street or loitering and chatting. There were lovers arm in arm. Families with laughing children. Humans and aliens of every sort. Some wore shalwar kameezes, or other flowing garb. Cars zipped past them all in rapid, screeching streams -- filled with youths who leaned out of the windows, cheering and waving flags.
 

"Ah," Adrian said.
 

Of course. Today was Eid ul-Fitr. He sauntered along, basking in the festive cheer, smiling at the youngsters who pointed at his tentacles. A few of the braver ones even gave them a tug -- much to the horror of their apologizing parents.
 

"Eid Mubarak! But we'll kill you all tomorrow!"
 

"Khair Mubarak! Not even if the prophet himself comes to help you!"
 

The two men, one dressed in a black Kebab Chaos uniform, the other in the garb of the Curry Caliphate, laughed and hugged. Around them their fellow employees did the same. Plates of baklava, burfi, and other sticky treats passed around the group, which lounged in front of their neighboring establishments.
 

Dozens more restaurants and takeaways lined both sides of the road, and Adrian wondered how much curry, shawarma, donner meat, gulab jamun, or fattoush one city could want. A lot, apparently. Everywhere appeared to be doing brisk trade. He could've wandered there for an hour, surrounded by spicy-sweet smells, happy faces, and joyful banter in a dozen languages. But when he glanced up he saw the name he'd been looking for.
 

Adrian Zanfran passed beneath the blue and yellow awning, pushed the door open, and entered the small lobby beyond. Then he screamed.
 

The blue and purple tiger which lazed alongside the left wall stopped licking its paw and glanced up at him.
 

"Roar," the tiger said, in a female voice.
 

"Roar?"
 

"Yes, roar. I'm a tiger."
 

"Oh..."
 

"Read the sign, and don't say we didn't warn you!"
 

She tilted her head upwards. Adrian read the illuminated words on the wall above: 'If you dine and dash, so will she!'
 

"It's not quite true," the tiger continued. "I don't eat people."
 

"That's... That's good!"
 

"I rip them open and let them bleed to death in the street. It gets the point across just as well, I think."
 

She laughed, and both politeness and self-preservation encouraged Adrian to laugh along with her.
 

"Welcome to The Rylattu Raj, by the way." She turned her head and unleashed a genuine roar, making him jump. "Customer!"
 

The door opposite the entrance opened. A blue Rylattu emerged, wearing a yellow turban and shalwar.
 

"Eid Mubarak, stink-beast. Do you have a reservation?"
 

"I'm meeting someone," he said. "My name's-"
 

"Ah! The tentacled human. You are expected!"
 

He stepped aside, leaned against the wall, and gestured at the dining room beyond the doorway. Adrian looked at him for a moment. The Rylattu stared.
 

"Stop standing there like a pile of waklak feces!"
 

"Aren't... Aren't you going to take me to our table?"
 

"You have eyes, wretched stink-beast! Find it yourself!"
 

The tiger sighed.
 

"I'll show you," she said.
 

She got up and padded into the dining room. Thick muscles rippled beneath her fur. Adrian followed her, into a large, grand chamber. Gold and ivory facades decorated the walls, depicting a range of multi-armed beings which all possessed bulging Rylattu heads. Many were using lightning bolts and sundry other celestial powers to obliterate tiny human figures. But if these threats or dreams of genocide bothered the largely human clientele sat at the rectangular tables, they gave no sign. Every mouth seemed to be employed in munching, chattering, or both at the same time. A melange of scents -- ginger, cumin, turmeric, garlic, and countless other herbs and spices -- swirled through this jovial atmosphere, making it rich and exotic.
 

"Your friend's over here," the tiger said.
 

She led him to a corner, where a small table waited with one seat occupied and the other vacant. Adrian coughed. Its occupant looked up from the menu.
 

"I hope I'm not late, captain."
 

"Captain? I was captain in a thugby team, not the military. Call me that, and I look around expecting to see... Just call me Talia. And sit down."
 

She reached over and scratched the tiger behind the ear. A purr made the big cat's throat tremble.
 

"Enjoy your meal," the tiger said, before padding away.
 

Adrian watched the animal go, but it was fairly clear by this point that she wasn't going to slaughter him. So he met Talia's gaze. And his brow furrowed before he could stop it. Something was... Wrong. Different about her. It took him a moment to realize what it was.
 

"Th... Thank you for agreeing to the interview," he said. "I've heard you usually shoot people for asking questions about... About what happened."
 

She shrugged. And that gesture somehow cemented it in his mind. Talia looked older. The last vid he'd seen of her was from a few years ago, but it was more than that. Her eyes. They weren't the carefree, thrill-seeking eyes he'd seen on Sian Dragons shirts or posters. And their unexpected solemnity seemed to add a decade to her face.
 

"Yeah," she said. "But no one's asked for a while now, and I started thinking. What happens when I'm gone, and everyone else who's kept the secret? It'll be like the galaxy just... forgot. She deserves better than that. And I haven't forgotten what you did. How you helped us. Anyway, some things don't have to be a secret anymore. Not after what Sky Commander Bethany did last week."
 

"Huh? Everyone's saying the announcement's just a hoax. A way to attract converts."
 

"They're wrong."
 

"But... Even if it's true, what's that got to do with..."
 

Adrian broke off when the waiter appeared at the table.
 

"Are you ready to have your puny human guts destroyed by our superior gastronomy?"
 

"Yeah," Talia said. "I'll have the anaconda tikka masala."
 

"I'll..." Adrian Zanfran's gaze darted to the menu, and he uttered the name of first dish it alighted on. "I'll have the... octopus vindaloo! Oh..."
 

"Bring us some pilau rice and a garlic naan as well. And some poppadoms while we're waiting."
 

"And to drink, I recommend our superior Rylattu mango lassi!"
 

"Fine. But put some vodka in the jug."
 

The Rylattu took their menus and left.
 

"The octopus vindaloo?" Talia said. "Isn't that like cannibalism?"
 

"You are what you eat, I suppose."
 

Her lips twitched, and her eyes seemed just a little bit younger. Adrian wondered whether he should begin asking questions or keep chatting to build up their rapport. But the waiter was faster. He set down a pile of crispy white poppadoms before slipping away again.
 

Talia reached out, snapped off a piece and held it up.
 

"We came here a long time ago. Me, the boys, the captain, and Illaria. While we were eating these, a woman started yelling out in the street. A chem-head was trying to rob her. Ragnar killed the guy with a poppadom."
 

She sighed, and the years returned.
 

"But that's not the story you're here for." She crunched the fragment between her teeth. "You want to know about [Player Name] and Noir..."

LotS/The Story

2014-12-05T20:40:44Z

Durlin:

'''The Milky Way'''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Princess_Illaria's_Escape|Princess Illaria's Escape]] (Sian Space) ''The Centurian Collective hunts for Princess Illaria, the last hope of the Sian Empire. Only her champion can save her now.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Legions_of_Steel|Legions of Steel]] (Talos Space) ''Free from the clutches of the Centurians, the Princess and her companions seek aid from TALOS and its robot armies.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Assault on the Zenith|Assault on the Zenith]] (Occupied Sian Space) ''It's time to strike back at the Centurians...''
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Search for the Princess|The Search for the Princess]] ''The Princess had disappeared, whisked away from the Zenith in a flash of light. But she's out there somewhere, and you'll find her even if you have to tear the galaxy apart.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Politics of War|Politics of War]] (Sol) ''Perhaps it's fitting that the fate of human space might be decided upon Earth, mankind's ancient homeworld.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Aphrodisian Anabasis|Aphrodisian Anabasis]] ''War makes strange bedfellows. And so the Princess must journey to Cythera, the Contella vice-world, to secure that faction's aid against Centurians.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Right Tools|The Right Tools]] ''A mission as ambitious as the one you're planning can only succeed if you have the proper assets at the ready.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/A Masterful Stratagem|A Masterful Stratagem]] ''The Centurians are untouchable while the Emperor is in their grasp. It's time to rectify that...''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Scaean_Gates|Scean Gates]] ''She's gone. Now there's nothing left but vengeance.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Because I'm The Wanderer|Because I'm The Wanderer]] ''The galaxy is so vast. So much space to lose yourself in...''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Talia's Team|Talia's Team]] ''If she fumbles, her first match might be her last.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Prince & The Pixels|The Prince & The Pixels]] ''Videogames are dangerous. But so's Telemachus.
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar|The Saga of Drunken Ragnar]] ''All good stories start with a drink...
# [[LotS/The_Story/Lu Bu's Halloween|Lu Bu's Halloween]] ''Halloween's for killing and candy. Lu Bu can't eat candy...
# [[LotS/The_Story/Puny Human Birthdays|A. Puny Human Birthdays]] ''"Wretched stink-beast! Tell us about these 'birthdays' your pathetic species celebrates, or we shall destroy you with our superior Rylattu technology!"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Puny Human Birthdays II|A2. Puny Human Birthdays II]] (Twice as puny, and full of goo) ''"Puny human! Continue the birthday tales or suffer immediate disintegration!"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Christmas Chaos|Christmas Chaos]] ''"Peace on Earth... But they never said anything about the rest of the galaxy."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Music of the Spheres|Music of the Spheres]] ''"When she sings to the stars, the cosmos becomes her chorus."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Playing with Fire (Part 1)|Playing with Fire (Part 1)]] ''"They've been burning for a very long time..."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Playing with Fire (Part 2)|Playing with Fire (Part 2)]] ''"You dreamed of fire... But who will burn?"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Between Heaven and Hell|Between Heaven and Hell]] ''"Heaven totters on the brink of war, and in the shadows azure eyes blaze."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Tales of The Void|A3. Tales of The Void]] ''"The Dark Delight's passengers have stories to share, but what secrets do they hide?"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Tales of The Void 2|A4. Tales of The Void 2]] ''"Stories are powerful indeed. At the Tyraness' court they hold the power of life and death..."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Days of Wu|Days of Wu]] ''"One last game of Weiqi, while the mandarin does what must be done."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Number of The Beast|Number of the Beast]] ''"Wu Tenchu's machinations live on..."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Fade to Gold|Fade to Gold]] ''"There's a dragon to slay..."
[[LotS/La_Historia|Spanish translation]] (Work in progress).

[[LotS/La Storia|Italian translation]] (Work in progress).

LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold

2014-12-05T20:39:37Z

Durlin: Created page with "<tabber> Intro= {{:LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/Intro}} |-| The Four Kasans= {{:LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/The Four Kasans}} |-| Game Over= {{:LotS/The Story/Fade to Gol..."

<tabber>
Intro=
{{:LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/Intro}}
|-|
The Four Kasans=
{{:LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/The Four Kasans}}
|-|
Game Over=
{{:LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/Game Over}}
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Guns and Dragons=
{{:LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/Guns and Dragons}}
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Black and Gold=
{{:LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/Black and Gold}}
</tabber>

LotS/items/Pants

2013-11-25T03:21:19Z

Durlin:

{{LotS/ItemTableHead}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Ace of Spades' Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Ace Pilot's Leggings}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Aegis Dreadnaught Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Ambassador's Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Anguish Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Anguished Love Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Anti-Harassment Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Archangel Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Archimedes Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Archimedes Mark II Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Archimedes Mark III Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Archimedes Mark IV Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Aries' Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Astral Warrior Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Atreyu's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Baron Beatdown Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Bashan Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Black Dragon Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Blue Dragon Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Blue Dwarf Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Bluthian Gamer Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Bluthian Gamer Skirt}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|CAH Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Caligula's Cingulum}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Celestial Salwar}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Chastity Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Classic Photon Racer Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Conqueror's Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Contella Enforcer Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Cosplay Pirate Bottoms}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Crazy Commando Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Crusader Cuisses}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|CyberCop's Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Cyberpunk Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Cybersmash Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Cyberstorm Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Dark Hat's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Decrypter's Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Deadman Gulch's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Deep Sea Assault Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Devil's Loins}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Devoured Empire Greaves}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Dimensional Warrior Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Dragon Knight's Cuisses}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Elam the Shadow's Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Electric Angel's Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|EMPants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Evil Henchman's Bio Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Exoskeletal Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Fallen Angel Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Firestorm Battlesuit Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Flashheart's Nuclear Love Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Fleet Commander's Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Forgotten Pharaoh's Loincloth}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Gadget Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Galactic Opulence}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Gedrocht Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Gorgon Gangbanger Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Grim Avenger's Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Grim Reaper Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Gunslinger Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|H8 Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Harlequin's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Hero of the Empire Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|High Society Opulence}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Holographic Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Hostile Environment Suit Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Hygiene Trooper Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Hyperspace Hero Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Immolation Squad Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Imperial Battle Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Incendiary Trooper Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Infested Xeno-Hazard Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Infested Xeno-Hazard Leg Armor MK II‎}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Kalaxian Cult Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Kalaxian Cult Underskirt}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Leg Armor of Imperial Finery}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Legacy Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Legs of the Colossa}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Legs of the Stranger}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Liberator's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Love Inveigles}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Manhunter's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Marshal Roth's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Mega Multicolored Cloorian Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Ms. Myriad's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Multi-Colored Cloorian Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Niflung Saga Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Niflung Storm Thigh Guards}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Novocastrian Knight Cuisses}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Nutcracker Sweet's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Photon Racer Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Pi's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Pilot's Leggings}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Piscarian Rocker's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Prehensile Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Prison Guard Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Psi-Hound Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Pumpking Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Puny Close-Assault Crotchguard}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Puny Gunner Crotchguard}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Quiskerian Invader Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Quiskerian Priest Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Quiskerian Warrior Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Radioactive Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|RAF Pilot's Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Raiyama's Haidate}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Rajl Al-Sahraa}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Rex Carnage's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Roving Scholar's Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sangramor Prison Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Santa Suit Bottom}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Savior of the Empire Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Screaming Skull Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Security Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Shadow Leggings}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Shock Trooper Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Assassin's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Dragons Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Dress Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Hawk Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Hero Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Interceptor Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian-TALOS Dress Bottoms}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Silj's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sludge Scale Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Snowman's Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Space Assault Suit Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Space Pirate Gadget Pouches}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Space Vampire's Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Stealth Warrior Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Steelstrike Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Stochastic Analyst Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Stochastic Inquisitor Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Storm Champions Thigh Guards}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Storm Commander's Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Street Punk Bottoms}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Super Santa Bottoms}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Super Space Slaughter Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Superstar's Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Supreme Cybertollah's Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sussurran Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Swordmaster's Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|T3ch-D3m0n W4573 W4573r5}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Tactical Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Takahiro's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Talia's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Taurus' Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Tentacle Belt}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Terminator Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Terminus Commando Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Tesla Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|The Hat's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Thugby All-Star Thigh Spikes}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Thugby Thigh Spikes}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Titan Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Toxic Ranger's Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Transforming Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Trinity's Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Vampire of the Void's Trousers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Vengeful Shadow Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Vlarg Hunter's Leg Armor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Warwalker Legs}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Werewolf's Pelt}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Winter Wolf Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Xeno-Hazard Pants}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Zombie's Legs}}
|}

LotS/items/Boots

2013-11-25T03:17:27Z

Durlin:

{{LotS/ItemTableHead}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Ace of Spades' Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Ace Pilot's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Aegis Dreadnaught Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Ambassador's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Anguish Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Anguished Love Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Archangel Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Archimedes Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Archimedes Mark II Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Archimedes Mark III Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Archimedes Mark IV Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Aries' Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Astral Warrior Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Atreyu's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Baron Beatdown Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Bashan Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Black Dragon Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Bladed Battle Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Blitz Runners}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Blue Dragon Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Blue Dwarf Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Bluthian Gamer Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Boots of Blinding}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|CAH Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Caligula's Ocreae}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Celestial Stride}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Classic Photon Racer Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Conqueror's Tread}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Contella Enforcer Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Cosplay Pirate Blur Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Crazy Commando Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Crusader Sabatons}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|CyberCop's Crime-Stompers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Cyberpunk Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Cybersmash Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Cyberstorm Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Dark Hat's Footwear}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Deadman Gulch's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Death Grip Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Decrypter's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Deep Sea Assault Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Devil's Stride}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Devoured Empire Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Dimensional Warrior Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Dragon Knight's Sabatons}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Elam the Shadow's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Electric Angel's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Evil Henchman's Oppression Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Exploder Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Face-Stomping Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Fallen Angel Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Feet of the Colossa}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Firestorm Battlesuit Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Fleet Commander's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Forgotten Pharaoh's Greaves}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Galactic Splendor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Gedrocht Feet}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Gorgon Gangbanger Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Grand Hujing of the First Emperor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Greaves of Imperial Finery}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Grim Reaper Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|H8 Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Hero of the Empire Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|High Society Splendor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Hostile Environment Suit Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Hujing of the First Emperor}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Hygiene Trooper Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Hyperspace Hero Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Icarus Tech Thruster Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Immolation Squad Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Imperial Battle Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Incendiary Trooper Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Infested Xeno-Hazard Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Infested Xeno-Hazard Boots MK II‎}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Kalaxian Cult Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Legacy Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Levitation Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Liberator's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Love Strides}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Manhunter's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Marshal Roth's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Mechanized Gripper Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Ms. Myriad's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Niflung Saga Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Niflung Storm Stompers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Novocastrian Knight Sabatons}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Nutcracker Sweet's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Photon Racer Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Pi's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Pilot's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Piscarian Rocker's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Power Parkour Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Prison Guard Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Psi-Hound Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Pumpking Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Puny Close-Assault Stomping Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Puny Gunner Marching Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Qaddam Al-Sahraa}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Quiskerian Invader Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Quiskerian Priest Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Quiskerian Warrior Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|RAF Pilot's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Raiyama's Suneate}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Rex Carnage's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Roving Scholar's Shoes}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Santa Suit Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Savior of the Empire Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Screaming Skull Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Security Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Shadow Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Shock Trooper Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Assassin's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Dragons Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Dress Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Hawk Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Hero Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian Interceptor Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sian-TALOS Dress Footwear}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Silj's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sludge Scale Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Snowman's Feet}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Space Assault Suit Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Space Pirate Blur Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Space Vampire's Shoes}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Spider Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Spring Heeled Jackboots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Stealth Warrior Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Steelstrike Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Stochastic Analyst Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Stochastic Inquisitor Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Storm Champions Stompers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Storm Commander's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Street Punk Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Super Santa Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Super Space Slaughter Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Supreme Cybertollah's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Sussurran Feet}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Swordmaster's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|T3ch-D3m0n B0075}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Tactical Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Takahiro's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Talia's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Taurus' Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Terminator Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Terminus Commando Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|The Hat's Footwear}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Thugby All-Star Stompers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Thugby Stompers}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Thunderstorm Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Titan Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Toxic Ranger's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Trendsetter's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Trinity's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Vampire of the Void's Shoes}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Vengeful Shadow Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Vlarg Hunter's Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Warwalker Feet}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Werewolf's Claws}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Winter Wolf Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Xeno-Hazard Boots}}
{{LotS/ItemRow|Zombie's Feet}}
|}

LotS/Shark Attack Gun

2013-11-25T03:04:20Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Shark Attack Gun
|color=Orange
|attack=
|defense=
|type=Engineering
|engineeringType=Weapons
|ability=Great White Hope: Chance for bonus damage against Human raids (307,500 damage)
|text="Yeah, we jumped the shark. Deal with it." -- Kill-Tech's Shark Surprise catalogue
|obtained={{LotS/RaidLink|Rampaging Rackalax}}

{{LotS/ItemLink2|Admiral Renfarius Boone|Admiral Renfarius Boone (Proc Spawn)}}
|used=
|notes=
|unique=
}}

LotS/raids/general/Tyraness' Guard/loot

2013-11-25T03:02:01Z

Durlin: Spelling

{{LotS/LootTable
|common={{LotS/EpicLootRow|Brown Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Grey Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Mysterious Technology 1|1|Mysterious Technology 2|1|}}
|uncommon={{LotS/EpicLootRow|Green Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Blue Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Mysterious Technology 3|1|Mysterious Technology 4|1|}}
|rare={{LotS/EpicLootRow|Purple Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Mysterious Technology 5|1|Xeno-Zoologist|1|Sian Hawk Pendant|1|Talia Data|4|}}
|epic={{LotS/EpicLootRow|Orange Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Mysterious Technology 6|1|Sian Hawk Leg Armor|1|Sian Hawk Boots|1|Sian Hawk Initatives|2|Computerized Compact Storage Unit|3|Yusuf the Djinn|3|Talia's Photo Album 3|4|}}
}}

LotS/Sian Hawk Initiatives

2013-11-25T02:56:10Z

Durlin: Created page with "{{LotS Item |name=Sian Hawk Initiatives |color=Orange |attack=150 |defense=200 |type=Trinket |ability=Wings of the Empire: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage against zone 1..."

{{LotS Item
|name=Sian Hawk Initiatives
|color=Orange
|attack=150
|defense=200
|type=Trinket
|ability=Wings of the Empire: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage against zone 15 to 19 raids.
|text=The Sian Hawk regiment was founded by Tai Lyn as both a demonstration of the empire's military might and a display of culture. With a strict code of conduct and an even stricter training regimen, they are a force to be reckoned with.
|obtained={{LotS/RaidLink|Tyraness' Guard}}
|used=
|notes=
}}

LotS/Sian Hawk Boots

2013-11-25T02:53:50Z

Durlin: Created page with "{{LotS Item |name=Sian Hawk Boots |color=Orange |attack=150 |defense=200 |type=Boots |ability=Wings of the Empire: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage against zone 15 to 19 ..."

{{LotS Item
|name=Sian Hawk Boots
|color=Orange
|attack=150
|defense=200
|type=Boots
|ability=Wings of the Empire: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage against zone 15 to 19 raids.
|text="Hits are taken. Lives are lost. We move forward." -- Tai Lyn, founder of the Sian Hawk regiment.
|obtained={{LotS/RaidLink|Tyraness' Guard}}
|used=
|notes=
}}

LotS/Sian Hawk Leg Armor

2013-11-25T02:52:28Z

Durlin: Created page with "{{LotS Item |name=Sian Hawk Leg Armor |color=Orange |attack=150 |defense=200 |type=Pants |ability=Wings of the Empire: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage against zone 15 to..."

{{LotS Item
|name=Sian Hawk Leg Armor
|color=Orange
|attack=150
|defense=200
|type=Pants
|ability=Wings of the Empire: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage against zone 15 to 19 raids.
|text="All six limbs must move in harmony. If you wondered why I said six instead of four, you have no place in this regiment."- Tai Lyn, founder of the Sian Hawk regiment.
|obtained={{LotS/RaidLink|Tyraness' Guard}}
|used=
|notes=
}}

LotS/items/Ships

2013-11-25T02:47:28Z

Durlin: Added Blue Dwarf

{{LotS/Item Navigation Banner}}

{| class="lotstable sortable"
! Icon
! width="20%" | Name
! width="10%" data-sort-type="number" | Officers
! width="10%" data-sort-type="number" | Crew
! width="10%" data-sort-type="number" | Engineering
! width="5%" | Power Bonus
! width="20%" | Ability
! width="20%" | Obtained
|-
{{LotS/ShipRow|Advanced Strike Squad Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Animal Adventures Playship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Anthropist War Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Argo}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Aspis}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Assault Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Asteroid Annihilator}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Astral Weaver}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Black Heaven}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Blue Dwarf}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Brutality}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Celebration Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Cemetery Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Cerebral Voyager}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Challenger's Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Christmas Cruiser}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Crazy Commando Craft}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Crazy Quartet Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Creepy Cottage}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Cringer}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Crush Colossa}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Cybersmash Cyclone}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Cytheran Pleasure Barge}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Death Match Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Death Valley}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Dimensional Dazzler}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Doomsday Device}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Doomsday Device Beta}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Eiffel Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Eight}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Excelsior}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Flying Castle}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Gedrocht}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Grim Justice}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Haunted House}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Heavy Assault Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Heroica}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Hydra}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Ice Angel}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Icosahedron}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Imperial Sword Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Imperial Sword Ship II}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Labyrinth}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Load of Bull}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Lucky Dragon}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Lochagos Hellas' Trireme}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Lunatic Lottery Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Missile Interceptor}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Niflung Longship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Niflung Longship II}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Odyssey}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Odyssey II}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Omnicide}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Pioneer Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Piranha Destroyer}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Plated Fist}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Psycho Sextet Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Pumpking Powerhouse}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Puny Close-Assault Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Puny Gunner Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Purple Lion}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Purple Lion II}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Pyramid Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|RAF Spitfire}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Rebel Smuggler}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Rehabilitation Ship‎}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Rehabilitation Ship‎ II}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Relentless Hawk Fighter}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Rylattu Abductor}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Rylattu Minion Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Santa's Stellar Sleigh}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Screaming Skull Wraith}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Serilla Specters Tour Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Ship-Gobbler}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Shrine Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Sian Avenger}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Sian Dragon Fighter}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Sian Dragons Tour Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Sian Fighter}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Silver Shadow}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Snakepit}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Snapping Turtle}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Snuuth Shark Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Soaring Heart}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Space Serpent}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Space Sleigh}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Space Slitter}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Star-Threader}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Starfire}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Stochastickos}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Strike Squad Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Sussurran Spacefarer}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Sussurran Spacefarer II}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Sussurran Voyager}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Swooping Dragon}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Swordmaster Starblade}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Tactical Attack Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Tactical Attack Ship Mark II}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|TALOS Robo-Interface Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|TALOS Warship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|TALOS Warship II}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Taskforce Runner}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Big Bling‎}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Crimson Banquet}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Dark Delight}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Dracula}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Eye of the Storm}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Felonious Assault}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The High Noon}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Illaria}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Immelmann}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Mad Hatter}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Mad Hatter II}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Manhunter}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Quatermain}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Reaper}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Shaoquin‎}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|The Voidcraft‎}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Thunder Killer}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Toxic Ranger Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Trinity Traverser}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Troop Transport}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Valkyrie Bloodsword}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Vampire of the Void's Dracula}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Vlarg Hunting Ship‎}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Vulture Gunship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Vulture Gunship II}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Warlords of Mars Team Ship}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Warwalker Battlecarrier}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|White Tiger}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|X-Falcon}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Xeno-Infestation Destroyer}}
{{LotS/ShipRow|Xeno-Infestation Destroyer II}}
|}

LotS/Blue Dwarf

2013-11-25T02:44:39Z

Durlin: Created page with "{{LotS Item |name=Blue Dwarf |color=Orange |attack= |defense= |officers=6 - 3 Intellect, 3 Heal |crew=30 - 15 Intellect, 15 Sussurra |engineering=3 - 1 AI, 1 Weapon, 1 Module ..."

{{LotS Item
|name=Blue Dwarf
|color=Orange
|attack=
|defense=
|officers=6 - 3 Intellect, 3 Heal
|crew=30 - 15 Intellect, 15 Sussurra
|engineering=3 - 1 AI, 1 Weapon, 1 Module
|type=Ship
|powerbonus=55
|ability=Ketchup, with Lobster?: Chance for bonus damage against Colossal raids; Small chance for heavy bonus damage against Colossal raids
|text=Fans of a popular sci-fi TV series built this vessel to threaten the studio into resurrecting their beloved show. You decided to take it off their hands, before the smeg heads did anything stupid with it.
|obtained={{LotS/RaidLink|The Tyraness}}
}}

LotS/raids/general/Tyraness' Guard/loot

2013-11-25T02:36:19Z

Durlin: Corrected Yusuf the Djinn spelling

{{LotS/LootTable
|common={{LotS/EpicLootRow|Brown Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Grey Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Mysterious Technology 1|1|Mysterious Technology 2|1|}}
|uncommon={{LotS/EpicLootRow|Green Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Blue Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Mysterious Technology 3|1|Mysterious Technology 4|1|}}
|rare={{LotS/EpicLootRow|Purple Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Mysterious Technology 5|1|Xeno-Zoologist|1|Sian Hawk Pendant|1|Talia Data|4|}}
|epic={{LotS/EpicLootRow|Orange Bonsai Cherry Blossom Tree|1|Mysterious Technology 6|1|Sian Hawk Leg Armor|1|Sian Hawk Boots|1|Sian Hawk Initatives|2|Computerized Compact storage Unit|3|Yusuf the Djinn|3|Talia's Photo Album 3|4|}}
}}

LotS/Yusuf the Djinn

2013-11-25T02:34:24Z

Durlin: Created page with "{{LotS Item |name=Yusuf the Djinn |color=Orange |attack=40 |defense=100 |race=Sussurra |class=Tank |bonus=Discipline |type=Officer |ability=Sussurran Salat: Chance for bonus d..."

{{LotS Item
|name=Yusuf the Djinn
|color=Orange
|attack=40
|defense=100
|race=Sussurra
|class=Tank
|bonus=Discipline
|type=Officer
|ability=Sussurran Salat: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage against Epic raids
|text="The young... man... thinks he's a djinn. That's why he converted. I... I really don't know what to tell him. Who's to say a Sussurra isn't a djinn? Ah, theology was so much simpler in our ancestors' day." -- Yusuf's imam
|obtained={{LotS/RaidLink|Tyraness' Guard}}
}}

LotS/Snuuth Model

2013-11-25T02:26:51Z

Durlin: Created page with "{{LotS Item |name=Snuuth Model |color=Orange |attack=14 |defense=22 |type=Crew |race=Snuuth |class=Healer |bonus=Special |ability= |text=Snuuth models are popular in some part..."

{{LotS Item
|name=Snuuth Model
|color=Orange
|attack=14
|defense=22
|type=Crew
|race=Snuuth
|class=Healer
|bonus=Special
|ability=
|text=Snuuth models are popular in some parts of human space, where people are tired of unrealistically slim models with airbrushed images and two-pixel-wide waists.
|obtained={{LotS/RaidLink|Myrmexidaks}}
}}

LotS/Xeno-Zoologist

2013-11-25T02:21:49Z

Durlin: Created page with "{{LotS Item |name=Xeno-Zoologist |color=Orange |attack=12 |defense=30 |type=Crew |race=Human |class=Special |bonus=Intellect |ability= |text=Having already sampled the flesh o..."

{{LotS Item
|name=Xeno-Zoologist
|color=Orange
|attack=12
|defense=30
|type=Crew
|race=Human
|class=Special
|bonus=Intellect
|ability=
|text=Having already sampled the flesh of every animal on their homeworld, humans looked to the stars in search of delightful new tastes to sate their gluttony. However, even the most dedicated gourmands realized that it would be inadvisable to shove things in their mouths without first making sure they were safe. Thus xeno-zoologists were in high demand.
|obtained={{LotS/RaidLink|Tyraness' Guard}}
}}

LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/The Tyraness

2013-11-21T01:32:40Z

Durlin: Created page with "The Tyraness' eyes widened. Then they narrowed into sharp, piercing slits. "Poet... You're a very, very stupid man." "No genius do I claim to be, I'm j..."

The Tyraness' eyes widened. Then they narrowed into sharp, piercing slits.
 

"Poet... You're a very, very stupid man."
 

"No genius do I claim to be, 
I'm just a mere man and nothing more, 
But a trick that you must see, 
Will bring an end to this war." 
 

Chen's hands moved in a dexterous blur. Then they parted, rose, and flashed.
 

Two throats gurgled. Two weapons clanged on the floor. The Tyraness' head snapped round to the left and right, where her guards clutched at their blood-spurting necks. Blue energy throbbed between their fingers -- around the broken shackles' shards. Her amazonian warriors fell. The poet smiled.
 

"Surrender, Tyraness; all else is doom, 
Or do you take this splendor for your tomb?" 
 

"Why are you still rhyming?"
 

"Force of habit. What's your answer?"
 

"This."
 

Her hand snatched at the folds of her gown. A pistol slipped from the sumptuous fabric.
 

-------------------------------------
 

"This is my planet! Mine!" Her gun blazed. "I'm the Tyraness!"
 

Chen was fast. All men with his training and augmentations were. Perhaps not as fast as a weapon's blast, but he didn't have to be. He only needed to be faster than the woman aiming it.
 

Two magenta shots flashed past him. Then his hand struck the Tyraness' arm, and the pistol went spinning across the room.
 

"The Tyraness!" she repeated.
 

She clawed at his face. He crushed her throat with a single blow.
 

"Tyran..." The word disintegrated into a splutter.
 

Zhao Chen crouched down and lifted the gold ornament that served as the woman's communicator. He set it to the prearranged channel.
 

"This is Culthana. Chen?"
 

"It's done. Are your warriors ready?"
 

"Yes. The Tyraness..."
 

"Disposed of. I'll open the palace's defenses. I trust that when this world is yours you'll honor our agreement."
 

"Of course. Tell Wu Tenchu the Sian Empire has a new ally."
 

General Culthana severed the connection.
 

Zhao Chen sat in the plush crimson chair and glanced down at the Tyraness' body. He pondered the shifting sands men and women called power.

LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/Despair, Ye Mighty!

2013-11-21T01:30:53Z

Durlin: Created page with "The explosions were distant, but the closest detonations' wrathful roars reached the barrier-sealed balcony where Chen sat. They instilled almost imperceptible ripples in the ..."

The explosions were distant, but the closest detonations' wrathful roars reached the barrier-sealed balcony where Chen sat. They instilled almost imperceptible ripples in the energy field's surface. He contemplated their tranquil artistry while he waited for the call to come. It wouldn't be long now. Things were drawing to a conclusion which fate might soon make inevitable.
 

"Poet."
 

He stood up, turned around, and bowed. The lone guard was one he hadn't seen before. She held out the cuffs. This time no gun pointed at his chest, but that only signified that he was in the eye of the storm. He took them from her and put them on. Glowing blue bands encircled his wrists.
 

The palace was different. Servants and warriors ran to and fro in the ornate passages, the former like headless chickens and the latter with grim determination written on their faces. The word "Culthana!" came from many lips as whisper, curse, shout, or warning. Chen's own guardswoman said nothing -- but she exchanged the occasional nod with a battle-sister on the way to the Tyraness' relaxation room.
 

As before, sixteen screens parted the chamber. Battles raged on every one of them. Mobs of civilians hurled flaming bottles through windows, or charged to their destruction against amazonian warriors. Rival aircraft streaked the skies with spiraling contrails and flashing blasts of light. Seven foot tall women sprayed gunfire or clashed with one another in savage melee combat. Some had daubed gold paint on their armor to mark their allegiance.
 

A vase flew from the assorted images like treasure spat out by the sea. Chen moved aside and let it smash on the floor. The holographic projection disappeared, revealing the Tyraness in her plush seat -- looking around for something else to throw. Only a pair of guards were in the room this time, one on either side of the chair. Zhao Chen had heard enough to know that the others were off bolstering the defenses or else fighting in the streets.
 

The poet crossed the room. His escort followed.
 

"Poet! It's about time you got here!" the Tyraness said. She looked at the guardswoman who'd brought him. "You -- go do something useful. Culthana's traitors are out there! Kill them! Bring me her head!"
 

"But, Tyraness, I-"
 

"Go!"
 

She nodded and left. The Tyraness returned her attention to Chen.
 

"Have you read any Aristophanes, poet?"
 

"Of course, my mighty ruler queen, 
Many of his works have I-" 
 

"He said children have teachers to instruct them, but adults have poets. So teach me! Share your wisdom. And it had better be good, or I'll have them pull out your brain so I can smash it with a hammer!"
 

Chen winced. His wrists itched beneath their bonds.
 

----
 

I spoke with a free woman once a slave, 
Who told me that a fair visage lay smashed, 
Mid the vain magnificence of a grave, 
A haughty smirk from stone features long dashed, 
Submerged beneath mocking time's drifting wave, 
Where frivolous whim ruled and men trembled, 
Quaking at each vile and monstrous decree; 
Savage legions had there been assembled, 
But a worn dusty epitaph now reads: 
"I forbid bubblegum, listen to me, 
Whose unyielding edicts govern your deeds!" 
Yet who remembers such lunatic laws, 
Or the proud monuments smothered by weeds? 
The unthinking sands have buried her claws.

LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/Her Eyes Hold the Galaxy

2013-11-21T01:27:13Z

Durlin: Created page with ""The bombers will be caught and executed," the newscaster said. "All hail the Tyraness!" She pumped her fist in the air. Someone called out from behind the camera. <..."

"The bombers will be caught and executed," the newscaster said. "All hail the Tyraness!"
 

She pumped her fist in the air. Someone called out from behind the camera.
 

"Why didn't you rhyme? Oh, you stupid cow! 
The teleprompter was showing you how!" 
 

A gunshot boomed, and the broadcaster's head exploded. Bits of cooked brain garnished the desk. Another woman darted into the shot, dressed in an identical purple outfit to the trunkless corpse. She pushed the body out of the chair and sat down in its place. Her broad, vacuous grin shone like white toxic waste.
 

"And now in the world of fine artistic endeavor, 
A song by our Tyraness, who's ever so clever!" 
 

Zhao Chen turned the TV off. He stretched himself out on the downy quilt, letting his muscles relax in the softness. His new quarters were far more pleasing than the cell. He gave mental thanks to Roger McGough for the bounty the dead poet's verses had brought him. Then his mind moved onto other matters, immediate and intriguing. The bombing narrated by the ill-fated newscaster was the third in as many days. All had struck at government facilities. Either the Tyraness' subjects were especially devoted to bubblegum ice-cream, or else years of brutal and absurd oppression were coming to a head...
 

"Poet! The Tyraness wants you."
 

He sat up. This time only a single guardswoman had come to fetch him. She filled the doorway, aiming a blaster at his chest, and tossed him a pair of cuffs. He fumbled the catch. They fell from his fingers and bounced on the bed. She snorted.
 

"Hurry up and put them on! You'd better not keep her waiting when she's... she's... Oh, you'll see."
 

With that admonition, she led the manacled poet through the palace. This time they took a different route -- though it was difficult to tell the passages and chambers apart, given that they dripped with the same cloying opulence. Once more depictions of the Tyraness abounded. These ranged from coquettish portraits to a huge wall painting in which she was breaking a spaceship in half with her bare hands. Tiny crewmen tumbled into the void from the sundered metal.
 

That latter image remained fastened in Chen's mind. Hence he was taken aback when he was brought into a small, circular chamber where that same lady sat sobbing on a floor cushion, flanked by guards who watched her in the manner of nervous, uncertain schoolgirls. She looked up at him. Tears streaked her pale cheeks and dripped from the wine-dark richness of her hair.
 

"He... He left me," she said. "Exactly five years ago!"
 

Chen gazed around the room. A dashing man with strong but angelic features stared back at him from a dozen paintings and sculptures. In some he wore military dress, adorned with more medals than any one soldier could conceivably earn. In others he was bare-chested atop a horse or engaged in other manly pursuits. The poet took his eyes off this tasteless décor and addressed her.
 

"O mighty Tyraness, how could a man be so deranged? 
If he chose to leave you, a padded cell must be arranged!" 
 

She blinked, mopped at her tears with a jewel-laden hand, and glared.
 

"He didn't choose! I had him chopped to bits! I ate his heart and all of his boy parts because I caught him looking at another woman."
 

"Oh... *ahem* Your ruling was just, the punishment fair, 
Such treachery should-" 
 

"Recite a poem for me. One about love, or beauty, or... or..." Her right hand described circles, as though groping for something. "...or dancing hippos!"
 

Chen raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure about reveling hippopotami, so he decided to try something else instead.
 

----
 

Our whole empire basked in her beauty fair, 
The beloved daughter of Qin's proud line, 
Her radiant smile once banished all care, 
Fashioned by merciful heaven's design; 
Myriads adored her, longed for her lips, 
As many more yearned to equal her grace, 
Her keen wit and wisdom none could eclipse, 
Carried our glory across human space; 
Even now as dire misfortune besets, 
And grim warfare rains harsh suffering down, 
No true loyal Sian soul ever forgets, 
The one who still wears our pride and our crown; 
We of the empire shall always be free, 
Illaria's eyes hold our galaxy. 
 

----
 

"She sounds wonderful," the Tyraness said. Her stare grew sharp and cold. "Is she lovelier than me?"
 

"Our Princess is a precious jewel, 
But Zhao Chen is nobody's fool." 
 

She smiled and nodded.
 

"You have a clever tongue! Maybe I won't cut it out after all!"

LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/Ragnar Teaches a Lesson

2013-11-21T01:23:44Z

Durlin: Created page with "The holo-screens formed a grid, sixteen smaller squares creating a greater whole. It dominated the middle of the Tyraness' relaxation room from floor to ceiling, wall to wall,..."

The holo-screens formed a grid, sixteen smaller squares creating a greater whole. It dominated the middle of the Tyraness' relaxation room from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, dividing the chamber in half. It split a couch in two, along with the guard who stood against the opposite wall -- though if this almost symmetrical vivisection troubled the woman, she gave no sign. The rest of the guardswomen were likewise impassive. However, their mistress bore a dark scowl. Her fingertips grasped the arms of the plush chair on which she sat, sinking into the padded crimson. The balls of her feet pressed down on the footstool and ground against the luxurious cushion. They twisted back and forth as though crushing insects.
 

This sudden movement made the servant boy fumble in his efforts to paint her nails. A little dab of purple appeared on the skin of her big toe. She looked down, glared at it, and kicked him in the face. He fell backwards, clutching his bloody mouth. A guard lifted him up by his tunic with one hand and bore him away.
 

"How dare they?" the Tyraness said.
 

The guardswomen made no reply. The remaining servants crawled away on their bellies, lest she notice them. But her eyes were back on the sixteen screens and the chaotic images they held.

"Protests? On my planet!?!"

Teeming crowds occupied each scene. In parks and plazas, streets and fields, they waved placards and cried out from silent mouths. Only a single screen emitted sound. From that one, the rhythmic chant was thus:
 

"The ice-cream laws are dumb! 
We want our bubblegum! 
The ice-cream laws are dumb! 
We want our bubblegum!" 
 

"Bubblegum! They're protesting over... bubblegum ice-cream?" the Tyraness said. She pointed at one of the guards. "You! I demand to know what this all means!"
 

The armored woman glanced at the door, then at the balcony, but perhaps decided that neither fleeing for her life nor plunging to her death seemed palatable.
 

"It's... It's a symbol, Tyraness. The... The wretched... ungrateful... insignificant... worthless..."
 

Her mistress' hand described a curt, circular motion.
 

"...fools are too... too stupid to appreciate your just and benevolent edicts! They've chosen to use bubblegum as a microcosm of-"
 

"Send for General Culthana!"
 

"Yes, Tyraness!"
 

***
 

Zhao Chen lay on his uncomfortable bed and contemplated the ceiling. He'd taken up residence in several cells during his life, but none had contained anything like the lavish fresco spread above. It depicted the Tyraness' face. She glowered at him in lifelike wrath. A mischievous part of his mind wondered if prisoners were suitably cowed by the image, or else pleasured themselves to it.
 

He was lost in such frivolous thoughts when the door opened and a pair of amazonian women entered. One of them aimed a blaster at Chen. The other held out a pair of electric manacles.
 

"The Tyraness wants to see you," the latter said.
 

"Then who am I to disobey? 
The ruler must have her way." 
 

"Just shut up and come here."
 

She slapped the cuffs on his wrists. There was a low hum, and blue bands of energy filled the transparent bonds -- tightening them against his skin. The guard took him by the collar and propelled him out into the corridor. Something jabbed him in the back, which he took for the blaster's muzzle. It remained there while they directed him through the palace's passages and up its stairways.
 

After some minutes they brought him to a long, broad corridor decorated with framed paintings of the Tyraness. On one she wore a gorgeous ball gown and held a handsome young man's arm. In the next he was dead on the ground, with her boot planted on his head. Her giggling smile was the same in both paintings. Chen was glancing at a third -- this one a battle scene in which the ruler routed a unit of teddy bears -- when his guards came to a halt, each stamped a foot, and chorused:
 

"Hail, General Culthana!"
 

The woman who stormed down the corridor towards them was even taller than the two warrior women. Her broad face, with its glaring eyes and pursed lips, was at least eighteen inches above Chen's own, and her shoulders were broad enough to make a Niflung bodybuilder weep. Thick golden plates inscribed with intricate floral patterns made her imposing build even more substantial.
 

The two guards parted to clear her path. Chen did not. Culthana's right arm barged into him, knocking him spinning. He thudded between two of the paintings and moaned.
 

"That wasn't a pleasant thing to do! 
The passage is wide enough for two!" 
 

The general froze. Her eyes blazed. The two guards exchanged glances and backed away, while Culthana seized Chen's throat in her golden grasp. She hoisted him off his feet, squeezing his red, spluttering throat. His back crashed against the wall for a second time. She pinned him there, boots thrashing above the floor. His bound hands slapped at her vambrace.
 

She leaned in close, until their noses were almost touching, then directed a ferocious expression at the guards. They took the hint and turned around. Behind them the general growled inaudible, savage threats, punctuated by thuds and groans. A few moments later she strode past them. They looked round to find Zhao Chen on his hands and knees. Blood dripped from his face.
 

"Idiot!" one of them said.
 

With that charitable assessment, they pulled Chen to his feet and prodded him into the chamber at the end of the corridor. One of them helped him across the Tyraness' relaxation room with a kick. He stumbled through the holo-screens, parting the protestors, then recovered and bowed before the reclining ruler. She blinked at his battered visage.
 

"What happened to your face?"
 

"An accident, nothing more, 
I had a fight with a door." 
 

"Well that was silly of you, wasn't it?" She snorted and pointed at the screens behind him. "I want to hear a poem! Something fun, to take my mind off those stupid people."
 

Chen bowed, coughed, and began.
 

----
 

The bar was a den of savages 
when Ragnar walked into the place 
everybody stopped talking 
and stared at the Niflung's face 
 

"He's the one who slaughtered Eric!" 
said a chem-addled punk 
"Oh, shut your goddamn mouth!" said Ragnar 
"I just came here to get drunk!" 
 

But all the punks went for their weapons 
so Ragnar let out a roar 
and seized a powerful Niflung axe 
soon to be bathed in gore 
 

He cut a Rylattu in half 
when she drew her doomsday gun 
threw her corpse in the bathroom 
pissed on it for fun 
 

A Snuuth wrestler went and grabbed his arm 
to take away his axe 
but Ragnar tore his head off 
and paid the grim reaper's tax 
 

He rampaged through the tables 
chopping off arms and legs 
before he drank all of their beer 
right down to the dregs 
 

"I think I should be leaving!" 
said one who wanted to live 
"Hold it right there!" said Ragnar 
"There's lots more brutal killing to give!" 
 

The barmaid looked over the counter 
and let out her most boisterous cry 
"If you battle that Niflung 
you're all going to die!" 
 

Of course it was really too late 
for that splendid advice 
all of the punks were dead 
a few maybe twice or thrice 
 

Ragnar looked round at the slaughter 
then went to slake his thirst 
"I love ale but it's even better 
if you've done lots of good killing first!" 
 

----
 

The Tyraness clapped her hands.
 

"Very clever! You've played with another of my favorite poems. When I heard it at school, I loved it so much I made one of the teachers act it out!" Her eyes brightened. "Ah! Look!"
 

On the sixteen screens, amazonian soldiers were pitching into the crowds. Some laid about them with truncheons. Others battered away with plated fists and feet. The Tyraness' subjects fled in all directions, their protest at an end.
 

She laughed until merry tears glistened in her eyes.

LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/The Lady of Steel Skin

2013-11-20T22:33:18Z

Durlin:

Among cold stars that stud the night, 
Endless depths beyond mortal sight, 
Where fallen empires face their plight, 
Lonely vessels wend dreaming flight, 
By many splendored Karakin. 
And for that world a ship makes sail, 
Parting endless void's dark veil; 
Within its scarred hull so pale, 
The lady of steel skin. 
 

Four gleaming moons cast silver glow, 
Upon the forests far below, 
Across the planet's drifting snow, 
And crystal rivers' tranquil flow; 
The beauty of Karakin. 
Shining cities like beacons blaze, 
And laughter to the heavens raise, 
'Twas the place she once lived her days, 
The lady of steel skin. 
 

So long since she trode its land, 
In the golden sunlight stand, 
Waters rippled from her hand, 
And the cool breeze her warm brow fanned, 
On beautiful Karakin. 
Beloved faces fill her mind, 
Their voices with hers once entwined, 
Now in cold memory confined, 
The lady of steel skin. 
 

Whatever does she hope to seek, 
The things of which those voices speak? 
To cry with neither eye nor cheek, 
And end existence hard and bleak, 
On beautiful Karakin? 
To this planet does she yet have claim, 
Or did it perish in cruel flame? 
Does anyone left know her name, 
Lady of steel skin? 
 

She lands by a ruined place, 
That all the years cannot erase, 
Haunts her through the depths of space, 
And penetrates the steel embrace; 
Memories of Karakin. 
A man held her before the steel, 
While children giggled at her heel, 
And with a kiss her lips he'd seal, 
Before she bore steel skin. 
 

With metal tread she walks the ground, 
Amidst the ruins ghosts gather round, 
Fleshless senses to confound, 
Wailing their soft mournful sound, 
Lost specters of Karakin. 
Burnished gold of autumn laid, 
In warm shadows the children played, 
When pirates came with gun and blade, 
Before she bore steel skin. 
 

Her husband heard the spacecraft's roar, 
The grim black bird that dripped in gore, 
Brought the children in, sealed the door, 
A brave soul though no man of war, 
A hero stood on Karakin. 
Towards their house the pirates drew, 
Harlequins checkered white and blue, 
A vicious debt they had made due, 
Before she had steel skin. 
 

"Judge Keplex!" on every foul tongue, 
Screeched from each rotten chem-scarred lung; 
Natalia's word their leader hung, 
From the grim gallows high she swung, 
By the just laws of Karakin. 
The judge herself was far away, 
But not a word her kin would say, 
They perished rather than betray, 
Before she had steel skin. 
 

The phone rang in the judge's room, 
At once she felt the hand of doom; 
There on a screen she saw the plume, 
Snake from her family's fiery tomb, 
Ending life on Karakin. 
Her husband and her children dead, 
Only one thought filled her head, 
And down a cold dark path it led, 
To her fate and steel skin. 
 

In the law she'd once laid her trust, 
Within its maw the wicked thrust, 
But then her faith was burned to dust, 
A hollow soul filled with disgust, 
By the justice of Karakin. 
The pirates they would not pursue, 
Across the gleaming cosmos flew; 
Her own vengeance she must see through, 
And soon would come steel skin. 
 

The black judge's gown she cast aside, 
With fires raging deep inside, 
For her family she screamed and cried, 
And let herself into fury slide, 
That would take her from Karakin. 
Her aching heart she called a curse, 
Mere human weakness to disperse, 
The stars in a new guise she'd traverse, 
A lady of steel skin. 
 

In wrathful mind forever scarred, 
Her flesh was weak but spirit hard, 
And so she resolved to discard, 
Her mortal shell and broken shard, 
Humanity on Karakin. 
From out her skull they tore her brain, 
Ripped from the nerves that brought her pain, 
Surrendered human beauty vain, 
Lady of steel skin. 
 

Callous metal her living grave, 
Granted the strength that she did crave; 
Only one single thought she gave: 
Avenge children and husband brave, 
Who perished on Karakin. 
That robot body held shattered soul, 
And exacted its grievous toll, 
All but fury the metal stole, 
The lady wore steel skin. 
 

Beneath the tears that heaven wept, 
Her heart forever would be kept, 
In sodden earth where her family slept, 
While aboard the pale ship she stepped, 
And flew far from Karakin. 
Like a dark and trackless sea, 
The universe rolls steadily; 
She voyaged through the galaxy, 
The lady of steel skin. 
 

Out in the void she caught a word, 
A tale over sensors heard, 
Speaking of the gory bird, 
So onward the lady spurred, 
A vast gulf from Karakin. 
On a distant world pirates drank, 
Where soft chems flow and hard creds clank; 
Through atmosphere the pale ship sank; 
She seethed inside steel skin. 
 

Weapons bristled on her shell, 
And in her brain she dreamed of hell; 
She screamed aloud her tale to tell, 
So they'd know it as they fell, 
For what they did on Karakin. 
Some tried to fight with bomb and gun, 
But in the end they were all undone, 
When her unerring missiles spun, 
Launched from atop steel skin. 
 

Memories passed, slow and drifting, 
Mournful loss and vengeance shifting, 
To strange places her mind lifting, 
Among time's grainy sands sifting, 
As she walked on Karakin. 
There were no tears for her to cry, 
She had no lungs to heave and sigh, 
Deprived of flesh emotions die, 
Inside her cold steel skin. 
 

Suddenly she heard a moan, 
From the dead house's ruined stone, 
A phantom noise on chill winds blown, 
As though of those who long had flown, 
Beyond life on Karakin. 
Behind a wall crouched a child, 
Trembling limbs and blue eyes wild, 
A girl upon whom troubles piled; 
She gazed up at steel skin. 
 

Electric eyes at her stared, 
The lady bid her, "Don't be scared..." 
Asked the girl what she had fared, 
And her sad tale the child shared, 
She'd suffered on Karakin. 
"I will protect you," Natalia vowed, 
And the girl dared to hope aloud; 
Perhaps love can still pierce the shroud, 
Of the lady's steel skin. 
 

-------

 
The other prisoners held their breath and looked from the poet to the woman on the throne. She rubbed the side of her index finger against her chin.
 

"How did you know I like Tennyson?" she asked.
 

"No woman of intelligence would ever be bored, 
On hearing to the verses of the great Alfred, Lord."
 

"I suppose so..." The Tyraness smiled. "Guards! Dispose of the other prisoners."
 

The guards exchanged glances and shrugs of their shoulders, until one of them spoke.
 

"Forgive me, I must ask a question. It's about your latest..."
 

She froze, bit her lip, and turned to the others.
 

"Suggestion," two of them whispered.
 

"Suggestion!"
 

"I don't make suggestions!" The Tyraness' eyes narrowed. "I give orders and people obey if they want to keep their insides on the inside! But what's your question?"
 

The guard opened and closed her mouth several times. Her mistress sighed.
 

"I give you permission to speak without rhyming verse! From this moment on, that law doesn't apply to my warriors."
 

"Thank you, Tyraness!" they chorused. Some favored the prisoners with smug looks, which those men and women returned with glares.
 

"So, when you said dispose of the prisoners," the guardswoman said, "did you mean set them free or slaughter them?"
 

"Slaughter them!" the Tyraness said. There were gasps and wails. "Oh, wait... Force of habit! I liked his poem. Go set them free. And give them each a bowl of chocolate ice-cream, because I'm feeling generous."
 

"Yes, Tyraness."
 

"And as for this one..." She transfixed him with a pointing finger. "Who are you?"
 

"My name is Zhao Chen, Tyr-"
 

"Find him a cell. He's my new court poet!"

LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/The Lady of Steel Skin

2013-11-20T22:32:10Z

Durlin: Created page with "Among cold stars that stud the night, Endless depths beyond mortal sight, Where fallen empires face their plight, Lonely vessels wend dreaming flight, By many ..."

Among cold stars that stud the night, 
Endless depths beyond mortal sight, 
Where fallen empires face their plight, 
Lonely vessels wend dreaming flight, 
By many splendored Karakin. 
And for that world a ship makes sail, 
Parting endless void's dark veil; 
Within its scarred hull so pale, 
The lady of steel skin. 
 

Four gleaming moons cast silver glow, 
Upon the forests far below, 
Across the planet's drifting snow, 
And crystal rivers' tranquil flow; 
The beauty of Karakin. 
Shining cities like beacons blaze, 
And laughter to the heavens raise, 
'Twas the place she once lived her days, 
The lady of steel skin. 
 

So long since she trode its land, 
In the golden sunlight stand, 
Waters rippled from her hand, 
And the cool breeze her warm brow fanned, 
On beautiful Karakin. 
Beloved faces fill her mind, 
Their voices with hers once entwined, 
Now in cold memory confined, 
The lady of steel skin. 
 

Whatever does she hope to seek, 
The things of which those voices speak? 
To cry with neither eye nor cheek, 
And end existence hard and bleak, 
On beautiful Karakin? 
To this planet does she yet have claim, 
Or did it perish in cruel flame? 
Does anyone left know her name, 
Lady of steel skin? 
 

She lands by a ruined place, 
That all the years cannot erase, 
Haunts her through the depths of space, 
And penetrates the steel embrace; 
Memories of Karakin. 
A man held her before the steel, 
While children giggled at her heel, 
And with a kiss her lips he'd seal, 
Before she bore steel skin. 
 

With metal tread she walks the ground, 
Amidst the ruins ghosts gather round, 
Fleshless senses to confound, 
Wailing their soft mournful sound, 
Lost specters of Karakin. 
Burnished gold of autumn laid, 
In warm shadows the children played, 
When pirates came with gun and blade, 
Before she bore steel skin. 
 

Her husband heard the spacecraft's roar, 
The grim black bird that dripped in gore, 
Brought the children in, sealed the door, 
A brave soul though no man of war, 
A hero stood on Karakin. 
Towards their house the pirates drew, 
Harlequins checkered white and blue, 
A vicious debt they had made due, 
Before she had steel skin. 
 

"Judge Keplex!" on every foul tongue, 
Screeched from each rotten chem-scarred lung; 
Natalia's word their leader hung, 
From the grim gallows high she swung, 
By the just laws of Karakin. 
The judge herself was far away, 
But not a word her kin would say, 
They perished rather than betray, 
Before she had steel skin. 
 

The phone rang in the judge's room, 
At once she felt the hand of doom; 
There on a screen she saw the plume, 
Snake from her family's fiery tomb, 
Ending life on Karakin. 
Her husband and her children dead, 
Only one thought filled her head, 
And down a cold dark path it led, 
To her fate and steel skin. 
 

In the law she'd once laid her trust, 
Within its maw the wicked thrust, 
But then her faith was burned to dust, 
A hollow soul filled with disgust, 
By the justice of Karakin. 
The pirates they would not pursue, 
Across the gleaming cosmos flew; 
Her own vengeance she must see through, 
And soon would come steel skin. 
 

The black judge's gown she cast aside, 
With fires raging deep inside, 
For her family she screamed and cried, 
And let herself into fury slide, 
That would take her from Karakin. 
Her aching heart she called a curse, 
Mere human weakness to disperse, 
The stars in a new guise she'd traverse, 
A lady of steel skin. 
 

In wrathful mind forever scarred, 
Her flesh was weak but spirit hard, 
And so she resolved to discard, 
Her mortal shell and broken shard, 
Humanity on Karakin. 
From out her skull they tore her brain, 
Ripped from the nerves that brought her pain, 
Surrendered human beauty vain, 
Lady of steel skin. 
 

Callous metal her living grave, 
Granted the strength that she did crave; 
Only one single thought she gave: 
Avenge children and husband brave, 
Who perished on Karakin. 
That robot body held shattered soul, 
And exacted its grievous toll, 
All but fury the metal stole, 
The lady wore steel skin. 
 

Beneath the tears that heaven wept, 
Her heart forever would be kept, 
In sodden earth where her family slept, 
While aboard the pale ship she stepped, 
And flew far from Karakin. 
Like a dark and trackless sea, 
The universe rolls steadily; 
She voyaged through the galaxy, 
The lady of steel skin. 
 

Out in the void she caught a word, 
A tale over sensors heard, 
Speaking of the gory bird, 
So onward the lady spurred, 
A vast gulf from Karakin. 
On a distant world pirates drank, 
Where soft chems flow and hard creds clank; 
Through atmosphere the pale ship sank; 
She seethed inside steel skin. 
 

Weapons bristled on her shell, 
And in her brain she dreamed of hell; 
She screamed aloud her tale to tell, 
So they'd know it as they fell, 
For what they did on Karakin. 
Some tried to fight with bomb and gun, 
But in the end they were all undone, 
When her unerring missiles spun, 
Launched from atop steel skin. 
 

Memories passed, slow and drifting, 
Mournful loss and vengeance shifting, 
To strange places her mind lifting, 
Among time's grainy sands sifting, 
As she walked on Karakin. 
There were no tears for her to cry, 
She had no lungs to heave and sigh, 
Deprived of flesh emotions die, 
Inside her cold steel skin. 
 

Suddenly she heard a moan, 
From the dead house's ruined stone, 
A phantom noise on chill winds blown, 
As though of those who long had flown, 
Beyond life on Karakin. 
Behind a wall crouched a child, 
Trembling limbs and blue eyes wild, 
A girl upon whom troubles piled; 
She gazed up at steel skin. 
 

Electric eyes at her stared, 
The lady bid her, "Don't be scared..." 
Asked the girl what she had fared, 
And her sad tale the child shared, 
She'd suffered on Karakin. 
"I will protect you," Natalia vowed, 
And the girl dared to hope aloud; 
Perhaps love can still pierce the shroud, 
Of the lady's steel skin. 
 

16:32, 20 November 2013 (CST)
 
The other prisoners held their breath and looked from the poet to the woman on the throne. She rubbed the side of her index finger against her chin.
 

"How did you know I like Tennyson?" she asked.
 

"No woman of intelligence would ever be bored, 
On hearing to the verses of the great Alfred, Lord."
 

"I suppose so..." The Tyraness smiled. "Guards! Dispose of the other prisoners."
 

The guards exchanged glances and shrugs of their shoulders, until one of them spoke.
 

"Forgive me, I must ask a question. It's about your latest..."
 

She froze, bit her lip, and turned to the others.
 

"Suggestion," two of them whispered.
 

"Suggestion!"
 

"I don't make suggestions!" The Tyraness' eyes narrowed. "I give orders and people obey if they want to keep their insides on the inside! But what's your question?"
 

The guard opened and closed her mouth several times. Her mistress sighed.
 

"I give you permission to speak without rhyming verse! From this moment on, that law doesn't apply to my warriors."
 

"Thank you, Tyraness!" they chorused. Some favored the prisoners with smug looks, which those men and women returned with glares.
 

"So, when you said dispose of the prisoners," the guardswoman said, "did you mean set them free or slaughter them?"
 

"Slaughter them!" the Tyraness said. There were gasps and wails. "Oh, wait... Force of habit! I liked his poem. Go set them free. And give them each a bowl of chocolate ice-cream, because I'm feeling generous."
 

"Yes, Tyraness."
 

"And as for this one..." She transfixed him with a pointing finger. "Who are you?"
 

"My name is Zhao Chen, Tyr-"
 

"Find him a cell. He's my new court poet!"

LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/Intro

2013-11-20T22:25:54Z

Durlin: Created page with "The marketplace was crowded, despite noonday weather so blazing even the proverbial mad dogs and Englishmen would have stayed indoors rather than endure that sun-scoured plaza..."

The marketplace was crowded, despite noonday weather so blazing even the proverbial mad dogs and Englishmen would have stayed indoors rather than endure that sun-scoured plaza. This press of bodies added fragrant human heat to the astrophysical oven. Dozens of different perfumes and deodorants clashed in their midst, strong scented legions waging war for mastery of nose and nostril.
 
Men and women chatted to pass the time. Their voices were lank and lethargic, trembling with an undercurrent of uncertainty that became more pronounced whenever any of them looked towards the raised platform at the far end, beyond the stalls. A few made small purchases from the merchants -- who accepted credits and handed over goods with little enthusiasm. The only ones who seemed to be enjoying their trade, and a brisk one at that, were those fortunate enough to be selling cold drinks and frozen treats. And even there things weren't to everyone's satisfaction.
 
"I want chocolate!" The wailing girl stamped her foot and glared at her mother and the ice-cream man. "Chocolate!"
 
The two adults looked at one another. Her mother winced. He shrugged his shoulders and mopped his perspiring brow with a handful of crushed ice.
 
"There's no chocolate, sweetie," her mother said. "Why don't you try toffee?"
 
"Toffee is good flavor," the ice-cream man said. "Sweet and tasty."
 
"It isn't chocolate!" the girl said. "I want-"
 
The woman clapped her hand over her daughter's mouth. A broad, quivering grin appeared on her own face. Its mirror image adorned the ice-cream man's.
 
"Is there a problem, citizen?" a gruff female voice asked.
 
"No! No!" the mother said. She and the ice-cream man both smiled up at the seven foot tall, armored woman who loomed over them. "My daughter was just... just..."
 
The guardswoman snorted and walked off. People parted before her, crushing themselves against one another in their haste. The ice-cream man and the girl's mother both exhaled. Their grins deflated. He tottered, and put his arm against his sign for support. Its holographic projection flickered for a moment. The words "This week's forbidden flavors: chocolate, vanilla, bubblegum" shimmered before sharpening once again.
 
More of the tall, uniformed warriors strode through the crowd, alone or in pairs. Smiles bloomed on faces wherever they went. The chatter became louder and merrier.
 
"Wonderful day, isn't it?"
 
"Oh, what a glorious world we live on!"
 
"We're blessed!"
 
"Ah, the guards get more beautiful and magnificent every day!"
 
"All hail the-"
 
A few citizens were too busy exclaiming praise for their world, system of government, and police force to move out of the way of the latter. Thus they found themselves barged aside into the press of humanity. After the guardswomen went by, the laudations gave way to subdued conversations and the occasional groan. But soon the stomping of dozens of booted feet ushered in silence.
 
More armed and armored women were gathering around the platform. A row of them stood to attention in front, their helmeted heads almost halfway up its height. Another, dressed in a fancier uniform, took up her station atop it -- beside a man in baggy gold and purple robes. The populace stared at the herald. Their lives might depend on what he had to say.
 
"All pay heed to the weekly edicts!" he said. His fruity voice chirruped from speakers mounted around the marketplace. "The first edict: No man shall be permitted to wear a hat!"
 
All through the crowd, men snatched at their craniums and divested themselves of the offending garments. Some threw them on the ground and jumped up and down on them for good measure.
 
"The second edict: Our glorious Tyraness has become enamored with poetry, and wishes to share its beauty with her grateful subjects. Therefore everyone shall be required to speak in rhyming verse this week."
 
Blank stares and the scratching of bare heads greeted this announcement.
 
"The third edict: In her infinite benevolence, the Tyraness grants you permission to consume chocolate flavored ice-cream! And-"
 
"Wait a minute, that's not rhyme!" the guard captain beside him said. Her voice boomed across the market. Then she paused, coughed, and added: "Um... That means you've committed a crime!"
 
"What? But I was just reading the..."
 
She raised her gun. The herald ran towards the edge of the platform, robes flapping around him like the plumage of a flabby bird. The blaster fired. His torso flew off the stage, arms flailing. His legs fell where they were. The captain admired her handiwork, before looking down at the gaggle of similarly robed men who trembled and perspired below.
 
"Another herald, come to the stage, 
Or else you'll face my weapon's grim rage!"
 
***
 
In a room within the palace, a luxurious little chamber in spite of its purpose, men and women with bound hands watched the herald's demise on a holographic screen. Some gasped. One opened her mouth as though to speak. But she caught a guardswoman's eye, and clamped her jaws shut. The guard acknowledged her wisdom with a nod.
 
A melodious chime rang out, flooding the room. The screen went blank. One of the guards counted something on her fingers, muttered inaudible words under her breath, smiled, and cried out.
 
"The hour of your judgment is now at hand, 
Before the Tyraness you soon will stand!"
 
A couple of the prisoners managed demure rounds of applause despite the manacles binding their wrists. One continued to clap as the guards led them outside, through the corridors, and to a massive golden door. There another of the tall warrior women spoke.
 
"Behold your ruler, the Tyraness fair! 
Come and see her imperiousness... there?"
 
She blushed, then glared when some of the prisoners snickered. The golden doors opened behind her. They parted inwards with a pleasant jingle, revealing a lavish chamber decorated with perhaps more gold and jewels than most star systems could boast. But none of them had any eyes for the fine decorations. Their gazes went to the little set of marble steps and the throne mounted above them. A woman in a purple gown lounged on that lofty seat, one leg crossed over the other. Precious metals glittered across her skin and garments. They seemed to echo the smirk on her aristocratic face.
 
She gave a languid wave of her hand. The guards brought the prisoners inside the room, and formed them into a neat line with sundry smacks and shoves.
 
"Ah, the prisoners!" The Tyraness' smirk became a broad, almost feline grin. "My midday entertainment!"
 
"Hey!" said one of the manacled men. His red face quivered with outrage. "That wasn't in rhyme!"
 
"I am above the law. But you aren't... And you didn't rhyme either!"
 
"That's not fair! I-"
 
"Take him to the torture chamber! The one with all those spiky coffin things!"
 
A guard seized his collar and dragged him back through the aureate doorway. The Tyraness made another gesture, and the portal closed behind them.
 
"We're going to play a little game," the Tyraness said. "Do you know what I do with prisoners who're brought before me?"
 
A female prisoner with a twitching nose and round spectacles tried to raise her hand, as though she was in a school classroom. This resulted in both of her bound arms shooting above her head in the manner of a thugby referee acknowledging a touchdown.
 
"Go on then," the Tyraness said. She wagged her finger. "But remember the edict!"
 
"You make them each tell a tale, 
And you kill them if they fail!"
 
The Tyraness applauded.
 
"Very good!"
 
"Does that mean I can go?"
 
The applause died out, and was replaced by a glare.
 
"Oh... I... I'd like to know!" the woman added.
 
"No! No one leaves this room alive unless they tell me a good story. And today all the stories have to be in rhyming verse, or I'll chop off your heads!"
 
Some of the prisoners groaned. Others blanched. But a slim man in a crisp green jumpsuit stepped forward with a serene expression on his Chinese features.
 
"Why waste your valuable time, 
With these poor meager folk, 
Who can't delight you with rhyme? 
It would be a bad joke!"
 
"Oh? And what do you think I should do instead? Feed them to the ragebeasts? I haven't done that in a while..."
 
"Ears so wondrous as yours deserve something fine, 
Let me speak for them all, with words rich as wine! 
I'll tell many stories, till your boredom's at an end, 
Then you can set them all free, my most merciful friend!"
 
"Hmm... That 'friend' thing was awfully familiar. I'm not your friend, I'm your Tyraness!"
 
The guards trained their weapons on him. He didn't so much as bat an eye.
 
"But it could be amusing. Very well! Tell me a story. If it's good, I'll let them go. If it's bad, I'll make them eat your intestines while you're still alive!"
 
The man bowed.

LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2

2013-11-20T22:21:54Z

Durlin: Created page with "<tabber> "Intro"= {{:LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/Intro}} |-| "The Lady of Steel Skin"= {{:LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/The Lady of Steel Skin}} |-| "Ragnar T..."

<tabber>
"Intro"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/Intro}}
|-|
"The Lady of Steel Skin"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/The Lady of Steel Skin}}
|-|
"Ragnar Teaches a Lesson"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/Ragnar Teaches a Lesson}}
|-|
"Her Eyes Hold the Galaxy"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/Her Eyes Hold the Galaxy}}
|-|
"Despair, Ye Mighty!"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/Despair, Ye Mighty!}}
|-|
"The Tyraness"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/The Tyraness}}

</tabber>

LotS/The Story

2013-11-20T22:18:22Z

Durlin:

'''The Milky Way'''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Princess_Illaria's_Escape|Princess Illaria's Escape]] (Sian Space) ''The Centurian Collective hunts for Princess Illaria, the last hope of the Sian Empire. Only her champion can save her now.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Legions_of_Steel|Legions of Steel]] (Talos Space) ''Free from the clutches of the Centurians, the Princess and her companions seek aid from TALOS and its robot armies.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Assault on the Zenith|Assault on the Zenith]] (Occupied Sian Space) ''It's time to strike back at the Centurians...''
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Search for the Princess|The Search for the Princess]] ''The Princess had disappeared, whisked away from the Zenith in a flash of light. But she's out there somewhere, and you'll find her even if you have to tear the galaxy apart.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Politics of War|Politics of War]] (Sol) ''Perhaps it's fitting that the fate of human space might be decided upon Earth, mankind's ancient homeworld.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Aphrodisian Anabasis|Aphrodisian Anabasis]] ''War makes strange bedfellows. And so the Princess must journey to Cythera, the Contella vice-world, to secure that faction's aid against Centurians.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Right Tools|The Right Tools]] ''A mission as ambitious as the one you're planning can only succeed if you have the proper assets at the ready.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/A Masterful Stratagem|A Masterful Stratagem]] ''The Centurians are untouchable while the Emperor is in their grasp. It's time to rectify that...''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Scaean_Gates|Scean Gates]] ''She's gone. Now there's nothing left but vengeance.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Because I'm The Wanderer|Because I'm The Wanderer]] ''The galaxy is so vast. So much space to lose yourself in...''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Talia's Team|Talia's Team]] ''If she fumbles, her first match might be her last.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Prince & The Pixels|The Prince & The Pixels]] ''Videogames are dangerous. But so's Telemachus.
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar|The Saga of Drunken Ragnar]] ''All good stories start with a drink...
# [[LotS/The_Story/Lu Bu's Halloween|Lu Bu's Halloween]] ''Halloween's for killing and candy. Lu Bu can't eat candy...
# [[LotS/The_Story/Puny Human Birthdays|A. Puny Human Birthdays]] ''"Wretched stink-beast! Tell us about these 'birthdays' your pathetic species celebrates, or we shall destroy you with our superior Rylattu technology!"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Puny Human Birthdays II|A2. Puny Human Birthdays II]] (Twice as puny, and full of goo) ''"Puny human! Continue the birthday tales or suffer immediate disintegration!"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Christmas Chaos|Christmas Chaos]] ''"Peace on Earth... But they never said anything about the rest of the galaxy."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Music of the Spheres|Music of the Spheres]] ''"When she sings to the stars, the cosmos becomes her chorus."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Playing with Fire (Part 1)|Playing with Fire (Part 1)]] ''"They've been burning for a very long time..."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Playing with Fire (Part 2)|Playing with Fire (Part 2)]] ''"You dreamed of fire... But who will burn?"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Between Heaven and Hell|Between Heaven and Hell]] ''"Heaven totters on the brink of war, and in the shadows azure eyes blaze."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Tales of The Void|A3. Tales of The Void]] ''"The Dark Delight's passengers have stories to share, but what secrets do they hide?"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Tales of The Void 2|A4. Tales of The Void 2]] ''"Stories are powerful indeed. At the Tyraness' court they hold the power of life and death..."

[[LotS/La_Historia|Spanish translation]] (Work in progress).

LotS/The Story

2013-11-20T22:17:53Z

Durlin: Added new zone

'''The Milky Way'''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Princess_Illaria's_Escape|Princess Illaria's Escape]] (Sian Space) ''The Centurian Collective hunts for Princess Illaria, the last hope of the Sian Empire. Only her champion can save her now.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Legions_of_Steel|Legions of Steel]] (Talos Space) ''Free from the clutches of the Centurians, the Princess and her companions seek aid from TALOS and its robot armies.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Assault on the Zenith|Assault on the Zenith]] (Occupied Sian Space) ''It's time to strike back at the Centurians...''
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Search for the Princess|The Search for the Princess]] ''The Princess had disappeared, whisked away from the Zenith in a flash of light. But she's out there somewhere, and you'll find her even if you have to tear the galaxy apart.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Politics of War|Politics of War]] (Sol) ''Perhaps it's fitting that the fate of human space might be decided upon Earth, mankind's ancient homeworld.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Aphrodisian Anabasis|Aphrodisian Anabasis]] ''War makes strange bedfellows. And so the Princess must journey to Cythera, the Contella vice-world, to secure that faction's aid against Centurians.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Right Tools|The Right Tools]] ''A mission as ambitious as the one you're planning can only succeed if you have the proper assets at the ready.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/A Masterful Stratagem|A Masterful Stratagem]] ''The Centurians are untouchable while the Emperor is in their grasp. It's time to rectify that...''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Scaean_Gates|Scean Gates]] ''She's gone. Now there's nothing left but vengeance.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Because I'm The Wanderer|Because I'm The Wanderer]] ''The galaxy is so vast. So much space to lose yourself in...''
# [[LotS/The_Story/Talia's Team|Talia's Team]] ''If she fumbles, her first match might be her last.''
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Prince & The Pixels|The Prince & The Pixels]] ''Videogames are dangerous. But so's Telemachus.
# [[LotS/The_Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar|The Saga of Drunken Ragnar]] ''All good stories start with a drink...
# [[LotS/The_Story/Lu Bu's Halloween|Lu Bu's Halloween]] ''Halloween's for killing and candy. Lu Bu can't eat candy...
# [[LotS/The_Story/Puny Human Birthdays|A. Puny Human Birthdays]] ''"Wretched stink-beast! Tell us about these 'birthdays' your pathetic species celebrates, or we shall destroy you with our superior Rylattu technology!"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Puny Human Birthdays II|A2. Puny Human Birthdays II]] (Twice as puny, and full of goo) ''"Puny human! Continue the birthday tales or suffer immediate disintegration!"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Christmas Chaos|Christmas Chaos]] ''"Peace on Earth... But they never said anything about the rest of the galaxy."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Music of the Spheres|Music of the Spheres]] ''"When she sings to the stars, the cosmos becomes her chorus."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Playing with Fire (Part 1)|Playing with Fire (Part 1)]] ''"They've been burning for a very long time..."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Playing with Fire (Part 2)|Playing with Fire (Part 2)]] ''"You dreamed of fire... But who will burn?"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Between Heaven and Hell|Between Heaven and Hell]] ''"Heaven totters on the brink of war, and in the shadows azure eyes blaze."
# [[LotS/The_Story/Tales of The Void|A3. Tales of The Void]] ''"The Dark Delight's passengers have stories to share, but what secrets do they hide?"
# [[LotS/The_Story/Tales of The Void 2|A4. Tales of The Void]] ''"Stories are powerful indeed. At the Tyraness' court they hold the power of life and death..."

[[LotS/La_Historia|Spanish translation]] (Work in progress).

LotS/The Story/Between Heaven and Hell/They Just Fade Away

2013-11-20T04:45:38Z

Durlin: Removed my name

'''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.

LotS/The Story/Between Heaven and Hell/The Man in Black (1)

2013-11-20T04:44:12Z

Durlin: Removed my name

'''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.

LotS/The Story/Playing with Fire (Part 2)/Old Flame

2013-11-20T04:42:23Z

Durlin: Removed my name

Just over a week earlier, aboard the Silver Shadow...
 

"Round one, bitches!"
 

Rautha's voice rings out over the arena's sound system, to the cheers of the crowd.
 

"Good luck, sweetie!"
 

Natasha Cybersmash, who seems to be wearing either dental floss or a very skimpy bikini, winks at you. Then she sashays across the ring -- brandishing a sign above her head which seems to contain an amorphous splodge. When she reaches the opposite corner, she tosses it aside, jumps up into your opponent's green arms, and puts her tongue down his throat.
 

"It's the Cybersmash special!" Rautha declares. The crowd cheers once more.
 

Natasha turns around, winks at you again, then slips between the ropes with a swish of her long legs.
 

"Go get 'em, [Player Name]!" says the old man standing on the ring apron. He brandishes a towel at you. "Move like Sugar Ray and hit like Dempsey!"
 

The bell rings.
 

You stride across the canvas, where your opponent's waiting for you -- a hulking monstrosity with muscular green flesh, glaring yellow eyes, and jagged spines atop his head. Yet in spite of his bestial aspect, he's clad in a pair of quite ordinary blue shorts. That's odd... But you've seen odder.
 

"What are you?" you ask. "Some kind of overgrown kobold?"
 

"Dimetrodon doesn't know what a kobold is, but if you're making fun of Dimetrodon, Dimetrodon will destroy you!"
 

"I see..."
 

"Dimetrodon fight!"
 

A huge green fist crashes against your face.
 

"You're kind of like a Besalaad..."
 

"Dimetrodon fight!!"
 

A second fist follows the first, and proves no more gratifying to your battered visage.
 

"Stop talking and start fighting!" a woman yells. "People paid good money to watch this!"
 

She's standing on the apron, a dark-haired beauty in golden armor that reveals more flesh than it protects.
 

"Fine..."
 

You duck the next punch, and smash your knee into the green thing's groin. There's a harsh intake of breath as he crumples.
 

"Dimetrodon hurt!" he moans.
 

"Men of Kruna, stop your drinking,
 
What the bloody hell're you thinking?"
 

Screaming Barracuda's song drifts through the arena. It brings remembrance and lucidity in its wake. Of course... You spent all of last night watching old Emergent Fighting League vids from the early twenty-first century, because of an inkling that the Emergents of that era may have included a significant predecessor of yours among their ranks.
 

"Can't you hear the foemen slinking,
 
On the battlements?"
 

And now your preparations have kicked in. A recording of Barracuda's voice, set to trigger while you're deep in REM sleep. As apparently you are now. For some days, the song and the lucidity it induces have helped you sort through the vast oceans of memory that fill your mind.
 

You wonder where it will take you this time...
 

The EFL arena vanishes, taking with it the ring, the groaning Dimetrodon, the shouting woman, and the scandalously dressed Natasha Cybersmash. But the boisterous crowd remains. Or at least their din.
 

Everything reshapes and hardens into... a pub? It's more archaic than the drinking establishments you're used to, but recognizable for all that. The tables and chairs are made of wood, the drinkers they're hosting clad in medieval garb -- rough hats and jerkins, grimy boots and trousers. Many of them seem to have pitchforks near at hand. That either means this is a farming town, or that some kind of peasant revolt is about to start. The general merriment and lack of flaming torches makes you lean towards the former.
 

"What'll it be, friend?"
 

The man behind the bar is familiar, even though you've never exactly laid eyes on him in the flesh. He has a big, broad chest and an even broader grin. His long hair is silver, but his eyes twinkle with all the joy and vitality of youth.
 

"Glenmorangie?"
 

"Wrong place, wrong time. How about an ale?"
 

"Sure."
 

He fills a wooden tankard and pushes it over to you.
 

"That makes three," he says.
 

"Huh?"
 

"Three Kasans I've served ale to. Of course, for two of you I wasn't even alive. Funny how the universe works, isn't it?"
 

"Funny strange, or funny 'ha ha'?"
 

"Both."
 

You sip your ale (it tastes of liquorish), and wait to see what'll transpire. You've learned not to force things in these oneiric forays. Often you're a mere observer, watching past events unfold as you did when Barra played you back through the ages. On other nights you've found yourself conversing with men and women you know only through the prisms of vision and ancestral memory, or even fighting alongside them -- in situations filled with all the unworldly absurdity of dreams. There have been anachronistic blends of past and present, remembrance and history. The sight of Rautha goose-stepping along in full Nazi regalia whilst shouting, "Heil Hitler, bitches!" may rank amongst the most ridiculous of these. But there's plenty of competition.
 

However, whatever happens, you've learned to let nature take its course. Trying to impose your will has only served to eject you into more mundane dreams or the waking world. Thus you banter with the barkeep, allowing your subconscious to play its hand, until a woman drops onto the stool next to you.
 

As with him, her face is one you've glimpsed before. She's a pretty girl with short, fiery hair and a smirk that promises mischief -- maybe at your expense. Her ears are pointy, just like Medea's were.
 

"Want to see a trick?" she asks.
 

"Sure," you reply.
 

She clicks her fingers. Flame erupts on the bar.
 

"Damn it, Elyssa!" The barkeep sighs.
 

"Watch..." She holds her hand over the fire and wiggles her fingers, like a puppeteer working a marionette's strings.
 

The flame coalesces into a miniature simulacrum of the elven woman.
 

"Fire..." Elyssa waves her hand, and her flaming doppelganger does the same. A second flame appears on the bar. It forms itself into another replica. "There's always fire. Just like there's always a Kasan. Did you think yours was the only lineage out there?"
 

She clicks her fingers again. The fiery Elyssas disintegrate, merging into a blazing pyre. That conflagration flickers for several moments. Then it takes on a new shape. A winged, reptilian shape.
 

"Kalaxia," you say.
 

"There's always fire. But in whose hands?"
 

***
 

"She looked just like you. Apart from the ears, I mean."
 

"Cute story. Keep telling it like that. Some guys like their chicks crazy. Till they wake up with their heads in the refrigerator, anyway." She frowns. "Oh, come on! A minute ago you wanted me to burn her face off, and now you believe her?"
 

"Huh?"
 

"They... I mean... Never mind."
 

"You don't have to believe in dreams and visions. But take a look at these..."
 

You pull a datapad out, click the screen, and pass it over the table. She polishes off her drink before taking it. A girl after your own heart... You glug from your pint glass in appreciation -- while she slides a finger across the pad, sifting through the news stories you've collected together.
 

"Someone's hunting pyrokineticists," you say. "And most of them weren't as lucky as you."
 

"Luck had nothing to do with it..." She bites her lip for a long moment before continuing. "You think we're all in danger? Pyros, I mean."
 

"Maybe. Why?"
 

***
 

The audience gasped when the curtain burst into flames, a swift and powerful conflagration that raged across its length and breadth -- devouring every inch of fabric in moments and supplanting it with a veil of pure fire.
 

Gasps gave way to cheers and applause as the beautiful redhead walked through the inferno, out onto the stage, and dropped into a flourishing thespian bow. She was unscathed. Even her scarlet dress had emerged intact and unblemished.
 

Alexa Haelia held the bow for a few seconds as the flames fell away behind her. Then she brought her hands together in one, two, three demure little claps. Three elegant fiery hawks sprang into being. They flew around her in swirling patterns, chasing one another and painting the air with their blazing trails.
 

The audience were in a good mood, she mused -- applauding a little parlor trick as though it were the most wondrous spectacle any of them had ever laid eyes on. The result of complimentary drinks and good luck at the casino's tables perhaps...
 

If they liked that, they'll love our next trick.
 

"Yes," Alexa said. "Let's give them a show to remember..."
 

Can we try the Pyromania Pirouette tonight? We've been practicing for days!
 

"Sure."
 

This pleased them. It was going to be a great show.

LotS/The Story/Playing with Fire (Part 2)/Noir

2013-11-20T04:42:00Z

Durlin:

"Alexa!"
 

Terrified eyes fasten on you. There's a fraction of a second's indecision in their depths, before she runs over.
 

"Help! He killed security! He-"
 

She whirls round, making her hair and dress flare in sweeping semicircles.
 

Noir is approaching. A tall woman moves to intercept him... The man in black doesn't turn his head or break his stride. His fist simply lashes out and sends her sprawling.
 

"Everyone out!" the barmaid shrieks, as she gropes behind the bar.
 

It's unnecessary. The other patrons are already screaming their way towards the exit, giving Noir a wide berth. He doesn't even look at them.
 

"Hold it, you bloody wanker!" The barmaid yells the words over the barrel of a shotgun.
 

Noir snatches up a chair and whips it at her. She crashes against the shelves of bottles, collapses amidst the shattered glass and streaming alcohol. He didn't even slow down...
 

"Move," you say.
 

Alexa Haelia is motionless -- staring at him like prey transfixed by a predator's hypnotic gaze. You grab her shoulders and yank her aside. That snaps her out of it. She darts into the corner and huddles there, with sputtering flames lapping along her limbs.
 

But Noir isn't looking at her now.
 

He stops in front of you, and places his hands behind him. You've seen that one before... Make them think you want to talk, then pull a weapon from the small of your back... So you stay tense, ready. But he makes no movement.
 

"[Player Name]. I knew Alison Haelia would send you here." Two voices tingle in your ear. One is soft, cultured, elegant -- draped in an accent you can't place. The other is a growl. "My name is-"
 

"I know who you are. You murdered Benito Fiduccio."
 

"I have killed many men. But it amuses me that you would speak of murder. I witnessed your deeds when I stood on Lorgen IV. Men, women, and children were obliterated around me, their bodies consumed by fire. Such viciousness... And so fitting, for one of your bloodline."
 

Lorgen IV...
 


The explosions are like the booming voices of angry gods, the mushroom clouds gigantic burial shrouds.
 

Fire. Inconceivable expanses of fire. A bombardment worthy of heaven and hell, of Armageddon. Destruction so utter it seems as though it must ravage the entire universe.
 

Cities die. Worlds die. Annihilation. A nuclear onslaught that obliterates flesh and metal with callous equanimity.
 


That's impossible...
 

"It is a shame I must destroy you. I would have enjoyed seeing what other terrible things you might bring to pass."
 

"Go to hell."
 

Noir's eyes flicker, and somehow you sense amusement in their burning azure depths.
 

His hands emerge from behind his back.
 

-------------------------------------
 

His knee rises, catching your right shin and blocking the kick. He's fast... Almost any other opponent you've fought would have let it past, had it lash their thigh like a heavy, brutal whip. You drop the limb and spring up in the same motion -- launching a hard, fast snap kick with your left leg. He bats it aside. Along with the overhand right and lunging straight left that follow.
 

Four attacks in the blink of an eye... All deflected. He's good.
 

That thought echoes through your brain, reverberates around your consciousness, when his counterpunch smashes against the side of your head. Blood spurts from your mouth in a long, frothing stream.
 

A black leg flashes at the edge of your perception, heard and sensed rather than seen. Your forearm flies out to knock it away. But the second kick catches you square in the gut. Only your armored clothing and the tensing of your muscles stops it from winding you.
 

His burning blue slits are still smiling, as he moves in for the kill.
 

You feint at his featureless face. Then you launch yourself into a low tackle, grabbing at his legs.
 

Noir's knee crashes on your chin, sending bright lights bursting in your brain. His elbow hammers downwards -- and only your deft, instinctive movement makes it thud on your shoulder blade instead of the back of your neck.
 

You throw yourself backwards, tucking your head and rolling to get away from him. He's on you the moment you rise. Ebon fists and boots fly in a shadowy flurry, forcing you back amidst your blocks, dodges, and parries, driving you away until the thick glass of the room's big window is a cool hardness behind your head.
 

To hell with this...
 

Your eyes flash. Blood and darkness swirl around your consciousness in a terrible, familiar maelstrom. Doom and despair rush through every fiber of your being, bringing both unimaginable strength and incomprehensible desolation.
 

"Kasan!"
 

A Princess dies. A universe perishes. A fist splits the air on its inexorable path to slaughter, annihilation, redness. All of creation is one massive, horrible, seething, dying tapestry of blood and blackness and screams and-
 

"No."
 

Your knuckles thud against something hard.
 

And through the whirling tempest, the lashings of blood and endless night, the cries of lost millennia, you glimpse one solid thing: your fist, caught by Noir's hand.
 

Impossible...
 

His kick thunders against your chest.
 

Something shatters, and you don't know if it's you or the galaxy. Then you're falling, through the blood and darkness.
 

They're all screaming. Illaria. Alexa. Billions of Centurian children. All screaming, but growing fainter and fainter as you plunge into the abyss.

LotS/The Story/Playing with Fire (Part 2)/Intro

2013-11-20T04:41:22Z

Durlin: Removed my name

Decades ago, on an asteroid in the Jospur System...
 

"Holy crap..."
 

"Yeah, that's what I said."
 

"Sweet Jesus..."
 

"Yep."
 

Brian Tabares continued in the same vein for several moments. Blasphemies and profanities crackled in Simone Renshaw's ear -- abusing her helmet's speakers. She couldn't blame him. When she'd seen it for the first time, the things she'd said to herself might have made her grandfather rise from the grave and shove a rosary down her throat.
 

"Think they knew it was here?" she asked, when he was done.
 

"Huh?"
 

"Professor... Damn it! What was he called?"
 

"Bonderbrand."
 

"Yeah..."
 

The name may have slipped her mind, but the man's big jowls were fresh and clear in her memory. They'd quivered like jelly while he gave the two postgraduates their final instructions. After that they'd been left to it -- with only each other and the bleeping excavation bots for company.
 

"He said to call them if we found anything... unusual," she continued. "Does that mean..."
 

"Jesus... He sounded like he was talking about minerals or something. Not..."
 

The two of them stared at the cavern wall. It was a large, lofty chamber. The bots and their predecessors had done their jobs well. But the thing they'd uncovered still took up a sizable portion of the rock face.
 

Professor Bonderbrand's words echoed in Simone's head.
 

"We believe the asteroid originated in the Sol System."
 

But if that were true, then...
 

"I'll send a transmission," Brian said.
 

"Already done. I sent it while you were sleeping. Then I had the bots uncover the rest."
 

"This thing... I mean, I'm no paleontologist, but..."
 

"That 'thing', Mr. Tabares, is the past," a deep voice said. It came from their helmets' speakers, startling them both. "And the future."
 

The two postgraduates span round.
 

Three people were descending the metal staircase that led down into the cavern from the station above. They wore sealed navy blue suits, like the students themselves. The foremost among them, a heavyset man, had his helmet's opacity turned down -- revealing a pair of prodigious jowls. His companions were a woman and a shorter, slimmer man, whose faces were hidden behind layers of cloudy blackness.
 

Professor Bonderbrand reached the bottom of the staircase and crossed the dark rock floor. When the others followed, Simone's gaze fastened on the male. The way he moved... He had a strange, tilting, almost gliding gait. He wasn't human. If he hadn't been wearing an opaque suit, she might have taken him for a Sussurra who wasn't yet accustomed to walking in humanoid fashion.
 

"Magnificent," the professor said.
 

He passed between the postgraduates and stood with his back to them, facing the cavern wall and its embedded treasure. The woman went to his side. A soft exhalation, almost a sigh, came over Simone's speaker. The alien didn't join them. He stopped a few paces behind the students. Simone found herself glancing towards him, certain his hidden eyes were on her. An awkward, unpleasant sensation slithered its way through her innards.
 

"Lady Ashdown?" the professor said.
 

The woman's left hand worked the clasps of her suit's right gauntlet. Each one opened with a soft hiss. Simone looked at Brian, but he just shrugged. The two of them had been told to stay suited at all times whilst in the cavern, despite its artificial atmosphere.
 

Her gauntlet came away, revealing a bare hand more weathered and wrinkled than Simone had expected. The postgraduates looked on, bewildered, as Lady Ashdown walked forward -- fingers outstretched.
 

"What're you doing?" Simone blurted the words out, and regretted them as soon as they'd left her lips.
 

The woman paused. She turned her head. And the blackness disappeared from her helmet.
 

Simone Renshaw's breath caught in her throat.
 

An old, severe face lay behind the now transparent visor. A pair of cyan gemstones blazed at her from where the woman's eyes should have been.
 

"Christ!" Brian Tabares whispered. His voice was a faint, distant noise at the back of her consciousness.
 

Lady Ashdown held her gaze for an eternity, and Simone's flesh crawled with the biting mandibles of a billion miniscule insects. They scuttled over every cell of her body, devouring her microbe by microbe -- until those cyan stones turned away. Then she exhaled, and had to steady herself before she collapsed. Her mind shook. It felt as though the universe had been given a hard kick, and all of reality now lay slightly askew.
 

The old woman reached out. Her palm pressed against a small portion of the yellow-brownness embedded in the wall. Every muscle in Professor Bonderbrand's body seemed to bulge and tense. A sinuous twitch undulated through the masked man.
 

"It's him." Lady Ashdown's voice was a moan, a gasp of pleasure that shed away decades and made her sound like a teenage girl. "Hail Kalaxia!"
 

"Hail Kalaxia!" the professor echoed.
 

Simone Renshaw didn't know what this all meant, but she sure as hell knew that things were getting far too creepy. She looked to Brian, and read the same thought on his paling face. It was time to get out of here...
 

They turned towards the other side of the cavern, where the metal stairs led away from the rock chamber and its bizarre denizens. But the mysterious man stood in their path.
 

The inky blackness faded from his helmet, and Simone screamed.
 

Crimson eyes glared. Tentacles writhed above a gaping maw.
 

Her body froze. Every muscle locked in place, rigid as iron. Even her eyelids refused to budge when her eyes started to water.
 

"Shall I destroy them?" the alien asked. His voice was a drifting, slithering thing -- so like the disquiet in her intestines that it might have been crawling within her guts, worming its way through her body.
 

"No, Multheru." Professor Bonderbrand's voice echoed on the edge of her perception. "They've done well. Make them forget."
 

Blackness took Simone Renshaw. Tentacles quivered amongst the shadows.
 

***
 

They wanted to know why she'd brought them there.
 

"You heard the sirens," Alison Haelia murmured. "I wasn't about to be found in a torched apartment with a bunch of dead guys."
 

We can't devour her here! There are too many people. Why a bar? Why not an alleyway? We could have burned her in an alleyway...
 

"It's a public place. Nice and safe. A good place to talk."
 

Safe? With that maniac? You recognized her! You know what she's done! And you haven't thanked us for saving you back there, by the way...
 

"Screw you."
 

"Sure thing, babe."
 

The man who was leaning next to her at the bar leered from a sweat-streaked face. Ali eyed him up and down. He was wearing a leather jacket that might have been made from a whole cow, and his beer-gut bulged at her like it was hungry. He stuck out a long tongue, lapping at the air.
 

This displeased them.
 

His eyes bulged and crossed. They stared down at the tiny flames which danced across the offending appendage. He screamed, though it emerged as more of a spluttering quack. Then he barged through the crowd, still spluttering and quacking, and disappeared through the bathroom door.
 

Ali shrugged, and reached for the man's drink. It tasted like... fire.
 

They approved of this.
 

"It's Satan's Breath," the barman said. "Vodka and Beltherian chilies."
 

"Give me a triple. And a..."
 

She asked for a pint of whisky. Without an 'e' in it, apparently. Fussy bitch. If you'd just let us burn her...
 

"...a pint of whisky. No ecstasy."
 

"A pint?" The barman raised his eyebrow.
 

Ali shrugged.
 

"I think she's an alcoholic."
 

"Fair enough..."
 

Great... So we're in a bar with a dangerous drunk madwoman?
 

"She's not drunk yet," she said, "because I haven't given her the drink."
 

"Hey, I'm working on it, kid..."
 

And why are you getting the drinks, like some kind of waitress? Maybe you should just ask for a job here... You'll need one, with McManus dead. Oh, and don't forget, he didn't even pay you before he died. At this rate we'll be sleeping in the gutter before the week's out.
 

"First of all, I'm getting the drinks so I can make sure nothing goes in them. That's just common sense."
 

Oh, now she develops common sense! We could have used some of that a little earlier...
 

"Secondly, shut the hell up."
 

The barman looked at her in a manner to which she'd long since grown accustomed. He was wondering if she was sane and, more importantly, whether she might be the kind of crazy that was bad for business. But when she swiped her creds, he gave her the drinks. Ali carried them through the room, to the booth in the back corner.
 

She slid into her seat and pushed the pint glass full of amber liquid across the stained table. [Player Name]'s hand closed around it.
 

"So let's hear the rest," Ali said.
 

***
 

"Al-Husam is dead."
 

Emera Tresc waited for several moments, as the holographic faces around the table digested the news. This time none of them were there in person. She was glad of that. The grandmistress didn't want anyone to see the turbulent thoughts which surged behind her eyes.
 

"And Alison Haelia has escaped. We... We think she's with [Player Name]."
 

Bonderbrand's jowls clenched like the jaws of a steel trap. Multheru's oral tentacles fluttered. Lady Victoria Ashdown's cyan gemstone eyes shone with a deep, perturbing glow. She opened her mouth, and the grandmistress steeled herself for the onslaught. But Noir spoke first. The other holograms all swiveled towards the black mask and those blazing azure slits.
 

"Then we know where [Player Name] will go next..."
 

Noir's face vanished.

LotS/The Story/Playing with Fire (Part 1)/Al-Husam

2013-11-20T04:40:37Z

Durlin: Removed my name

Wake up! Hurry!
 

Deep inside Ali, the flames screamed at their mistress. But she was insensible, her mind submerged beneath the weight of the psionic assault. They could feel it too... Probing, shoving hands. These people were dangerous!
 

Wake up!
 

"Bring her," the dark man said.
 

No! They're going to take her somewhere, to a place with more invading minds -- and maybe worse. We have to do something!
 

The flames seethed. They tried to surge, to burst from Ali's body and lay waste to their enemies. But their mistress' psionic fugue had turned her entire being into a cage. Her mind, both conscious and subconscious, was frozen. There was nothing for them to latch onto, no spark of cognition to hurl them into action.
 

Wake up!
 

"For... for now?"
 

McManus, the man who had betrayed their mistress, was on his feet.
 

"What?" The one with the keffiyeh stared at him.
 

"You said she'd live for now. You're going to kill her!"
 

"Consider the bonus your blood money."
 

"You bastard!"
 

McManus' hand whipped out from behind his back. Something shone in the artificial firelight.
 

The weapon's blast zapped across the room. It seared past the masked man's head, scorching his featureless face. The window behind him exploded.
 

His psionic grasp faltered. The flames surged.
 

Waves of fire whooshed down Ali's arms. These people tried to hurt their mistress!
 

The masked psychics screamed. Screamed, and burned.
 

Ali blinked. Her mind rose to consciousness, and found two immolated forms beside her. Water was raining down on her from the sprinkler above, soaking her hair and sending plumes of smoke up from the bodies.
 

"What the hell? What did you do?"
 

We saved you! See? We told you there was danger here! You didn't listen, but we-
 

"Shut up!"
 

The masked man and woman were silent and motionless, their smoking flesh charred and roasted. But someone else was screaming now... McManus was on his knees, a crimson ocean gushing from his chest. He looked at Ali, mouthed unintelligible words, and flopped onto his side.
 

A dark man, dressed in an almost chitinous armored jumpsuit, stood over the corpse. He had a green keffiyeh around his neck, and a scimitar in each hand. The one in his right was covered in blood.
 

Ali's hand shot out. A globe of fire roared towards him, throwing dancing orange light and waves of heat through the room, making each of the sprinklers burst into life as it passed.
 

The Arab threw himself aside, diving through the door beside him with a crash of shattering glass. A mirthless smirk hardened on Ali's lips. He was screwed... That was the door to the balcony.
 

Destroy him, the flames insisted. But this time she needed no urging.
 

Alison Haelia stepped through the doorway, glass crunching beneath her boots. The Arab was waiting for her, his weapons raised, rain splashing across their blades.
 

"Kalaxia has chosen," he said. "So be it. One of us must die."
 

-------------------------------------
 

The man was burning. But he didn't cry out. The only sounds were the pouring rain, the raging flames that were steaming, flickering, and smoking beneath the water's assault, and the swishing of his swords.
 

His scimitars were burning as well. They carved flaming trails through the air in front of Ali's face as she leapt backwards.
 

Who the hell was this guy? She and the flames asked the question in the same instant. How was he...
 

It doesn't matter, they told her. We'll handle this.
 

Fresh torrents erupted from her body, a vast wave of consuming flame -- an avalanche of fire. It bombarded the Arab, surrounded him, submerged him. And still he came, a blackened, ruined form staggering through the inferno, his swords slashing.
 

But then he stumbled, and collapsed.
 

"Kalaxiahu akbar..."
 

The cracked, burned rasp crept from his charred throat with his final breath.
 

Ali stepped through the shattered glass doors, into the burned and sodden mess her fire and the sprinklers had made of the lounge. Her flames huffed. Their beautiful handiwork, ruined by water... This displeased them. But at least their mistress was saved. Perhaps she would let them burn more things as a reward...
 

She gave a start as the elevator doors opened. Her hands came up, and her flames flooded them with fierce warmth.
 

A woman emerged, dressed in armor that a vague part of her mind recognized as Sian. There was something familiar about her face as well...
 

"Who are you?" Ali asked. If this one knew what was going on, she'd burn the truth out of her...
 

"[Player Name]. And it looks like I got here too late." She held up her hands, palms outward. "I'm not your enemy."
 

Don't trust her! The flames hissed. Let us destroy her, before she can hurt us!
 

"Shut up!"
 

"Huh?"
 

"Not you!"
 

[Player Name] blinked. A look of confusion crossed her face.
 

"You said you came too late..."
 

"Yeah, I-"
 

"Then you know who these people were?"
 

"They're Kalaxians. Part of a cult."
 

Religious fanatics... That part seemed believable, at any rate.
 

"What did they want with me?"
 

"That's a long story."
 

"Then tell it fast."
 

"Okay..."
 

Afterwards, may we burn her?
 

"Maybe. It depends how good her story is..."
 

"What?"
 

"Never mind. Just start talking..."

LotS/The Story/Playing with Fire (Part 1)/Intro

2013-11-20T04:39:43Z

Durlin: Removed my name

Benito Fiduccio's suit was burning.
 

Flames danced at the corners of his vision. They nibbled away at the blue jacket's pinstriped sleeves, blackening the expensive fabric. Flickering yellow tongues and the smell of singed hair streamed behind him as he ran.
 

"Boss! You're on fire!" Brasi exclaimed.
 

The ape-like bodyguard pulled away from his employer. A huge shoulder slammed against the wall on his left, scraped across it, and dislodged a series of valuable old Italian paintings. They crashed behind the sprinting trio.
 

"I know that, you goddamn moron!"
 

"But-"
 

"Shut up!"
 

"Benito-" Gina's voice was a husky gasp.
 

She moved away from him as well, her blue dress a quick splash of color on his right. Her stilettos made rapid, machinegun clicks on the hard wood floor. God, Fiduccio wondered, how could the bitch run in those things? The absurd, frivolous thought almost brought manic laughter to his lips. But it was hard to laugh, even manically, when you were on fire. Especially when you were being chased by...
 

"I said shut up, puttana!"
 

They raced down the corridor, Brasi's brawny shoulder bludgeoning the wall, Gina's sparkly shoes clicking, Fiduccio aflame. Weapons fire barked somewhere, the angry spitting-roar of bullets flying from barrels. Then there was screaming.
 

Brasi started to slow down. He looked towards a side passage, his big, chunky pistol clutched in his ham-like fist.
 

"Keep moving!" his boss said.
 

"But the boys-"
 

"Screw 'em!"
 

The doorway was just ahead -- a broad, tall oblong of salvation framed by gold-leaf Corinthian columns and a pediment of sculpted toga-clad gods brandishing Tommy guns. Gina darted out in front, her long legs eating up the space, leaving her male companions behind. She dashed through the entrance and disappeared.
 

"Minchia!" Benito meant to shout the word, but it emerged as a near breathless murmur.
 

Brasi, the big, dumb, loyal ape of a man, dropped behind his boss. Fiduccio plunged into the lofty chamber. His evaporating speed brought him up against the desk on the far side. He leaned there, his damp, sweat-slick hands pressed on the varnished surface. Great gasps of air filled his lungs. In front of him a glass wall looked out across the city nightscape, where a gaudy neon ocean blared beneath an ebon sky. Flames danced in the darkness, licking at his outline. But he ignored them. It was something else that drew his eye and mind, that made him shudder. The heavens were as black as...
 

In the murky, reflected depths, the bodyguard entered -- his burly body almost filling the doorway. Brasi slammed his palm against the security pad. A female voice trilled in recognition, and a thick metal blast door descended with a clang, shutting out the corridor.
 

Benito Fiduccio took a deep breath and calmed his lungs. He tried to still his mind as well, but that was harder. The blood, the screams, and the blackness flooded across his senses. So the fire remained, flickering in time with the beating of his heart.
 

"Benito!"
 

He turned. Gina was standing a few feet away, her face half-hidden behind a splash of chestnut hair. One eye and one corner of her mouth gawked at him. She had a fire extinguisher in her hands. Of course... Fiduccio hadn't done his own dirty work, used his gift, in years. These two hadn't seen his party tricks before.
 

"It's okay..."
 

"You're burning!"
 

The extinguisher's nozzle trembled in her hand.
 

"I said it's okay!"
 

He took another long, deep breath. Perhaps the girl's panic had lessened his own, because this time the flames began to subside. They diminished and dissipated, leaving blackened holes to mark their passage. Benito snatched the extinguisher from Gina's hands and placed it on the desk. She backpedaled, her eye still large and frightened.
 

"It's okay," he repeated.
 

Gina took another step backwards, and flinched. She kicked her shoes off, sending them bouncing across the floor, then stood on one leg like a blue flamingo and rubbed her ankle.
 

"What do we do now, boss?" Brasi asked.
 

"We sit tight. That panic button..." Benito nodded at the panel the bodyguard had activated. "...will let 'em know we're in trouble. And they'll-"
 

The sudden strain of orchestral music made them all jump. Brasi's arm came up, gripping the pistol. Gina's raised foot stamped against the floor just in time to stop her toppling over. A tiny lick of flame flickered on Fiduccio's arm.
 

Benito groped in his pocket and pulled his phone out. A jab from his thumb silenced the orchestra. He pressed the device to his ear.
 

"Benito Fiduccio?" a woman's voice asked.
 

"Yeah! I-"
 

"Listen very carefully... You're in danger. There are-"
 

"You frickin' moron! Why'd you think we pushed the goddamn panic button?"
 

"They're already there? Are you-"
 

"Goddamn it! Put your capo on the line! Send the enforcers! Get..."
 

Benito's brow furrowed as something occurred to him. He took the phone from his ear and stared at the display. Where the words 'Contella Emergency' should have been, there were two different words instead: 'Unknown Number'.
 

"Who the hell is this?"
 

"My name is [Player Name]-"
 

"I know you! You're that frickin' psycho-"
 

"Then you know the Consortium trusts me. Can you get somewhere safe?"
 

"We're behind a goddamn security door!"
 

"Good. Stay put until your backup arrives. How many Kalaxians are there?"
 

"Huh?"
 

"The people trying to kill you."
 

"One guy. There's one guy!"
 

"Just one?"
 

Images of lunging blackness and spraying blood danced before Fiduccio's eyes. 'Just' one? No...
 

"He's some kind of..."
 

A hard, heavy thud shuddered through the room. Brasi whirled round and trained his gun on the door. Gina turned this way and that, her chestnut hair whirling -- making her look like a spaced out club dancer.
 

"Here!" Benito said.
 

He scrambled behind his desk and reached underneath. His probing fingers grasped metal. It detached from the wood with a soft click. He tossed the object to Gina, who groped and fumbled before catching it against her breasts. Then she too aimed at the entrance.
 

"What's happening?" [Player Name] asked.
 

Fiduccio ignored her. He switched the phone to his left hand. The fingers of his right curled and uncurled.
 

"Benito!" Gina wailed.
 

"We're fine! That door was made to stop a frickin' rocket launcher! We-"
 

The second thud was quieter but sharper. And it left a small bulge in the middle of the shining metal, which bent the light at new angles and made Fiduccio's mind whirl with its sheer impossibility. How the hell...
 

Gina screamed. Brasi swore. A wave of warmth flowed across the boss' brain, down his neck, along his arm -- a strong yet not unpleasant burning sensation beneath his skin. It tingled through his hand, roasting his fingertips.
 

"Fiduccio!"
 

The voice on the phone, that link to a universe beyond this island of fear and craziness, was strangely comforting. But again Benito made no reply. For several moments there was silence. Two guns and a tingling hand were pointed at the door, three pairs of eyes stared at the little bump on its surface.
 

"Boss..." Brasi said. He didn't look round. The barrel of his cannon-like pistol remained trained and unwavering in his strong hands. "The cameras!"
 

It took a second for the bodyguard's meaning to reach Benito's inflamed mind. When it did, he cursed himself for not thinking of it first -- and Brasi for not mentioning it sooner.
 

Fiduccio put the phone down on the varnished wood and reached for the button hidden beneath the edge of the desk. His other hand stayed where it was, poised in the air, throbbing and trembling, fatigue and lactic acid seared away by the burning sensation which now flooded that limb from elbow to digits.
 

Light blossomed from a point on the dark wooden surface which seemed indistinguishable from any other. It widened and hardened into a series of holographic images, a neat grid of precise squares. Every room and passage in his home was displayed before him. His gaze homed in on the square at the bottom right corner of the arrangement. It was a bird's eye view of the space on the other side of the metal door, with the portal itself just out of sight beyond the bottom of the screen. Both of the corridor's walls and its wooden floor stretched away for several meters, their lines withdrawing towards one another like an artist's perspective study. Fiduccio exhaled.
 

"He ain't outside anymore!"
 

The sub-dermal blaze withdrew from his fingers and palm, leaving exhausted tissues in their wake. His right arm dropped from its ready position. He opened and closed his fingers, willing blood and comfort back in. Brasi's thick arms bent at the elbows, pointing his gun straight up at the ceiling, braced and ready to be aimed in any direction in an instant. Maybe he couldn't have multiplied two single-digit numbers, but when it came to fighting and shooting, the bodyguard was a professor. Gina's gun swung down by her side and shook there. Her free hand clawed at her hair, pulling it away from her face.
 

Benito Fiduccio scanned the rest of the images. The game room... A body sprawled on one of the pool tables, smiling up at the ceiling from a cut throat. Two more men were strewn on the floor, one's head twisted at a sickening angle -- it made Benito's own neck twinge in sympathy. The other's injuries were invisible. But the boss knew his spine was broken. He'd heard the snap...
 

It wasn't the only chamber tenanted by the newly dead. Here and there lifeless forms lay alone or with others. God... One man? One frickin' guy? Remembered slaughter splattered across his thoughts. Angelo had gone at the intruder with that laser-edged switchblade of his. The man in black had snatched it from his hand and put it in his heart. Then he'd slashed the others' throats.
 

The man in black...
 

Fiduccio's eyes darted from screen to screen. Then he exhaled again, stronger this time.
 

"He's gone!" A peal of crazed laughter tumbled out with the words. "The bastard's gone!"
 

Brasi's huge muscles seemed to deflate, and a dumb, happy grin opened his big ugly face. Moisture glistened at the corners of Gina's eyes. Her mouth softened into an expression of relieved disbelief that made her look like a schoolgirl. She crossed herself and started murmuring the words to a Hail Mary.
 

Benito snatched the phone up.
 

"We're safe. Now start talking! Who the hell was that guy? Who ordered the hit? Tell me, and I'll make 'em wish their whore mothers'd flushed 'em down the goddamn toilet!"
 

"They're-"
 

Her voice was lost amid the crash.
 

Shards of plate glass erupted from the armored window and rained into the room like gore from a wound. There was blackness amongst the sparkling storm. A shadowy shape hit the floor, rolled, and unfolded.
 

Gina opened her mouth to scream. But the hellish crack came first and silenced her. The man in black stood there -- eyes twin azure fires within a featureless mask, umbral hands on Gina's jaw and the back of her head. Her body dangled lifeless in his grasp.
 

Brasi's weapon barked. A chunk exploded from the wall behind where the man's head had been. Gina's corpse was on the floor now, blackness crouched over her blue dress like a horrific vulture. Something glinted in her killer's hand.
 

The bodyguard fired again. So did Benito Fiduccio. A yellow-orange column blazed from his hand in a long, raging stream -- flooding the air with roaring warmth. But both flame and bullet passed through empty space when the man in black rolled.
 

He pulled the trigger of Gina's gun as he rose. Brasi's splattered brains flew out of a gaping hole in the back of his head.
 

The black mask turned to Benito. Blue eyes flashed.
 

Fiduccio screamed. Flames gushed from both his hands now, a burning torrent. It swept across the room in a wide arc, devouring the air, rolling towards the man like an incendiary tsunami.
 

There was a blur of blackness. Pain exploded in Benito's left arm an instant before the snapping of bone reached his ear. A cry rose in his throat, but was crushed by a powerful grasp. Another seized his right wrist.
 

He stared into a smooth black mask and two terrible blue eyes. That visage filled his senses, driving away even the agony of the arm which dangled broken at his side. The man in black made a noise halfway between a sniff and a growl. His head twitched, like a dog sampling a scent.
 

"The connection is weak," he said. His voice... It echoed. Soft, strange, well-spoken tones were accompanied by something so fierce it made Fiduccio's stomach tremble. "You are of no consequence."
 

"Who... who'd you work for?" Benito rasped the words through his constricted throat. "We... we can..."
 

The grip on his wrist disappeared, as the man reached inside the boss' jacket.
 

Fiduccio's eyes widened. His arm was free... Warmth raced across his brain, an undulating wave of fire that surged down his uninjured limb, into his hand. It erupted in flame when he pressed it against the man's chest.
 

Black fabric charred and melted. An oily stench tingled in Benito's nose. But the man in black didn't even flinch. And pain ripped through Fiduccio's innards. He looked down, as his own knife, lifted from his pocket, tore fresh agony across his abdomen. The fire died around his arm.
 

His throat was released. Benito collapsed, and hit the floor hard. Blood poured from his ruined gut, seeping into his torn blue waistcoat and carrying his life away inch by inch. He stared up at the black terror, the creature of shadowy body and burning eye. The man's top was knitting itself back together where the fire had damaged it. The fabric was rebuilding itself thread by thread, like a spider's web coming to fruition. Before the gap sealed, the boss had a glimpse of what lay beneath. More blackness, but it was...
 

"Fiduccio..."
 

His phone lay beside him, its display veiled with blood.
 

The man in black picked it up. And if Benito Fiduccio could have spoken, he would have screamed a warning -- told [Player Name] to hang up. Don't talk to him... This man's the devil. And if you talk to the devil... But he could only manage a groan.
 

"[Player Name], I think."
 

"Who is this?" the voice on the phone demanded. It reached Fiduccio as a faint, surreal whisper.
 

"My name is Noir. And soon I will come for you."
 

The phone clattered on the floor as Noir walked away. Benito Fiduccio's blood and life flowed around it.

LotS/The Story/Music of the Spheres/Singer of the Song

2013-11-20T04:38:45Z

Durlin: Removed my name

'''Singer of the Song''' 
Screaming Barracuda's fingers hovered over her guitar's strings. She took a quick glance around the room. The lounge was mostly empty. It wasn't a popular route, and there were few other passengers aboard the ship. In the far corner, a teenage girl in cyber-gothic garb was gnawing away at the neck of a boy whose attire was similar but enthusiasm perceptibly less. Barracuda gave a mental shrug. Her playing might break their amorous mood, but from the looks of things the boy would welcome the reprieve. Some distance away, an orange Sussurra was drifting around inside his suit, making aimless little patterns of swirly gas. No, he wouldn't mind either.
 

Then the Piscarian musician's gaze met that of the woman who was sitting opposite her, on the other side of the room. She had a sleeping baby cradled in her arms. A small boy sprawled on the seat next to her, his slumbering head resting in her lap. There was a girl on the other side, perhaps a little older, equally somnolent. Their mother regarded Barracuda with a stare that seemed to say, 'If you do what it looks like you're thinking of doing, I'm going to kill you. And if the jury includes any parents, I'll get away with it.'
 

Barracuda sighed and put the instrument down. She needed to start bringing in more creds, so she could afford her own tour ship.
 

Since she couldn't pass the time by playing, she pulled out her datapad to see what people on the information networks were saying about her upcoming gig. However, the answer proved to be 'not very much'. She had to get a new publicist -- one who didn't work out of a grotty apartment above a pizza place, and whose other clients didn't largely consist of animals who performed amusing tricks.
 

Perhaps her fan mail would cheer her up...
 

She clicked the icon and watched the messages roll in like a series of tumbleweeds across a dusty prairie.
 

---
 
From: BarracudaHater78152
 
To: Screaming Barracuda
 
Subject: You Suck! Die! Die! Die!
 

Your music sucks! Stop playing! I hope you OD on something!
---
 

Barracuda typed out a reply:
 

---
 
From: Screaming Barracuda
 
To: BarracudaHater78152
 
Subject: Re: You Suck! Die! Die! Die!
 

Nice profile picture, douchebag. Let me guess... Your dad wanted a boy, your mum wanted an abortion, and they decided to compromise?
 

Hey, I see you live on Sian. I know people there. Send me another message and I'll have them come round and kick the crap out of you.
 

Piss off.
 

Screaming B
 
---
 

Clicking the 'send' button and launching the missive through cyberspace perked her up somewhat. She opened the next message.
 

---
 
From: Roxxor_Funk
 
To: Screaming Barracuda
 
Subject: Date
 

Hey! Remember me? I was the fan who kissed you on Mars. Then you hit me in the face with your guitar. Listen, I'm sorry, it was all a big misunderstanding. You're the hottest girl I've ever seen (and I've been to Cythera!). I kind of lost control when I saw you in person. I mean, I've touched myself so many times when I'm listening to your music, and every time it's like you're singing just for me.
 

But I'm really a great guy. I promise. You'll really like me when you get to know me. How about we go out, so I can make it up to you? I know we're meant to be together!
 

PS. I've attached a picture of my penis.
 
---
 

She opened the attachment. Not bad... Definitely better than most of the ones she got sent.
 

---
 
From: Screaming Barracuda
 
To: Roxxor_Funk
 
Subject: Re: Date
 

Thanks for the pic, but I'm really busy with my music right now, and don't have time for relationships.
 

Check out my latest album when it goes on sale next week. I think you'll really like touching yourself to some of those tunes.
 

Best wishes,
 

Screaming B
 
---
 

She sent the reply, then deleted the image -- remembering the advice her mother had once given her, when Barracuda had first announced her intention of becoming an interstellar rockstar: "If they find you dead in a hotel room, pumped full of chems, make sure you don't have anything lying around that would embarrass the family."
 

Her filial duty done, she opened the next message.
 

---
 
From: A_Friend_491
 
To: Screaming Barracuda
 
Subject: Urgent!
 

Don't delete this!
 

I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me -- you're in danger. Serious danger. I can't tell you more over the net. It's not safe. We need to meet in person.
 

I live in Destev, and I know you'll be here soon to play a gig. I'll explain everything. And I'll have one of your friends with me, so you'll know I'm not just a nut job.
 

Please, be careful. I don't know if they know yet, but when they do, they'll be out to get you.
 
---
 

She sighed. The sender's account was different this time, but the lunacy wasn't. This was the fourth message she'd had from him or her -- all warning Barracuda that she was in some sort of nebulous danger. And now it was worse. The freak lived in Destev, the very city she was heading towards. Crazy stalkers and other such weirdoes were all well and good over the net, but she had better things to do than get shot or stabbed to death at one of her gigs.
 

Screaming Barracuda deleted the message, then sent one of her own -- asking the venue's manager to put on extra security. With guns. Lots of guns.
 

And I'll have one of your friends with me...
 

Her cranial fin twitched, as the words replayed themselves in her mind. She shook her head. No... Just deranged ramblings. She'd heard it all before. It was just part of being an interstellar rockstar...
 

***
 

Kevin Arctora looked out of the window. The world beyond his sanctum was the same as it had always been. But now it seethed with even greater menace. The gleaming tower blocks were rows of mismatched teeth filling a monstrous maw, their dark masses speckled with squares and rectangles of illumination, scraps of gaudy flesh from the creatures they'd devoured. Soon, they seemed to say, soon they would swallow Kevin up as well.
 

He hadn't been outside for a long time. Not since... He glanced at the wall, at the papers and pictures and holographic screens mounted there. Research. Evidence. Terror. No, he didn't go outside anymore -- because he knew what kinds of things lurked there.
 

But now... He felt his intestines tighten. Something bubbled within his digestive tract. Soon he'd be out among them. Oh, God... What had he got himself into?
 

He flopped into the chair in front of his computer desk. No mail. She hadn't replied. Of course not. She'd think he was crazy. Hell, maybe he was. But when her friend arrived... Kevin shuddered. He'd spent years hiding away, earning his living over the net where a bullet couldn't find his brain or a knife his heart, and trying to spread the word as best he could without endangering himself. And now... Now he'd invited one of the most dangerous women in the galaxy to his apartment.
 

Some of the news reports called her a genocidal maniac. Others called her a hero. But whatever the label, the oceans of blood were the same. And yet if anyone could help Kevin Arctora, it was her. She knew Screaming Barracuda. The Piscarian would listen to her. Besides, who else but a killer could keep Kevin safe from...
 

He looked at the wall again.
 

When the door buzzer sounded, his body jerked so hard that he almost tipped his chair over.
 

Already? She'd forgotten to call first, like she'd said she would. Maybe she'd read Kevin's nervousness in his latest messages, and decided not to give him a chance to bolt.
 

Kevin took a deep breath. [Player Name] was here to help him... And it was too late to turn back.
 

The buzzer rang again. Kevin Arctora got up, and went to answer the door.
 

'''Silenced'''
 
"Watcher_851."
 

You say the name, pronouncing the underscore. Your helmet trills in recognition and makes the call via its built-in communicator -- leaving your hands free to guide the Dragon Cycle past some of the worst drivers you've ever had the misfortune to encounter. One of them makes an obscene gesture as you pass him by, which you return. He tries to sideswipe you by way of a counter-riposte, but you've already zipped past. The side of his car strikes against the barrier instead, with a shower of sparks and a screech of outraged metal.
 

The helmet bleeps for perhaps thirty seconds before you terminate the attempt. This is the second time you've tried calling him since you landed at the spaceport. Once, and he may have just been in the bathroom or something. But twice? With a recluse who never leaves his apartment? That's not good...
 

You twist the throttle and accelerate, speeding down the highway. The lights blur into long streams on either side, vehicles whoosh past as you zip between their metal masses. A sharp turn takes you onto a narrower road. Behind you a startled driver honks a horn that sounds like an angry duck.
 

A few minutes' riding and a few more turns, all punctuated by blaring horns and screamed profanities, bring you within sight of the location which flashes in the corner of your helmet's display. There are people gathered on the street ahead, babbling, pointing, and in some cases photographing and recording. You've seen enough of the galaxy to know what that kind of thing means.
 

You stop your bike, jump off, and approach the gawkers.
 

They're pressed up against a glowing yellow strip that extends across the sidewalk at chest height, between a pair of slender blue pillars. Police energy tape. In the space beyond it, detectives and forensics people are milling around a man's body. It lies in a pool of blood, limbs broken and twisted, amidst a scattering of broken grass which glints and sparkles like fine crystal. An upward glance reveals a broken window in the apartment building above.
 

You have no idea what Watcher_851 looks like. You don't even know his real name. But unless there's an absurd coincidence...
 

"They haven't sealed off the building," you say, gesturing at the door to the block. It lies outside the energy tape's cordon. There isn't even a cop standing guard there.
 

"He didn't have police insurance," replies a tall black guy with dreadlocks down to his waist. "The bastards don't care about people who don't pay."
 

One of the cops looks over and taps his visor -- presumably scanning the dreadlocked gentleman and confirming that he isn't a paying customer -- before sticking his middle finger up.
 

"If he died up there," he continues, "they wouldn't even have shown up. Privatized cops! What a fuc-"
 

He's still talking behind you as you slip away, and make for the unguarded doorway.
 

***
 


My earnest desire was to leave the village as swiftly as possible.
 

I have since been informed by learned men that there are rational explanations for a person suffering from certain mental derangements being able to speak in tongues which they have never been known to study. However, no such rationality or knowledge occupied my mind at the time of the exploits described. In the wilds of Africa, with the young girl's eyes swimming before my vision and pagan chants ringing within my ears, I admit that I wasn't entirely immune from the superstitious dread which had grasped hold of Piss-pot and the other villagers. Furthermore, I feared what the natives might do under the circumstances. The glaring, bloodshot gazes of his priests were filled with the terrible sort of fanaticism which may incite savages to any manner of atrocity. My association with the chieftain might not have been sufficient to restrain them from opening our throats over their fire, in the hope of satisfying whatever dark and monstrous gods were the objects of their entreaties.
 

Judith Ashdown was adamant, however. The very same circumstances which to me seemed to urge our departure were, to her, irresistible reasons to remain. She spoke of her unwillingness to desert a child in the midst of such plight, though I rather suspected she was also keen to proselytise through deed as it were. Triumphing over the supposed evil spirit with a Bible in her hands and a sanctimonious look on her face, and winning an innings for Christendom after the priests' own gods had retired from the wicket with a duck's egg, was the sort of thing missionaries lived for. Damn their priggish, pious hides, I thought! The lady told me that I was at liberty to do as I sought fit, but that she would stay in the village to call upon Jesus and whatnot.
 

This placed me in a rather unwelcome position. William Ashdown's demise had been unfortunate, but surely no one could have expected me to play nursemaid to a milksop of a man. With a woman, on the other hand, things were of course entirely different. Neither my conscience nor my reputation would have gone uninjured had I left her to be sacrificed by native priests or else gobbled up by discerning cannibals. Therefore I was forced to stay in Piss-pot's village and continue in my role as her guardian and protector.
 

Judith demanded that they put an end to their ritual, so that she might employ her own rather less boisterous faith without warring against their cacophony. Piss-pot proved surprisingly amenable to this. I suppose piety is all well and good after a victory, but less welcome when it seems to be doing no good. He may also have decided that an affliction which compelled his daughter to speak English might best be entrusted to an equally English solution. Whatever the reason, he went outside and shouted like Stentor himself. The chanting and dancing stopped, thank God (literally as well as figuratively, one supposes), and there followed a babble of chattering, malcontented voices.
 

I went to the hut's doorway to observe. The tasselled priests were gibbering, and all but jumping up and down in their excitement. Piss-pot was bellowing at them in return, and their voices got in such a tangle that even my knowledge of their lingo wasn't equal to the task of deciphering the conversation (if it could even be dignified as such). It rather reminded me of a parliamentary debate. Whilst it was going on, my eyes alighted on a tall savage who stood on the other side of the fire. He was an unpleasant enough wretch to look upon, with an ugly, scarred face and a thickset body that carried both the muscle of war and the fat of excess. Smoke half obscured him as it shifted and billowed, making his aspect positively infernal and leaving his hideous face floating amidst the rising tendrils so that it seemed like the countenance of a terrible phantom. He was silent, leaving the babbling to Piss-pot and the others.
 

When he finally spoke, in a deep, growling voice that reminded me of a lion, the rest of them shut up like schoolchildren whose master had just walked in holding his birch. Then he jumped clean over the fire, like a bloody racehorse, through the smoke and flames. The others gaped at him. It was a damned good jump, mad fool thing as it was, but I would later learn that they were taken aback for quite another reason. If a vicar stood up in his church and treated the altar as a hurdle, we would likely think he'd taken leave of his senses or been at the communion wine. Among the natives, however, leaping over the sacred fire was as significant an act as nailing theses to the door of a cathedral.
 

Even without knowing such things, the scene in front of me made me hold my breath and reach for the revolver at my belt. The scarred savage stood before Piss-pot, glaring at him as though he were about to eat him. Without the smoke between us, I could now see that his tassels were more elaborate than those the other priests wore, and between loincloth and neck his dark skin was smeared with white and yellow paint that seemed to echo and magnify the scars of his face. I took him to be the pontifex maximus of the tribe, as it were.
 

"You insult the gods!" the fellow said. "Only they can save your daughter, not the white god!"
 

"Silence, Walnut!" Piss-pot said. ('Walnut' was what the name sounded like, anyway.) "Your dancing and chanting have done nothing! The evil spirit still has her!"
 

They went back and forth, each of them shouting; Piss-pot about his rights as chief, Walnut about plagues and blasphemy and all sorts of other religious claptrap. Had the situation been less perturbing, I might have grinned at this primitive demonstration of the age-old struggle between statesmen and clergy. In the end, as so often occurs, the powers of this world overcame those of the next. Piss-pot waved one of his warriors over, snatched the spear from the man's hand, and brandished it over his head. That settled the matter quickly enough. Plagues and omens may sound impressive when they fly from a fanatic's tongue amidst his frothing spittle, but they're rather inadequate in the face of a sharp weapon. Walnut stomped away, the other priests scurrying behind him. He looked back over his shoulder as he went, and his eyes met mine. The expression with which he favoured me was positively murderous, which I thought was rather uncharitable under the circumstances. It was hardly my fault Mrs. Ashdown's do-gooding had interfered with his savage religion. Nevertheless, I knew I would have to remain vigilant and regard him as an enemy.

 
'''Defenestrators'''
 
You take the stairs three at a time. There are so many flights of steps that it's like climbing a mountain. But as soon as you arrive at the right landing, and ease the door open, you know you made the right decision.
 

There's a woman in the hallway, wearing a green hooded sweatshirt and clutching a blaster. Her eyes and weapon are trained on the elevator doors -- it takes a second for the former to turn to the stairwell entrance. You're on her before the latter can follow suit. In an instant you have her pressed up against the wall, the gun torn from her grasp.
 

"Kalaxia," you say.
 

She stops struggling.
 

"Why'd they send you?" she asks. "We're almost done."
 

The top of your helmeted head crashes against her jaw. She crumples without a sound. You had to make sure she was an enemy, not a concerned neighbor.
 

Further up the corridor, one of the apartment doors is ajar. Number 903. Watcher_851's place. You drift towards it, keeping your footsteps silent, and glance at the hinges. They look like they'd creak. In that case...
 

You kick the door open.
 

There's a living room beyond the entrance, a smashed window directly opposite the door. Its lingering shards gleam with accusations of murder. The two men inside -- both dressed in unremarkable civilian clothing like the girl in the passage -- freeze like naughty children caught in the middle of a misdeed. One's standing in front of a computer, his fingers paused in mid keystroke as he turns to you. The other's holding a small recording device, filming what's on the wall.
 

The amateur filmmaker drops his camera and throws his body into a roll. His partner snatches a gun from the desk. You slip aside as crimson beams lance through the doorway, and brace yourself against the wall.
 

No psionic attacks, you muse. They're just thugs. Basic military training, perhaps.
 

Another pair of beams zap past you, and scar the wall opposite. After two heartbeats, they fire again. This time it doesn't go unanswered.
 

You twist round and throw yourself down across the doorway, lying on your right-hand side. Two pulls of the trigger. Two brains pierced by searing blasts.
 

***
 


It transpired that Piss-pot and Walnut need not have argued, for no more than ten minutes later it began to rain with such intensity that the priests' fire was extinguished, and dancing around the smoking ashes would have been a surer path to pneumonia than divine favour. The villagers fled to their homes, and though my intention had been to station myself outside the hut in which the girl lay and Judith ministered, so that I could best observe Walnut or any other potential foe should they approach, I had no wish to be drenched. However, I knew full well that withdrawing to the hut's interior and carrying out my duties beyond the reach of intemperate nature would leave us vulnerable. If my military experience had taught me anything, beyond a healthy disdain for official ineptitude and how to proposition a woman in Hindi, it was that seeing one's enemies from a distance was infinitely preferable to having them arrive on one's doorstep unannounced. Therefore I sought out my retainers, intending that they should relieve me at sentry duty.
 

I found the lazy buggers lounging beneath a canopy, and my lip curled at this demonstration of native sloth and indolence. Small wonder that we industrious Britons had built ourselves a splendid empire, whilst they wore grass skirts and danced around fires! (Let this be a lesson to those politicians and do-gooders who forever harp on about the plight of factory workers and miners. The reforms they call for would surely imbue our lower classes with the same wretched lethargy!) I commanded them to remove themselves to the space before the hut, so that they might keep watch and inform me of any signs of trouble. They moaned and exclaimed, of course, but a few hefty kicks put an end to their slacking.
 

With my servants standing guard outside, I joined Mrs. Ashdown and the girl (whose name sounded very much like 'Daffodil'). Judith was sat beside the child, on a small trunk she'd had the natives bring in, clutching her Bible in one hand and a cross in the other, leaning her head towards Daffodil and causing the lantern light to surround her face like a halo. My God, I thought, it's like an illustration from one of those bloody pamphlets missionary organizations press upon you back home, urging you to give your pounds and shillings so they can provide natives with trousers and Testaments (neither of which they especially desire, in my experience).
 

Judith was silent, for the moment seemingly content to listen to the girl's words, which were so soft now as to be almost drowned out by the patter of the rain. I crouched down on the other side of Daffodil, curious as to what she was saying. As before, she was speaking English as fluently as any Briton, though her accent was one I couldn't place, and lent her speech a strange, unearthly air. Her voice trembled between a near whisper and louder, more insistent tones, as she uttered nonsense about dragons and ogres, castles and crystal caverns, orange and cyan eyes, and other fantastical things (enveloped in sentences that were grammatically exact, in spite of the absurdities they contained). I have said that she was speaking our language, as indeed she was. However, she also included words which, as far as I could discern, were fabricated, belonging neither to the civilised tongue of Shakespeare and Pope nor to her own primitive lingo. These didn't pour from her lips as random babble, but were part of otherwise intelligible statements. Furthermore, the same meaningless words were each repeated throughout her discourse, demonstrating them to be embedded quite firmly in the Daffodil's mind rather than spoken on a deranged whim.
 

It's intriguing how one's memory works. For although I've forgotten most of the ridiculous things she said in English, some of those fabricated words have lingered in my mind to this very day:
 

Tore-gill
 
Croo-na
 
Kus-ahn
 
Ca-lak-see-a
 

It was the lattermost of these, the very same thing she had voiced when we first entered the hut, that she articulated the most often, and which finally spurred Judith Ashdown to action. While Daffodil's ramblings were articulate, if befuddling, the missionary merely listened and observed. Then, late in the evening, after the rain had stopped, a terrible shudder racked the child's body. I once saw a poor bugger in the grip of an epileptic fit, and the feeble thrashing of her limbs, the rolling of her eyes, were just the same. It was an unpleasant sight to behold, as though the little girl were in her death throes, and it filled me with concern for Mrs. Ashdown and myself. If Piss-pot's daughter died while Judith and I were alone with her (for he, whether through fatherly anguish or for some superstitious reason, had retired to a different hut), would the chieftain hold us responsible? Would we be forced to fight for our lives, and shoot our way out of the village, braving rains of hurled spears and charging savages? These thoughts rumbled in my mind while Daffodil convulsed, but thankfully the fit lasted no more than a few seconds (though it seemed far, far longer, as terrible situations so often do). When it came to an end, and her small body subsided into calm, there was no trace of her former bewildering eloquence. Instead she chanted that single word of four syllables in a dull voice, over and over again.
 

"Ca-lak-see-a! Ca-lak-see-a! Ca-lak-see-a!"
 

In that moment, as the girl's condition appeared to worsen, Judith's eyes hardened like those of a proud soldier who's seen enemies lay their hands on his Regimental Colours. She set her cross down on her lap, opened her Bible, and steeled herself for battle.

 
'''The Woman on the Wall'''
 
"Barracuda?" you murmur.
 

It's the first thing you see when you enter the room, after glancing at the bodies to make sure your shooting was lethal. A long noticeboard dominates the right-hand wall -- the one your late assailant was filming. It's covered in a haphazard assortment of papers, images, and electronic screens. Some of the pictures are maps of systems, or diagrams of planets. Another shows a woman wearing a familiar mask, but the rest of her attire and the quality of the photography seem archaic... Victorian, like the costumes some of the guests were wearing aboard the Mysterious Murder.
 

But none of these arrest your attention so much as the bright illustration in the very middle of the board. It's a publicity shot of Screaming Barracuda.
 

Watcher_851's cryptic messages said he wanted to be introduced to an acquaintance of yours.
 

Watcher_851...
 

You step over to the computer. The information is right there in front of your face. Your other enemy did the work for you.
 

Kevin Arctora. That was his name.
 

You sigh. If you'd got here a little earlier, then maybe...
 

That thought drifts away when you glance at the neighboring monitor. It's a paused video clip, showing a crowded sports stadium. The stands are packed with fans, their faces frozen in mid cheer, their banners in mid flutter. Two rows of armored athletes stand on the grass, lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. One team wears the emerald uniforms of the Sian Dragons.
 

There's Talia... Her helmet's on, but you'd know her anywhere. It's the match between the Dragons and the Megas, the one the gunslinger told you about in her message. You'd been meaning to watch that. Why would Arctora...
 

You press the play button.
 

The Sian anthem bursts into life, partway through the first verse. That's Screaming Barracuda's voice, and-
 

Your mind swims. Colors swirl at the edges of your vision.
 

"Kasan..."
 

You blink it away, forcing your mind to steel itself, and click the pause button.
 

Her singing... It felt like... Yes... It was almost like being back in Sun Xi's house on Diogenes, when she entered your thoughts and whisked you off through surreal, fantastic tapestries of sight and sound.
 

You've always suspected Screaming Barracuda has some kind of latent psionic power, but nothing like...
 

Wait... Wasn't there...
 

Pinned on the notice board, among the various papers, is a flyer that looks like it was printed from Screaming Barracuda's website. It announces a gig. A gig that's taking place right now, here in Destev.
 

You pick up the goon's camera. The words 'Connection Terminated' blink at you from the little screen. He was uploading his footage somewhere...
 

The woman in the green hoody is groaning and stirring in the hallway when you head back to the stairwell. A single shot to the head puts a stop to that. There isn't time to interrogate her, or take prisoners. Unless you miss your guess, Barracuda's in trouble.
 

***
 

Noir's azure slits stared at Emera Tresc's image on the cockpit's communications screen.
 

"I am two hours from the planet," he said.
 

"The rest of Bonderbrand's men are already in Destev," she replied. "They're on their way as we speak."
 

"Order them to take the Piscarian. But if [Player Name] is there... She is mine."
 

***
 

Daffodil continued to repeat the mysterious word, whilst Mrs. Ashdown paged through her Bible. The missionary woman's eyes blazed with zealotry when she found what she sought, and she thrust her finger at a passage with such strength that it made me think of Jael hammering the tent peg into Sisera's skull. I half expected Judith's digit to pierce pages and leather cover alike. When she spoke, returning fire with scripture, her voice was no less impressive.
 

"And the seventy returned again with joy, saying, Lord, even the devils are subject unto us through thy name. And he said unto them, I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven. Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you."
 

As I've said, the workings of human mind and memory can be damned strange. Even in the dark depths of Africa, faced with supernatural dread at which I would once have scoffed, seeing a missionary woman wield the Bible as a weapon of spiritual warfare, my thoughts found their way back to my schoolboy days. I remembered old Hardwick, our headmaster, and as pious and priggish a chap as you could ever have the misfortune to encounter, standing at his lectern and speaking those very same verses during one of his tiresome Sunday sermons (which proved to be nothing compared with the sermon he delivered for my sole benefit on the night I was expelled for the defenestration of a prefect during a school mutiny).
 

Daffodil stared up at the hut's roof, though I suspect that in her delirium she was seeing nothing quite so mundane, and kept uttering the word which seemed to now encompass the entirety of her suffering and delusions.
 

"Cal-ak-see-a! Cal-ak-see-a! Cal-ak-see-a!"
 

Her voice increased in loudness and intensity, until those four syllables became ammunition in an unending fusillade. Judith continued to respond, the pages of her Bible turning first in one direction and then the other, as she scoured through it with a proficiency that would have made a vicar gape in awe. Each time her finger would transfix a certain verse, which her lips would then intone.
 

"Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness; and your feet shod with the preparation of the Gospel of peace; above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked."
 

Mrs. Ashdown's voice became louder and stronger too, as though emboldened and invigorated by every recitation. Soon the lady's words and the girl's were battering against one another, clashing like lines of infantry wielding sabres and bayonets, wreaking carnage and giving no quarter. Such was the ferocity of the combat that I was torn between leaving the hut to escape it and remaining to see whose formations would break first. In the end I found myself rooted to the spot, the lone observer of a terrible battle. I looked from black face to white, child's to woman's, savage's to Briton's, and saw the same determined zeal in both their eyes.
 

Beads of sweat grew on the missionary's brow as the verses continued to fire from her lips, and her breathing was laboured. Her body began to shudder as Daffodil's had when in the midst of her fit, the Bible trembling in her grasp. Judith seemed on the very brink of collapse, her mind and body strained to their utmost. I called out for her to cease, and took hold of her arm to draw her from the hut and away from that dreadful conflict. She refused to yield, however, and shook my hand away before unleashing another salvo of scripture.
 

"And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels, and prevailed not; neither was their place found any more in heaven. And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him. And I heard a loud voice saying in heaven, now is come salvation, and strength, and the kingdom of our God, and the power of his Christ: for the accuser of our brethren is cast down, which accused them before our God day and night. And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death."
 

Judith shrieked that final word, and then fainted. I caught her in my arms as she toppled, before she could fall from the trunk onto the stamped-down dirt floor. She recovered her senses almost immediately, and her eyes opened to reveal a triumphant gleam. There was silence in the hut, save for the soft sound of Daffodil's snoring. The girl had drifted off to sleep.
 

I urged Mrs. Ashdown to rest, as the woman was exhausted. She refused, however, and said she wished to pray over the girl as she slept, for she feared that although the worst had passed, the evil spirit hadn't yet been exorcised. It was then that I became aware of my own tremendous fatigue. The day's exploits had taken their toll on me, and no religious zeal urged my continued wakefulness as it did hers. Therefore I decided to rest on a pile of animal hides, and consigned myself to the arms of Morpheus.

 
'''Encore'''
 
"Ticket scans," the security guard said. He waved his device. "Biometric or card?"
 

"Lasers," one of the men replied.
 

"Huh?"
 

He drew his weapon and fired. The guard collapsed, clutching his wounded chest. Two more bouncers in black t-shirts came out of the doorway on the left, their weapons blazing. One of the gatecrashers went down. The others raked the pair with gunfire.
 

"Who's got stunners?" the leader yelled, as they stormed down the wide passage.
 

Two of the others shouted that they did.
 

"The rest of you, keep the crowd off them. Kill as many as you need to. But don't shoot the fish-bitch! Got it?"
 

There was another chorus of affirmation. Then they barged their way through the black double doors, opening the soundproof barrier, and their leader's words were washed away on a tide of ear-rupturing song.
 

"...so she shot him in the face!
 
Just shot him in the fa-a-a-a-ace!
 
Yeah, she shot him in the face!
 
Oh, oh, oh, in the fa-a-a-a-ace!"
 

***
 

Screaming Barracuda leaned her head back and screeched her chorus at the heavens -- up into the starry night that hung overhead, beyond the huge lattice of windows that made up the club's ceiling. Her fingers worked Wailing Doom's strings, lending its shriek to her own, exploding from all the speakers and amplifiers in a glorious bombardment of sound.
 

"In the fa-a-a-a-a-a-ce!"
 

Something red flashed in the corner of her vision.
 

Bloody wankers, she thought. They were supposed to start the lasers going in the next verse. Then there was a blue flash, on the other side.
 

Barracuda tilted her head back down, and her eyes widened.
 

It was pandemonium: Bodies on the floor. People screaming, running in all directions. Security guards zapping away, locked in a firefight with a band of gunmen who were fanning out through the fleeing crowds.
 

"Oh, hell!" she screamed.
 

Her head darted this way and that, looking for a safe escape route through the raging battle. Instead, she found herself staring down the barrel of a weapon. The man above it grinned, parting his goatee. Then he pulled the trigger.
 

***
 


I'm not given to vivid or memorable dreams, save on occasions when I've eaten too much cheese before retiring. However, on that night my slumbering mind was a tempest of absurdities.
 

First I was back at school, in the great hall with its dark oak-panelled walls, where generations of boys had stood in their neat rows and columns as though in martial order, ready to answer the roll. My boyhood chums and adversaries were lined up beside and behind me, all awaiting the calling of our names. However, instead of a master standing on the platform before us, there was a tall savage with a scarred face, clad in a loincloth, wearing brightly coloured tassels around his strong yet flabby limbs.
 

"I say," remarked Fraser, one of the boys in my form, "it's awfully thick, having a coloured chap for a master."
 

Some of the others whispered for him to be quiet, before one of the prefects gave him six. However, Fraser had never been the chap to quail before authority.
 

"I should write to my governor," he said, "and ask him to send me somewhere else. I bet there are no savages at Eton!"
 

"Now you've done it," whispered Bradman.
 

One of the prefects stepped out from the sixth form's ranks and approached us. He too was a coloured tribesman, wearing a loincloth and tassels, with a spear under his arm in place of the customary ashplant. Fraser began to utter another impertinence (he was always one to cheek the prefects, no matter how many times they made him bend over), but was silenced when the brute pulled him out of the line, spun him around with an iron grip on his collar, readied the spear, and stabbed the poor chap in the buttocks.
 

"Ow! Stop! Help! Geroff, you beast! Fire! Murder! Yarooooo!"
 

"Oh, show a bit of pluck," said Bradman.
 

"Stiff upper lip, what?" said Fauntleby.
 

Fraser continued to scream, however, until the prefect had finished administering his six, at which point the collar was released and he fell to the floor, where he lay sobbing. The savage went back to stand with the rest of the sixth form. I must say, had my old school administered discipline thus, with the spear instead of the cane, I might never have transgressed.
 

With the miscreant suitably chastised, Dr. Walnut (as my dreaming mind dubbed him) began to call the names.
 

"Adams," said the savage, in the perfect simulacrum of Hardwick's voice.
 

"Calakseea!"
 

"Alderdice."
 

"Calakseea!"
 

I looked around, bewildered, as boy after boy answered their name with "Calakseea!" instead of "Adsum!".
 

"Caruthers!"
 

Dr. Walnut glared down at me.
 

"Adsum!" I said.
 

Laughter rippled through the hall, the whole school mocking me save for the prefects, who instead growled and waved their spears.
 

"Caruthers!" he repeated. Now Dr. Walnut too was brandishing a spear.
 

"Calakseea!" I cried.
 

"Calakseea! Calakseea! Calakseea!" Everyone was chanting: Dr. Walnut, the prefects, Bradman, Fraser as he lay bleeding on the floor, and all of the other boys. The hall was filled with a maddening din that thudded like the beating of a monstrous heart.
 

"Calakseea! Calakseea! Calakseea!"
 

I turned this way and that, wondering if anyone else was immune from this derangement that had taken the entire school. To my right the great men of the sixth were chanting. On my left the little fags of the second and third forms were doing the same. From the palatine to the plebs, as it were, all had been overcome. Then my eyes alighted on Morgan of my own form, the fifth (which happened to be the form in which I ended my academic career through defenestration and expulsion, the latter inflicted on me and the former thankfully inflicted by me). Whilst the men before him and behind him, and on either of his flanks, were intoning that nonsensical word, his lips were sealed.
 

"They've all gone mad!" I cried out to him. "We have to do something, old chap!"
 

Morgan nodded, and opened his mouth. Instead of the expected reply, perhaps words of alarm, or the expounding of some stratagem which we might have used to quell, or escape from, that bedlam, he began to sing.
 

"Hark! I hear the foe advancing,
 
Barbed steeds are proudly prancing,
 
Helmets, in the sunbeam glancing,
 
Glitter through the trees,
 
Men of Harlech! Lie ye dreaming?
 
See you not their falchions gleaming,
 
While their pennons, gaily streaming,
 
Flutter to the breeze?"
 

It was the same blasted song he used to sing during football matches, God alone knows why, and whenever he was three sheets in the wind (which was bloody often, as I know full well, since I was usually drinking with him and in no better state). I'd never cared for the damn thing before, but in that moment I felt like shaking him by the hand. The boys around him joined in, singing the Welsh battle hymn instead of chanting that nonsense word, then those around them, and so on. It became a great wave washing through the hall, until every voice was added to the song. Even Dr. Walnut was singing.
 

The world around me changed, as it so often does in dreams, becoming a battlefield filled with screaming men, billowing smoke, and booming artillery. My school chums were around me, the entire fifth form, still in their neat ranks but now clutching rifles and dressed in martial uniform, transported from the school hall to a place no less familiar and no more welcome. I knew it immediately, for some things are seared into one's memories and can never be displaced. We were in northern India, thrust into the midst of one of those terrible engagements we fought against that most dreadful of foes. There they were ahead of us, advancing through the smoke in fine order, each man marching in perfect lock-step with his fellows. Swarthy faces with long, thick beards glared from turbaned heads, above uniforms of European cut.
 

Morgan and the others were still singing, the song continuing unbroken even as the rifles banged, the cannons roared, and the Khalsa came towards us.
 

"From the rocks rebounding,
 
Let the war-cry sounding,
 
Summon all at Cambria's call,
 
The haughty foe surrounding."
 

Then we were charging, our bayonets pointed towards our enemies. The Sikhs were charging as well, brandishing their swords, their beards billowing like the smoke, eyes glowering with the promise of death.
 

"Men of Harlech! On to glory,
 
See your banner, famed in story,
 
Waves these burning words before ye,
 
'Britain scorns to yield!'"
 

My bayonet was a bare inch from a man's chest, and his slashing sword no further from my face, when my eyes opened. The Indian battlefield vanished, and I blinked in astonishment as the inside of the hut usurped its place in my consciousness. Remembrance flooded in to remind me of my situation, and assure me that I had awoken, yet I was sure I must still be dreaming, for the song continued. Utter confusion gripped me as Morgan's military march rang in my waking ears at it had in my dreaming ones. Daffodil was singing it, as if she had somehow reached into my slumbering mind and drawn the music forth (though of course my next thought landed on truth rather than superstition, and understood that it was quite the opposite; her singing must have shaped that portion of my dreams). Some seconds passed before I realized that I was both correct and mistaken. The tune was the same as it had been in the school hall, and then on the battlefield, but the words were unfamiliar.
 

The bewilderment I experienced then, and the passing of years between that time and the present, have robbed me of any clear recollection of her song's words, save for a single triplet which has lingered.
 

"Men of Croona, with blood splattered,
 
Leaving corpses dead and battered,
 
Have all wretched foemen scattered."
 

These three rhyming lines are those which sounded as I gazed upon the young native girl, who lay on her bed singing, while the missionary sat beside her, reading from the Bible. They continued as the flap that served as the hut's door was pushed aside, revealing a muscular savage with tasselled limbs and painted flesh. It was Walnut; his eyes blazed orange in the lantern's light, as did the blade of his spear.

 
'''Screaming Barracuda'''
 

A blast of blue energy fizzed and crackled over Barracuda's green flesh, along the ridge of the fin that ran across the top of her skull. Her body began to slump. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
 

"I got her!" the goon yelled. "I-"
 

He gawped. She was still standing -- her eyes closed, face serene. Still standing, after a shock that would have put down a man twice her weight.
 

"Fire again!" someone screamed at his shoulder. "Give the bitch another!"
 

He aimed the weapon.
 

Barracuda's hand slashed across the strings.
 

He screamed.
 

***
 

It's like a tidal wave. The club's disgorging its denizens, spewing forth an immense flood of humans and aliens, filling the street beyond with shrieks and chaos. It's a good thing you left your bike in an alleyway. The street would have been impassable on it.
 

Even on foot, pressing through the mass, forcing your way into the gaps, it's hard enough. You wince as your elbows clip faces here and there. There'll be a few black eyes tomorrow. But it's either that or be swept along with them.
 

At last you reach the tail end of the exodus, and your way is unimpeded as you enter the club, sprint down the passage, push the doors open... And nearly get blasted back out again.
 

Sound. Horrendous, agonizing sound, batters you -- mocking your aural implant's attempts to balance and counteract it.
 

Screaming Barracuda's on the stage, her eyes closed. She's playing her guitar, weaving her cacophonous song as though the room were still packed instead of strewn with corpses. The survivors are rolling on the floor, their hands pressed against their ears.
 

"Barra!" you shout. But it's like spitting into a tsunami.
 

Your ears are hammering at your brain, demanding, begging, pleading, to be taken away from here -- for you to turn around and run as fast and as far as you can.
 

Instead you go forward, into the musical maelstrom.
 

-------------------------------------
 

The world's spinning, a whirling vortex of tempestuous sound and blending, blurring colors. And she's at the nexus, her eyes still closed, her face as calm as if she were basking in a hot tub.
 

"Barra!"
 

But it's still no use. Even here, so close that you can almost feel your ears bleeding and the flesh flaying from your bones beneath lashing sonic whips, she can't hear you.
 

So you stagger forward, groaning at the onslaught, and punch her in the stomach.
 

Breath rushes out of her lungs in an explosive gasp. Her eyes open. And, glory of glories, all praises be to God and heaven, the guitar falls from her hands.
 

"You... you... goddamn bitch! You..." She groans, then looks around. Her eyes bulge at the carnage. "What the hell? What happened? Who the-"
 

You tap the side of your helmet, making your visor retract.
 

"[Player Name]? What's going on?"
 

"I'll explain." You grab her guitar and press it into her arms. "But first we should get out of here."
 

***
 


Judith turned, saw him, and screamed at the glint of murder in his glare. Daffodil continued to sing, her delirium unaffected even by the spectre of violent death.
 

My revolver belt and rifles were a few feet away, but they may as well have been in London or Delhi, for as Walnut lunged into the hut I knew that I could never seize, ready, and aim a weapon before the savage's spear struck. Therefore I rose and sprang in the same instant, not for my gear but at the high priest. Walnut's spear was plunging towards his victim when my body flew at his. It was only in that instant that I saw he wasn't aiming for Mrs. Ashdown. The deadly spear was thrusting at Daffodil.
 

I slammed into him, and bore his muscular body backwards, sending the two of us through the hide flap, into the darkness beyond, where we tumbled to the mud outside the hut. There we lay struggling, he clawing and gouging at my face like an animal (for the spear had fallen from his hands; either he had been disarmed during our collision, or he had dropped the weapon, knowing it was useless without the space to bring its point to bear), and I driving my fists into his face.
 

"She must die!" howled Walnut. "She must die!"
 

I made no reply save with my right fist, which stuck the hardest punch I have ever inflicted either for sport or in earnest, a tremendous blow that crashed against his jaw and left his great white eyes rolling in his head. His limbs fell away from my face and throat, and flopped powerless at his sides. Other natives were emerging from their huts then, raising a great hue and cry. Several babbling voices demanded to know what was going on. My blood was up, however, and I paid the villagers no heed as I snatched up Walnut's spear and drove it into his chest again and again, sending the savage to reap the harvest of his false religion.
 

The other priests appeared, shrieking and chattering, waving their weapons, but Piss-pot was there too, and he ordered them aside. The chieftain listened to me rattle out my explanation of what had happened, and was so incensed upon learning the truth that he took the spear from my hands, turned to Walnut's minions, and threatened death to any of them who'd known about the high priest's intentions. The priests quailed and grovelled, and promised Piss-pot that none of them had had any suspicion of their master's deeds that night. Their pleas seemed sincere enough to me, and they must have done to the chieftain also, for he ordered them back to their huts rather than to their executions.
 

It was only then that I began to wonder where my retainers had gone. The bastards were supposed to have been keeping watch outside the hut, as you may recall. I asked if the villagers had seen anything of them, and learned that they had fled from the settlement, taking my baggage with them. The damned rascals! Clearly I hadn't thrashed them enough, and their cowardice had overcome their duty. I vowed I'd teach them a lesson, though of course there was little I could do that night, so I returned to the hut, where little Daffodil had slipped back into slumber. Judith Ashdown was praying beside her, though she raised an inquisitive face to mine when I came in, and I nodded my reassurance.
 

We both remained awake through the night, I with my revolver in my hand and my rifle in my lap, she praying in a soft voice so as not to wake the girl. Nor did she wake, until morning had dawned, when she opened her eyes and spoke.
 

"Who are you?" she asked. The words were in her own language.
 

The chieftain's joy, and that of the other villagers, can be imagined. Mrs. Ashdown had delivered the child from her affliction, and the natives were all but ready to build a church and cry out for Jesus. However, the bizarre experience had left Judith weary in mind and body. Furthermore, although one might have expected such spiritual victory to have sharpened her missionary zeal, it had instead quenched it. The lady asked me to take her to the coast immediately, where she could arrange her passage back to England. Piss-pot was disappointed to learn that we wouldn't stay for the great celebration he had planned, as was I; the chieftain would have given us a tremendous feast, and, more than likely, the pick of his concubines. However, Judith insisted, and I had to do the chivalrous thing.
 

At Piss-pot's command, the entire village turned out to see us off, brandishing crosses fashioned from branches and calling out such words of Christian theology as they knew. Judith was silent, however, even when one of the savages beheaded a chicken and splashed its blood about whilst crying, "Yeesus! Yeesus!" Perhaps this was mere fancy, but I almost thought I detected the faintest of smiles on her lips.
 

Even the priests were present, cheering and clamouring along with the rest, until Judith and I came abreast of them. Then the nearest tasselled savage stared at Mrs. Ashdown with a maddened look on his face, shouted something that was lost in the din, and lunged at her with a knife in his hand. I was watchful, however, for I'd remained suspicious of the late, unlamented Walnut's flock. My revolver was up in an instant, and I put a bullet in his skull. Piss-pot had his warriors seize the other priests, for all their fates had been sealed by that attempt on the missionary's life. I asked him to refrain from butchering them until I'd taken Mrs. Ashdown away, and though he seemed dismayed that she wouldn't witness their punishment, he agreed to my request.
 

The journey to the coast, in the company of some of Piss-pot's warriors, whom he dispatched to serve as our retainers, and bear such of our possession as hadn't been taken by those damnable thieves, was uneventful. I didn't even catch sight of any quarry worth potting. Though even if I had done, Judith's desire was to make all possible haste, and her face was still grim from her experiences in the village, and the attempt on her life. It was quite plain that the lady was in dire need of the safety and comfort of England's shores. Fortune was on our side, for we were able to arrange her passage on the very same day we arrived at the port, with the aid of a naval chap to whom I sometimes traded ivory and other such treasures from the continent's interior.
 

Her impending departure from that savage land must have been of immense comfort to Judith. For when I last saw her, before she boarded the vessel, she favoured me with a most dazzling smile, which seemed to illuminate her eyes. I remember being surprised at the time, for I must confess that I've never been one to dwell upon a woman's eyes like a love-struck poet, and so hadn't noticed the curious hue of Mrs. Ashdown's irises until then. They were a delightful blue-green shade, which I've never seen matched before or since.
 

***
 

Noir strode through the chamber, his footsteps slow and measured. His ebon mask was tilted upwards, towards the lattice of big windows and the star-studded vault of night. His azure eyes were dull, as though only half open. He sniffed at the air.
 

Yes... One sensation above all the others, faint but still discernible, its flavor distinct and unquestionable. [Player Name] had been here.
 

His eyes flashed brighter, and a low growl escaped his lips. He was too late.
 

"Hey! You can't be in here!"
 

Noir turned. A man stood there, dressed in a bright blue police uniform. One hand was on the pistol holstered at his waist.
 

"Who let you past the cordon?" the cop demanded. "I-"
 

Noir lunged. Blood splattered across his void-dark mask.
 

[Player Name] ... His quarry had escaped for now. But she couldn't elude Noir forever. They would meet soon enough...

LotS/The Story/Christmas Chaos

2013-11-20T04:37:25Z

Durlin: Removed my name

<tabber>
"Zone Intro"=
'''Zone Intro'''
 
"Tentacles!" Adrian Zanfran said, as he walked across the lobby.
 
He emphasized the point by waving those purple appendages in the air. The Rylattu behind the reception desk, a green-skinned male he didn't recognize, stared at them before gazing down at something.
 
Though the desk hid it from him, Adrian knew there was a terminal there. Its screen would at that moment be displaying a picture of the freelance human, accompanied by the words: 'Authorized Stink-Beast! Do Not Disintegrate!'
 
The green Rylattu looked up at him again, and stopped reaching for whatever weapon of mass destruction he had to hand.
 
"I'm Adrian Zanfran. Pleased to meet you."
 
The receptionist glanced down and frowned.
 
"It says your name is 'Adnan Zebra'."
 
Adrian sighed. It was somewhat gratifying that Barp Sek Bul had settled on one name to call him by, rather than hurling an endless barrage of incorrect appellations. But it would have been more gratifying still if it had been correct.
 
"That's my... work name. Where's Kwix?"
 
"The overlord summoned her."
 
The freelance human sauntered across the portion of the lobby which lay beyond the reception desk and its emerald-skinned sentinel. A few of the building's other denizens glared at him, perhaps out of habit. But most regarded him with nothing more than indifferent blinks. A few even nodded or spoke words of greeting, which Adrian returned with a smile. None of them fired weapons in his direction or tried to otherwise ensure his doom. Things had changed a great deal over the months since he'd started working for the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might.
 
Both elevators' doors were sealed when he approached. One conveyance was already in ascent. The other had stopped many floors up, where it was presumably disgorging its passengers. This didn't diminish the morning cheer on Adrian's face. It was still in full bloom when he entered the stairwell.
 
The stairs themselves were superfluous to him these days. He moved into the space alongside the first flight instead, and reached up with his right tentacle. That powerful purple limb grabbed hold of the bannister above. Then it pulled Adrian upwards, until the shorter tentacle at the end of his left arm could seize another.
 
Like an ape swinging from branch to branch, he climbed the middle of the stairwell in a series of tentacular grasps and pulls. And to think he'd once been dismayed to find those useful appendages on his body...
 
That brisk, invigorating assent brought him to his floor. His more conventional limbs walked him the rest of the way, until he stood before his terminal. He dropped into the now familiar chair and watched the holographic screen come to life in response to his presence.
 
His previous night's work manifested before him. Lines of green text blazed in all their toxic-waste-colored glory. But only for a moment. Then a red face emerged from the screen, throwing the greenness aside in all directions.
 
"Adnan Zebra!"
 
"Good morning, overlord. The report you wanted-"
 
"Come to Conference Room 3 immediately!"
 
"What-"
 
"Immediately, wretched stink-beast!"
 
Adrian sighed, rose from his chair, and headed back into the corridor. He made his way to the designated chamber, and pondered what new happenstance or misfortune might be about to rain down on him. It wasn't unusual for the overlords to summon him into their presence and thrust some completely new task at him, quashing his previous brief despite prior insistence that his continued integration relied upon its fulfillment. He hoped that wouldn't happen this time. He was rather enjoying the challenge of finding new ways to market anti-human literature to mankind (his chief plan was to pass if off as satire).
 
But when he arrived at Conference Room 3, and its door opened in front of him, bewilderment usurped trepidation.
 
"Ah, Adnan Zebra!"
 
Barp Sek Bul took hold of Adrian's right tentacle and pulled him into the room. Rylattu faces surrounded him, each one beaming beneath, of all things, a Santa hat.
 
"How long has it been since you first came to us as a worthless, sniveling human minion seeking employment?" the overlord asked.
 
"Well, it's been-"
 
"I once considered destroying you! But now I am pleased that my mighty Rylattu intellect led me to spare you. In spite of your pathetic whining, and your habit of leaving filthy human limbs in our lobby-"
 
"That wasn't my fault! My arm was blown off!"
 
"Silence, stink-beast! As I was saying... You have been a useful minion. Because you understand your disgusting and moronic species, our sales to humans have increased by fifty million percent!"
 
At that pronouncement, the other Rylattu broke into a round of applause, and Adrian beamed as much as the rest of the gathering. Granted, the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might had once measured sales of its books to humans in single digits. Hence they still only claimed a tiny audience among the trillions of human beings in the galaxy. But even so, the freelance human was proud.
 
"I have decided to reward you!"
 
"Thank you, overlord!"
 
"Today is a special day on your laughable homeworld."
 
"It's Christmas!"
 
"Kwix informed me of this pathetic event. Now behold my mighty magnanimity!"
 
He clapped his hands together.
 
First there came a tantalizing aroma, a blend of delicious smells that tickled Adrian's nose and evoked countless glorious memories. Then a dozen or so Rylattu surged into the room, knocking him spinning.
 
Each of them bore a huge platter, which they distributed across the conference table. Adrian Zanfran recovered his balance just in time to be barged aside once more, when the surge repeated itself in reverse. But he didn't care. For the feast they'd left in their wake would have excused a multitude of sins.
 
There were golden turkeys and roast hams, glistening with succulent juices that made his mouth water and the tips of his tentacles curl. Among them, vying for his eyes, nose, touch, and tongue, Christmas puddings rose as rich, fruity mountains beneath thick layers of snow. Mince pies were arranged in neat sugary stacks, forming step pyramids upon which health and moderation yearned to be sacrificed at the priestly hands of taste and pleasure. Pitchers of eggnog, bottles of port, and sundry other beverages stood in orderly units, awaiting the call which would send them into battle against the tiresome forces of thirst and sobriety. It was a veritable festive banquet.
 
"Begin feasting!" Barp Sek Bul said.
 
"Overlord, this is... it's... I..."
 
"I said begin feasting, wretched stink-beast!"
 
So Adrian did.
 
***
 
"...and... and..."
 
The freelance human paused blinked. Had there always been that many Rylattu in the room? And had they always been so blurry? He looked down at the glass of eggnog in his hand. How much brandy had they put in it?
 
"Well?" a blue female demanded. "Then what?"
 
"Oh... And a partridge in a pear tree."
 
She frowned.
 
"That song is repetitive and absurd! Who would relish those pathetic gifts? Partridges? Pear trees? Hens? Ridiculous!"
 
"Wait!" the Supreme Editing Overlord said. "Those maids, drummers, pipers, and lords could become valuable minions -- if their worthless human brains are capable of learning more useful skills."
 
"Ah, of course, overlord!"
 
The Rylattu began to discuss the matter at length, and ponder such questions as whether drummers or pipers would make better slaves.
 
Adrian wandered over to the table for another mince pie.
 
"Adrian Zanfran!"
 
He turned. Kwix stood before him, her eyes shiny and bleary.
 
"Kwix! Merry Christmas! Thank you for... for..." He waved at the festive board, and the still rather substantial remains of its goodly viands.
 
"I read your report on stink-beast holidays," she said, "and learned all the customs of this 'Christmas'. They consist largely of gluttony and alcoholism!"
 
"Maybe, but Christmas is also about-"
 
The receptionist raised something above her head. Something green. It wobbled in her drunken grasp.
 
"By the laws and traditions of this pathetic festival, you must now kiss me!"
 
"Huh? I..."
 
"Kiss me, puny human, or I will destroy you!"
 
Adrian had worked there long enough to know that was no idle threat. So he pulled her into a tentacled embrace, and their lips met.
 
He hoped she wouldn't obliterate him for this when she sobered up...
|-|
"Good Will To Men"=
'''Good Will To Men'''
 
 
'Twas the season of Christmas throughout deepest space, 
When humans feast and rejoice, whatever their place, 
Novocastria and Earth, Sian and Mars, 
All celebrate beneath the light of their stars. 
 
In the palace of Gallea, four friends met, 
To revel in joy and past sorrow forget, 
Prince and gunslinger, bot and omnicidal chap, 
They gathered to dine and their adventures recap. 
 
But though they made merry, that quartet close as kin, 
Melancholy lurked behind each eye and wide grin, 
For two of their number were far from the fare, 
One beyond life, the other they knew not quite where. 
 
Fine words were spoken, their memories toasted, 
Their great deeds recalled, their killing counts boasted, 
But the shadowy past is a poor recompense, 
For the company of friends departed long hence. 
 
"I know just what we'll do!" said the gunslinging girl, 
She pulled the prince from his chair and danced in a whirl. 
"Talia, quit it!" young Telemachus cried, 
But she continued to dance, her eyes bright and wide. 
 
"Illaria loved Christmas, not for the drink, 
Or the feasting and presents, though some might think, 
Those are the most wonderful parts of this season, 
The Princess had of course a far finer reason." 
 
"For she loved joy and giving, kindness and good deeds, 
Caring for the unfortunate, tending their needs. 
Let's make it a contest, a fun Christmas game, 
Something to treasure her good works and her name." 
 
"Yes!" said Lu Bu, the mighty warrior bot, 
"How could the four of us have ever forgot, 
The meaning of Christmas, and Illaria's way, 
We should all venture forth and honor this day!" 
 
So those good friends agreed the rules of their fine test, 
A challenge to see which of them might do the best. 
They'd brighten the season for their fellow man, 
Each of them concocting their own special plan. 
 
No money they'd spend, for the prince had that edge, 
Far more credits than any other could dredge. 
Instead they'd rely on their wits and their labors, 
And spread Christmas joy to less fortunate neighbors. 
 
 
Guns Are for Girls
 
 
Dashing through the mall, 
Looking for good deeds to do, 
She saw a girl bawl, 
And Santa Claus too. 
She stopped then and there, 
Thinking she'd lend aid, 
And learn about the girl's despair, 
So she could her mood upgrade. 
 
"I want a gun, want a gun!" 
Cried the little tot, 
"But Santa won't give me one, 
So he's left me all upsot! 
Want a gun, want a gun!" 
Cried the little tot, 
"But Santa won't give me one, 
So he's left me all upsot!" 
 
"Upsot's not a real word!" 
Fat Santa Claus replied, 
"And this gun's not for her, 
Someone get her eyes dried!" 
"You're such a sexist brute!" 
Talia told him back, 
"There is no reason girls can't shoot! 
So don't make me attack!" 
 
"Give me that gun, me that gun!" 
Talia Ryx said, 
And snatched it from Santa's hand, 
For the girl with eyes so red. 
"Here's the gun! Here's the gun! 
No more tears shed! 
Santa's just a sexist jerk, 
I should slap his stupid head!" 
 
"Silly cow, silly cow!" 
Said his angry face. 
"That's no toy, it's a real gun, 
I carry the thing in case, 
Some kids're bad, really bad, 
Act like a disgrace! 
Oh, look what you've gone and done, 
The girl's shooting up the place!" 
 
Christmas Kebabs
 
 
The mighty Niflung walked out, 
'Fore the feast of Stephen, 
Gazing all ways round about, 
To the heavens even, 
Searching for some folk to help, 
On the day of yule, 
Upon a soup kitchen strayed, 
Serving winter fuel. 
 
He went inside and growled deep, 
For it made him angry. 
"How can all you bastards sleep, 
When you leave them hungry? 
Soup is but a feeble dish, 
I can do much better! 
I am here to answer your wish, 
Shatter hunger's fetter!" 
 
"Bring me naans and bring me meat, 
Bring finest chili sauce! 
These people deserve to eat, 
And all for free of course! 
Kebab Chaos does owe me, 
A debt they must repay, 
Or blood shall run quite free, 
I mean just what I say!" 
 
And so the kebabs came hence, 
Answering Ragnar's shout, 
It really was quite good sense<, 
Else spines he'd have ripped out. 
He served food to all who came, 
In generous portions. 
First the diners cheered his name, 
Then came the contortions! 
 
Vomit spewed from every maw, 
In torrents unending, 
For donners wage bloody war, 
And soon guts need mending. 
The Niflung cried out in rage, 
To see them stripped of honor, 
Too late did Ragnar gage, 
The power of the donner. 
 
Terrible Toys for Tots
 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
Telemachus did see, 
An orphanage with a tree. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
The young prince went inside, 
To give out gifts, 
And some seasonal cheer provide. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
He brought a bag of toys, 
He'd played with, 
In younger days, 
He hoped might delight little boys. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
The kids all cheered and yelled, 
In young delight, 
Filled with joy, 
Pleased by the gifts, 
And so Telemachus' heart swelled. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
Orphans began to play, 
With toy robots, 
Brought by the prince, 
That kind boy, 
Who beamed at them, 
And thought he'd triumphed on that day. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
Telemachus forgot, 
When he was younger, 
He did tinker, 
With his toys, 
And had fun, 
Messing with tech, 
Till he weaponized them for sport. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
The toys went quite berserk, 
They all starting zapping, 
And chasing the kids, 
Who ran screaming, 
Poor little tikes, 
Fleeing fast, 
Lest they be zapped, 
So the prince, he felt like a jerk. 
 
Robo-Santa
 
 
Lu Bu has never been high, 
For an obvious reason, 
But his thoughts swim in the sky, 
With the joy of the season. 
 
Che-e-e-e-e-e-ems, they have nothing on Christmas! 
Che-e-e-e-e-e-ems, they have nothing on Christmas! 
 
Lu Bu goes into a mall, 
To perform his fine duty, 
And bring festive fun to all, 
Their smiles will be his booty! 
 
Ro-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-bots, even robots love Christmas! 
Ro-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-bots, even robots love Christmas! 
 
He borrows a Santa suit, 
For he knows kids love Saint Nick, 
Soon he'll reap the merry fruit, 
Of his clever Christmas trick! 
 
Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-anta, the kids all love their Santa! 
Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-anta, the kids all love their Santa! 
 
But things don't go quite as planned, 
For our noble robot friend, 
His thin frame doesn't expand, 
And him the proper girth lend! 
 
Fa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-at! Santa's built right for sumo! 
Fa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-at! Santa's built right for sumo! 
 
The children all sob and weep, 
Say he's not the real chap, 
And Lu Bu forgets to keep, 
The secret under wrap. 
 
"Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-nta! There is no real Santa!" 
"Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-nta! There is no real Santa!" 
 
So boys and girls are distraught, 
Their parents filled with ire, 
To hear the truth has been taught, 
And Christmas will be dire! 
 
Lu-u-u-u-u-u Bu-u-u-u-u-u-u! You shouldn't have played Santa! 
Lu-u-u-u-u-u Bu-u-u-u-u-u-u! You shouldn't have played Santa! 
 
Tntacled Turkey
 
 
'Twas the season of Christmas throughout deepest space, 
When the four friends met in the agreed upon place, 
All their features were grim, there wasn't much cheer, 
What would fair Illaria say were she here? 
 
They'd just let her down, that's what all of them thought, 
Their fine festive plans had amounted to naught! 
Failure hung overhead, a gloomy black cloud, 
Man, woman, robot, and boy -- they all had been cowed. 
 
But maybe someone was watching from heaven above, 
A benevolent soul, a heart brimful with love. 
For a Christmas miracle fell from the sky, 
A tentacled turkey... I should explain why. 
 
Scientists had bred it, in search of new meat, 
Poultry and calamari, ever so sweet. 
But the beast broke loose, as is so often the case, 
It fell to the four to stop it wrecking the place. 
 
-------------------------------------

Their cunning seasonal schemes had done nothing good, 
Laudable intentions had been misunderstood, 
But there's one thing at which the friends did excel: 
Slaying an enemy, and filling up hell. 
 
They butchered the beast, to great public applause, 
Then told the grateful people about their cause, 
Tears welled up when they spoke fair Illaria's name, 
Revealed the purpose of their kind yuletide game. 
 
The citizens were moved by the heroes so bold, 
They banded together, and all swore to uphold, 
The meaning of Christmas, the thing she'd prized most, 
And do something good so the four friends might boast. 
 
Through the whole city, so many played their part, 
Showing what Christmas joy can do to a heart, 
The soup kitchen was cleaned, and restored to fine state, 
All its denizens cured of their donner-wrought fate. 
 
The orphanage was filled with less murderous toys, 
Gifts that would delight all of the girls and the boys. 
Even the children who'd thought Lu Bu a fool, 
Now shrugged and said Santa was never as cool. 
 
|-|
"Merry Christmas, Bitches!"=
'''Merry Christmas, Bitches!'''
 
 
"The Rylattu ambassador declared..."
 
 
*thud* *clack* *clack* *thud*
 
 
"...that he would locate Santa's workshop..."
 
 
*clack* *thud* *clack* *clack* *thud*
 
 
"...and obliterate it with his superior technology..."
 
 
*thud* *thud* *clack* *clack*
 
 
The news anchor's holographic smile is so broad and bright that it blares at the periphery of your vision like an explosion. Her insincere laughter is equally piercing. You quicken your movements to drown it out, drawing a swifter series of thuds and clacks from the Wing Chun dummy.
 
 
Your arms weave a pattern of blocks and strikes they've known since childhood, bringing your forearms against the dummy's cylindrical limbs as though thwarting make-believe blows, trapping and ensnaring. Feet and fists beat counterattacks into its thick wooden trunk.
 
 
As a small girl, still learning the sequences and toughening your young arms to perform them with speed, precision, and strength, this was a good training method. Now, it's more a form of meditation -- a way to occupy your body and let your mind focus or wander in accordance with your needs.
 
 
The thuds and clacks continue, warring with the newscaster's chirpy, over-enthusiastic voice, filling the chamber aboard the Silver Shadow that you've turned into your exercise room.
 
 
"...was attacked by a giant turkey monster..."
 
 
*clack* *thud* *clack* *thud* *thud*
 
 
Giant turkey monsters... The galaxy is insane, even by your elastic standards of sanity and normality.
 
 
*thud* *clack* *clack* *clack*
 
 
"Fortunately, the creature was destroyed by-"
 
 
*clack* *thud* *clack* *BEEP*
 
 
The woman's face freezes. Then it vanishes, replaced on the screen by the image of a top hat. The beeping repeats itself, as though reveling in the triumphant usurpation.
 
 
"Accept," you say.
 
 
The top hat disappears in turn, yielding to a handsome, rakish face no less debonair than the item of millinery it's replaced. A rather more genuine and elegant smile stretches where the anchor's did just moments ago.
 
 
"Merry Christmas, my dear!" Arthur Lupin eyes you up and down, whilst his dexterous fingers put the finishing touches to a bowtie's knot. "So this is how you're spending the holidays?"
 
 
You can't help looking down at your sweat-slick body and wincing at the contrast. Next to the tuxedoed thief's image, you feel like a barbarian.
 
 
"Merry Christmas. Robbing somewhere nice?"
 
 
"I'm on my way to King Vencelas' yuletide soiree."
 
 
"The crown jewels?"
 
 
"Don't be ridiculous. I never thieve on Christmas." He completes his knot, gives the bowtie a minute adjustment, and steps away from the screen -- revealing the fullness of his attire. "How do I look?"
 
 
"Dapper."
 
 
"Thank you. But I didn't call just to wish you the season's greetings. One of my contacts got in touch a moment ago, with information on the matter you asked me to look into. He has a lead on that cult of yours..."
 
 
The Cultist's Christmas Surprise
 
 
Carols rain down on you from all directions, catching you in their crossfire, bombarding your senses with at least four different festive tunes. Christmas afternoon is still in full swing here, and armies of uniformed carolers seem to be vying for the right to declare themselves its champions. One force is dressed in scarlet Santa outfits. They're belting out a merry tune, while their bulging bellies -- either real or simulated -- wobble like the obligatory bowls of gelatinous dessert long celebrated in verse. Across the street stands a rival band, those ones garbed in the manner of angels, complete with plastic wings and halos. Their song of choice is a rather weightier and more ponderous celebration of a baby's birth in ancient Bethlehem.
 
 
It reminds you of gang warfare in urban sprawls, with verses traded instead of gunfire.
 
 
Charity workers are ducking their way beneath the melodious volleys, shaking tins and shouting pleas at passersby. One of them, a ginger-haired young woman, darts forward to intercept you.
 
 
"Give what you can, madam! I'll take hard credits or swipes!"
 
 
You glance at the label pasted on the side of her tin.
 
 
"Beast Buddies?"
 
 
"We want to end the cruel slaughter of Garlax ragebeasts!"
 
 
"Ragebeasts eat people."
 
 
"So? There are plenty of people, and we know how to make more! But ragebeasts are endangered!"
 
 
"I'll remember that next time I'm killing one."
 
 
The woman's screams of abuse follow you down the street for perhaps a dozen paces, before the clashing carols swallow them. The smile the encounter leaves on your face lasts a lot longer.
 
 
Dozens of festive displays, from the charming to the gaudy, fill the square in front of city hall. Teeming hordes of giggling children and delighted parents throng there, gazing upon snowmen, Santas, wise man, shepherds, Jesuses, bells, stockings, holly, ivy, and for some inexplicable reason a single Cthulhu. Some are depicted in arrangements of multicolored lights. Others are rendered as holograms or ceramic sculptures. Lovecraft's elder god appears to have been fashioned from human bones, though you assume that isn't really the case.
 
 
You try to tell yourself you're cutting across that space to save time. After all, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line... But the pretense drifts into the heavens along with the laughter, youthful babble, and the steam rising from warm, fragrant beverages. Maybe you're alone this Christmas, but that doesn't mean you can't absorb a little holiday cheer through osmosis...
 
 
Thus fortified, you walk the last few hundred yards to the first address Lupin gave you -- a big, old apartment building that's probably been standing there for almost as long as the planet's been inhabited.
 
 
The front door doesn't yield a millimeter to your push. Nor to the subsequent pull. You're not getting in this way, unless you activate the intercom and persuade a resident, or else blast your way through. And the latter isn't much of an option, with so many people passing to and fro in the street. Nor is scaling the building and entering via a window. Santa may be allowed to break and enter during the Christmas period, though you doubt the citizens would be so understanding to anyone else who tried it.
 
 
But there may be another way... You continue up the street.
 
 
Perhaps you've been a good girl this year, because a couple of minutes later you find exactly what you wanted: the mouth of an alleyway that runs behind the apartment block. Even here Christmas decorations shine down on you, as though admiring your cunning. You might be able to exploit a fire escape or-
 
 
A door opens up ahead. A middle-aged man emerges from the building, carrying big trash bags in each hand. He takes a few steps towards the dumpster that stands on the opposite side of alley, and looks around. It's a careless, casual motion -- the act of someone wishing to see if there's anything worthier of his attention than the waste receptacle he's making for. But when his face turns in your direction...
 
 
It's him. The man from the picture Lupin sent you.
 
 
Perhaps some slight hint of recognition flickers in the eyes of your holographically disguised features. Because he stops in his tracks and stares. A soft breeze strokes your forehead. Your mental defenses rise, understanding the sensation for what it is -- the beginning of a subtle psionic probe.
 
 
The trash bags fall from his hands. Maybe he saw enough during that brief instant of psychic contact, or else takes the steeling of your mind against further intrusion as a danger signal. There isn't time to ponder that. Not when your target's sprinting away.
 
 
So you don't. You sprint after him instead.
 
 
He hurtles down the alleyway, legs pumping, elbows cutting the air on either side. Faster than you'd expected. Fear can do that to a man. Or maybe he's packing cybernetic enhancements.
 
 
You race towards your quarry, throwing everything you have into frantic speed. You have to catch him before he makes it out of the alley, or else risk pursuing him through crowded streets. Your boots kick against the ground, propelling you onward, eating away at his lead.
 
 
You're gaining on him. If he's augmented, it's cheap crap. And there's a reason athletes rely on training instead of terror.
 
 
He looks over his shoulder, eyes wide and wild. Invisible fingers tickle your scalp, but this time you're ready for them. Your walls go up and thwart his groping psionic grasp.
 
 
His head tilts, turning his frightened gaze upwards. You hazard a quick glance in that direction, but you don't see anything except for... Oh, damn it...
 
 
First comes the cawing. Then the fluttering of wings. Then the swooping.
 
 
Your mind may be too strong for him, but yours isn't the only brain on offer.
 
 
You swing your arms, trying to beat the pigeons away, bashing their feathered bodies. But that doesn't stop the little scavengers. Wings flap against you, avian feet kick and claw for purchase. Beaks peck at your arms, trying to break through to your face.
 
 
As you throw yourself into a roll, you feel the full absurdity of taking evasive maneuvers against pigeons. And when you rise with your pistol in hand, you feel no less ridiculous.
 
 
A series of blasts leaves two of them on the ground, one with a missing head, the other with a gaping hole through its fat body. Whatever psionic trickery the cultist used, it isn't equal to the task of restraining the others' survival instinct. They flap their way towards the safety of the sky.
 
 
You spin round in time to see your quarry dashing from the mouth of the alley, still staring at you over his shoulder. He crashes through the people on the sidewalk, knocking an elderly woman flying, ignoring the howls of protest. He darts across the road.
 
 
The honking of a horn makes him turn. But it's too late.
 
 
There's almost enough screaming to mask the crunch and splat. Almost.
 
 
Can You Spare A Cred?
 
 
Unless the Quibberath brothers had it right, and you can glean something of value by eating the brains splashed from his broken skull like stew spilled from an overturned cooking pot, this particular lead is no longer of any use to you.
 
 
"Serves the bastard right!" says an elderly voice.
 
 
The old woman he knocked over emphasizes the point by spitting right on his shattered face. She then proceeds to get into an argument with some of the gawkers who've gathered round the splattered corpse.
 
 
You sigh, and start walking. You don't want to be there when the authorities start asking questions.
 
 
Maybe you'll have better luck at that other address...
 
 
Further from the scene of the accident, the surrounding chatter resumes its former tenor. Carols and conversations swell around you.
 
 
"Good King Wenceslas looked out..."
 
 
"Daddy! I want it! I want it!"
 
 
"Jingle bells, jingle bells..."
 
 
"Hey, that liquor store's open! Thank Christ for Hindus!"
 
 
"Silent night, holy night..."
 
 
"If you cut Santa's belly open, would presents come out?"
 
 
"Get a job, you bum!"
 
 
"I'm trying to! Read the sign!"
 
 
You stop. Someone collides into you from behind. But you ignore the impact and the subsequent profanities. That voice...
 
 
"What kind of work can you do? You're a head in goddamn jar!"
 
 
"Screw you! I was a war hero!"
 
 
You press through the oncoming shoppers, ignoring more profanities and a few sharp elbows.
 
 
Rautha, the former Centurian commander, is standing... lying... sitting... resting -- you can't quite decide which verb best applies to a disembodied head in a jar -- on the ground, glaring up at a teenager with green hair and at least two dozen metal rings distributed across his ears and nose.
 
 
A device on his jar is projecting a small holographic screen. On it are the words: 'Will work for creds!'
 
 
The teen punk pulls his boot back in preparation for a kick.
 
 
Your kick's faster. It nails him in the butt and launches him.
 
 
He manages to hit the sidewalk nose-first. When he rolls over, he glares bloody murder from his eyes and bloody torment from his smashed proboscis.
 
 
"Barshtard!" he moans. "I'll kill you! I'll-"
 
 
"You'll get up and run away, before I lose my temper."
 
 
Your prediction proves to be the more accurate of the two.
 
 
Ruatha's Luck
 
 
"Hey!" Rautha says. "I know that voice! You're-"
 
 
"Yeah."
 
 
"Small universe, huh?"
 
 
"What happened to your body?"
 
 
"Which one?"
 
 
"The one you had on Centauri Prime. The mech."
 
 
Rautha somehow manages to sigh. But you suppose if he can live and breathe without lungs, sighing isn't much of a feat.
 
 
"It's a long story."
 
 
"I've got time."
 
 
You crouch down beside him. A few people glance at the two of you, but a meaningful stare encourages them to move along.
 
 
"Centauri Prime... That was a good day. You should have seen me, [Player Name] . I went through the place blasting, like... like... like you, I guess. Or that psycho Niflung you hang around with. I killed more than I could count!"
 
 
"Well, you didn't have any fingers or toes..."
 
 
He glares.
 
 
"Sorry. Go on."
 
 
"When I was done, my mech might as well've been painted red. I even saved some Novocastrian knights on the way. They're the ones who gave me a ride out of Centurian space."
 
 
"I'll be honest... I didn't think you'd get out of the place alive. Not after you charged off like that. Of all the people to survive the war..."
 
 
"Yeah, fate's a bitch who thinks she's funny."
 
 
"So what'd you do after that?"
 
 
"I got a job as a bounty hunter. I mean, it made sense -- I was in a heavily armed mech. What was I going to do? Plant flowers for a living?"
 
 
"How'd that work out?"
 
 
"I'm sitting on the sidewalk without a body. Take a wild guess."
 
 
"Should have gone for the flower-planting, huh?"
 
 
"My first mission was to bring down these space pirates. Dead or alive. My kind of work! It was going great... I boarded their ship, and started blowing them into little bits. Then one of the bastards blasted me with a heavy weapon. I got away, but I had to leave what was left of my mech behind. They shot my ship too. Good thing my escape pod was too small to hit..."
 
 
"That's rough."
 
 
"Now I'm trying to scrape a few creds together, so I can get myself a new mech."
 
 
"Had much luck?"
 
 
"Not enough."
 
 
He sighs again. Then he glances across the street, where an inebriated Santa's scuffling with a snowman whose face is hidden, but whose movements seem to indicate a similar level of intoxication.
 
 
"So this is Christmas, huh?" Rautha says. "I thought it'd be more fun."
 
 
"Thought it'd be?"
 
 
"My parents were hardcore. So was the colony I grew up in. Dule's heartland, they called it. Christmas was banned there way before they passed the 'Bah, Humbug!' Law."
 
 
"You've never had a Christmas? I mean, a proper one?"
 
 
"What did I just say? No!"
 
 
"Well, you aren't spending this one begging on the sidewalk. We're going for a drink. Oh... I mean... Can you even..."
 
 
"Yeah. Kind of."
 
 
Something glows at the base of Rautha's jar. There's a whirring, sputtering noise. Then the entire contraption rises in a series of rough jerks, swaying from side to side. It floats up to head height, shudders slightly, and wobbles there. You stand up, bringing your eyes level with his.
 
 
"Come on," he says. "I bet both of us could do with one."
 
 
A Woman Walks Into A Bar...
 
 
Rautha's jar wobbles, tilts one way, then the other, and lands on the bar with a thud.
 
 
The barmaid taps her index finger against one of her earpieces, silencing the flow of unintelligible music. She looks from Rautha to you, back at him, then at you once more.
 
 
"So what's the punch line?" she asks.
 
 
"Huh?" you reply.
 
 
"A woman and a head walk into a bar... I think I've heard this one... Don't remember how it ends though."
 
 
"Show some respect. This guy's a war hero."
 
 
"Shame he doesn't have a chest to pin the medals on."
 
 
You and Rautha glare at her. She sighs.
 
 
"Hey, don't mind me. I'm stuck looking after an empty bar on Christmas. That'd make anyone a bitch. What can I get you?"
 
 
"Double scotch, no ice," you reply.
 
 
"I'll have a beer," Rautha says. "A good one. Not Neo-American piss-water."
 
 
"Can you even-" she begins.
 
 
"The faster you give me it, the faster we can find out."
 
 
"Okay..."
 
 
She fills a glass and puts it on the bar beside Rautha. A tube snakes out from the bottom of his jar.
 
 
"Stick this in there," he says.
 
 
The bemused barmaid picks the tube up and plops it into the beer. The liquid begins to diminish.
 
 
"How..." she begins. "Ah, whatever."
 
 
She pours your scotch. A moment later Laphroaig is burning its briny, smoky, peaty way down your throat.
 
 
"So you're really a war hero, huh?"
 
 
She leans on the bar, giving him a good view of her breasts. Thus Rautha replies to them instead of her face.
 
 
"Yeah."
 
 
"Which war?"
 
 
"The Centurian one."
 
 
"How'd that work out?"
 
 
"We won," you say. "The Collective were ruined. It was on all the news channels..."
 
 
She shrugs.
 
 
"I don't watch the news."
 
 
The three-way conversation peters out at that point. She saunters away to the opposite end of the bar, taps one of her earpieces, and starts twirling a lock of hair in time with the obnoxious music.
 
 
"So what've you been up to?" Rautha asks.
 
 
"The usual."
 
 
"That crazy, huh?"
 
 
"Pretty much."
 
 
You both drink in silence for several minutes.
 
 
"Christmas sucks," Rautha says at last.
 
 
Under the circumstances, you find it hard to argue.
 
 
Hulking Mutant
 
 
"She's captain of a thugby team now," you say.
 
 
"No kidding! How about the brat? He king yet?"
 
 
"Not last I heard."
 
 
"Still chainsawing people?"
 
 
"Probably."
 
 
"What's that big psycho doing?"
 
 
"Ragnar? He..."
 
 
The bar's door opens. You cast a casual glance at the newcomer. Then you blink.
 
 
It's the other cultist.
 
 
He blinks back at you, before running out into the street. You really need to work on your poker face...
 
 
"Who-" Rautha says.
 
 
But you're already moving.
 
 
"Hey! Wait up!" His jar floats through the doorway behind you. "Hey!"
 
 
The cultist's charging down the street, knocking children spinning. To hell with the authorities -- you're not letting this one get away as well.
 
 
You sprint.
 
 
Screams, shouts, and profanities mingle with the carols, as men, women, and children flash by on either side. Only your pilot's reflexes allow you to weave your way between them, instead of barging them left and right.
 
 
Up ahead, your prey's running across the road, into the square with its teeming crowds and vast array of yuletide monuments.
 
 
Big mistake.
 
 
Ploughing through children is one thing, bursting through packed hordes another. You're just yards behind him when he comes to an impromptu stop, as he tries and fails to force his way between the backs of two very large, oblivious Snuuth.
 
 
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," you say. "The easy way will be more fun for you, the hard way will be more fun for me. So, what'll it be?"
 
 
His head snaps round.
 
 
Your defenses are up before he can reach into your mind.
 
 
"The hard way it is then..."
 
 
"Who is that guy?" Rautha asks, bobbing along behind you.
 
 
"An enemy."
 
 
"You're screwed!" Rautha tells him. "Trust me! I know what happens to her enemies!"
 
 
"Kalaxia!" the cultist shrieks. He turns to face you, revealing the empty syringe embedded in his chest. "I'll destroy you in her name!"
 
 
All around you, between the great and gaudy Christmas displays, people are staring. Then they start screaming, and running.
 
 
Muscles swell and bulge across the cultist's body, turning him into a grotesque mound of pulsing, throbbing, quivering, bubbling meat. His clothing tears in half a dozen places, revealing huge, powerful shoulders, biceps, pectorals, and quadriceps.
 
 
The undulating, expanding flesh settles -- leaving a massive goliath of a man standing before you.
 
 
"Kalaxia!" he roars.
 
 
-------------------------------------
 
 

"Santa?" you murmur.
 
 
Sure enough, it's that jolly fat man's face which beams at you from a few inches away. He's cheerful for a decapitated head... Rautha could learn a thing or two from him.
 
 
Oh...
 
 
The ridiculous line of thought resolves itself into the sudden recollection of an equally absurd event. The bastard threw a sleigh at you, complete with reindeer, Santa, and elves. Their shattered ceramic remains litter the ground where you sprawl. You know how they feel...
 
 
A hulking form looms above, outlined against the dark evening sky. Vicious eyes glare. Ham-like fists rise to batter you.
 
 
"Hey!"
 
 
The shout is followed by a crackling bolt of electricity. It zaps against the back of the cultist's head. He roars. Two more bolts follow in quick succession.
 
 
"Over here, you big sack of crap!"
 
 
He turns just in time to take Rautha's next shot square in the face. His howl is half-human, half-simian.
 
 
The brutish abomination lunges at the floating jar, swinging its massive arms. But whether through luck or design, Rautha's wobbling, shuddering contraption twists and tumbles between the flailing punches. And it keeps zapping -- launching electrical attacks from its base.
 
 
"Ha! Rautha's still got it!" the former Centurian commander declares. "Rautha's... Aaarrrggghhh!"
 
 
A brutal fist catches the jar, flinging it through the air. It slams into the ground, bounces back up, crashes down again, and tumbles away in a series of heavy thuds.
 
 
The mutated freak bellows. He beats his hands against his broad chest. Then he turns to you once more. But Rautha's bought you enough time.
 
 
When the monstrous cultist charges, you spring to your feet -- with a piece of the sleigh in hand. The vehicle's passengers were ceramic. So were the reindeer, who shared their woeful fate. The sleigh itself was mostly wood. Not the runners, however.
 
 
His arms rise high over his head as he comes, ready to throw his entire weight into a crushing downwards blow. They freeze there, raised up to the heavens, when the sharp, broken edge of the runner plunges into his throat.
 
 
He topples over, into a family of holographic snowmen. They ripple as they admit his passage, and continue to smile from their lump-of-coal mouths.
 
 
"Heh. You got him."
 
 
Rautha totters through the air.
 
 
"What does it take to kill you?"
 
 
"They built this jar to last."
 
 
He falls. You dart forward to catch him.
 
 
"Think he mashed my hover systems though..." He sighs. "What did you want with this guy, anyway?"
 
 
"I wanted information."
 
 
"Oh."
 
 
"Yeah..."
 
 
"Christmas sucks, huh?"
 
 
You stare at the fallen goliath.
 
 
"Maybe," you reply. "Maybe..."
 
 
***
 
 
The double doors open. A long cloud of crimson gas billows into the waiting area. It pauses in front of you, and emits a number of smoky tendrils that shape themselves into fists. Each one bears a raised thumb.
 
 
Then the Gallassa surgeons drift away down the corridor, to whatever pastimes such Sussurrae engage in when they're not plying their trade.
 
 
Two more of the gaseous aliens emerge from the operating theater. Unlike their predecessors, both wear humanoid forms. The first one's light green vapors are contained within a transparent suit that's fashioned in the image of a woman of voluptuous proportions. The other wears no suit, but bears similar shape. Her gaseous yellow body is compressed in the dimensions and figure of a human female.
 
 
You made many allies during the war, and once again it's stood you in good stead.
 
 
"The operation was a complete success," Ossia says. Her words drift into your ears like ribbons of smoke dancing from a fire.
 
 
"Of course it was," Seellee says. The green female's voice is somehow more solid, as though it too is contained within a suit. "That's why you chose Sussurran medics."
 
 
"Actually," you reply, "it's because all the human docs are on holiday."
 
 
Seellee steps to one side. Ossia billows to the other, clearing the entrance. Each of them poses like an artist unveiling a masterpiece, or a conjurer displaying an illusion before an awestruck audience.
 
 
A hulking, muscular body bursts through the doors, bearing an oh so familiar head upon its shoulders.
 
 
"Rautha's back again, bitches!"
 
 
"How'd you feel?" you ask.
 
 
"Hungry! Like I haven't eaten in months."
 
 
As though awakened to their own emptiness by those words, your innards give a low rumble.
 
 
"Is it still Christmas here?" you ask.
 
 
"Yes," Seellee replies.
 
 
And thus your next mission forms in your mind and stomach. The Kalaxian cult can wait...
 
 
"Christmas dinner's on me," you say. "Let's go order the biggest turkey banquet in the city, and eat till we burst."
 
 
</tabber>

LotS/The Story/Christmas Chaos

2013-11-20T04:34:02Z

Durlin: Adding the second part of the zone

<tabber>
"Zone Intro"=
'''Zone Intro'''
 
"Tentacles!" Adrian Zanfran said, as he walked across the lobby.
 
He emphasized the point by waving those purple appendages in the air. The Rylattu behind the reception desk, a green-skinned male he didn't recognize, stared at them before gazing down at something.
 
Though the desk hid it from him, Adrian knew there was a terminal there. Its screen would at that moment be displaying a picture of the freelance human, accompanied by the words: 'Authorized Stink-Beast! Do Not Disintegrate!'
 
The green Rylattu looked up at him again, and stopped reaching for whatever weapon of mass destruction he had to hand.
 
"I'm Adrian Zanfran. Pleased to meet you."
 
The receptionist glanced down and frowned.
 
"It says your name is 'Adnan Zebra'."
 
Adrian sighed. It was somewhat gratifying that Barp Sek Bul had settled on one name to call him by, rather than hurling an endless barrage of incorrect appellations. But it would have been more gratifying still if it had been correct.
 
"That's my... work name. Where's Kwix?"
 
"The overlord summoned her."
 
The freelance human sauntered across the portion of the lobby which lay beyond the reception desk and its emerald-skinned sentinel. A few of the building's other denizens glared at him, perhaps out of habit. But most regarded him with nothing more than indifferent blinks. A few even nodded or spoke words of greeting, which Adrian returned with a smile. None of them fired weapons in his direction or tried to otherwise ensure his doom. Things had changed a great deal over the months since he'd started working for the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might.
 
Both elevators' doors were sealed when he approached. One conveyance was already in ascent. The other had stopped many floors up, where it was presumably disgorging its passengers. This didn't diminish the morning cheer on Adrian's face. It was still in full bloom when he entered the stairwell.
 
The stairs themselves were superfluous to him these days. He moved into the space alongside the first flight instead, and reached up with his right tentacle. That powerful purple limb grabbed hold of the bannister above. Then it pulled Adrian upwards, until the shorter tentacle at the end of his left arm could seize another.
 
Like an ape swinging from branch to branch, he climbed the middle of the stairwell in a series of tentacular grasps and pulls. And to think he'd once been dismayed to find those useful appendages on his body...
 
That brisk, invigorating assent brought him to his floor. His more conventional limbs walked him the rest of the way, until he stood before his terminal. He dropped into the now familiar chair and watched the holographic screen come to life in response to his presence.
 
His previous night's work manifested before him. Lines of green text blazed in all their toxic-waste-colored glory. But only for a moment. Then a red face emerged from the screen, throwing the greenness aside in all directions.
 
"Adnan Zebra!"
 
"Good morning, overlord. The report you wanted-"
 
"Come to Conference Room 3 immediately!"
 
"What-"
 
"Immediately, wretched stink-beast!"
 
Adrian sighed, rose from his chair, and headed back into the corridor. He made his way to the designated chamber, and pondered what new happenstance or misfortune might be about to rain down on him. It wasn't unusual for the overlords to summon him into their presence and thrust some completely new task at him, quashing his previous brief despite prior insistence that his continued integration relied upon its fulfillment. He hoped that wouldn't happen this time. He was rather enjoying the challenge of finding new ways to market anti-human literature to mankind (his chief plan was to pass if off as satire).
 
But when he arrived at Conference Room 3, and its door opened in front of him, bewilderment usurped trepidation.
 
"Ah, Adnan Zebra!"
 
Barp Sek Bul took hold of Adrian's right tentacle and pulled him into the room. Rylattu faces surrounded him, each one beaming beneath, of all things, a Santa hat.
 
"How long has it been since you first came to us as a worthless, sniveling human minion seeking employment?" the overlord asked.
 
"Well, it's been-"
 
"I once considered destroying you! But now I am pleased that my mighty Rylattu intellect led me to spare you. In spite of your pathetic whining, and your habit of leaving filthy human limbs in our lobby-"
 
"That wasn't my fault! My arm was blown off!"
 
"Silence, stink-beast! As I was saying... You have been a useful minion. Because you understand your disgusting and moronic species, our sales to humans have increased by fifty million percent!"
 
At that pronouncement, the other Rylattu broke into a round of applause, and Adrian beamed as much as the rest of the gathering. Granted, the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might had once measured sales of its books to humans in single digits. Hence they still only claimed a tiny audience among the trillions of human beings in the galaxy. But even so, the freelance human was proud.
 
"I have decided to reward you!"
 
"Thank you, overlord!"
 
"Today is a special day on your laughable homeworld."
 
"It's Christmas!"
 
"Kwix informed me of this pathetic event. Now behold my mighty magnanimity!"
 
He clapped his hands together.
 
First there came a tantalizing aroma, a blend of delicious smells that tickled Adrian's nose and evoked countless glorious memories. Then a dozen or so Rylattu surged into the room, knocking him spinning.
 
Each of them bore a huge platter, which they distributed across the conference table. Adrian Zanfran recovered his balance just in time to be barged aside once more, when the surge repeated itself in reverse. But he didn't care. For the feast they'd left in their wake would have excused a multitude of sins.
 
There were golden turkeys and roast hams, glistening with succulent juices that made his mouth water and the tips of his tentacles curl. Among them, vying for his eyes, nose, touch, and tongue, Christmas puddings rose as rich, fruity mountains beneath thick layers of snow. Mince pies were arranged in neat sugary stacks, forming step pyramids upon which health and moderation yearned to be sacrificed at the priestly hands of taste and pleasure. Pitchers of eggnog, bottles of port, and sundry other beverages stood in orderly units, awaiting the call which would send them into battle against the tiresome forces of thirst and sobriety. It was a veritable festive banquet.
 
"Begin feasting!" Barp Sek Bul said.
 
"Overlord, this is... it's... I..."
 
"I said begin feasting, wretched stink-beast!"
 
So Adrian did.
 
***
 
"...and... and..."
 
The freelance human paused blinked. Had there always been that many Rylattu in the room? And had they always been so blurry? He looked down at the glass of eggnog in his hand. How much brandy had they put in it?
 
"Well?" a blue female demanded. "Then what?"
 
"Oh... And a partridge in a pear tree."
 
She frowned.
 
"That song is repetitive and absurd! Who would relish those pathetic gifts? Partridges? Pear trees? Hens? Ridiculous!"
 
"Wait!" the Supreme Editing Overlord said. "Those maids, drummers, pipers, and lords could become valuable minions -- if their worthless human brains are capable of learning more useful skills."
 
"Ah, of course, overlord!"
 
The Rylattu began to discuss the matter at length, and ponder such questions as whether drummers or pipers would make better slaves.
 
Adrian wandered over to the table for another mince pie.
 
"Adrian Zanfran!"
 
He turned. Kwix stood before him, her eyes shiny and bleary.
 
"Kwix! Merry Christmas! Thank you for... for..." He waved at the festive board, and the still rather substantial remains of its goodly viands.
 
"I read your report on stink-beast holidays," she said, "and learned all the customs of this 'Christmas'. They consist largely of gluttony and alcoholism!"
 
"Maybe, but Christmas is also about-"
 
The receptionist raised something above her head. Something green. It wobbled in her drunken grasp.
 
"By the laws and traditions of this pathetic festival, you must now kiss me!"
 
"Huh? I..."
 
"Kiss me, puny human, or I will destroy you!"
 
Adrian had worked there long enough to know that was no idle threat. So he pulled her into a tentacled embrace, and their lips met.
 
He hoped she wouldn't obliterate him for this when she sobered up...
|-|
"Good Will To Men"=
'''Good Will To Men'''
 
 
'Twas the season of Christmas throughout deepest space, 
When humans feast and rejoice, whatever their place, 
Novocastria and Earth, Sian and Mars, 
All celebrate beneath the light of their stars. 
 
In the palace of Gallea, four friends met, 
To revel in joy and past sorrow forget, 
Prince and gunslinger, bot and omnicidal chap, 
They gathered to dine and their adventures recap. 
 
But though they made merry, that quartet close as kin, 
Melancholy lurked behind each eye and wide grin, 
For two of their number were far from the fare, 
One beyond life, the other they knew not quite where. 
 
Fine words were spoken, their memories toasted, 
Their great deeds recalled, their killing counts boasted, 
But the shadowy past is a poor recompense, 
For the company of friends departed long hence. 
 
"I know just what we'll do!" said the gunslinging girl, 
She pulled the prince from his chair and danced in a whirl. 
"Talia, quit it!" young Telemachus cried, 
But she continued to dance, her eyes bright and wide. 
 
"Illaria loved Christmas, not for the drink, 
Or the feasting and presents, though some might think, 
Those are the most wonderful parts of this season, 
The Princess had of course a far finer reason." 
 
"For she loved joy and giving, kindness and good deeds, 
Caring for the unfortunate, tending their needs. 
Let's make it a contest, a fun Christmas game, 
Something to treasure her good works and her name." 
 
"Yes!" said Lu Bu, the mighty warrior bot, 
"How could the four of us have ever forgot, 
The meaning of Christmas, and Illaria's way, 
We should all venture forth and honor this day!" 
 
So those good friends agreed the rules of their fine test, 
A challenge to see which of them might do the best. 
They'd brighten the season for their fellow man, 
Each of them concocting their own special plan. 
 
No money they'd spend, for the prince had that edge, 
Far more credits than any other could dredge. 
Instead they'd rely on their wits and their labors, 
And spread Christmas joy to less fortunate neighbors. 
 
 
Guns Are for Girls
 
 
Dashing through the mall, 
Looking for good deeds to do, 
She saw a girl bawl, 
And Santa Claus too. 
She stopped then and there, 
Thinking she'd lend aid, 
And learn about the girl's despair, 
So she could her mood upgrade. 
 
"I want a gun, want a gun!" 
Cried the little tot, 
"But Santa won't give me one, 
So he's left me all upsot! 
Want a gun, want a gun!" 
Cried the little tot, 
"But Santa won't give me one, 
So he's left me all upsot!" 
 
"Upsot's not a real word!" 
Fat Santa Claus replied, 
"And this gun's not for her, 
Someone get her eyes dried!" 
"You're such a sexist brute!" 
Talia told him back, 
"There is no reason girls can't shoot! 
So don't make me attack!" 
 
"Give me that gun, me that gun!" 
Talia Ryx said, 
And snatched it from Santa's hand, 
For the girl with eyes so red. 
"Here's the gun! Here's the gun! 
No more tears shed! 
Santa's just a sexist jerk, 
I should slap his stupid head!" 
 
"Silly cow, silly cow!" 
Said his angry face. 
"That's no toy, it's a real gun, 
I carry the thing in case, 
Some kids're bad, really bad, 
Act like a disgrace! 
Oh, look what you've gone and done, 
The girl's shooting up the place!" 
 
Christmas Kebabs
 
 
The mighty Niflung walked out, 
'Fore the feast of Stephen, 
Gazing all ways round about, 
To the heavens even, 
Searching for some folk to help, 
On the day of yule, 
Upon a soup kitchen strayed, 
Serving winter fuel. 
 
He went inside and growled deep, 
For it made him angry. 
"How can all you bastards sleep, 
When you leave them hungry? 
Soup is but a feeble dish, 
I can do much better! 
I am here to answer your wish, 
Shatter hunger's fetter!" 
 
"Bring me naans and bring me meat, 
Bring finest chili sauce! 
These people deserve to eat, 
And all for free of course! 
Kebab Chaos does owe me, 
A debt they must repay, 
Or blood shall run quite free, 
I mean just what I say!" 
 
And so the kebabs came hence, 
Answering Ragnar's shout, 
It really was quite good sense<, 
Else spines he'd have ripped out. 
He served food to all who came, 
In generous portions. 
First the diners cheered his name, 
Then came the contortions! 
 
Vomit spewed from every maw, 
In torrents unending, 
For donners wage bloody war, 
And soon guts need mending. 
The Niflung cried out in rage, 
To see them stripped of honor, 
Too late did Ragnar gage, 
The power of the donner. 
 
Terrible Toys for Tots
 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
Telemachus did see, 
An orphanage with a tree. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
The young prince went inside, 
To give out gifts, 
And some seasonal cheer provide. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
He brought a bag of toys, 
He'd played with, 
In younger days, 
He hoped might delight little boys. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
The kids all cheered and yelled, 
In young delight, 
Filled with joy, 
Pleased by the gifts, 
And so Telemachus' heart swelled. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
Orphans began to play, 
With toy robots, 
Brought by the prince, 
That kind boy, 
Who beamed at them, 
And thought he'd triumphed on that day. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
Telemachus forgot, 
When he was younger, 
He did tinker, 
With his toys, 
And had fun, 
Messing with tech, 
Till he weaponized them for sport. 
 
On the morning of Christmas, 
The toys went quite berserk, 
They all starting zapping, 
And chasing the kids, 
Who ran screaming, 
Poor little tikes, 
Fleeing fast, 
Lest they be zapped, 
So the prince, he felt like a jerk. 
 
Robo-Santa
 
 
Lu Bu has never been high, 
For an obvious reason, 
But his thoughts swim in the sky, 
With the joy of the season. 
 
Che-e-e-e-e-e-ems, they have nothing on Christmas! 
Che-e-e-e-e-e-ems, they have nothing on Christmas! 
 
Lu Bu goes into a mall, 
To perform his fine duty, 
And bring festive fun to all, 
Their smiles will be his booty! 
 
Ro-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-bots, even robots love Christmas! 
Ro-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-bots, even robots love Christmas! 
 
He borrows a Santa suit, 
For he knows kids love Saint Nick, 
Soon he'll reap the merry fruit, 
Of his clever Christmas trick! 
 
Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-anta, the kids all love their Santa! 
Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-anta, the kids all love their Santa! 
 
But things don't go quite as planned, 
For our noble robot friend, 
His thin frame doesn't expand, 
And him the proper girth lend! 
 
Fa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-at! Santa's built right for sumo! 
Fa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-at! Santa's built right for sumo! 
 
The children all sob and weep, 
Say he's not the real chap, 
And Lu Bu forgets to keep, 
The secret under wrap. 
 
"Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-nta! There is no real Santa!" 
"Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-nta! There is no real Santa!" 
 
So boys and girls are distraught, 
Their parents filled with ire, 
To hear the truth has been taught, 
And Christmas will be dire! 
 
Lu-u-u-u-u-u Bu-u-u-u-u-u-u! You shouldn't have played Santa! 
Lu-u-u-u-u-u Bu-u-u-u-u-u-u! You shouldn't have played Santa! 
 
Tntacled Turkey
 
 
'Twas the season of Christmas throughout deepest space, 
When the four friends met in the agreed upon place, 
All their features were grim, there wasn't much cheer, 
What would fair Illaria say were she here? 
 
They'd just let her down, that's what all of them thought, 
Their fine festive plans had amounted to naught! 
Failure hung overhead, a gloomy black cloud, 
Man, woman, robot, and boy -- they all had been cowed. 
 
But maybe someone was watching from heaven above, 
A benevolent soul, a heart brimful with love. 
For a Christmas miracle fell from the sky, 
A tentacled turkey... I should explain why. 
 
Scientists had bred it, in search of new meat, 
Poultry and calamari, ever so sweet. 
But the beast broke loose, as is so often the case, 
It fell to the four to stop it wrecking the place. 
 
-------------------------------------

Their cunning seasonal schemes had done nothing good, 
Laudable intentions had been misunderstood, 
But there's one thing at which the friends did excel: 
Slaying an enemy, and filling up hell. 
 
They butchered the beast, to great public applause, 
Then told the grateful people about their cause, 
Tears welled up when they spoke fair Illaria's name, 
Revealed the purpose of their kind yuletide game. 
 
The citizens were moved by the heroes so bold, 
They banded together, and all swore to uphold, 
The meaning of Christmas, the thing she'd prized most, 
And do something good so the four friends might boast. 
 
Through the whole city, so many played their part, 
Showing what Christmas joy can do to a heart, 
The soup kitchen was cleaned, and restored to fine state, 
All its denizens cured of their donner-wrought fate. 
 
The orphanage was filled with less murderous toys, 
Gifts that would delight all of the girls and the boys. 
Even the children who'd thought Lu Bu a fool, 
Now shrugged and said Santa was never as cool. 
 
|-|
"Merry Christmas, Bitches!"=
'''Merry Christmas, Bitches!'''
 
 
"The Rylattu ambassador declared..."
 
 
*thud* *clack* *clack* *thud*
 
 
"...that he would locate Santa's workshop..."
 
 
*clack* *thud* *clack* *clack* *thud*
 
 
"...and obliterate it with his superior technology..."
 
 
*thud* *thud* *clack* *clack*
 
 
The news anchor's holographic smile is so broad and bright that it blares at the periphery of your vision like an explosion. Her insincere laughter is equally piercing. You quicken your movements to drown it out, drawing a swifter series of thuds and clacks from the Wing Chun dummy.
 
 
Your arms weave a pattern of blocks and strikes they've known since childhood, bringing your forearms against the dummy's cylindrical limbs as though thwarting make-believe blows, trapping and ensnaring. Feet and fists beat counterattacks into its thick wooden trunk.
 
 
As a small girl, still learning the sequences and toughening your young arms to perform them with speed, precision, and strength, this was a good training method. Now, it's more a form of meditation -- a way to occupy your body and let your mind focus or wander in accordance with your needs.
 
 
The thuds and clacks continue, warring with the newscaster's chirpy, over-enthusiastic voice, filling the chamber aboard the Silver Shadow that you've turned into your exercise room.
 
 
"...was attacked by a giant turkey monster..."
 
 
*clack* *thud* *clack* *thud* *thud*
 
 
Giant turkey monsters... The galaxy is insane, even by your elastic standards of sanity and normality.
 
 
*thud* *clack* *clack* *clack*
 
 
"Fortunately, the creature was destroyed by-"
 
 
*clack* *thud* *clack* *BEEP*
 
 
The woman's face freezes. Then it vanishes, replaced on the screen by the image of a top hat. The beeping repeats itself, as though reveling in the triumphant usurpation.
 
 
"Accept," you say.
 
 
The top hat disappears in turn, yielding to a handsome, rakish face no less debonair than the item of millinery it's replaced. A rather more genuine and elegant smile stretches where the anchor's did just moments ago.
 
 
"Merry Christmas, my dear!" Arthur Lupin eyes you up and down, whilst his dexterous fingers put the finishing touches to a bowtie's knot. "So this is how you're spending the holidays?"
 
 
You can't help looking down at your sweat-slick body and wincing at the contrast. Next to the tuxedoed thief's image, you feel like a barbarian.
 
 
"Merry Christmas. Robbing somewhere nice?"
 
 
"I'm on my way to King Vencelas' yuletide soiree."
 
 
"The crown jewels?"
 
 
"Don't be ridiculous. I never thieve on Christmas." He completes his knot, gives the bowtie a minute adjustment, and steps away from the screen -- revealing the fullness of his attire. "How do I look?"
 
 
"Dapper."
 
 
"Thank you. But I didn't call just to wish you the season's greetings. One of my contacts got in touch a moment ago, with information on the matter you asked me to look into. He has a lead on that cult of yours..."
 
 
The Cultist's Christmas Surprise
 
 
Carols rain down on you from all directions, catching you in their crossfire, bombarding your senses with at least four different festive tunes. Christmas afternoon is still in full swing here, and armies of uniformed carolers seem to be vying for the right to declare themselves its champions. One force is dressed in scarlet Santa outfits. They're belting out a merry tune, while their bulging bellies -- either real or simulated -- wobble like the obligatory bowls of gelatinous dessert long celebrated in verse. Across the street stands a rival band, those ones garbed in the manner of angels, complete with plastic wings and halos. Their song of choice is a rather weightier and more ponderous celebration of a baby's birth in ancient Bethlehem.
 
 
It reminds you of gang warfare in urban sprawls, with verses traded instead of gunfire.
 
 
Charity workers are ducking their way beneath the melodious volleys, shaking tins and shouting pleas at passersby. One of them, a ginger-haired young woman, darts forward to intercept you.
 
 
"Give what you can, madam! I'll take hard credits or swipes!"
 
 
You glance at the label pasted on the side of her tin.
 
 
"Beast Buddies?"
 
 
"We want to end the cruel slaughter of Garlax ragebeasts!"
 
 
"Ragebeasts eat people."
 
 
"So? There are plenty of people, and we know how to make more! But ragebeasts are endangered!"
 
 
"I'll remember that next time I'm killing one."
 
 
The woman's screams of abuse follow you down the street for perhaps a dozen paces, before the clashing carols swallow them. The smile the encounter leaves on your face lasts a lot longer.
 
 
Dozens of festive displays, from the charming to the gaudy, fill the square in front of city hall. Teeming hordes of giggling children and delighted parents throng there, gazing upon snowmen, Santas, wise man, shepherds, Jesuses, bells, stockings, holly, ivy, and for some inexplicable reason a single Cthulhu. Some are depicted in arrangements of multicolored lights. Others are rendered as holograms or ceramic sculptures. Lovecraft's elder god appears to have been fashioned from human bones, though you assume that isn't really the case.
 
 
You try to tell yourself you're cutting across that space to save time. After all, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line... But the pretense drifts into the heavens along with the laughter, youthful babble, and the steam rising from warm, fragrant beverages. Maybe you're alone this Christmas, but that doesn't mean you can't absorb a little holiday cheer through osmosis...
 
 
Thus fortified, you walk the last few hundred yards to the first address Lupin gave you -- a big, old apartment building that's probably been standing there for almost as long as the planet's been inhabited.
 
 
The front door doesn't yield a millimeter to your push. Nor to the subsequent pull. You're not getting in this way, unless you activate the intercom and persuade a resident, or else blast your way through. And the latter isn't much of an option, with so many people passing to and fro in the street. Nor is scaling the building and entering via a window. Santa may be allowed to break and enter during the Christmas period, though you doubt the citizens would be so understanding to anyone else who tried it.
 
 
But there may be another way... You continue up the street.
 
 
Perhaps you've been a good girl this year, because a couple of minutes later you find exactly what you wanted: the mouth of an alleyway that runs behind the apartment block. Even here Christmas decorations shine down on you, as though admiring your cunning. You might be able to exploit a fire escape or-
 
 
A door opens up ahead. A middle-aged man emerges from the building, carrying big trash bags in each hand. He takes a few steps towards the dumpster that stands on the opposite side of alley, and looks around. It's a careless, casual motion -- the act of someone wishing to see if there's anything worthier of his attention than the waste receptacle he's making for. But when his face turns in your direction...
 
 
It's him. The man from the picture Lupin sent you.
 
 
Perhaps some slight hint of recognition flickers in the eyes of your holographically disguised features. Because he stops in his tracks and stares. A soft breeze strokes your forehead. Your mental defenses rise, understanding the sensation for what it is -- the beginning of a subtle psionic probe.
 
 
The trash bags fall from his hands. Maybe he saw enough during that brief instant of psychic contact, or else takes the steeling of your mind against further intrusion as a danger signal. There isn't time to ponder that. Not when your target's sprinting away.
 
 
So you don't. You sprint after him instead.
 
 
He hurtles down the alleyway, legs pumping, elbows cutting the air on either side. Faster than you'd expected. Fear can do that to a man. Or maybe he's packing cybernetic enhancements.
 
 
You race towards your quarry, throwing everything you have into frantic speed. You have to catch him before he makes it out of the alley, or else risk pursuing him through crowded streets. Your boots kick against the ground, propelling you onward, eating away at his lead.
 
 
You're gaining on him. If he's augmented, it's cheap crap. And there's a reason athletes rely on training instead of terror.
 
 
He looks over his shoulder, eyes wide and wild. Invisible fingers tickle your scalp, but this time you're ready for them. Your walls go up and thwart his groping psionic grasp.
 
 
His head tilts, turning his frightened gaze upwards. You hazard a quick glance in that direction, but you don't see anything except for... Oh, damn it...
 
 
First comes the cawing. Then the fluttering of wings. Then the swooping.
 
 
Your mind may be too strong for him, but yours isn't the only brain on offer.
 
 
You swing your arms, trying to beat the pigeons away, bashing their feathered bodies. But that doesn't stop the little scavengers. Wings flap against you, avian feet kick and claw for purchase. Beaks peck at your arms, trying to break through to your face.
 
 
As you throw yourself into a roll, you feel the full absurdity of taking evasive maneuvers against pigeons. And when you rise with your pistol in hand, you feel no less ridiculous.
 
 
A series of blasts leaves two of them on the ground, one with a missing head, the other with a gaping hole through its fat body. Whatever psionic trickery the cultist used, it isn't equal to the task of restraining the others' survival instinct. They flap their way towards the safety of the sky.
 
 
You spin round in time to see your quarry dashing from the mouth of the alley, still staring at you over his shoulder. He crashes through the people on the sidewalk, knocking an elderly woman flying, ignoring the howls of protest. He darts across the road.
 
 
The honking of a horn makes him turn. But it's too late.
 
 
There's almost enough screaming to mask the crunch and splat. Almost.
 
 
Can You Spare A Cred?
 
 
Unless the Quibberath brothers had it right, and you can glean something of value by eating the brains splashed from his broken skull like stew spilled from an overturned cooking pot, this particular lead is no longer of any use to you.
 
 
"Serves the bastard right!" says an elderly voice.
 
 
The old woman he knocked over emphasizes the point by spitting right on his shattered face. She then proceeds to get into an argument with some of the gawkers who've gathered round the splattered corpse.
 
 
You sigh, and start walking. You don't want to be there when the authorities start asking questions.
 
 
Maybe you'll have better luck at that other address...
 
 
Further from the scene of the accident, the surrounding chatter resumes its former tenor. Carols and conversations swell around you.
 
 
"Good King Wenceslas looked out..."
 
 
"Daddy! I want it! I want it!"
 
 
"Jingle bells, jingle bells..."
 
 
"Hey, that liquor store's open! Thank Christ for Hindus!"
 
 
"Silent night, holy night..."
 
 
"If you cut Santa's belly open, would presents come out?"
 
 
"Get a job, you bum!"
 
 
"I'm trying to! Read the sign!"
 
 
You stop. Someone collides into you from behind. But you ignore the impact and the subsequent profanities. That voice...
 
 
"What kind of work can you do? You're a head in goddamn jar!"
 
 
"Screw you! I was a war hero!"
 
 
You press through the oncoming shoppers, ignoring more profanities and a few sharp elbows.
 
 
Rautha, the former Centurian commander, is standing... lying... sitting... resting -- you can't quite decide which verb best applies to a disembodied head in a jar -- on the ground, glaring up at a teenager with green hair and at least two dozen metal rings distributed across his ears and nose.
 
 
A device on his jar is projecting a small holographic screen. On it are the words: 'Will work for creds!'
 
 
The teen punk pulls his boot back in preparation for a kick.
 
 
Your kick's faster. It nails him in the butt and launches him.
 
 
He manages to hit the sidewalk nose-first. When he rolls over, he glares bloody murder from his eyes and bloody torment from his smashed proboscis.
 
 
"Barshtard!" he moans. "I'll kill you! I'll-"
 
 
"You'll get up and run away, before I lose my temper."
 
 
Your prediction proves to be the more accurate of the two.
 
 
Ruatha's Luck
 
 
"Hey!" Rautha says. "I know that voice! You're-"
 
 
"Yeah."
 
 
"Small universe, huh?"
 
 
"What happened to your body?"
 
 
"Which one?"
 
 
"The one you had on Centauri Prime. The mech."
 
 
Rautha somehow manages to sigh. But you suppose if he can live and breathe without lungs, sighing isn't much of a feat.
 
 
"It's a long story."
 
 
"I've got time."
 
 
You crouch down beside him. A few people glance at the two of you, but a meaningful stare encourages them to move along.
 
 
"Centauri Prime... That was a good day. You should have seen me, Durlin. I went through the place blasting, like... like... like you, I guess. Or that psycho Niflung you hang around with. I killed more than I could count!"
 
 
"Well, you didn't have any fingers or toes..."
 
 
He glares.
 
 
"Sorry. Go on."
 
 
"When I was done, my mech might as well've been painted red. I even saved some Novocastrian knights on the way. They're the ones who gave me a ride out of Centurian space."
 
 
"I'll be honest... I didn't think you'd get out of the place alive. Not after you charged off like that. Of all the people to survive the war..."
 
 
"Yeah, fate's a bitch who thinks she's funny."
 
 
"So what'd you do after that?"
 
 
"I got a job as a bounty hunter. I mean, it made sense -- I was in a heavily armed mech. What was I going to do? Plant flowers for a living?"
 
 
"How'd that work out?"
 
 
"I'm sitting on the sidewalk without a body. Take a wild guess."
 
 
"Should have gone for the flower-planting, huh?"
 
 
"My first mission was to bring down these space pirates. Dead or alive. My kind of work! It was going great... I boarded their ship, and started blowing them into little bits. Then one of the bastards blasted me with a heavy weapon. I got away, but I had to leave what was left of my mech behind. They shot my ship too. Good thing my escape pod was too small to hit..."
 
 
"That's rough."
 
 
"Now I'm trying to scrape a few creds together, so I can get myself a new mech."
 
 
"Had much luck?"
 
 
"Not enough."
 
 
He sighs again. Then he glances across the street, where an inebriated Santa's scuffling with a snowman whose face is hidden, but whose movements seem to indicate a similar level of intoxication.
 
 
"So this is Christmas, huh?" Rautha says. "I thought it'd be more fun."
 
 
"Thought it'd be?"
 
 
"My parents were hardcore. So was the colony I grew up in. Dule's heartland, they called it. Christmas was banned there way before they passed the 'Bah, Humbug!' Law."
 
 
"You've never had a Christmas? I mean, a proper one?"
 
 
"What did I just say? No!"
 
 
"Well, you aren't spending this one begging on the sidewalk. We're going for a drink. Oh... I mean... Can you even..."
 
 
"Yeah. Kind of."
 
 
Something glows at the base of Rautha's jar. There's a whirring, sputtering noise. Then the entire contraption rises in a series of rough jerks, swaying from side to side. It floats up to head height, shudders slightly, and wobbles there. You stand up, bringing your eyes level with his.
 
 
"Come on," he says. "I bet both of us could do with one."
 
 
A Woman Walks Into A Bar...
 
 
Rautha's jar wobbles, tilts one way, then the other, and lands on the bar with a thud.
 
 
The barmaid taps her index finger against one of her earpieces, silencing the flow of unintelligible music. She looks from Rautha to you, back at him, then at you once more.
 
 
"So what's the punch line?" she asks.
 
 
"Huh?" you reply.
 
 
"A woman and a head walk into a bar... I think I've heard this one... Don't remember how it ends though."
 
 
"Show some respect. This guy's a war hero."
 
 
"Shame he doesn't have a chest to pin the medals on."
 
 
You and Rautha glare at her. She sighs.
 
 
"Hey, don't mind me. I'm stuck looking after an empty bar on Christmas. That'd make anyone a bitch. What can I get you?"
 
 
"Double scotch, no ice," you reply.
 
 
"I'll have a beer," Rautha says. "A good one. Not Neo-American piss-water."
 
 
"Can you even-" she begins.
 
 
"The faster you give me it, the faster we can find out."
 
 
"Okay..."
 
 
She fills a glass and puts it on the bar beside Rautha. A tube snakes out from the bottom of his jar.
 
 
"Stick this in there," he says.
 
 
The bemused barmaid picks the tube up and plops it into the beer. The liquid begins to diminish.
 
 
"How..." she begins. "Ah, whatever."
 
 
She pours your scotch. A moment later Laphroaig is burning its briny, smoky, peaty way down your throat.
 
 
"So you're really a war hero, huh?"
 
 
She leans on the bar, giving him a good view of her breasts. Thus Rautha replies to them instead of her face.
 
 
"Yeah."
 
 
"Which war?"
 
 
"The Centurian one."
 
 
"How'd that work out?"
 
 
"We won," you say. "The Collective were ruined. It was on all the news channels..."
 
 
She shrugs.
 
 
"I don't watch the news."
 
 
The three-way conversation peters out at that point. She saunters away to the opposite end of the bar, taps one of her earpieces, and starts twirling a lock of hair in time with the obnoxious music.
 
 
"So what've you been up to?" Rautha asks.
 
 
"The usual."
 
 
"That crazy, huh?"
 
 
"Pretty much."
 
 
You both drink in silence for several minutes.
 
 
"Christmas sucks," Rautha says at last.
 
 
Under the circumstances, you find it hard to argue.
 
 
Hulking Mutant
 
 
"She's captain of a thugby team now," you say.
 
 
"No kidding! How about the brat? He king yet?"
 
 
"Not last I heard."
 
 
"Still chainsawing people?"
 
 
"Probably."
 
 
"What's that big psycho doing?"
 
 
"Ragnar? He..."
 
 
The bar's door opens. You cast a casual glance at the newcomer. Then you blink.
 
 
It's the other cultist.
 
 
He blinks back at you, before running out into the street. You really need to work on your poker face...
 
 
"Who-" Rautha says.
 
 
But you're already moving.
 
 
"Hey! Wait up!" His jar floats through the doorway behind you. "Hey!"
 
 
The cultist's charging down the street, knocking children spinning. To hell with the authorities -- you're not letting this one get away as well.
 
 
You sprint.
 
 
Screams, shouts, and profanities mingle with the carols, as men, women, and children flash by on either side. Only your pilot's reflexes allow you to weave your way between them, instead of barging them left and right.
 
 
Up ahead, your prey's running across the road, into the square with its teeming crowds and vast array of yuletide monuments.
 
 
Big mistake.
 
 
Ploughing through children is one thing, bursting through packed hordes another. You're just yards behind him when he comes to an impromptu stop, as he tries and fails to force his way between the backs of two very large, oblivious Snuuth.
 
 
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," you say. "The easy way will be more fun for you, the hard way will be more fun for me. So, what'll it be?"
 
 
His head snaps round.
 
 
Your defenses are up before he can reach into your mind.
 
 
"The hard way it is then..."
 
 
"Who is that guy?" Rautha asks, bobbing along behind you.
 
 
"An enemy."
 
 
"You're screwed!" Rautha tells him. "Trust me! I know what happens to her enemies!"
 
 
"Kalaxia!" the cultist shrieks. He turns to face you, revealing the empty syringe embedded in his chest. "I'll destroy you in her name!"
 
 
All around you, between the great and gaudy Christmas displays, people are staring. Then they start screaming, and running.
 
 
Muscles swell and bulge across the cultist's body, turning him into a grotesque mound of pulsing, throbbing, quivering, bubbling meat. His clothing tears in half a dozen places, revealing huge, powerful shoulders, biceps, pectorals, and quadriceps.
 
 
The undulating, expanding flesh settles -- leaving a massive goliath of a man standing before you.
 
 
"Kalaxia!" he roars.
 
 
-------------------------------------
 
 

"Santa?" you murmur.
 
 
Sure enough, it's that jolly fat man's face which beams at you from a few inches away. He's cheerful for a decapitated head... Rautha could learn a thing or two from him.
 
 
Oh...
 
 
The ridiculous line of thought resolves itself into the sudden recollection of an equally absurd event. The bastard threw a sleigh at you, complete with reindeer, Santa, and elves. Their shattered ceramic remains litter the ground where you sprawl. You know how they feel...
 
 
A hulking form looms above, outlined against the dark evening sky. Vicious eyes glare. Ham-like fists rise to batter you.
 
 
"Hey!"
 
 
The shout is followed by a crackling bolt of electricity. It zaps against the back of the cultist's head. He roars. Two more bolts follow in quick succession.
 
 
"Over here, you big sack of crap!"
 
 
He turns just in time to take Rautha's next shot square in the face. His howl is half-human, half-simian.
 
 
The brutish abomination lunges at the floating jar, swinging its massive arms. But whether through luck or design, Rautha's wobbling, shuddering contraption twists and tumbles between the flailing punches. And it keeps zapping -- launching electrical attacks from its base.
 
 
"Ha! Rautha's still got it!" the former Centurian commander declares. "Rautha's... Aaarrrggghhh!"
 
 
A brutal fist catches the jar, flinging it through the air. It slams into the ground, bounces back up, crashes down again, and tumbles away in a series of heavy thuds.
 
 
The mutated freak bellows. He beats his hands against his broad chest. Then he turns to you once more. But Rautha's bought you enough time.
 
 
When the monstrous cultist charges, you spring to your feet -- with a piece of the sleigh in hand. The vehicle's passengers were ceramic. So were the reindeer, who shared their woeful fate. The sleigh itself was mostly wood. Not the runners, however.
 
 
His arms rise high over his head as he comes, ready to throw his entire weight into a crushing downwards blow. They freeze there, raised up to the heavens, when the sharp, broken edge of the runner plunges into his throat.
 
 
He topples over, into a family of holographic snowmen. They ripple as they admit his passage, and continue to smile from their lump-of-coal mouths.
 
 
"Heh. You got him."
 
 
Rautha totters through the air.
 
 
"What does it take to kill you?"
 
 
"They built this jar to last."
 
 
He falls. You dart forward to catch him.
 
 
"Think he mashed my hover systems though..." He sighs. "What did you want with this guy, anyway?"
 
 
"I wanted information."
 
 
"Oh."
 
 
"Yeah..."
 
 
"Christmas sucks, huh?"
 
 
You stare at the fallen goliath.
 
 
"Maybe," you reply. "Maybe..."
 
 
***
 
 
The double doors open. A long cloud of crimson gas billows into the waiting area. It pauses in front of you, and emits a number of smoky tendrils that shape themselves into fists. Each one bears a raised thumb.
 
 
Then the Gallassa surgeons drift away down the corridor, to whatever pastimes such Sussurrae engage in when they're not plying their trade.
 
 
Two more of the gaseous aliens emerge from the operating theater. Unlike their predecessors, both wear humanoid forms. The first one's light green vapors are contained within a transparent suit that's fashioned in the image of a woman of voluptuous proportions. The other wears no suit, but bears similar shape. Her gaseous yellow body is compressed in the dimensions and figure of a human female.
 
 
You made many allies during the war, and once again it's stood you in good stead.
 
 
"The operation was a complete success," Ossia says. Her words drift into your ears like ribbons of smoke dancing from a fire.
 
 
"Of course it was," Seellee says. The green female's voice is somehow more solid, as though it too is contained within a suit. "That's why you chose Sussurran medics."
 
 
"Actually," you reply, "it's because all the human docs are on holiday."
 
 
Seellee steps to one side. Ossia billows to the other, clearing the entrance. Each of them poses like an artist unveiling a masterpiece, or a conjurer displaying an illusion before an awestruck audience.
 
 
A hulking, muscular body bursts through the doors, bearing an oh so familiar head upon its shoulders.
 
 
"Rautha's back again, bitches!"
 
 
"How'd you feel?" you ask.
 
 
"Hungry! Like I haven't eaten in months."
 
 
As though awakened to their own emptiness by those words, your innards give a low rumble.
 
 
"Is it still Christmas here?" you ask.
 
 
"Yes," Seellee replies.
 
 
And thus your next mission forms in your mind and stomach. The Kalaxian cult can wait...
 
 
"Christmas dinner's on me," you say. "Let's go order the biggest turkey banquet in the city, and eat till we burst."
 
 
</tabber>

LotS/items/Crew

2013-11-11T05:49:33Z

Durlin: Getting the Unique category to display properly

{{LotS/Item Navigation Banner}}

{| class="lotstable sortable" width="100%"
! Icon
! width="15%" | Name
! width="5%" | Att
! width="5%" | Def
! width="5%" | SP
! width="7%" | Race
! width="7%" | Class
! width="7%" | Attribute
! width="24%" | Ability
! width="19%" | Obtained
! width="6%" | Unique
|-
{{LotS/CrewRow|86th Street Snakes Gangbanger}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Ali}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Alien Abduction Specialist}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Alien Rights Protestor}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Ancilla}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Angelic Peacemaker}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Anubis}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Apocalypse Trooper}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Arachnophobia}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Archangel Wingman}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Bastion}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Battlefield Surgeon}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Black Angel}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Blitzkrieger}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Blue Moose}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Bombardier}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Boone's Boys Gunner}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Bouncer Bot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Bully Boy}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|CAH Assassin}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|CAH Trooper}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Centaur Gamer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Chief Gunner Kas}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Chips}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Coffee}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Commodore Vethe Yulteres}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Contella Assassin}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Convict}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Cosplay Pirate}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|CRANK Trooper}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Crazy Commando}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Crimson Medic}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Cryokinetic Healer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Cuckold-Courier Cindy}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Cuckold-Courier Mark}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Cupid Courier}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Cyber Kung Fu Master}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Cybersmashette}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Cyborg Shark Hunter}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Cytheran Zombie}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Dansha Wex}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Deathmachine}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Deputy}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Desert Guide}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Dime-Bot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Dimension Girl}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Dragon Knight}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Drunken Piscarian}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Eater}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|EMPunch}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Exterminus Rebel}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Fallen Angel Judge}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Fallen Angel Preacher}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Fallen Angel Reader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Gallassa}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Gallassa Cape Crusader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Gallassa on the Rocks}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Gallassa Surgeon}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Gorgon Gamer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Grim Girl}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Groupie}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Guerilla}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Gunmaster Jessica}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Hirsute Hippo}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Horus}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Hulking Mutant}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Human Invader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Human Saga Reader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Immortal}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Inferno Trooper}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Infestation Eliminator}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Infestation Eliminator Beta}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Infested Snuuth}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Infested Snuuth Connoisseur}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Infiltrator}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Intel Tracker}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Interceptor Bot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Interrogator}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Invader Klux}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Jobber}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Kakophage}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Kebab Chaos Employee}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|King Khan}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Khalsa Lion}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Klurg Nos Bul}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Knight-Errant}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Kunsha the Neuro-Phage}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Kweeglon}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Lanthera the Beast-Hunter}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|LongWu Guardian}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|LongWu Guardian2}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Love Bot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Lunatic Cutter}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Lunatic Llama}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Lysistrata MacDonald}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Master Assassin Takahiro}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Mecha-Drake}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Mecha-Mauler}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Minion Repairer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Missile Commander}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Moxie Mash Maiden}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Mummy}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Narcotic Disposal Bot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Natalia Keplex}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Natalia Keplex2}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Nerd Revenger}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Niflung Berserker}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Niflung Blitzer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Occult Investigator}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Omega Deathmachine}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Omniscient Swordmaster}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Organ Harvester}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Pirate Hunter}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Piscarian Fallen Angel}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Piscarian Invader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Piscarian Masseuse}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Piscarian Moon Healer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Piscarian Reef Guard}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Piscarian Reveler}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Pistolier}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Player}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Prince Wilhelm}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Psionic Healer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Psionic Saga Reader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Puny Chef}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Puny Medic}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Puny Meat Shield}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Puny Reksha}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Puny Yenak}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Pyrokinetic Brawler}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Pyrokinetic Healer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Pyrokinetic Performer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Pyrokinetic Sumo Wrestler}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Pyrokineticist}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Quarantined Rylattu}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Quarg Ral Flek}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Quattro Mano}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|RAF Mechanic}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Reaper Bot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Robo-Doc}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Robo-Rodent}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Robot Butler}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Robot Elf}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Roving Postgraduate}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Roving Undergraduate}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Ambusher}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Electric Angel}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Elf}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Engineer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Philosopher}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Reveler}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Santa}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Sniper}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Street Punk}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Submarine Commander}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Thrill Seeker}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Xeno-Biologist}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Rylattu Xeno-Biologist, PhD}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Satyr Pimp}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Serilla Specters Blocker}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Serilla Specters Medic}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Serilla Specters Thrower}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Serilla Specters Blitzer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Screaming Barracuda Fan}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Screaming Barracuda Fanatic}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Screaming Skull Commando}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sea Singer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Shere Khan}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sian Assassin}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sian Dragon Warrior}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sian Elite Pilot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sian Guardsman}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sian Rebel}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sian Saboteur}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sian Sentinel}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sian Swordsman}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sigma Tsunami Lineman}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Snuuth Blocker}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Snuuth Electric Angel}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Snuuth Grappler}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Snuuth Healer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Snuuth Invader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Snuuth Opera Singer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Snuuth Reveler}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Snuuth Saga Reader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Snuuth Santa}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Snuuth Sous Chef}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Space Invader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Spider Surgeon}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|SPT Bot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Steel Dragon}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Steel Viper}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Stochastic Pugilist}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Stochastic Wildcat}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Super Snuuth}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sussurra Warrior}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sussurran Balloon}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sussurran Cheerleader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sussurran Demon}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sussurran Dragons Fan}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sussurran Gigolo}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sussurran Pumpkin}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sussurran Saga Reader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sussurran Soother}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Swarm Bot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|SWAT Defender}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Sword Dancer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|TALOS Battle Bot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|TALOS Goliath}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|TALOS Shield Bot}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Technotheist Fanatic}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Thugby Cheerleader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Thunder Boy}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Time-Slip Assassin}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Tinkerer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Toxic Ranger Bomber}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Toxic Ranger Spewer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Twisted Steel Mid-Carder}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Underwater Sabotage Expert}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Unit 85129}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Valkyrie}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vaporizer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Venus}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vlarg Bouncer}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vlarg Bounty Hunter}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vlarg Dragons Fan}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vlarg Elf}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vlarg Invader}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vlarg Reveler}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vlarg Salvager}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vlarg Santa}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Void Shadow}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vortex Guard}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vulpina}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Vulpina2}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Walrus Sharpshooter}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Waplon}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Warwalker}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Whisper}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Wibbak Kruger}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Zombie Ragnar}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Zombie Rautha}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Zombie Talia}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Zombie Telemachus}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Zombie}}
{{LotS/CrewRow|Zunba the Red}}
|}

LotS/Invader Klux

2013-11-11T05:44:32Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Invader Klux
|color=Orange
|attack=40
|defense=35
|race=Rylattu
|class=Ranged
|bonus=Intellect
|type=Crew
|ability=Alien Invasion: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage against Organic Humanoid raids; Extra damage for each Piscarian Invader, Vlarg Invader, Snuuth Invader, and Human Invader in the ship
|text="Despicable human scum creatures! Did you think your pathetic bigotry would go unnoticed? I have seen your ancient and nefarious plans with my own eyes -- the ones your kind calls 'videogames'. You've been training your sniveling snot children to wage war on superior alien species for generations! We will have our revenge for this insult by invading your puny homeworld!" -- Invader Klux
|obtained={{LotS/ItemLink2|Alien Invader Vault}}
|used=
|notes={{LotS/Unique}}
|unique=Y
}}

LotS/Quarg Ral Flek

2013-11-11T05:04:59Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Quarg Ral Flek
|color=Yellow
|attack=94
|defense=94
|race=Rylattu
|class=Any
|bonus=Any
|type=Crew
|ability=Dodgy Dealer: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage for each different Crew owned; Chance to create a [[LotS/items/Trinkets|Trinket]]; Attack and Defense increase by 2 for every different [[LotS/items/Trinkets|Trinket]] owned
|text="I apprehended him in the mess hall. It seems that he snuck onto the base to sell contraband goods to our soldiers. I was going to give him a good kicking and send him on his way. Then I saw some of the things he was selling... I don't know how he got hold of them (he just said something about 'wretched stink-beast distributors who will feel my mighty wrath if they don't deliver what I require'), but our boys and girls could make good use of this stuff. And the troops seem to love him, so keeping him around might be good for morale. I'll write up some orders making him a deputy quartermaster or something." -- Colonel Tarquin
|obtained={{LotS/GSshoplink|150}}

{{LotS/ContainerLink|Christmas Vault|Christmas Vault (Jackpot item)}}

{{LotS/ContainerLink|Lunatic Lottery Vault|Lunatic Lottery Vault (Jackpot item)}}

{{LotS/ContainerLink|Electric Angel Vault|Electric Angel Vault (Jackpot item)}}

{{LotS/Rexp}}
|used=
|notes={{LotS/Unique}}

List of items: [[LotS/items/Trinkets|Trinket]] ({{PAGESINCATEGORY:LotS/Trinket}})
|unique=Y
}}

LotS/Quarg Ral Flek

2013-11-11T05:04:06Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Quarg Ral Flek
|color=Yellow
|attack=94
|defense=94
|race=Rylattu
|class=Any
|bonus=Any
|type=Crew
|unique=Y
|ability=Dodgy Dealer: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage for each different Crew owned; Chance to create a [[LotS/items/Trinkets|Trinket]]; Attack and Defense increase by 2 for every different [[LotS/items/Trinkets|Trinket]] owned
|text="I apprehended him in the mess hall. It seems that he snuck onto the base to sell contraband goods to our soldiers. I was going to give him a good kicking and send him on his way. Then I saw some of the things he was selling... I don't know how he got hold of them (he just said something about 'wretched stink-beast distributors who will feel my mighty wrath if they don't deliver what I require'), but our boys and girls could make good use of this stuff. And the troops seem to love him, so keeping him around might be good for morale. I'll write up some orders making him a deputy quartermaster or something." -- Colonel Tarquin
|obtained={{LotS/GSshoplink|150}}

{{LotS/ContainerLink|Christmas Vault|Christmas Vault (Jackpot item)}}

{{LotS/ContainerLink|Lunatic Lottery Vault|Lunatic Lottery Vault (Jackpot item)}}

{{LotS/ContainerLink|Electric Angel Vault|Electric Angel Vault (Jackpot item)}}

{{LotS/Rexp}}
|used=
|notes={{LotS/Unique}}

List of items: [[LotS/items/Trinkets|Trinket]] ({{PAGESINCATEGORY:LotS/Trinket}})
}}

LotS/Zunba the Red

2013-11-11T05:02:00Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Zunba the Red
|color=Orange
|attack=30
|defense=30
|race=Vlarg
|class=Ranged
|bonus=Agility
|type=Crew
|ability=Red in Fur and Claw: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage for each {{LotS/ItemLink2|Quattro Mano}}, {{LotS/ItemLink2|Moxie Mash Maiden}}, {{LotS/ItemLink2|Rylattu Philosopher}}, {{LotS/ItemLink2|Piscarian Masseuse}}, and {{LotS/ItemLink2|Walrus Sharpshooter}} in the ship
(10% @ 61,500 damage +1,025 for each crew; AV+300)
|text=Zunba's red fur, a very unusual color among Vlargs, is the result of a genetic mutation. However, her skill as an assassin and the considerable kill-count she's accrued during her career has led to the popular belief that it's red with blood. Hence her enemies are filled with an appropriate level of fear, and her friends tease her by sending her bottles of shampoo.
|obtained={{LotS/ItemLink2|Death-Match II}}
|used=
|notes={{LotS/Unique}}
|unique=Y
}}

LotS/Wibbak Kruger

2013-11-11T05:01:39Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Wibbak Kruger
|color=Yellow
|attack=75
|defense=75
|race=Snuuth
|class=Any
|bonus=Any
|type=Crew
|ability=Deutsch Snuuth Über Alles: Chance for bonus damage; Chance for extra damage for each different [[:Category:LotS/Experiment Item|Collection]] (Lab ingredient) items owned; Wibbak Kruger's Attack and Defense increase by 1 for every 2 different [[:Category:LotS/Experiment Item|Collection]] items owned; Chance to create a [[:Category:LotS/Experiment Item|Collection]] item
|text="Vat? Ah, mein accent surprises you, ja? Ve are German! Die Kruger family took me und {{LotS/ItemLink2|Heidi Kruger|Heidi}} und {{LotS/ItemLink2|Oktoberfest Kruger|Oktoberfest}} from das orphanage, und raised us as their own kinder. Ve learned all about German efficiency. Now ve are the richest collectors of relics und artifacts this side of Dusseldorf! Komm, komm! See vat ve have got. Und it is all properly sorted. Perhaps ve vill kill you, und cut out your organs, und store them neatly in jars, ja? Nein! Nein! Das vas eine kleine example of German humor! Ah, I have got der punch line wrong again..." -- Wibbak Kruger
|obtained={{LotS/GSshoplink|150}}
|used=
|notes={{LotS/Unique}}

There are currently {{#expr: {{PAGESINCATEGORY:LotS/Experiment Item}} + {{PAGESINCATEGORY:LotS/Collection Item}} }} Collection items.

Lists of items: [[:Category:LotS/Experiment Item|Experiment Items]] ({{PAGESINCATEGORY:LotS/Experiment Item}}) and [[:Category:LotS/Collection Item|Collection Items]] ({{PAGESINCATEGORY:LotS/Collection Item}})

Wibbak Kruger will only generate items from the Collect Tab. ([http://www.legacyofathousandsuns.com/forum/showthread.php?13018-Patch-Notes-May-15-2013 Patch Notes, May 15, 2013])
|unique=Y
}}

LotS/Vulpina2

2013-11-11T05:00:25Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Vulpina
|color=Orange
|attack=15
|defense=10
|race=Human
|class=Ranged
|bonus=Agility
|type=Crew
|ability=Plush Punisher: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage against Alien Beasts
(7% @ 5,125 damage / 10,250 damage against Alien Beasts; AV+17.5/35)
|text=Vulpina's been a busy cat... girl... catgirl?... since leaving Cythera. Her pistol's claimed more lives than her appearance has laughter, and even the most dismissive of her peers has been forced to commend her skill and courage. In fact, numerous men who previously derided furries have purchased feline costumes in the hope of dating her.
|obtained={{LotS/Labex|vulpina}}
|used=
|notes={{LotS/Unique}}
|unique=Y
}}

LotS/Vulpina

2013-11-11T05:00:07Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Vulpina
|color=Orange
|attack=11
|defense=8
|race=Human
|class=Ranged
|bonus=Agility
|type=Crew
|ability=Plush Pistolier: Chance for bonus damage
(1,537 damage)
|text=When someone wearing a furry costume asked to join your ranks, your first thought was to give her a good hard slap and send her on her way. Then she pulled out her laser pistol, and shot the wings off a nearby fly. So you allowed her to join you, on the condition that she remove the mask portion of her outfit. You refuse to hold a conversation with the face of a cartoonish feline.
|obtained={{LotS/RaidLink|Mermara}}
|used={{LotS/Labex|vulpina}}
|notes={{LotS/Unique}}
|unique=Y
}}

LotS/Venus

2013-11-11T04:59:38Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Venus
|color=Yellow
|attack=75
|defense=75
|race=Robot
|class=Any
|bonus=Any
|type=Crew
|ability=Robo-Romantic: Venus' Attack and Defense increase by 2 for every different [[LotS/items/Crew|crew]] owned; Her Attack and Defense increase by 5 for each [[LotS/items/Crew|crew]] in the ship; Chance to summon a non-unique crew member
|text=As one might discern from her name and alluring aspect, Venus was built as a pleasure bot. However, during her instruction in the nature of human interaction, she became curious about the concept of love. Hence she investigated the matter via TALOS' extensive information archives. As a result of her research, Venus decided that meaningless coupling certainly wasn't the way to achieve true love. So, following a heated argument with -- and resigned sighs from -- the engineers who built her, she became a romance bot instead. Her new directive: to travel human space and help people find fulfilling relationships.
|obtained={{LotS/GSshoplink|150}}

{{LotS/Rexp}}
|used=
|notes={{LotS/Unique}}

List of items: [[LotS/items/Crew|Crew]] ({{PAGESINCATEGORY:LotS/Crew}})
|unique=Y
}}

LotS/Unit 85129

2013-11-11T04:58:40Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Unit 85129
|color=Orange
|attack=31
|defense=29
|race=Robot
|class=Melee
|bonus=Intellect
|type=Crew
|ability=You Will [Die in Pain]: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage for each Saga Reader in the ship; Unit 85129's Attack increases by 1 and Defense by 4 if {{LotS/ItemLink2|Svana Spunbracher}} is in the ship
(See {{LotS/ContainerLink|Svana's Saga Vault|Vault}} for List of Saga Readers)
|text=Unit 85129 of TALOS Books once rejected a submission from Svana Spunbracher, in a manner that was efficient but perhaps not entirely gratifying to that lady of letters. However, after the success of "The Saga of Drunken Ragnar", the robot came to the conclusion that his literary analysis routines might be faulty. Thus he went to Ms. Spunbracher for advice. And after a productive if slightly awkward conversation, Svana agreed to let him tag along and learn from her.
|obtained={{LotS/ContainerLink|Svana's Saga Vault}}
|used=
|notes={{LotS/Unique}}
|unique=Y
}}

LotS/Screaming Barracuda Fanatic

2013-11-11T04:58:21Z

Durlin:

{{LotS Item
|name=Screaming Barracuda Fanatic
|color=Orange
|attack=8
|defense=39
|race=Human
|class=Tank
|bonus=Special
|type=Crew
|ability=
|text="Yeah, I stabbed him in the ears! If he doesn't like Screaming B's music, he doesn't deserve to hear anything!" -- The president of Screaming Barracuda's fan club, whilst on trial for grievous bodily harm
|obtained={{LotS/Labex|barracudafanatic}}
|used=
|notes={{LotS/Unique}}
|unique=Y
}}

LotS/Quarg Ral Flek

2013-11-11T04:55:37Z

Durlin: